‘Give me five minutes, and then we can chat some more.’ Wendy could tell that the woman liked nothing more than a good conversation.
Five minutes later she returned. ‘Marjorie Frobisher, that’s who it was. Mind you, I wouldn’t have recognised her.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Her hair was a different colour, and she wore large sunglasses.’
‘How did you know it was her?’
‘I only knew it was her when she came to the counter and asked for the linen on her bed to be changed. We only do it every third day, but she was adamant.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I phoned up housekeeping. They sorted it out.’
‘You’ve not explained how you knew it was her.’
‘You remember how she used to look when she was sad. One side of her mouth appeared to droop slightly lower than the other.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s what she did with me. I was so excited, I asked her for her autograph.’
‘Her reaction?’
‘I could see she wasn’t happy, but she remained polite and signed a piece of paper for me. I framed it, put it next to the television at home.’
‘What happened after she had signed it?’
‘She went upstairs and packed her case.’
‘When she left, where did she go?’
‘I organised a taxi for her.’
‘Do you know the taxi she took?’
‘Bert picked her up. We always try to use him for the guests. He’s been driving for us for years.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Up the road, blue Toyota. You can’t miss him.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Why are you so interested in where she’s gone.’
‘Her husband has asked me to find her, bring her home.’
‘You’ve been engaging in idle conversation, making me neglect the guests, pretending to be a fan of the programme…’
‘I am a fan. I also need to find her.’
‘I hope nothing has happened to her.’
‘We’re not sure. We think she may have come to some harm.’ Wendy felt she owed the woman some gossip in return.
‘Is it anything to do with Billy Blythe? I never liked him. The actor who played him, his death.’
‘Yes,’ Wendy replied.
‘Well I never,’ Felicity Pearson said. The last words Wendy heard from the receptionist as she went out to find Bert, the taxi driver, was her telling some guests the latest gossip on Marjorie Frobisher. She could only smile.
***
Isaac had made two appointments that day at Marjorie Frobisher’s house: the first in the morning with the daughter, Fiona Avers. The second in the afternoon with Sam Avers, the son.
Sam Avers, the elder of the two children, arrived drunk. He was unapologetic. He had a five-day beard and his breath smelt, so much so that Isaac was obliged to move chairs to one side to avoid a frontal assault of stale beer.
‘Mr Avers.’
‘Call me Sam, everyone does.’
‘Okay, Sam. We are conducting investigations into the disappearance of your mother and the death of Charles Sutherland.’
‘What’s his death got to do with her?’ Sam Avers responded. He coughed violently as he spoke. He lit another cigarette.
‘We are not sure. I had hoped that you would have some further information that would assist us.’
‘Why me? I hardly knew the man, and as for her…’
‘Your relationship with your mother?
‘Hardly ever saw her, and when I did, she was off out somewhere with her rich friends.’
‘Were they all rich?’
‘Most were, but she hardly wanted them for their money. She had plenty, not that she gave me much.’
‘I am told by your father that they give you a generous allowance and a credit card. Is that correct?’
‘They only give it for me to go away. I’m an embarrassment to them. Did he tell you that?’
‘I understand you live here.’
‘I come and go, mostly go. I don’t want to be around here any more than necessary.’
‘You come here, ensure your money is available and leave.’
‘That’s about it,’ the drunken man said. He had gone to the drinks cabinet and was pouring himself a large whisky. ‘You want one?’ he said. Isaac declined.
‘On duty, is that it?’
‘Too early for me,’ Isaac replied. It wasn’t true but he certainly did not want a large whisky, and he did not want to drink with the man. He did not like him; was being careful not to offend or rile.
‘Suit yourself. I have to give the old man credit, he certainly keeps a good drop of whisky here, only the best.’
‘Before we discuss your mother, let us consider Charles Sutherland.’
‘I only met him once or twice. He could drink ‒ more than me.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘Here once, in town another time.’
‘What happened here?’
‘We got drunk.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Are you insinuating that I’m gay, that I fancy men?’
‘Not at all. This is a murder investigation. It is important that I am thorough.’
‘And besides, he liked women. The more he could get hold of, the better.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I ran into him at a club in town once. He had a couple of women with him, real classy.’
‘Can you please elaborate?’
‘I go over to him. He’s drunk. Wants to tell me what a bitch my mother is. He expects me to argue with him. I’m harmless when I’ve been drinking, which is most of the time, but he’s angry drunk.’
‘He insults your mother. What do you do?’
‘I agree with him, of course.’
‘And then?’
‘He invites me to sit down with him. It appears he had paid plenty for these women, and he doesn’t mind sharing.’
‘How long did you stay in the club?’
‘About two hours, and then we went to his place in Mayfair.’
‘With the women?’
‘Of course, what else would I go there for?’
‘Continue.’
‘He took one, I took
