‘Do you know the fourth person?’
‘I paid him.’
‘How did you arrange it?’
‘I spoke to the person who showed us to the rooms.’
‘Is that the same individual you paid later?’
‘No, so that makes it five, doesn’t it?’
‘It may be more,’ Farhan said. ‘I need to meet these people at the hotel.’
‘It could still be the escorts. The information would have been worth several hundred pounds to someone like Geoffrey.’
‘Geoffrey?’
‘Geoffrey Agnew. I know him personally.’
‘How?’
‘Degree in Journalism. Part of the course required us to spend time as trainee journalists. I spent three weeks at the television company. Work experience, they called it; supposedly assisting in typing up the copy for that day’s broadcasts.’
‘And?’ Farhan knew the answer.
‘I learnt how to make a mean cup of coffee, and how to balance everyone’s lunch order on one arm, while I struggled to press the lift button.’
‘I can sympathise.’
‘Similar experience for you?’ she asked.
‘The first couple of weeks after leaving the police college. First Pakistani, first Muslim, the first person with a university degree in the station.’
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘They found out soon enough that I did not bring any hang-ups with me, that I was moderate in my faith, and I was potentially a good policeman.’
‘And a good person as well.’
Farhan left soon after. She had given him a name at the hotel, and an impression that she liked him not only as a policeman but as a friend. He found himself to be in a dilemma. There were Aisha and Christy and family issues to deal with. There were also two murders, possibly more. He felt that life was becoming too complicated.
***
Isaac could only reflect on the differences between Linda Harris and Sally Jenkins. One was still very much alive and sitting opposite him; the other, very much dead, and lying on a slab in a morgue. He acknowledged that Richard Williams had great taste in women.
Sally Jenkins had been young and beautiful and clearly a rich man’s floozy. Linda Harris, Sally’s replacement, in bed and out, according to Williams, somehow did not ring true. To Isaac, she did not seem the sort of person who would be swayed by the executive producer’s charm. He thought she would have been more than capable of finding a man more her age with the wealth and the vitality she needed. He knew it was not for him to make moral judgements, only to observe and question, and to solve the murders.
A missing woman was the least of their worries, but now they were to protect her if she ever reappeared. Richard Goddard had explained the situation to him. He still didn’t understand fully, although he was confident that his boss didn’t either.
As the detective superintendent had said, ‘It’s our futures on the line here. If we get this right, influential people will look after us.’
‘And if we don’t?’
‘We’re stuffed.’ Not the answer an ambitious policeman wanted to hear. Isaac saw his progression to the top as a result of competent, even exceptional policing, but he was a realist. He knew how it worked. Commissioner Charles Shaw sat in the chair that he wanted to occupy one day, although he would let his senior keep it warm in the interim. He knew that as a decent, hard-working member of the force he could climb the promotion ladder, although it was easy to slide down it if he did not play the game, flatter the inflated egos of important people, and let others take credit for results he had achieved.
Charles Shaw sat in his chair not because he had been the only contender, but because he had played the game, made the right connections. Isaac had to admit he had done a good job. His reorganisation of the bureaucratic structure of the Metropolitan Police had been good, and apart from the threat of terrorist-related activities, crime levels were down in the city. The other contenders when the previous commissioner had stepped down did not have the political savvy, had not gone to school with the prime minister, or sat on the PM’s Anti-Terrorism Committee.
Isaac did not have the contacts, but he did have Richard Goddard, who had the ear of Commissioner Shaw. He was certain there was more than a mutual respect involved, although he had never asked.
***
Linda Harris had suggested the restaurant; Isaac had agreed. He hoped it would not be too expensive, as he felt obliged to pay, and getting expenses paid took forever. The mortgage on his apartment was placing him under a lot of pressure, and now he had been landed with a bill to replace the oven. He needed a promotion, not a demotion, although he realised that he was placing himself in the category of expendable, knowing too much.
Isaac ordered fish, lightly grilled, with a salad – in line with his new regime of looking after his health. He was aware that tomorrow it could be a late night and another pizza. Linda ordered a Greek salad. Both chose orange juice. The seats they occupied were close to the corner window with a limited view of the street. Camden Town, where they met, was trendy, with many of its streets of run-down terraces being renovated. Isaac appreciated the colourful atmosphere; she loved it.
‘I come from Devon. Too quiet down there for me,’ she said. He had dismissed her at Williams’ office as another rent-a-lay. As he spoke to her, he was not so sure. Sally Jenkins had been obvious, not especially articulate, and dressed in the office in a tarty manner. He remembered Linda in the office wearing a long-sleeved blouse, but apart from that, couldn’t remember much else. At the restaurant she wore jeans with a white top.
‘What brought you to London?’
‘Secretarial college,
