Chapter 30
It was clear that Marjorie Frobisher had walked away from Paddington Station in the company of a man; it was not known if she had been reluctant or willingly. Wendy felt that willingly was the more likely of the two scenarios. She was applying her experience to the problem. Wayward children, when they reappeared, invariably made for someone they knew, someone they trusted.
Isaac had suggested Richard Williams as the most likely person to protect her, but he had denied seeing her when Isaac had phoned him. In fact, he had been quite annoyed over the accusation that he was possibly obstructing a murder enquiry, threatened legal action if such a statement was made again. Isaac felt convinced that he was in the clear, although angry that he could not tell the man what he thought of his pompous manner.
Besides, he had heard Linda Harris’s voice in the background, and the clinking of glasses indicated they were not in the office. Isaac resented him for his good choice in women, when he was feeling the early signs of rejection from Sophie.
As much as she had alluded to not being concerned when he had inadvertently mentioned Jess O’Neill’s name in a moment of passion, she had not been available to come over the last couple of times he had phoned. He couldn’t feel any undue sadness, only a little frustrated that the relationship was over.
He was determined to speed up the case. After that, he would be free to call Jess. He knew she would be available.
Wendy, convinced that the only solution was to get out on the street and to commit herself to good old-fashioned legwork, was outside Paddington Station early the next morning.
The morning was bleak. Wendy had dressed accordingly, although it was not a flattering ensemble: a jacket with a scarf, trousers, and solid walking shoes. She completed it all with a red woollen hat her husband had given her.
The clearest images that Brian Gee, the nerdish computer man at Paddington Station, and Bridget Halloran had managed to come up with showed that Marjorie Frobisher and the unknown man had walked down Praed Street, in the direction of St Mary’s Hospital. The rain had started; Wendy was not in a good mood. The dampness in the air was starting to play havoc with her arthritis, and she knew at the end of the day she would be in severe pain.
She soon reached St Mary’s Hospital, a maroon plaque commemorating the discovery of penicillin by Sir Alexander Fleming proudly displayed underneath his laboratory window. Marjorie Frobisher had been seen this far down the street, but after this the trail had gone cold.
The weather worsened and she decided that a warm place and a quiet coffee would be a good idea. She found a little café. It didn’t look very enticing, but as she opened the door, she felt the heat. Taking a seat close to the window, she ordered a latte and a cake and pondered the situation. Was she wasting her time walking the street? What could she do? Should she go home, admit to Isaac and Farhan that she had no further ideas?
Desperate to do something, she indulged in idle conversation with the waitress, a pleasant looking woman in her late forties, the tattoos on her arm not to Wendy’s taste.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ Wendy said after the waitress asked what she was doing out on such a miserable day.
‘Anyone important?’
‘Someone you’d know.’
‘Not Marjorie Frobisher?’ The waitress’s answer surprised Wendy.
‘You know her?’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
‘I suppose they do, but why assume it’s her?’
‘I told everyone in the shop that I had seen her. They all thought I was a bit crazy, and without my glasses my eyesight is a bit dodgy.’
‘You didn’t report seeing her.’
‘I was going to, but everyone convinced me otherwise, and then it became busy. I suppose I forgot.’
‘You’ve reported it now.’
‘You’re the police?’
‘Yes. Is that okay by you?’
‘As long as I’m not in trouble.’
‘Of course you’re not. We need to talk. Are you free to sit down and have a coffee with me?’
‘Yes. Sure.’
Wendy noticed that the waitress, Sheila, was a nervous woman, unsure of herself. She also noticed that she took a piece of cake with her coffee. Wendy knew she would be paying for it.
‘Did you speak to Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She didn’t speak. The man with her did the ordering.’
‘Tell me about him?’
‘He spoke quietly, well-mannered. He didn’t leave a tip; I remember that well enough.’
‘Did he seem friendly with Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘I kept staring, couldn’t help myself.’
‘I understand. It’s not often you see celebrities walking into your café.’
‘We see the occasional one when they’re visiting the hospital across the road, but she was my favourite. I always watched her on the television, and here she was, sitting in my café, drinking my coffee. It’ll be something to tell my family when I get home tonight.’
‘This is serious. You can’t tell anyone yet. Can I trust you to keep this quiet?’
‘I won’t say a word.’ Wendy knew that as soon as the waitress got home, she would be telling everyone. There was hardly any way they could silence her, and she was the team’s first concrete lead for several weeks.
‘Did she look happy?’
‘She seemed pleased to be with the man.’
‘Is there any more you can tell me about him?’
‘As I said, he was polite. In his late fifties, I suppose.’
‘Fat or thin?’
‘He certainly wasn’t fat. He seemed a nice man.’
‘How long did they stay?’
They stayed for about twenty minutes. As to where they went, I don’t know. They just walked down the street. Apart from that, I’ve no idea.’
‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’
‘Is there a reward?’
‘No reward. How would a
