‘Great. They don’t pay much here.’
Wendy realised on leaving the café that her pains had subsided, and there was no need to continue plodding the streets.
***
Isaac felt the need to follow up on a matter that had been giving him some concern. It had only been a casual remark by Ian Stanley, the irritating series producer and nemesis of Jess O’Neill, but it had raised some questions.
Linda Harris’s earlier comment that her relationship with Richard Williams was just a bit of fun had seemed too frivolous at the time. Ian Stanley’s statement about her competency had reaffirmed his suspicions. After his senior’s indication that MI5 was interested in Marjorie Frobisher, Isaac’s suspicions about Williams’ PA seemed all the more relevant.
He bit the bullet and invited her out for dinner, socially this time. She accepted readily, too readily for Isaac, as Sophie was clearly out of the picture, not even returning his phone calls, and Jess was still off-limits.
The next day, close to seven in the evening, he met Linda Harris at a discreet restaurant close to the city centre. She ate chicken; he ordered beef. Two bottles of a particularly good wine were drunk with gusto by the two, though Isaac wasn’t usually a drinker.
‘Why are you working for Williams?’ he asked.
‘I needed a job.’ She had dressed for the occasion: a short yellow skirt with a white top. Isaac had come from work and was still wearing a suit.
‘You look too smart for the job.’ Isaac realised he was heading into dangerous waters.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. Isaac could read the signals: the alluring smile, the closeness of her chair to his, the holding of his hand across the table.
‘Sally Jenkins.’
‘You’re using her as the standard as to what is competent?’
‘I suppose so,’ Isaac replied.
‘I’m competent, suitable for the job. She wasn’t. But as we’ve agreed, she was not there for her administrative skills.’
‘She was there because she was an easy lay, you said that yourself.’
‘Are you insinuating that I’m an easy lay as well?’
‘You told me that you were sleeping with him.’
‘I told you that he was with me, in my bed.’ She reminded him of their previous conversation when she had provided her boss with an alibi.
Isaac sensed some pulling back from her – she was no longer holding his hand. He excused himself to go to the toilet. He took the opportunity to splash some water on his face, hoping to revive himself a little.
Returning to his seat, he decided to stop sounding like a policeman and to enjoy the evening. The woman was attractive, too attractive, and she was great company.
Why not just enjoy the moment? he thought.
‘I’m sorry. I’m acting as a policeman.’
‘That’s okay. I understand the pressure you’re under.’
‘Tell me about yourself. You said you came from Devon, but what are your plans for the future?’
‘Find a better job,’ She was holding his hand across the table again. Both had ordered dessert. ‘I’m capable of a better job, but I’m not in a hurry.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather find myself a decent man, settle down, have a few kids.’
‘Williams?’
‘Not at all. I don’t need a sugar daddy.’
Isaac, slightly more sober after easing up on the wine, took stock of the situation. On the one hand, he was here in the company of a beautiful, desirable woman, available if he was reading the signals right. On the other, as a policeman he knew there were questions that needed asking.
‘The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher concerns a lot of people,’ he said.
‘Newspapers, fans, you mean?’
‘In higher quarters.’ Isaac still had his suspicions about the woman sitting opposite. She seemed too smart; as if she was directing the conversation, ensuring he didn’t probe too much.
‘Political, is that what you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m just a humble personal assistant who’s screwing the boss.’ Her remark was a little too curt for Isaac.
‘Linda, who are you?’
‘Linda Harris, humble personal assistant. That’s all.’
‘We’re aware that Marjorie Frobisher is somehow significant, although we don’t know any details. Do you?’
‘Why should I?’ Her manner was frosty.
‘You may have overheard something in the office.’
‘You realise that you’ve spoilt a lovely evening by your suspicions.’
‘I realise that, but it’s my job.’
‘I thought we were meeting outside of working hours, both off duty.’
‘Off duty, that is not a term I would have expected a PA to use.’
She stood up, put on her coat, the weather outside not as frosty as the atmosphere inside the restaurant. ‘DCI Cook, I’ll bid you goodnight. In future, our meetings will be at your police station or my lawyer’s office.’
Standing outside, as she walked briskly down the road, he could see her in an animated conversation on her phone. Whatever she was, he remained convinced she was more than Williams’ bedtime companion and office administrator.
***
As Farhan was preparing for an early night, at his cold and lonely house, his phone rang. It was Olivia calling him from South Africa. She was not in a good mood; her cover had been blown.
Still thankful that he had tried to help, she had been forced to take the children out of school as the playground teasing was becoming objectionable, and it was not their problem, only hers. Also, her husband was having trouble accepting that she only sold herself for the family. Farhan was truly sorry, but Olivia still had the advantage of distance, and one or two inquisitive reporters in South Africa would soon be distracted by another, more important story.
Farhan knew he had to help Aisha. He knew he couldn’t protect her if the news organisations picked up any clue as to who she was and where she was. She had told him earlier in
