‘Both, I suppose, but she’s not involved. At least, I assume she’s not. She was not around when Marjorie Frobisher disappeared, nor when Sutherland was murdered.’
‘So that means she’s innocent of all crimes?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Isaac admitted.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘What do we know about her?’
‘We are aware she’s working for Williams, sleeping with him.’
‘I asked MacTavish to check her out.’
‘And…’
‘I’m still waiting for his reply.’
‘Did you fancy her?’ Farhan asked.
‘At first.’
‘And after?’
‘She became upset when I started probing. The evening ended badly.’
‘What about the other woman? Are you still in contact?’
‘Not for some time. It may be a good idea to maintain contact, seeing that she’s a witness.’
‘And potential plaything?’ Farhan jested.
‘So far, I’ve managed to keep it under control. I’m not the lothario that you are, obviously.’
‘You know we’d both be in trouble if Goddard found out.’
‘I’ve not done anything wrong yet,’ Isaac announced with regret.
‘Would you have slept with Linda Harris if your night had turned out differently?’
‘Probably.’
‘What do we really know about her?’ Farhan asked.
‘I think she’s a fellow government employee.’
‘And if she is?’
‘Then she’s clear of any involvement in the murders.’
‘I’m not certain she is.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If she’s willing to indulge in sexual relations with a man purely because it’s her job, what else is she capable of?’
Isaac had to agree, disturbed that a woman he almost slept with, probably would if the opportunity presented itself again, was no better than the two women who had sold themselves to Charles Sutherland.
It seemed ironic to Isaac that Farhan was getting more action than him. He knew full well that he had been sleeping with his woman again; the look on his face evidence of the fact.
Chapter 33
Wendy, pleased that the weather was more agreeable, had staked out the first place of interest, a small two-storey terrace in Twickenham. She could see that Richard Williams liked his investments well-maintained: the small garden at the front was neat and tidy, the paintwork on the exterior façade in remarkably good condition, in contrast to the other houses in the street. She assumed it had been freshly painted. Compared to her home, a dreary run-down property close to the docks, it was beautiful. Her husband had never been into home repairs, and she did not have the skills to do the work. Williams’ terraced house was the sort of place she would love to own, knew she never would.
She parked her car across the street. For three, close to four hours she watched the house from inside the car. The only people she saw, a young couple pushing a child’s buggy. They were clearly the tenants. Bridget had already ascertained it was rented out to a couple with one child. Wendy realised the missing woman was not at this location.
After a quick lunch she drove out to the next location, a flat close to Hackney. She would have gone to the apartment down by Canary Wharf as her second choice, more upmarket than Hackney, but it was early afternoon, and the traffic was building up. Even so, it still took her the best part of ninety minutes.
It was clear that the second property was not as salubrious as the first. It appeared to be on the third floor, in a drab, red-brick, ex-council property. There were two problems on arriving: one, she could not see the entrance to the flat, only the front window, and two, parking restrictions on account of the late afternoon rush hour were about to apply. She could only stay for thirty minutes.
She phoned Isaac. She found his manner a little distant – as if he had something on his mind. Disregarding his curtness with her, she told him about the house in Twickenham, and the flat in Hackney. She also let him know that she regarded Canary Wharf as a better possibility, and that tomorrow she would drive out there.
Farhan, meanwhile, had phoned Robert Avers to ask if he had heard from his wife.
The man’s response surprised Farhan. ‘I’m not going to sit at home waiting for her to knock on the door. She screwed around enough, now it’s my turn.’
Farhan understood where he was coming from, careful not to let on that they believed his wife was alive and somewhere in London.
***
The next day, Wendy drove out to Canary Wharf, a massive redevelopment of the former West India Docks. Now a major financial centre, comprising major banks, financial services, and media organisations, it was also the home of some very impressive upmarket properties, primarily high-rise executive apartments.
She was convinced that it was the most likely location to find the woman: comfortable, secluded, an ideal place to hide out if you could afford it. No need to trudge down to the local supermarket to buy some food, just phone, and one of the expensive restaurants would deliver to your door, along with a good bottle of wine. And, from what Wendy had heard, Marjorie Frobisher enjoyed the good life, despised the poverty of her childhood.
It was clear that the flat, on the thirteenth floor, was too high to see anyone at ground level, unless the occupant stood right against the window.
The concierge at the front door, she felt, would not offer much help. Besides, she did not want to alert the missing woman to the fact that someone was looking for her. The easiest way was to enter the building unseen.
Observing the concierge, a smartly dressed man in his late twenties, she waited until he was distracted by a car pulling up at the front. A woman got out of the driver’s seat. Wendy assumed her to be in her early fifties, obviously well-heeled judging by the shopping in the back seat of the vehicle.
