‘Why is Marjorie Frobisher so important?’ Isaac asked the most important question.
‘I’m assigned to find her. As to why? I’ve no idea. That’s the truth. Obviously, it’s something important, but I don’t know what.’
‘I don’t know either.’
You probably know more than me. Can we change the subject?’
‘Are we having dessert?’ Isaac asked.
‘I hope so, but not here. We’ll only frighten the other diners. Your place or mine?’
‘My place,’ Isaac replied. ‘It’s closer.’
Chapter 34
In the two days at Canary Wharf, conveniently based near the restaurant and a café she frequented, Wendy had seen little. She believed she had seen the woman at the window a couple of times, but it was high up, and it had been no more than a blurry silhouette. The only visitor that she recognised, almost certainly Richard Williams, judging by the way he walked. It was not possible to see the face, due to a heavy coat, a cloth cap, and a voluminous scarf. He arrived in a small car, not a Ferrari.
Isaac had phoned a couple of times, purely for an update, and Farhan had phoned once. Apart from that, she had been left alone. It suited her fine. The warmth of the sun out next to the water, or in the café, had helped her arthritis, the best it had been for some time.
She knew that her house, once her husband was established in a retirement home, would need to be sold, the rising damp too costly to repair; at least, on her meagre income and her husband’s pension. The constantly moist atmosphere in the house kept chilling her bones and her body. She couldn’t wait to leave.
It was on the third day when she saw the commotion. An ambulance pulled up outside the building where the missing woman was hiding. Wendy was quickly on the phone to Isaac, who was soon in his car and on the way over to meet her. Wendy, not wasting any time, was in the building, flashing her police badge at the concierge as she dashed through. Not needing to check which floor, uninterested if it was any other than the thirteenth.
Marjorie Frobisher was prostrate on the floor, the ambulance paramedic hovering over her.
‘Is she dead?’ Wendy shouted.
‘She’s still breathing.’ The reply.
The paramedic was a young woman in her early thirties.
‘Do you know her?’ the paramedic asked. Wendy could see the name tag attached to the front of the woman’s uniform: Patricia Edwards.
‘It’s Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘The actor?’
‘Yes, her.’
‘I thought it was.’
‘Will she live?’ Wendy asked anxiously. It was her responsibility, and now the woman was dead, dying. She was not handling the situation as well as she should have.
‘Touch and go, I’d say.’
‘When will you know?’
‘Not for me to say. I need to stabilise her, deal with the immediate situation, and get her to the hospital.’
‘Any idea what happened to her?’
‘Not sure. Maybe a heart attack.’
‘Does it look intentional, murder?’
‘I’m not the police. I’m only here to deal with the medical condition. You’ll need to ask a policeman whether it’s murder or not.’
‘I’m a police officer, Constable Wendy Gladstone.’
‘Then you can tell me.’ Wendy could see the paramedic was busy. Isaac was five minutes away, and he would want answers. The key person was incapacitated, and she was responsible. Why hadn’t Isaac confronted Marjorie Frobisher before? Whether the woman lived or died, there was trouble coming; she could sense it.
***
Five minutes later, and Isaac entered the room. He saw the woman being taken out on a stretcher.
‘DCI Isaac Cook.’ He introduced himself to the paramedic.
‘She’s stable. It looks as though she’ll live.’ She had correctly anticipated what he was going to ask.
With that, the woman left with her patient. Isaac needed to spend time with Wendy and to check out the flat. He phoned Farhan and asked him to get over to the hospital.
‘What’s happened?’ Isaac turned his attention back to Wendy.
‘I don’t know. She hasn’t left the building in two days.’
‘Anyone else been in the building?’
‘Plenty in and out.’
‘And did any of those contact the woman?’
‘I wouldn’t know. She’s up on the thirteenth floor. I could hardly stand outside her door for all that time.’
‘I suppose not. We should have contacted her when she first appeared.’ Isaac regretted his lapse, regretted he hadn’t told Richard Goddard.
And where did Linda Harris fit into the puzzle? he thought. She had confirmed she was MI5, although she had been adamant that she was only looking for the woman.
The previous night she had been anything murderous. He felt remorse afterwards, hoped that Jess would never find out, vowed not to sleep with the woman again.
Marjorie Frobisher’s current condition represented trouble – trouble with a capital T.
A close investigation of the apartment revealed nothing unusual. The clothes in the wardrobe were the same as on the CCTV at Worcester and Paddington Stations. A half-eaten meal was on the dining table. Isaac noted it for checking. He phoned the medical examiner, asked him to come over. It was not a murder scene, at least, not yet, but the apartment would need to be sealed off and thoroughly checked.
It was evident that Wendy had done no wrong, but Isaac knew how the police force worked. Whenever there was a disciplinary action, there was always a scapegoat. He was the guilty party, not her, but he was young and a future detective superintendent, even head of the establishment. They would protect him, but he was not going to let a woman approaching retirement take the blame for his actions. He realised that if he took the blame then the pressure would be placed on Detective Superintendent Goddard to explain why his
