***
Farhan arrived at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel within five minutes of the ambulance transporting the unconscious woman. He left the car in a no-parking area and flashed his badge at the surprised security guard. Farhan gave him the keys and told him to move it if it was in the way. It was not his usual way of dealing with the general public, but this was an emergency. The pieces were coming together, or they would if the woman lived.
Her cover was broken; she was vulnerable. He hoped she would realise that the only protection for her was in coming clean about all she knew.
Farhan had phoned Robert Avers on the way, his number on speed dial. He sensed the man was not overly pleased. Apparently, he had been cutting quite a dashing figure around town with a woman young enough to be his daughter, although the one he had been squiring was attractive, whereas the daughter, by her own admission, was not.
Once in the hospital, Farhan flashed his badge again. Soon, he was outside the emergency room. He noticed the media starting to arrive; someone had tipped them off. He could see the hospital being deluged with cameras and microphones. Her reappearance was big news. The radio and television stations would be blasting it to the world incessantly for the next few days, until it became old news, replaced by something else.
Farhan chose to ignore the media presence. He phoned the local police station to send over some uniformed men to hold the press and any fans at bay.
Doctor Sangram Singh came out to speak to Farhan. He was a distinguished man, and as Farhan found out later on, highly respected. Due to the importance of the patient, he had been brought in to take charge. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said.
‘What was the problem?’ Farhan asked.
‘Anaphylactic shock.’
He quickly phoned Isaac to update him. His reply, ‘What from?’ Isaac knew what it meant.
‘Nuts, probably. We’ll check it out.’
‘Robert Avers is there?’ Isaac asked.
‘Along with half of the London press, or soon will be.’
‘Local police?’
‘They’re here. I phoned them to take control.’
‘Detective Superintendent Goddard wants to see all three of us.’
‘We’re for the high jump?’ Farhan knew it meant trouble.
‘Someone is, or maybe he just wants an update.’
‘We can’t talk to her, not for four or five hours at least. She’s sedated.’
‘Make sure there’s a police guard on her door. It’s important.’ Isaac hung up. He had a defence to prepare.
***
It was unusual for Detective Superintendent Goddard to summon the team to his office. In fact, it was the first time for Farhan and Wendy.
‘Isaac, what’s going on here?’ The detective superintendent did not seem to be in a good mood. He was not one of nature’s most affable men at the best of times, but Isaac had great respect for him. Always saw him as a man he could trust, although recent events had shaken that trust.
‘Marjorie Frobisher is alive,’ Isaac said.
‘I only have to turn the television on to know that.’ It was a curt reply.
‘We can question her now. Find out this great secret.’
‘And when you find out, what then?’
‘Hopefully, it will clarify why Sutherland and Sally Jenkins were killed.’
‘Hell, Isaac, this is getting dangerous. What if certain parties don’t want this solving? What if the woman’s rising from the dead is putting people on edge? I’ve already had Angus MacTavish on the phone.’
‘What does he want?’ Isaac asked. He had noted that the customary cup of coffee and harmless chat had been dispensed with.
‘What do you think? He wants to know what the woman is saying.’
‘And you’ve told him what?’
‘Nothing. You told me she’s sedated.’
‘She’ll be speaking later today.’
‘I hope so, for your sakes.’
‘Constable Gladstone, pleased to see you,’ the detective superintendent, showing a momentary friendliness, addressed her.
‘Nice office you have here, sir.’ Compared to Wendy’s, it was palatial. Large window, panoramic view, a full bookcase and some comfortable chairs. Not for them, though. The three were sat on one side of the desk, the chairs not very comfortable. Their interrogator on the other side sat on a high-backed leather chair.
‘Constable.’ The previous civility gone. ‘I’ve seen your expenses. Extravagant in Malvern, but I let it pass, as you did find some additional information about Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’ll be more careful in future.’
‘Okay, but now there is an expense claim for a restaurant down at Canary Wharf, directly opposite where this woman was found.’
‘I’ll retract it if it’s a problem, sir,’ Wendy said timidly.
‘That’s not the problem. The problem is with DCI Cook.’
Isaac, now sitting upright and rigid in his chair, prepared himself for the worst.
‘Isaac, how long have you been aware of the whereabouts of this woman?’
‘Two days, going on three.’
‘And you chose not to tell me.’
‘We were unsure of the situation. She seemed safe enough, and we were staking out the building.’
‘What did you expect me to do? Rush off to Angus MacTavish, cap in hand. Is that how you see me?’
‘No, sir.’ Isaac wasn’t sure he could say much to excuse his actions.
‘You don’t trust MacTavish, do you?’
‘I thought him a decent man, but he’s a politician with a fearsome reputation for always being on the right side.’
‘Isaac, you should have come to me. Now I have MacTavish baying for my blood and the head of the Metropolitan Police asking questions. What can I say? My people chose not to place their confidence in me. It hardly sounds like a ringing endorsement for a promotion.’
‘Sir, do you trust MacTavish?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not totally, but if you had told me soon enough, we could have discussed this. I was not about to rush out the
