***
Richard Williams’ office was locked when Isaac arrived. It wasn’t far from the police station, and the traffic was remarkably light for the time of day. The concierge on the ground floor let him in after he had shown his badge. Nothing seemed out of order. Williams’ desk was neat and tidy, a few papers to one side. He reasoned there would be nothing of much interest there.
Linda Harris’s desk seemed the most obvious. Sitting down on the chair that she and Sally Jenkins had occupied, he opened the desk drawers one by one, starting at the top left. He wore gloves, should have obtained official permission, but time was of the essence.
Richard Williams was dead, Marjorie Frobisher was under guard, but Isaac knew he was dealing with professionals. If they were determined to tie up loose ends, himself included, they would. No amount of protection would save anyone.
He thought that if Linda Harris had managed to find out the address at Canary Wharf, she hadn’t used it. Or maybe she had? The doctor at the hospital had said anaphylactic shock. Something she had eaten, but Marjorie Frobisher would have been particular with what she ate, and the restaurant her meals were coming from was first-class. Surely they wouldn’t have made an error.
If Linda Harris, MI5, and probably Angus MacTavish had wanted Marjorie Frobisher dead, Isaac reasoned, wouldn’t it have been easier to have killed her down at Canary Wharf? Wendy had been watching, but she had been some distance away. Entry into the building was not too difficult, people were going in and out all the time, residents, tradesmen, people delivering furniture, people taking it away.
The questions continued to build, yet Isaac could not supply answers. Someone had to know, or maybe there were puzzles within puzzles, questions within questions.
The contents of the desk offered no help, but Isaac had assumed they would not. If Linda Harris, if that was her name, were a trained professional, she would hardly have left any clues behind. Everything was neat and tidy, and the computer was password locked. Isaac phoned for his people to send down a team, to secure the office and to take the computer and break its password. He thought there would be nothing on it, but it was possible – more of a long shot.
He realised that Linda Harris was long gone; vanished without a trace, probably out of the country by now.
***
Farhan stayed at Richard Williams’ house until the investigations were concluded and the body removed to the morgue. The initial report from Forensics showed that the gun found at the scene, a Glock 17, did deliver the fatal shot. Farhan had noted the serial number, passed it on to the relevant people to trace the ownership – he had little hope of a result.
Farhan had been pleased when Gordon Windsor had walked into the house earlier to take charge of the examination of the body. The man had done a good job with Charles Sutherland.
‘DI Ahmed,’ Gordon Windsor said later, pulling down the mask covering his face and standing away from the body. He prepared to remove his coveralls, a clear sign that he had completed his work. ‘Clear shot to the head, professional.’
‘Murder?’
‘There appears to be some attempt at making out it was suicide, but I’d say whoever shot him was disturbed.’
‘The back door was open,’ Farhan replied.
‘Is that where he exited?’
‘He?’ Farhan asked.
‘Could be a she, I suppose. Why do you ask? Anyone in mind?’
Farhan felt no need to elucidate.
As Williams’ body left the premises in a body bag, Farhan left too. There seemed no reason to stay longer. The gun was off to ballistics to confirm that bullet and gun were related – Farhan saw it as a formality. Fingerprints looked to be unlikely. Initial investigation at the crime scene showed the signs of a professional, which raised the question why the murderer had fled if he or she had been disturbed. Why not just take out the person disturbing them, two for the price of one? More questions, few answers.
Isaac was drawing a blank as well. He saw no option but to head out to the production lot. The landlady at Linda Harris’s accommodation provided little information, just said that Linda kept to herself, had no men over, and two or three nights a week she never came home at all.
First, he planned to meet up with Farhan and Wendy in the office; or was he just delaying the inevitable of meeting Jess again. He wasn’t sure. He updated their boss as to what was happening. He said he would be at the meeting as well. Isaac would have preferred that he wasn’t.
***
The weather had turned miserable as Isaac drove back to the office; it matched his mood. He had committed an error of judgement in sleeping with Linda Harris, had possibly given her vital information, and he was bound to be confronted out at the production lot by the one person he wouldn’t be able to lie to.
Farhan, meanwhile, was in a more upbeat mood. His wife had submitted the papers for divorce, the conditions acceptable. After dividing the assets, more to her as she would take responsibility for the children, he would still be left with enough to put a down payment on a small apartment. Maybe, with Aisha, somewhere better, but that was idle folly.
She was still a former prostitute, even though now a promising lawyer. How would he explain it to his parents, his extended family? Could it be kept a secret? And his career, so important
