The Lake District, two hundred and fifty miles to the north of London, seemed too far to drive. Wendy chose to take the train, three and a half hours to Oxenholme. She departed at eleven in the morning from Euston station, arriving just after two in the afternoon. A short taxi ride took her into Kendal, a small town of about twenty-eight thousand inhabitants. She rented a car and checked into the Castle Green Hotel. The brochures said it was the finest hotel in the town; Wendy could not disagree. The wine list looked suitably impressive. She decided to exercise the credit card that night.
The address of Christy Nichols’ family was to the west. She decided the following morning would be more suitable. Light rain was falling, and she had been told that the mist could come down at any time. It appeared that the family home was isolated and down some winding roads. Wendy, although a competent driver, felt more familiar with the bumper to bumper traffic in London than an isolated country lane.
Isaac phoned as she was seated at the bar; reminded her to go easy on the credit card. Too late, she thought.
He updated her on his and Farhan’s activities that day. And how Jess O’Neill appeared to be in the clear. Wendy thought to herself, he needs to be careful there. And also on how Christy Nichols seemed to be the more likely of the two, although Isaac failed to elucidate on his reasoning. She decided not to press for an answer.
Isaac was a DCI; she a lowly constable. He had the brains, the training, the instincts. He had learnt to read body language, the furtive eye movements, the change in voice tone of a defensive person, or someone just telling a plain lie. She hoped he wasn’t allowing his overactive libido to get in the way.
She had known Isaac a long time. Almost from the first days when he joined the police force, then in uniform, right up until he changed over to plain clothes and his elevation up through the ranks. She had seen the women he had taken out, the women in the police force who had swooned over him. She knew he was partial to one of the women close to the murdered people, closer than she had seen him with others in the past. She reflected on Detective Superintendent Goddard’s comment the other day when he had said ‘Again’. She would ask her DCI when this was all over, not sure she would get an answer, maybe a knowing smile, but what use would that be? Perhaps some harmless titillating gossip for her and Bridget to speculate about, over a few drinks. She knew Bridget could keep a secret and would enjoy the story, even daydream that it was her on the receiving end of one of Isaac’s amorous advances.
***
Farhan, with only loose ends to deal with, busied himself with the preparations for moving Marjorie Frobisher to the safe house. A suitable location, fifteen miles to the west, seemed ideal. Richard Goddard had approved the cost for a one-month rental on a country cottage. The woman had been precise in the quality required: no one-room apartment, no doss-house, no third-rate accommodation. Farhan had checked it out. It looked suitable for the demanding woman. To him, it looked fantastic. His wife, realising that he was close to her favourite actor, was phoning him, asking for an introduction. He felt he did not need her communication as the divorce was progressing. A solicitor from his side, another from hers, and it was proceeding amicably. He had even managed to see the children a couple of times in the last week.
Aisha was back from her trip out of the capital, hoping to catch up that night if possible, the following if not. Farhan, desperate as he was, realised there was another priority. He had to ensure Marjorie Frobisher was safe and secure. Her husband had taken a shine to him before. Apparently, she had as well. A condition of her transfer was that he was to take responsibility for her safety. He had no option but to agree.
The plan was simple; the execution, not so. The media presence had virtually evaporated, apart from a couple of junior reporters stationed out by the main entrance looking bored: armed only with a camera and a microphone, namely an iPhone. Farhan hoped they would disappear.
First, Marjorie Frobisher would put on a surgical gown. Then she would lie on a stretcher, suitably bandaged, and be taken out to a waiting ambulance. It was to look as if the patient was transferring to another hospital for specialist treatment. Once clear of the hospital and confident of no prying eyes, she would exit the ambulance and get into a car driven by a policeman, the windows tinted. The vehicle would then proceed to the cottage.
Robert Avers was aware of the plan, but he would not be going to the cottage. It was too risky.
Farhan would stay at the cottage with her until she was calm. She had agreed that she would tell Isaac all he needed to know once she was comfortable. Isaac was frustrated by her hesitancy. He could only see permanent protection for her if she revealed what she knew.
If the media was made aware of the facts, then what point would there be in liquidating her. She had told Isaac that the situation was complicated. There were other issues
