Angus MacTavish stood up, turned his back on the two policemen. He faced the window. ‘Officially, we need to wrap it up here.’
‘The reason?’ Richard Goddard asked. His promotion was due to be confirmed in a couple of days. A wrong word and he knew what would happen.
‘Too many questions being asked.’
‘Are you asking us to break the law? Conceal a crime?’ Isaac asked.
‘It’s not up to me. It comes under the Official Secrets Act.’
‘It’s a whitewash,’ Isaac said in an unchecked outburst.
‘You’ve heard of the Civil Contingencies Act? MacTavish, now facing them, said.
‘Our version of the American’s Patriot Act,’ Richard Goddard replied.
‘We’re invoking it.’
‘We!’ Isaac said.
‘The elected government of this country. The people charged with the responsibility of knowing what’s best for the people – that “WE”.’
‘We’re condoning murder here. You realise that?’ Isaac was angry and on his feet. All this time: three deaths, one solved, two to be pushed aside.
‘I understand your concern, but the national interest is more important.’
Isaac resumed his seat. ‘Are you confirming that two of the murders were committed by people employed in Her Majesty’s service?’
‘Not at all,’ MacTavish replied. ‘All I’m saying is that there are to be no further attempts to find a culprit for those two murders.’
‘We admit we failed – case closed. Is that it?’
‘Either you charge the woman you have in custody with the three murders, and make it stick, or else you state… State whatever you like: Suicide, lover’s pact, whatever, but drop it.’
‘This is contrary to what people expect of their government and their police.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Goddard.’ MacTavish looked away from Isaac and directed his gaze at Isaac’s boss. ‘Your promotion is on the line, my career as well. Sometimes it’s necessary to make decisions for the people regardless of what they expect.’
‘Understood, sir,’ Isaac said, although he felt uncomfortable with MacTavish’s outburst.
As they drove back to Challis Street, both saying little, both still stunned by the meeting, Detective Superintendent Goddard leant in Isaac’s direction. ‘Are you going to follow MacTavish’s directive?’
‘Do you expect me to, sir?’
‘I expect you to act as a policeman.’
‘Your promotion?’
‘Does MacTavish talk for the government or his own vested interests?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Neither do I. I’ve not received any instructions from my superiors at New Scotland Yard. Until then, we continue. If my career is down the drain, so be it. We can’t give up, just because a blustering Scotsman tells us to.’
‘This could get dangerous.’
‘I know that. What about Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘We’re moving her soon.’
‘Make it happen today. And make sure she is safe. Her best defence, ours as well, is if she talks.’
***
Farhan, updated on the situation in a quick phone call from Isaac, moved the date for the transfer forward. The two remaining reporters stationed at the hospital had fortunately left. Robert Avers, tired of waiting for something to happen, and in need of solace, had apparently left for his young lover.
That was what he had told Farhan, although it was more likely he had tired of his wife’s constant need for attention, the celebrity variety, of which she had been starved for so many weeks.
Doesn’t the woman get it? Farhan had thought the last time he spoke to her. Her life is under threat, and she still wants to act the prima donna.
As the planned evacuation from the hospital to the cottage commenced, one of the formerly bored and uninterested reporters reappeared at the critical moment.
He saw Farhan dressed as a male nurse. Quickly, he was on the phone to his superiors.
Exiting the rear of the hospital with the woman, Farhan, oblivious to the drama at the front, continued. The vehicle left as planned, unaware that a short distance behind them followed a motorbike, its rider helmeted.
‘We’re being followed,’ the driver of the ambulance said.
Farhan looked out of the small rear window of the ambulance – the driver was correct.
Not sure what to do, he phoned Isaac, who assigned a police car to pull over the motorcycle, minor traffic infraction if required. It was five miles before the motorcycle was stopped. Changing the original changeover location presented no problem.
Marjorie Frobisher transferred to the police car and headed out to the cottage.
‘I don’t like it,’ she said on arrival. To Farhan, it was charming and unique – a slice of heaven. Way out of his price bracket, way in hers.
‘We need to keep you safe.’
‘Here! I don’t see how.’
‘It’s isolated. We have people in the area keeping a watch.’
‘What is my life worth? I hide away for weeks, and then I’m brought to this.’
‘Why were you hiding?’
‘My life.’
‘Then why complain? We’re trying to protect you.’
‘I know that. Very well, I’ll talk to DCI Cook.’
***
Richard Goddard had received confirmation that his promotion was proceeding. He was soon to be a detective chief superintendent, not an assistant commissioner, as MacTavish had intimated. He realised it may take him away from homicide, possibly into more of an administrative role. It did not concern him unduly, but the current case did.
The promotion was verbal, not documented, and he knew why. It was conditional on a satisfactory outcome. He sensed the hand of MacTavish, although the police were meant to be independent. He was aware that the murders of Williams and Sally Jenkins may need to be covered up – it would not be the first time that national security had overridden the normal function of the police. The concern this time: that it wasn’t national security, purely an indiscretion of someone in power.
He knew he needed to let Isaac run his race, hope that he made the right decisions. If Marjorie Frobisher’s information was dynamite, what to do with it? What would Isaac do? Keep it under
