Isaac knew his career was on the line, but no amount of blustering by the senior government official was going to dissuade him. He needed to know, and it was clear that MacTavish knew.
‘Marjorie Frobisher mentioned your name.’
‘I’ve never met the woman,’ MacTavish replied.
‘We know that’s not true, sir.’
‘Maybe at some function or other.’
‘Do you know her, other than that?’
‘No.’
‘She said that you were the person to speak to regarding this secret.’
‘Which secret?’ MacTavish asked. Isaac could see his face reddening with anger.
‘The child.’
‘I told you I knew about a child. I’ve never given any indication that I know who it is.’ MacTavish resumed his seat and sat back in a confident manner, assured that he had allayed their concerns, hidden the truth.
Isaac knew the situation; he knew the body language. He recognised a lie. Not sure how to proceed, he fumbled forward. MacTavish was a powerful man, and powerful men had people behind them, supporting them verbally and physically. Not that he was frightened of the man, but he wanted Marjorie Frobisher to remain alive, and the truth to be revealed. A politician may regard the truth as a luxury; he, as a policeman did not.
‘If the truth was known,’ Isaac asked, ‘would it be catastrophic?’
‘Yes,’ MacTavish replied.
‘To certain persons?’
‘To this country.’
‘Is the truth better revealed?’ Richard Goddard asked.
‘No.’ A one-word answer.
‘Mr MacTavish, this cannot continue,’ Isaac said. ‘Respectfully, you know what is going on. We need to know.’
‘Why?’
‘We have three murders. One has been solved, the other two still remain unsolved.’
‘They are not to be solved.’ MacTavish again, on his feet. Mrs Gregory put her head around the door to offer tea or coffee. He unexpectedly snapped at her. She retreated.
‘We can’t cover up murders,’ Richard Goddard said. ‘Police procedures won’t allow it.’
‘Then change the procedures.’
‘But why?’ Isaac asked. ‘And what do we call them?’
‘Call them whatever you like.’
‘And the truth?’ Isaac asked.
‘Williams was ordered. The other woman, probably.’
‘This is England. We can’t do that.’ Isaac protested.
‘Not only will you, but you will also do it today; tomorrow at the latest.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She’s a marked woman.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re both subject to the Official Secrets Act. You're both serving members of the Metropolitan Police. You will both do as you are told.’
***
Farhan, updated soon after the meeting with MacTavish, had his own problems. Marjorie Frobisher was not going to stay where she was.
‘She has phoned her husband.’
‘Does she know she’s a dead woman?’ Isaac asked.
‘She knows. She regards her current life as a living death. She says she would rather be out there with her people.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Still here, but Robert Avers is coming. I can’t stop her, not anymore.’
‘You’re right. Maybe she is better off in her own home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no resolution to this. If she’s out there, it may help.’
‘She may be killed.’
‘What else can we do?’ Isaac said.
***
Isaac realised the weekend with Jess was unlikely, and Farhan was none too pleased either. Both knew they had no other option but to comply, but unless something changed then Marjorie Frobisher would be dead, their careers, at least Isaac’s, down the drain, and two murders would remain unsolved, three if Marjorie Frobisher died as well.
Robert Avers had picked her up and taken her to their house. Farhan followed at a discreet distance.
Isaac realised that Angus MacTavish was the problem. He wondered if he was the mysterious father, but discounted it. MacTavish had grown up in Scotland, and besides, he was several years younger than the woman. They needed to check out the schools that Marjorie Frobisher had attended. It was fair to assume a school dance would focus on schools within the area. It was an angle they had not pursued before, because that piece of information had only just come from the woman herself.
It was clear that Wendy was needed again. Isaac, in the meantime, would see if Marjorie Frobisher would give him the name of the father.
The next day, Wendy, in a remarkably jubilant mood, appeared in the office.
‘We need to know who this man is,’ Isaac said.
‘You want me to check out some schools?’
‘Yes.’
‘If they’re still there. It’s forty years.’
‘The records must still exist.’
It seemed difficult for Wendy to claim for an expensive hotel this time. Mavis Sidebottom, the childhood name of Marjorie Frobisher, had grown up in a village to the west of London, less than a forty-minute drive. The records clearly stated that she had attended St George’s Boarding and Day School between the ages of 11and 18, apart from a brief period of absence during her penultimate year. The dates aligned with her unexpected confinement.
It was also clear, as Wendy drove past Marjorie Frobisher’s childhood home, that the middle-class childhood, the daughter of a humble shopkeeper, was a fabrication. The father had been a shopkeeper, but a shopkeeper of several hardware stores and the home had been a substantial two-storey house in a better part of the village. The school was for those financially able to pay. It had been a girls’ school for over one hundred years, and before that a boys’ school. The headmistress took delight in informing Wendy that for two years Winston Churchill had been a pupil.
The records, meticulously kept and preserved in a vault beneath the main building, were opened at Wendy’s request. The vault was a treasure trove of history: full of artefacts and sporting cups, and among them, records of school dances.
Miss Home, an elderly and retiring woman, charged with recording the
