Wendy took copies of the documents to study. There seemed little purpose in visiting the other schools until the names had been checked out. She managed to treat herself to a nice lunch on expenses before she returned to London.
It was late afternoon when she walked into the office at Challis Street. Isaac was there. His day had been involved with going through all the aspects of the case, attempting to wrap it up, trying to figure out who killed who, and why?
‘I need to check out these names,’ Wendy said. Farhan not being there, she pushed her desk over into his area. Isaac could clearly smell stale cigarette smoke.
‘Any names we know?’ Isaac moved over towards her desk, sat on Farhan’s chair.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Member of the aristocracy; member of the government.’
‘Aristocracy will have the family name, not the title,’ Wendy said.
‘True. I’ll leave it to you.’ He moved back to his chair.
***
Marjorie Frobisher, back at her home, apparently oblivious of the situation or choosing to ignore it, was making herself known to her adoring public. An impromptu interview on the steps of the house to the assembled media – according to Isaac, sheer stupidity.
Farhan had asked her to stay at home, but he had been overruled. She had breezed into her favourite restaurant as if she was the all-conquering heroine, back from doing battle, rather than the frightened woman who had run away and hidden. It seemed to be an act; an act she managed with great aplomb.
Isaac, regardless of her condition on returning from the restaurant, felt the need to confront her. Farhan had warned him that her condition was far from conducive to that. Isaac thought it might be opportune, as with a few drinks, she may be more willing to talk.
‘Miss Frobisher, I need to know who the father is,’ Isaac said as he sat in the front room of her house in Belgravia. She was clearly drunk, clearly in need of attention. Isaac was pleased that Farhan was with him, although judging by the lecherous look in the woman’s eye, he was not sure it was safe even then.
‘Forget about him.’
‘Do you feel bitterness towards him?’
‘Why should I?’
‘You have spent a long time in hiding. Your life is at risk because of him.’
‘It’s not him.’
‘Then who?’
‘I told you before. Ask Angus MacTavish.’ Isaac could see it was pointless. Robert Avers had taken himself off to the other room, apparently disgusted at her condition. It was evident she was not going to give Isaac a name. It was up to Wendy to find the father.
Once the father was identified, the son would soon be revealed. Isaac continued to deliberate as to who the son was, and why he was so important. Without a name, it was pointless speculation, and Marjorie Frobisher was of no use.
Wendy, meanwhile, excited at the prospect of success, had stayed late in the office. Normally, she would leave for home at six in the evening, but it was way past eleven, close to midnight, and still she laboured over the computer.
She admitted to no great computer skills, but she was proficient with Google. She was pleased that Isaac had agreed to come back to the office at her request.
‘I’ve found him,’ she said the moment he walked in.
‘Congratulations. Who is he?’
‘He’s not a Lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He inherited the title on the death of his father.’
‘And?’
‘The Peerage Act of 1963.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Prior to it being enacted into law, no member of the House of Lords could take a seat as an elected Member of Parliament. He was able to renounce the title.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher referred to him as a Lord.’
‘That’s what people call him. Technically, he’s not.’
‘Are you saying it’s who I think it is?’
‘Yes, there’s only one person.’
Chapter 40
‘I did not kill Richard.’ It was not what Isaac expected to hear on picking up his phone at one o’clock in the morning.
‘Where are you?’ Hearing Linda Harris’s voice again reminded Isaac of the guilt he felt over the night they spent together; the pleasure they had mutually enjoyed, but mainly the guilt.
‘I am not in England.’
‘Then why phone?’
‘I just wanted you to know. Under different circumstances, we could have been something more.’
‘I don’t see how,’ Isaac responded.
‘We’re very much alike.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes. We are both ambitious.’
‘I work for an organisation that tries to save lives,’ Isaac said. ‘Yours apparently condones death when it’s in the national interest.’
‘I was there to find out where Marjorie Frobisher was, nothing more.’
‘Is her life in danger?’
‘Probably.’
‘Because of what she knows?’ Isaac, regardless of his initial trepidation, was enjoying the conversation.
‘Yes.’
‘What does she know?’
‘I never knew. I’m relatively junior. They never told me.’
‘They?’
‘My superiors.’
‘Do they have a name?’
‘I am not authorised to tell you.’
‘Who is?’
‘I don’t know. I just wanted to phone and say I was sorry; to let you know that I did not kill Richard.’
‘Sally Jenkins?’ Isaac asked.
‘She knew too much.’
‘Are you saying you killed her?’
‘Someone else did.’
‘Who?’
‘Richard.’
‘Why?’
‘She was blackmailing him, threatening to go to the newspapers.’
‘About what?’
‘Marjorie Frobisher. He did it to protect her.’
‘You provided him with an alibi.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you with him that night?’
‘Some of it, but not in his bed.’ With that, she hung up. Isaac, shocked by what he had been told, sat down for a couple of minutes to compose himself.
***
Richard Goddard, woken up from a deep slumber in the early
