The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Read online

  ‘Farhan, getting back to the situation before our unexpected visitor poked his head around the door,’ Isaac said, ‘what did you find out from the husband?’

  ‘Made me very welcome.’

  ‘But what did you find out?’

  ‘Her husband believes she’s just annoyed and has taken off to cool down. She’s done it in the past when they’ve had an argument. I suspect they have arguments quite frequently. Not my idea of an ideal marriage, but he seems devoted to her. Whether it’s reciprocated, I don’t know.’

  Isaac attempted an evaluation of the facts so far. ‘What do we have? Firstly, there is an assumption by persons unknown and influential that her disappearance is suspicious. Do these persons, whoever they are, concern themselves with her safety, or is that a minor consideration?’

  ‘Why is she so important?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘You can focus on that,’ Isaac said. ‘Secondly, what was the blazing row between Marjorie Frobisher and the executive producer? What was said in anger? Was it just her sounding off at him for dumping her, or was there more to it?’

  ‘Everyone has skeletons in the cupboard. We just need to find theirs.’

  Isaac appreciated his colleague’s style of thinking. Farhan had been born in Pakistan and had, like many thousands of others, made the trip to England and its cold and damp climate. A Muslim, his faith was private and pragmatic, and he blended into the department and society well. He was not averse to a half pint of beer on a Friday night – team building he would say – but his mother would have been shocked and his wife disappointed. There had been a murder six months previously in a pig abattoir, and he had even conducted the investigation. Pork was ‘Haram’, forbidden, but he was a serving police officer, and he carried out his duty without complaint. He never told Isaac about the three showers with a scrubbing brush when he arrived home that night, trying to remove the stench from his body.

  ‘Thirdly,’ Isaac continued, ‘Does someone know something that we don’t?’

  He laid out a plan. In the absence of a body, it was just the two of them. Confidentiality required that no one else could be brought on board. ‘Farhan, this is what we do. We’ll follow your suggestion and try and find out what Marjorie Frobisher’s importance is, and why someone influential is interested. I’ll head back out to the production site and keep quizzing the people there. I’ll also speak to the executive producer. See if he’ll tell me all that happened between him and his star, or soon-to-be-ex star.’

  ‘You’ll need corroboration from his personal assistant,’ Farhan said.

  ‘You’re right. I’ll ask her confidentially, see if it aligns with what he says. I’ve also got another source that may or may not give me some further insights.’

  ‘Jessica O’Neill?’ Farhan quizzed. Isaac had already told him that she was giving the right signals, and he knew his superior’s reputation.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. If it turns out there’s been a murder, she could well be a suspect.’

  ‘I realise that. Until the mysterious lady deems to make a grand entrance, then we treat everyone with suspicion.’

  It had been a long day. There was a slight drizzle as they left the office, and both knew that they were in for a slow drive to their respective homes. Farhan had managed to buy a small terraced house in Wimbledon, not far from the railway station. Isaac had secured a loan on a two-bedroom apartment in Willesden. It cost him more than his salary could bear, but he was an ambitious man. He felt he could stand the financial strain until his next promotion.

  Chapter 3

  The next day Farhan met up with Robert Avers at the Churchill Arms in Kensington. Farhan felt a neutral location may be preferable. It was evident that Avers appreciated good food. The Thai restaurant at the back of the public house served a good meal, and with a couple of pints down him, Farhan thought the man would be even more open than at their previous meeting.

  His estimation proved to be correct. They had managed to secure a table inside, and there was no fear of being overheard. It was crowded as usual, and the noise from the increasingly inebriated patrons would ensure that no one could hear what they said.

  ‘I’ll be straight with you,’ Avers said. He had just consumed his meal voraciously, almost shoved it down. His approach to a pint of beer was similar, down in two gulps. ‘We had what is quaintly called an “open marriage”. Hope I don’t shock you there.’

  Farhan, a conservative Muslim in an arranged marriage understood what he meant, not sure if he approved. ‘Shocked? Not at all. It seems incongruous in today’s permissive society,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right of course. The young people of today certainly would not understand the concept. They no longer see the need for marriage, and having multiple partners without the sanctification of a priest is accepted nowadays. Marjorie and I come from a different generation, and we both came to the marriage bed, if not entirely chaste, at least relatively naïve. We’ve been married a long time, and for the first ten we were faithful, but then her career blossomed, and my business took me away from home for lengthy periods at a time.’

  ‘So it was a mutual agreement?’ It was not a subject Farhan felt entirely comfortable discussing, but he felt a direct answer from Avers could well prove to be significant. The well-fed and well-drunk husband continued to down the pints. Farhan stayed a distant second with two half pints of beer.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Avers replied. ‘I don’t know who was first to stray, and initially there were some incredible rows at home and over the phone, but then we came to an agreement. It’s held us firmly together for the last fifteen years. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’ He repeated his previous statement.

  Farhan was indeed shocked by the frankness of the man, but it did not seem wise to offer his opinion. ‘I’ve heard worse.’

  ‘Just one thing. When she takes off, there’s never been another man.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Totally. We’re open if there is any dalliance by either party.’

  ‘So, where is she?’

  His fifth pint consumed, Avers willingly conceded, ‘I haven’t a clue, and honestly, this is much longer than the previous occasions. In the past, it’s been a few days, a week at most, but now we’re looking at over two and a half weeks.’

  ‘It’s imperative we find her as soon as possible,’ Farhan said.

  ‘You have access to her phone number. Did you trace the messages she sent me?’ Avers asked.

  ‘Inconclusive. Mainly from the north of the country.’

  ‘Not like her to be secretive.’

  ‘We’re aware that her disappearance has raised concerns in influential circles. Anyone you can think of?’ Farhan broached the question that concerned him the most, the primary reason for being in a noisy pub; the reason he had downed another half pint. The reason he was feeling decidedly unwell.

  ‘Not really. Her history before our marriage is vague. Since then, no one I can think of.’

  ‘You don’t know any names?’

  ‘She’d tell me if I asked, but I’m not sure I want to know. The openness of the marriage is more on her side than mine, and we’ve always been discreet. At least, I hope we have.’

  With no more questions and thankfully no more beers for Farhan, they left the public house. Avers took a cab; Farhan walked unsteadily to his car and vomited in the gutter, stale beer and the Thai meal. He then took fifteen minutes to drink some water and compose himself. He felt ashamed that he had sinned; he would offer additional prayers by way of compensation. Before arriving back at his house, he sucked on some mints to remove the smell from his breath. His God may well forgive him, his wife would not.

  ***

  Richard Williams, the executive producer of the soap opera, proved to be an elusive man. Isaac had come out early to his office in the city, not on the draughty and wet production lot. Williams’ personal assistant, Sally Jenkins, a vivacious woman in her mid-twenties with a tight top, her cleavag
e showing, and wearing a skirt that could only be described as no more than a bandage, was most agreeable. She was steadily plying the detective chief inspector with cups of coffee and biscuits. He knew what she was, a prick-teaser. He had come across her type before, making out they were available, taking every opportunity to show the goods on offer, and then when a man got up close and cosy, they would go coy and tell him they were not that kind of girl. Of course, if the man came with a Ferrari or a Porsche, they would be available. She did not interest him.

  After Isaac had waited forty minutes, Richard Williams came out of his office, apologising effusively. ‘Busy day, production schedules delayed, temperamental actors, and the weather is not helping with the outdoor scenes. What can I do for you? My apologies, by the way, unavoidable.’ His statement by way of an introduction, Isaac felt, was disingenuous, hurried.

  He chose not to comment and responded in a cordial manner. ‘That’s fine. Sally’s kept me occupied, looked after me well.’

  ‘Sally, I don’t know what I would do without her.’ The executive producer looked over at her as he spoke. She acted embarrassed, yet smiled a knowing smile back at him. Isaac had seen the look before. He knew something was going on between the two. It seemed unlikely that she would give him much assistance about the fracas between her boss and Marjorie Frobisher.

  In his office, Williams beckoned Isaac to sit on a comfy chair to one side of the room. Isaac declined, and sat instead on a chair on the far side of the large desk at the end of the room. A window, the entire rear wall, gave a panoramic view over the city. Richard Williams, unable to maintain the upper hand in the meeting, acquiesced and sat facing Isaac in a high-backed leather chair on his side of the desk.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘It’s not the first time she’s disappeared,’ the executive producer said. Isaac noticed the slower pace of his speech. Before, it had appeared rehearsed, now it seemed measured. He realised that the man was used to manipulating conversations.

  ‘We’re aware this is not the first time.’

  ‘Why the interest of the police? It seems melodramatic to me. The sort of thing we may well put in a script, but hardly real life.’

  ‘I thought that is what you are producing, a representation of reality.’ Isaac realised he was baiting the man to see how he would react.

  ‘Have you ever watched the programme?’ Williams asked. He had taken a defensive posture, his arms folded, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘Once,’ Isaac admitted.

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘It’s not my kind of programme.’

  Richard Williams weighed up the situation. He realised he was not dealing with a member of the viewing public, but a seasoned and astute policeman. His answer was honest. ‘Fodder for the masses, but it draws the viewers in, makes everyone plenty of money.’

  ‘Don’t you feel some guilt that you are spoon-feeding it to millions of people?’ Isaac needed to break Williams’ guard.

  ‘Are you one of those do-gooders, those holier-than-thou types who feel that we should be uplifting the people, educating them?’

  Isaac knew that he had annoyed the man, his intention. ‘Not totally.’

  ‘This is a commercial world, dedicated to the pursuit of money. If a few million wish to watch the programme and pay us plenty of money, then so be it.’

  ‘A few million? I’m told it’s between seven and eight million.’

  ‘Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,’ Williams said angrily. ‘I’m a busy man. If you haven’t any more to discuss, we should end here. Any more questions or can I get on with what I do best?’

  ‘There are some more questions. What did you and Marjorie Frobisher argue about the day before her disappearance, and what is your relationship with her?’

  ‘There was no argument, just a heated discussion. Who told you this?’

  ‘I am aware that there was an argument.’ Isaac was circumspect. He did not want to reveal what Jess O’Neill had told him.

  ‘You’re right. She was going to be dumped. Good for ratings and the future of the programme, not so good for her. I can’t blame her for being angry.’

  ‘Were you angry as well?’

  ‘In the end, I was. Marjorie’s a professional, been in the business for many years. She knows how it works, and it’s not as if we’re putting her out on the street. There was every intention of paying out her contract.’

  ‘But her career was coming to an end?’

  ‘She’s not immortal. It was going to happen at some time, and then there are all the chat shows and the newspaper interviews to keep her occupied. Maybe do a few adverts. She’d be fine.’

  ‘Is that enough for someone like her?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘For Marjorie, never. She wanted the continuing adulation. She’s welcome to it, but I’m no longer going to supply it.’

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  Isaac noticed a change in Williams’ manner. He leant forward, rested his arms on the desk and said, ‘I’ve known her for over forty years, ever since she had a one-line walk-on in a dreary period piece. We’ve always been friends.’

  Isaac could see no more to be gained by prolonging the meeting.

  He would talk to Sally Jenkins about the argument at a later date.

  ***

  Charles Sutherland had accepted the death of Billy Blythe graciously. At least, that was how it had been publicly portrayed. The appearances on the chat shows kept him occupied for a few weeks, the bottle for a few weeks more. His agent had put out the feelers for some more work, but he was typical of many who had enjoyed the comfort of a long-running soap opera – he was type-cast. The only parts were for villains, for another ‘Billy Blythe’, and he had had enough of him. He saw himself as a Shakespearean actor, a classicist involved in a major production at one of the major theatres in the country, not playing an overweight, aged hooligan. The tough-talking, the bad language if they could get it past the censors, the pointless fistfights ‒ they always used a stand-in when his back was to the camera ‒ failed to impress him. He saw himself on stage reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy to an enraptured audience. To be, or not to be: that is the question…Maybe even, Hamlet Act 5 Scene 1: Alas, poor Yorick!

  He had earned good money, and if it had been invested wisely, he would have had sufficient not to work again. However, an extravagant lifestyle meant that he continued to rent, although, in Mayfair, it was hardly a slum. Not like the place where he had grown up in the west of the country. His parents, good people, had struggled all their life. A son that always complained had not helped. The only motorised transport was a tractor that rarely started and an old Land Rover that did start but rattled atrociously. The food was wholesome. The animals: never more than twenty or thirty cows and a bull to keep them serviced, several dozen sheep, a few pigs and chickens. The 4 a.m. starts in winter to look after the animals and collect the eggs, before he walked the three miles to school over frozen fields, still brought back unpleasant memories. He had been an inherently lazy child, a trait that continued to adulthood, but laziness was not allowed by a stern father who was capable of removing the leather belt from his work trousers and giving the young Sutherland a good thrashing across his bare backside.

  Charles Sutherland never considered that the principal acting parts eluded him because of his inability to resolve his West Country accent. He had made significant improvements, and for Billy Blythe, a country accent was just right, but the classics required an eloquent tone. To reach the heights he desired needed more than he could give. It needed discipline and perseverance, and he possessed neither. He was a sloppy man, both in his hygiene and his movements. His car, an ageing Volvo, was full of discarded crisp packets and sweet wrappers, the ashtray full of ash from unpleasant smelling cigarettes. He presented poorly, but he did not blame himself – he blamed others, and the person he blamed most was Marjorie Frobisher.
He knew it was her who had him killed off, Jess O’Neill had told him, and he didn’t have much time for her either. If he was to suffer, then others would as well. That was how he saw it.

  ***

  Sam Avers, the son of Marjorie Frobisher and Robert Avers, was a major disappointment to his parents. Their income had given him the best of opportunities, the best of schooling, but he had a weakness for alcohol and an ever-increasing dependence on recreational drugs. His father was a heavy drinker, but he came from a generation where people drank heavily, got drunk and stopped. The son came from a generation where people drank until silliness and then started hitting the shots of tequila or vodka: his favourite, Slippery Nipple, a mix of Bacardi rum and Wild Turkey bourbon. He had grown up in the better parts of London, Chelsea mainly, and the clubs and the pubs were awash with binge drinkers. He had been flush with money; his father was successfully running an import/export business, his mother was an increasingly affluent and famous celebrity.

  He had little time for either, and by the age of seventeen, his relationship with them was irreparably severed. The family home was big enough for him to enter and leave it without having to do more than briefly acknowledge them. The only time he granted them a conversation, short even then, was when he needed money or to top up his credit card. They gave in with little resistance. Their lives were full and busy. A delinquent child who had neither the innate charm nor the good looks of his parents left them with a feeling of apathy towards him. Marjorie Frobisher and Robert Avers could not love him as parents should, and the son realised this. The more alcohol in his system, the more he disliked them, the more vengeful he became.

  There had been a period in his early twenties when a good and decent girl had attempted to love and change him. They had moved in together, enjoyed a loving relationship, mainly sober for three years before he had fallen off the waggon and hit the booze again. The relationship passed the honeymoon stage, although they had never officially married, and domesticity caused him some troubles. She moved out, and the intervening years had been of casual relationships, mainly one-night stands, and days spent in a drunken and drug-filled haze. He had attempted a career while sober, managed to find a job as a junior auctioneer at one of the most prestigious auction houses in the city. He wasn’t sure how it had come about, but he figured maybe his mother was screwing one of the directors. Yes, he knew about her shenanigans and his father’s. That was what men did, but his mother? He could never forgive her, them, for their lifestyle, their affairs, their wealth, when he had been forced to play second fiddle, even third, in their affections.