The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Or makes me more likely to be the murderer of that horrible man.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right.’

  ‘Then maybe you can answer the question why you work in a factory.’

  ‘You’ll need to know something about my life story.’ They both sat on a bench by the side of the road.

  ‘I led a troubled existence up until I was about eighteen. No abuse, good family environment, but I was wild. Something in my genetic makeup, I suppose. I moved out of the home and into a small apartment with a couple of other girls. We always had men over, more like boys on reflection. Anyway, the two girls moved in with their boyfriends, and I was left with the rent to pay. I was too proud to go home and ask for money, and jobs were hard to come by. I saw an ad in the paper, women wanted. I assumed it was prostitution.’

  ‘Did you have a problem with that?’

  ‘Some, but it wasn’t that much of an issue. The woman I met, upmarket part of the city, took one look at me and told me I was a lot better than the usual women that came through the door. She took me under her wing and soon I was working as an escort. Great money and the men were invariably kind and gentle. A few were a little kinky, wanted me to tie them up, that sort of thing. I worked like that for about eight years.

  ‘One day, I’m out walking through a park, idly minding my own business, when a man comes up to me. He just wanted to say hello. He meant nothing by it, and he certainly was not attempting to seduce me. We started meeting on a regular basis. He had no idea what I did to earn a living.

  ‘Anyway, I realised that I loved him, and I wanted a life similar to my parents. We married, and all was fine, two healthy children and a mortgage. A few years ago, the economy tightened, and my husband was unable to make the payments on the house and the schooling. I said I would go out to work, so I took the job at the factory. It was purely a cover.

  ‘Each day I would go off to the factory, bring some money in, but it wasn’t much. I saw no problem with going back into escorting. Most men like an older, more experienced woman anyway, and I knew I was still attractive, even if a little rounder. I found Marion Robertson through an ad. She’s been a godsend, and she always pays promptly.’

  ‘Your husband doesn’t know?’

  ‘He must never know. I do this for him and my children. Not for any other reason.’

  ‘I will give you the promise that I gave Samantha. I will maintain your confidentiality. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to indefinitely, but I will try. What can you tell me about Charles Sutherland?’

  ‘There’s not much I can tell you. We went there a couple of times, put on a show for him, gave him the threesome he wanted and left.’

  ‘Your husband, wasn’t he concerned that you were out at night?’

  ‘Nightshift at the factory.’

  ‘And he accepted it?’

  ‘He’s a trusting man, even thought I was a virgin when we first met.’

  ‘Thank you, there’s not much more I need for now. Hopefully, we will not need to meet again.’

  ‘I hope we never do,’ she said.

  ***

  The Murder Investigation Team was now in full operation: collating, investigating, researching in the hunt for whoever had killed Charles Sutherland. The forensics report had come through: death due to a combination of alcohol, cocaine, and arsenic poisoning.

  Coupled with the dead man’s obesity and a heart condition, death was recorded as manslaughter, possibly murder. It was ambiguous. Isaac phoned Gordon Windsor. His statement: the arsenic may not have been of sufficient quantity to kill an average healthy male, but Charles Sutherland was obese with a heart condition. This raised the question of whether his death was the objective. Regardless of the reason, it was imperative to find the person responsible.

  Before the murder, Isaac’s and Farhan’s activities had been kept relatively low-key, due to the sensitivity of Marjorie Frobisher’s disappearance. With Isaac now juggling two jobs, one as the senior investigating officer of the MIT, the other as part of the team with Farhan looking for the missing woman, it became apparent that another person was required.

  Both of them knew Constable Wendy Gladstone: Farhan in passing with a cursory ‘Hello’, ‘How are you?’, Isaac better as they had worked on a couple of cases together in the past. If you needed to find someone, then she was the best person for the job.

  She came into the office early. When Farhan arrived just after seven and Isaac fifteen minutes later, she had already found herself a desk and put it close to Farhan’s.

  ‘If anyone is missing, they won’t stay missing for long,’ Richard Goddard had said when told that she would be joining the team.

  She had given Farhan a firm handshake when he had walked into the office. Isaac received a bear hug and a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘Who do you want to find?’ she asked. She was a smoker and the smell of stale tobacco was anathema to them. If it became a problem, Isaac resolved to talk to her about it, but not today.

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher,’ Farhan said.

  ‘My favourite actress, my favourite programme.’

  ‘You like the programme?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Why not? After a day in here dealing with misery and violence, a bit of nonsense does no harm. You don’t like it?’

  ‘Neither of us likes it much,’ Farhan said. He liked the woman, although he was more sensitive to the smell of tobacco than Isaac.

  ‘Each to their own,’ she said. She had brought her own coffee mug and was seated comfortably at her desk.

  ‘Where was she last seen?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘A hotel in Malvern, Worcestershire,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Positive identification?’

  ‘The receptionist said it was her, and she was picked up on a street camera.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Three weeks, in Malvern.’

  ‘That’s seven weeks missing. Where has she been?’

  ‘No idea’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Probably she rented a remote cottage in a nondescript village and kept a low profile,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Where she is now is what’s important.’

  ‘Wendy, we’ll bring you up to speed,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Fine, let me get another mug of coffee. You want some?’ Both Isaac and Farhan declined. Isaac knew that they would need to buy more sugar for the office.

  Once she was sitting down again, Isaac commenced. ‘Marjorie Frobisher’s disappearance has caused some concern.’

  ‘I know. Her fans are distraught,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It is not her fans that concern us. Marjorie Frobisher led a colourful life. In her earlier years, before she became a major star, she was involved with people who are now very influential. Those people need to know if she is dead or alive.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I can keep a secret.’

  ‘We know that.’

  ‘What’s the tie-in between Sutherland and Marjorie Frobisher, then?’

  ‘We believe he had some knowledge relating to her.’

  ‘Enough knowledge to get him murdered?’

  ‘It seems likely.’

  ‘I’d better get to Malvern. Is this dangerous, by the way?’

  ‘How are you fixed for security?’

  ‘Pepper spray and a kick in the groin.’

  Later that day, with a cash advance, a police-issue credit card, and a car, Constable Wendy Gladstone was heading to Malvern. Isaac and Farhan felt confident that she would find Marjorie Frobisher, dead or alive. Until then they had to carry on probing, asking, and hoping for a breakthrough.

  Chapter 19

  With Wendy in Malvern dealing with the disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher, both Isaac and Farhan were at a loose end. It had been so quiet the previous night after she had left that Isaac had left early to meet Sophie. Farhan had gone home to an empty house, although his wif
e was talking about coming back. He was pleased for the children, not for himself, as what she considered to be love was not how he saw it. It was a dilemma for which he had no solution.

  He was a proud Muslim, and what he was contemplating was contrary to all he had been brought up to believe. His family would not understand, his children would probably not as they grew older, but he had become a contradiction, a contradiction to his faith. He knew what he must do. He was not sure how it would turn out. He needed to sow his wild oats and then maybe… Maybe then he would go back to the all-encompassing traditional family.

  Isaac arrived refreshed the following morning; Farhan, the opposite, as he had not been sleeping well since his wife left. Samantha, or Aisha as she preferred him to call her, had phoned him once or twice, exceedingly friendly, but he had to remind her that as it was an ongoing murder investigation, he was not in a position to meet other than on official business. Aisha understood, or she said she did. Maybe she was like Olivia, looking for a good man. Could he be that man? he thought. Could he forgive her for all the men she had slept with? He wasn’t sure, but it concerned him, kept him awake at nights thinking about her.

  ‘Farhan, coffee?’ Isaac asked, bringing him back from his daydreaming.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Both sat at their desks.

  ‘You’re satisfied the women that Sutherland had in his room are not involved?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’m certain they were only there for sex.’

  ‘Then someone must have gone in after and given him the drink.’

  ‘A fair assumption, Isaac.’

  ‘It doesn’t help, though. Security cameras. Any at the hotel?’

  ‘Not in the rooms and not on the floor.’

  ‘Then someone could have entered without being spotted.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And it must have happened after the women left and before the maid found the body.’

  ‘We know that he died around three to four in the morning.’

  ‘Any record of him phoning for another woman?’

  ‘None has been found.’

  ‘What does that suggest?’

  ‘That he knew the person.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Farhan agreed. ‘And why didn’t Christy Nichols hear the knocking and the commotion?’

  ‘Good question, you’d better ask her.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘I intend to meet up with Marjorie Frobisher’s children. I need to see how they feel about their mother’s disappearance. Whether they are involved.’

  ‘Why would they be involved?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure. If the woman is alive, then there is no involvement, but if she’s dead…’

  ‘They could have killed her.’

  ‘If they had a motive.’

  ‘We are assuming her death would be a sanctioned assassination?’

  ‘It’s only an assumption. We know that people in senior places in this country want her dead. That doesn’t mean, however, that they committed the murder. Maybe someone else did, and it has proven advantageous to them. Charles Sutherland was a loose end; his death may have been an assassination or someone out for revenge.’

  ‘You know what you just said. I said it on the day of the interview with Jess O’Neill. You chose to ignore me.’

  ‘I heard what you said. I just didn’t want to hear it at the time. It is a strong enough motive,’ Isaac finally admitted.

  Farhan changed the subject. ‘I’ll go and see Christy Nichols. You can go and see Marjorie Frobisher’s children.’

  ***

  Christy Nichols was not hard to find. Her experience at the Savoy had left her downtrodden and downhearted. She had temporarily given up any hope of fame and fortune in the publishing world.

  ‘It’s a cut-throat business,’ she admitted when she met Farhan. They had agreed on a location in the east of the city, a small coffee shop he had visited in the past, and she knew. He had ordered cappuccino for them both, served by an Italian woman. He had made small talk, assumed she was a member of the family that owned the café, but she had told him she was just a backpacker aiming to make enough to pay her weekly costs. She said that no one in the family would work there for the hourly rate, but it was cash, so she saw no reason to complain. Besides, it was the tips that made it worthwhile. He made sure to give her a good tip.

  ‘What are you doing at the moment?’ he asked Christy.

  ‘Licking my wounds.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad. You know she refused to pay my expenses?’

  ‘Victoria Webster?’

  ‘You’ve met her?’ she asked.

  ‘On official business.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It would be inappropriate for me to comment.’

  ‘I understand. Policeman’s code, something like that.’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘She’s a bitch, isn’t she? Don’t answer that,’ she said. Farhan smiled.

  ‘She’s right of course. It’s a dog-eat-dog business. If you’re soft and kind-hearted like me, it’s impossible to make it.’

  ‘Christy, did you see anything?’

  ‘The night he was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw the two women enter, but after his behaviour the previous time, I was keeping well away.’

  ‘The women that you saw, can you describe them?’ Farhan asked. He had met them both. It seemed a good idea to confirm that she was referring to the same women.

  ‘Both were attractive, heavier build than me, but not fat. One seemed to be Indian, not very dark though, and the other one English, in her late thirties, maybe early forties. They were both well-spoken. I had to pay someone in the hotel to let them in by the back entrance.’

  ‘Your description sounds right.’

  ‘You’ve met them?’

  ‘They didn’t want to, but it’s a murder investigation. I could have forced them to come to the police station.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No, I met them separately in neutral locations.’

  ‘What did you think?’ She seemed curious.

  ‘I liked them both. As you say, apart from what they do.’

  ‘It’s not for us to judge, is it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Farhan replied. ‘Life is tough. People sometimes need to make decisions to survive. Both were desperate to protect their identities.’

  ‘Their alter egos.’

  ‘You make them sound like superheroes or superheroines.’ Farhan was not sure where the conversation was heading.

  ‘Not really, but I can admire strong-minded, strong-willed people. I can admire Victoria Webster, not necessarily like her. I can even admire the two prostitutes, although I could never imagine myself doing something like that. What if they were seen by someone they knew? What would they do?’

  ‘I never asked. I will the next time.’

  ‘They won’t like it,’ she said. Farhan ordered two more drinks. It was evident she was in no hurry to leave, neither was he.

  ‘It’s an interesting thought. What if they had seen someone that night, someone who should not have been there? Would they have told me?’ Farhan said.

  ‘Probably not. Protecting their lives outside of prostituting themselves would be more important.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You know so.’

  ‘I agreed to keep what they told me in confidence. Christy, level with me. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘Don’t you ever feel like throwing away people’s perception of respectability, just being yourself?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. Often, he thought.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I’m not doing a lot at the present moment, just working for a local rag, gossip column.’

  ‘How did you get into that?’

  ‘I’ve been doing it for some time. I mainly work from ho
me, make up most of the “Dear Marigold’s”. It pays the bills.’

  ‘You don’t look like a Marigold.’

  ‘It’s my middle name. A great aunt that my mother was fond of was named Marigold. I think my mother was having a bad day when she gave it to me.’

  Farhan realised he was enjoying his time with Christy Nichols, although it was still a murder investigation, and she still remained the closest person to Charles Sutherland. He had discounted the two escorts; he couldn’t call them prostitutes anymore. He didn’t want to think of Samantha aka Aisha selling herself on a street corner. An escort sounded more refined. He also realised that he needed to meet her again: firstly because there was a valid reason, and secondly because he wanted to.

  ‘Coming back to the night of the murder,’ Farhan refocussed. ‘The women said they left around midnight.’

  ‘I never saw them leave.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘No reason to. I showed them in, but I certainly did not want to see Sutherland flashing me again. I’ve led a sheltered life.’ She seemed to be joking.

  ‘Sheltered. What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just a silly remark really. I had a very conservative childhood. My parents did all they could to shield me from the seedier side of life. There were no late-night parties or boys over. No alcohol in the house and certainly no bad language. I stayed there until I was in my early twenties, and then the company I worked for transferred me to London. It’s left me a little prudish, not sure how to handle some situations.’

  ‘Such as Charles Sutherland when he’s high on drugs and women.’

  ‘Yes, Charles Sutherland. I suppose another woman would have slapped his face, kicked him in the groin and screamed for help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I think I froze.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘It’s too shocking.’

  ‘You need to elaborate, it’s important.’

  ‘I’m ashamed.’ She was shaking visibly. Her face was red, and tears were welling up in her eyes. Farhan beckoned the Italian waitress to bring another two coffees.

  ‘He made me do something.’

  ‘And the other women?’