The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  Isaac commenced the interview, following the official procedure, noting the time of the interview, informing the client of his rights and asking those present to state their names and details.

  ‘My client is here at the express request of the police. He is willing to answer any reasonable questions that are put to him,’ Williams’ QC said.

  ‘Mr Williams, we are in possession of information that clearly indicates you lied to us on previous occasions,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I reject that accusation. I have upheld my responsibility and always given the truth when asked.’

  ‘I hope that these accusations can be validated. It will be seen as police harassment if they are fabrications. The Commissioner of Police, Charles Shaw, will take a dim view of this if I am obliged to inform him, Scott said. Isaac, a usually patient man, was enraged at the QC’s attempt at intimidation.

  ‘Let me remind you that this is a murder investigation,’ Isaac said. ‘I am sure that Commissioner Shaw will fully endorse my position.’

  ‘Very well, continue.’ Quinton Scott appeared subdued for the moment.

  ‘Mr Williams, you mentioned on a previous occasion in your office that your relationship, your intimate relationship with Marjorie Frobisher, occurred many years ago, and that you have remained as friends since then.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Recent information indicates that your relationship has continued.’

  ‘Our friendship has.’

  ‘There was a party at Marjorie Frobisher’s house when it became more than a friendship.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ Williams said. His legal adviser maintained a thoughtful pose, arms folded, listening to the conversation.

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Williams, I am led to believe you are lying. We are not here to pass moral judgement, we are here to ascertain the truth. Whether you are or are not sleeping with her only concerns us in relation to our enquiries.’

  Quinton Scott felt the need to speak. ‘My client has clearly indicated the current and past statuses. He is not required to say anymore.’

  ‘That is his right,’ Isaac continued. ‘However, Mr Williams is the last person to have seen Marjorie Frobisher alive, and that is by his own admission.’

  ‘Is that correct?’ Quinton Scott turned towards his client to ask.

  ‘I knew she was in Malvern, at least for some of the time. I went there and met her.’

  Quinton Scott turned to Isaac, ‘DCI Cook, I would request fifteen minutes with my client.’

  ‘Interview halted at 11.30 a.m.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the QC said.

  ‘I’ll send in two coffees,’ Farhan said.

  A begrudging grunt from the QC; thanks from Williams.

  ***

  Forty minutes later the interview recommenced. In the interval, Farhan and Isaac had managed to grab a bite to eat. Richard Williams and Quinton Scott had asked for a pizza each. A young female police officer had delivered them to the interview room.

  ‘Interview resumed at 12.10.’

  ‘My client would like to make a statement,’ the QC said.

  Richard Williams commenced. ‘I have maintained a relationship with Marjorie Frobisher over the years. This has been infrequent in its nature, but as I had indicated before, we have a history of when we were both struggling to make our way in the world. There have been years when we have just been friends, others where we have been intimate.

  ‘Marjorie phoned me from Malvern. I went there to meet her. The programme was in need of her, and I did not want her to be absent. There are a number of reasons as to why I did not tell you, not the least that I am genuinely fond of the woman. Also, the ratings and the advertising revenue were sure to be enhanced by her being on the screen, grieving elder sister, vengeful and determined slayer of those who had killed her brother.

  ‘She was frightened. I reasoned with her, and she agreed to return to London within a few days. I offered to provide her with security, although the reason it was needed remained obscure. That is the end of my statement.’

  ‘Do you have any knowledge of why she was frightened?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘She has skeletons in the cupboard, the same as most people.’

  ‘Hers were substantial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you aware of a child?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is there any more you can tell us about this child?’

  ‘It was before we met.’

  ‘Was the child yours?’

  The QC intervened. ‘My client will not answer that question.’

  ‘It’s okay, Quinton,’ Williams said.

  ‘The child was not mine.’ He addressed Isaac.

  ‘Do you know who the father is?’

  ‘She would never tell me.’

  ‘Did she know?’

  ‘Are you insinuating that she may have been sleeping with more than one man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s possible, of course. She was promiscuous in a casual manner. Most people were then. It was a time before HIV and Aids.’

  Does Robert Avers know about this child?’

  ‘How would I know? You’d better ask him.’

  ‘Do you think he knows?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Isaac could see that he had exhausted one line of questioning. He could not fault Richard Williams in his responses. ‘Did you at a party at her house have sexual relations with Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Are you trying to imply that because of Charles Sutherland and his daughter, I am somehow responsible for his death?’

  ‘I am purely attempting to ascertain whether you deny the incident.’

  ‘I’d prefer to forget it.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Her daughter, plain Jane, legs up in the air with Charles Sutherland’s bare arse bobbing up and down. Not one of the prettiest sights.’

  ‘How did Marjorie Frobisher react?’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Out of shame?’

  ‘No. She had just had the sofa reupholstered. Her daughter and Sutherland were hardly the cleanest of people. She didn’t want him spraying his mongrel sperm over it.’

  ‘She didn’t care about the daughter?’

  ‘She never had. Why should she start then?’

  ‘Fiona Avers has a reason to dislike her mother,’ Isaac commented.

  ‘I didn’t like the way Marjorie treated her children, but it wasn’t for me to complain. That was Robert Avers’ responsibility.’

  ‘Is there any more?’ Quinton Scott asked. ‘It appears that we have lapsed into innuendo and questions on morality.’

  Isaac followed official police procedures and then hit the stop button.

  Williams and Scott left soon after. Isaac spoke to Farhan. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘He answered the questions. I can’t see that he has a motive for murder.’

  ***

  Isaac and Farhan had been tailed in their cars again. They contacted Richard Goddard. Usually, they would have just contacted the vehicle identification department, but they knew the car registrations would be classified.

  Wendy, back in the office, had rearranged the furniture, to Farhan’s chagrin. She reckoned the two cars tailing them might be tied in with the two men that Bert, the taxi driver, had mentioned in Malvern. Isaac was not pleased with her presence in the office, as not only did they have to contend with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, now they had the smell of wine too. Farhan was certain that she was slightly hungover.

  As soon as she had debriefed them, she decided to focus her investigations at Paddington Station. On the way through Worcester, she had spoken to the ticket seller on duty at the railway station. It had been busy the day that Bert had dropped off Marjorie Frobisher, the ticket seller had said. And besides, he added, most tickets are sold from a machine. She had managed to get tapes from the security cameras at the station. They were typically
kept for a period of time and then erased. One day more, he had told her, and the video would have been gone forever. The tapes she passed over to Constable Bridget Halloran, the CCTV viewing officer, on arriving at Challis Street. She would scan through using facial recognition technology and a trained eye.

  Her time in the office with Isaac and Farhan was brief, and she soon left. Farhan moved his desk to where it had been at the first opportunity.

  ‘What did the two women he paid for say? Did they see anything?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘I know that, but we need to be sure about this. We are aware of a child. We know of Charles Sutherland, who said he knew something. We have Richard Williams, who says he doesn’t know who the child is. If Williams doesn’t know, how would Sutherland?’

  ‘He must have overheard something,’ Farhan said.

  ‘If he heard Marjorie Frobisher talking on a mobile phone, that would be a one-sided conversation, and she’s hardly likely to say the child’s name.’

  ‘She could have told him.’

  ‘If she wouldn’t tell Richard Williams, she’s hardly likely to tell Sutherland.’

  ‘What if she told Williams?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘If she did, then it means two things.’

  ‘One, he lied to us, and two, he’s a potential target.’

  ‘Are we conclusively stating that Charles Sutherland was murdered because he knew something?’

  ‘Who else could have done it?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Christy Nichols, Jess O’Neill, Fiona Avers.’

  ‘They each had a strong enough motive: one he had forced to indulge in oral sex, another he attempted to rape, and the other was indulging in sexual intercourse with the man until her mother walked in.’

  ‘He was poisoned. Whoever it was needed to get hold of the poison and know the dosage.’

  ‘Fiona Avers is callous enough. I just don’t see Jess O’Neill and Christy Nichols doing that, do you?’

  ‘Jess O’Neill could if she was vengeful enough,’ Isaac replied. ‘What do you reckon to Christy Nichols?’

  ‘She seems too timid.’

  ‘And what is it with these escorts? Why are you protecting them?’

  ‘I gave my word that I would keep their identities confidential for as long as I can.’

  ‘You know you will have to reveal them at some time.’

  ‘I hope that will not be necessary.’

  ‘You’d better hope for a confession from someone. That’s their only chance. I hope you explained that you can’t give a guarantee.’

  ‘I did.’

  ***

  With the pressure of work, Isaac just hadn’t had any time to devote to Sophie. He thought she was starting to become clingy, talking about moving in with him, or him moving in with her. Neither option appealed, and besides, there was still Jess.

  After the interview session at the police station, their conversations by phone had been few and far between, and whereas the attraction remained from both parties, the easy banter, the repartee, the teasing, more from her than him, were conspicuous by their absence.

  He had not dwelled too much on Farhan and his desire to keep the two escorts’ identities concealed, although it was out of character for his offsider. He had always been a stickler for following investigations by the book, but he assumed he had his reasons.

  Isaac was aware that he was not faultless either. There were times when he had gone easy on a female witness if he thought they were not involved.

  Chapter 23

  ‘DI Larry Hill, Islington Police Station. We’ve got a body. Police records show that you know the name.’ Isaac looked at the clock by his bedside. It said 2 a.m. Fully awake now after missing the original message, Isaac asked the caller to repeat.

  ‘What’s the name?’

  ‘Sally Jenkins, do you know her?’

  ‘Yes.’ One of the people he had been planning to interview, but never got around to it as he was too busy elsewhere. Isaac quickly dialled in Farhan.

  ‘It looks as if someone climbed in a window at the back of the building, forced entry, grabbed the woman and held her face down in the sink. Clear signs of a struggle,’ Larry Hill said.

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘14 Crane Grove.’

  It took Isaac three minutes to exit his apartment, another twenty minutes to get to Islington. It was early morning; the traffic was light. The road had been blocked off ‒ tape had been put across to keep out the neighbours, the gawkers, and the plain nosey.

  Most were still in their pyjamas, even though it was a cold morning. Farhan had beaten Isaac to the murder scene. Farhan waited for him to park his car. Then they proceeded to the house, showing their identity badges to the uniformed constable standing outside. It was clear that Sally Jenkins lived well. The upstairs flat in a typical terraced house had been tastefully renovated – in the last year, Isaac thought. The decorations were fresh, the television and stereo equipment good quality. There seemed to be little in the way of food in the house, which Isaac did not see as suspicious. He rarely ate at home. The bed, queen size, showed only one occupant; one side was neat, the other ruffled. It appeared she preferred to sleep close to the open window. It was apparent on examining the body that she slept in the nude.

  ‘Any signs of a sexual attack?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Forensics can tell you that,’ Larry Hill said. ‘From what I can see, I would say not. Apart from the bruising on her legs where she kicked out, it just seems to be death by drowning.’ He was a good-looking man, late forties, with the slightest sign of middle-aged spread and appeared competent. He had a healthy tan, clear skin and white teeth. Isaac had developed a knack of summing up people at the first meeting. It sometimes annoyed Sophie, the few times he had taken her out. It seemed too clinical for her.

  ‘One person or two?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘I would say one,’ Hill responded. ‘It’s not that big in here. Two, they would have held her legs firm, stop her making a noise. Professional, I’d say.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Have you seen the body?’

  ‘Yes. I met her when she was alive.’

  ‘If Charles Sutherland was a professional assassination, and Sally Jenkins is too, then Marjorie Frobisher is almost certainly dead,’ Farhan said.

  ‘You mean the woman off the television?’ Larry Hill had heard them talking.

  ‘You weren’t meant to hear that,’ Isaac said.

  ‘You think she’s dead?’

  ‘Larry, forget what you just heard. People are dying as a result of her.’

  ‘Policemen included?’

  ‘Nobody is safe. Certainly not Farhan and myself.’

  ‘They said she used to play around.’

  ‘Larry, I don’t think we should discuss this anymore. We’ll be taking the case over from here.’

  ‘This is my case.’ Larry Hill saw his authority being usurped.

  ‘You’re getting yourself involved in something that could get messy.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat.’

  Isaac attempted to appease the man’s anger. ‘This is not the first body, almost certainly not the last.’

  ‘That’s my decision. I will conduct the investigation into Sally Jenkins’ death and keep you advised. The others you can deal with.’

  ‘We’ll accept your assistance. Find out what you can about suspicious people, how the window was opened.’

  ‘DCI Cook, I’ve been around a while. I know how to conduct a murder investigation.’

  ‘Apologies. We’re all a bit on edge. Your assistance is appreciated.’

  With no more to do, Isaac and Farhan exited the building. The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The previously eager onlookers had – bar a few – retreated inside and back to bed or to watch news reports on the television. All the major channels were in the street with their cameras focussed on the house.

  ‘Wha
t next?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘No point going home,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I need to have a shower and change. I’ll be there in an hour.’

  ‘Give me ninety minutes.’ Isaac realised he may as well return home and take a shower too. A murder scene gave him an uncomfortable feeling. A shower always seemed to help, as if he was washing the horror and the sight of the dead body away.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Farhan asked as he was getting into his car.

  ‘We need to find this damn woman. She’s the key to this.’

  ***

  Cecil Broughton, the station manager at Paddington Station, had seen the transition of the railways for fifty years. He was still an upright man, close to retirement at sixty-five, hopeful of a reprieve due to the government considering pushing the retirement age up closer to seventy. Wendy Gladstone liked him immediately.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said as she entered his office. It had a warm feeling to it, almost a relic of an earlier age, the walls adorned with pictures of trains through the years, mainly steam. The paint on the walls was flaking in places and the carpet threadbare ‒ how he liked it.

  ‘Some people are taken aback when they enter.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘They expect the office to be modern and smelling of air freshener.’

  ‘More like old leather in here.’

  ‘27th November 1965,’ Broughton proudly said.

  ‘I was just starting school,’ she replied, not fully understanding the significance of the date.

  ‘My first week here, pushing a trolley.’

  ‘Fifty years in the one place?’

  ‘I moved around over the years, but I always intended to finish my time at Paddington. I remember that day well.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The last day a steam train exited this station, Clun Castle, heading through Slough, Swindon, Bristol, before terminating in Gloucester.’

  ‘Do you remember them all?’

  ‘Most, I suppose. Trains have been a passion all my life.’

  What the last train had to do with the smell in the office still eluded her.

  ‘It’s the seats,’ he said.