The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

‘Pardon.’

  ‘That’s the smell. I retrieved them from Clun Castle.’

  ‘You sound resentful of the trains today.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he reflected. ‘Brilliant technical achievements, just lacking in character. Anyway, you didn’t come here to reminisce about trains from the past, did you?’

  ‘Interesting subject, no doubt,’ she said, although the modern trains suited her fine. She had been on the occasional steam train, school excursions mainly, and she only remembered them as slow and exceedingly smelly.

  ‘You’re trying to find a missing person.’ Wendy could only reflect as she sat there how different he was to her husband. Broughton, alert and in his sixties; her husband, a few years younger, yet older in mind and body, and bitter about his life.

  ‘We believe the woman boarded the Paddington train in Worcester.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ he asked.

  ‘She probably bought the ticket from a machine at the station.’

  ‘That makes it difficult.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘How to identify her. Do you know what she was wearing?’

  ‘I’ve already passed on details to your people. We’re reviewing the tapes from Worcester Station. You have more cameras at Paddington, and people trained to watch the monitors.’

  ‘Major issue these days. No idea where the next idiot is going to let off a bomb.’

  ‘Any problems in the past?’

  ‘Not since 1991.’

  ‘February 1991. IRA, two bombs; one here and another at Victoria. No fatalities here, one dead at Victoria,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

  ‘Probably not as good as yours. I was assigned to Victoria to assist in the investigation.’

  ‘It’s best if I take you up to our video surveillance department. You’ve time for a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘British Rail has an excellent reputation for making tea.’

  ‘A tradition worth upholding,’ she replied. ‘I don’t remember the sandwiches with the same fondness.’

  ‘These days they come in a cellophane bag. At least they won’t be stale. Not all traditions are worth preserving.’

  The tea arrived, hot and milky, just the way she liked it, two spoons of sugar as well. She noticed that the station manager had Earl Grey with no sugar.

  ***

  The walk from the office, through the heart of the station with its milling passengers, to the surveillance department took less than five minutes. Broughton’s office had been nostalgic; the area she entered was not. It was modern and efficient, with numerous monitors displaying all areas of the station.

  Brian Gee, a young man in his early thirties, was in charge. He introduced himself and gave the police constable a guided tour of his domain. ‘State of the art, best there is,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not really into computers.’ She noticed that Brian Gee was a remarkably active man, almost hyperactive. Her youngest son, Brad, had been the same as a child but had grown out of it; Brian Gee had not. He was fidgeting, moving from one foot to the other, fiddling with a pen, or picking up a piece of paper only to put it down again.

  ‘It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I suppose. I’ll admit to being a computer nerd.’

  ‘Any luck finding the missing woman?’ She had supplied a description earlier before arriving at the station, although it had been necessarily vague: green dress, just below the knees, sensible black shoes, a dark overcoat, and a blue hat with a brim. She had also mentioned the sunglasses and the name of Marjorie Frobisher.

  ‘With your description?’

  ‘How many people were on the train that day?’ she asked.

  The station manager responded, ‘Probably no more than one hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Can’t you isolate it to them?’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Brian Gee replied. ‘We’re not looking at the trains per se. We mainly focus on the platforms, the restrooms, the main concourse. There were two trains on the platform at the time of interest. The train we are interested in, and another from the west of the country. In total that’s about five hundred people. We’re looking, could be a few hours yet, and then she could have changed her clothes. Even with all this technology, it’s still a needle in a haystack.’

  Wendy could see that it was going to take a while. She determined she would wait it out. At least at the railway station she could find somewhere outside to smoke.

  ***

  Isaac and Farhan had not spent much time in the office since the death of Sally Jenkins. Isaac decided that his best approach was to call Richard Williams to the station. There was a great unknown to be resolved. If Sally Jenkins was killed because she knew something, then how did she get that information? And if she had that information, did that place the source in danger as well?

  The situation with the media was also starting to become a nuisance. The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher had caused speculative interest from them, with their probing cameras and microphones. The death of Charles Sutherland, now officially confirmed as murder, had taken their interest level up to serious. The death of Sally Jenkins, not a celebrity but known as the personal assistant to the executive producer, created further interest.

  Isaac rethought his plan to bring Williams into Challis Street as his arrival would be seen by the media. He did not want to create added speculation on the television and in the press.

  Detective Superintendent Goddard, on advice from Charles Shaw, the Met Commissioner, saw that the only option was to make a formal statement. He realised he should have done this earlier, after the death of Charles Sutherland, but he had been hesitant. Angus MacTavish had been against it, even threatened his career.

  It was evident the commissioner had used his contacts and had cleared the press conference.

  The press conference, hastily set up for two in the afternoon, had not allowed Isaac time to meet Williams. He had phoned him, found him to be uncommonly subdued, and sorry about the death of his former personal assistant. ‘I had a lot of time for her. We had some fun together,’ he said. Isaac wasn’t sure if it was a genuine heartfelt emotion or whether it was for his benefit. He chose to believe the former.

  He would force Williams to reveal his real emotions at a later date and to detail every bit of hidden information he possessed. Isaac and Farhan remained convinced that the deaths would continue. People were dying for a reason still unknown, and until they knew that reason, the case was going nowhere.

  Charles Sutherland had known something, or had he? Sally Jenkins had died for a similar reason, but she’d had no way of finding out the information unless it was by eavesdropping, or someone had told her. If it wasn’t Charles Sutherland, then who, and why?’ Both Isaac and Farhan were nervous when they explained their fears to their boss, Detective Superintendent Goddard.

  ‘We’re stuck with this,’ he said, ‘whether we like it or not.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press. Good morning.’ The assembled audience for the hastily arranged press conference waited impatiently for their opportunity to put questions. They knew they would have to listen to the official police statement first: Detective Superintendent Richard Goddard to give the initial address, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook to follow on. Neither man was excited at the prospect, although Isaac knew his parents would be proudly watching on the television.

  Richard Goddard read from a prepared statement. ‘Charles Sutherland, it is confirmed, died as the result of poisoning. We are treating his death as murder. You are now aware that a subsequent death, confirmed as the murder of a young female, is possibly related. Both were involved in a television programme, one as an actor, the other as the personal assistant to the executive producer.

  ‘I should state that the assumption that both murders are related must remain just that, an assumption. In both cases, there appears to be no motive.

  ‘What I can tell you is that the disappearance of Marj
orie Frobisher still causes us concern. We are anxious to ascertain her whereabouts at the earliest opportunity. It is clear that when the floor is thrown open to questions, her name will be mentioned. Let me emphasise that we believe her to be missing.

  ‘I will invite those present to ask questions. Please announce your name, the organisation you represent, and to whom you are directing the question. Please do not expect us to indulge in idle speculation.’

  A quick flurry of hands in the air, a flashing of cameras as the individuals in the throng attempted to be first with their question.

  ‘Barbara Halsall, Sky News. Detective Chief Inspector Cook, is it not a fact that you are looking for Marjorie Frobisher’s body, and that the police believe her to be dead?’

  Isaac’s reply, predictable. ‘Unless we receive information to the contrary, we continue to believe that she is alive and well.’

  ‘Is it not clear that she is dead?’ Barbara Halsall was entitled to one question; she had taken two. It was not unexpected. She had been on the television almost as long as Isaac had been alive. Few would stand in her way when she was asking questions. Richard Goddard attempted to remind her that she was only entitled to one question. She ignored him totally.

  ‘There is nothing to indicate that Marjorie Frobisher’s disappearance is related to the current murder enquiries.’ Isaac knew it was a weak response.

  ‘Stuart Vaughan, BBC. It must be obvious to anyone, even the man in the street, that her disappearance is related.’

  ‘It is a consideration,’ Isaac conceded.

  ‘Are you able to confirm that Sally Jenkins was naked when found?’

  ‘Please announce your name and organisation first.’ Richard Goddard attempted to wrest control of the proceedings from the media flock. He knew he would not be successful.

  ‘Claude Dunn, News Corporation. Is it true she was found with no clothes on?’ The media had become sensationalist.

  ‘That is not the focus of this press conference,’ Isaac said. He assumed Dunn must have paid someone at the crime scene for the information.

  ‘Geoffrey Agnew, ITV. Charles Sutherland had intended to reveal details about Marjorie Frobisher. Can you let us know what those details were?’

  Richard Goddard answered. ‘No details were revealed.’

  ‘A hoax on his part?’ Agnew ignored the other questioners in the room, his raised voiced drowning them out.

  ‘I did not say that.’ Richard Goddard felt cornered. Angus MacTavish was watching, as was Commissioner Shaw on the television in Downing Street. The detective superintendent did not want his career to go down the drain due to an ill-chosen rebuttal. ‘Both murders are ongoing investigations. All avenues of enquiry will be investigated in detail. It would be inappropriate for either myself or Detective Chief Inspector Cook to speculate.’

  ‘And the prostitutes?’ Agnew interrupted. Again, Isaac realised that someone had paid money for that information. Farhan, watching from the rear of the room, hoped it wasn’t Christy Nichols or Aisha, and if it was Olivia, why? It seemed more likely to have been one of the staff in the hotel. He knew he had to find out.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have informed you as to the current situation. Regular press statements will be posted as new information becomes available. I thank you for your time.’ Richard Goddard wrapped up the press conference and exited the room, followed by Isaac.

  ‘How do you think it went, sir?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Hopefully, well enough to save our careers.’ It seemed a pessimistic reply to Isaac. He chose not to comment.

  ***

  With the press conference concluded, Isaac was free to meet Richard Williams. It was after six in the evening when he arrived at his office in the city. Williams opened the door, the new personal assistant nowhere to be seen.

  ‘DCI Cook, tragic business.’

  ‘I may need to bring you into the station at some stage.’

  ‘I thought it would have been today. Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Media scrum down there, too many people sticking their noses in. Did you have a similar problem?’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ Williams replied.

  ‘Sally Jenkins had a tendency to listen in.’

  ‘I believe I told you that the other week.’

  ‘You did. Now the question is, did she hear or know of something that people would kill for?’

  ‘Not from me.’ Richard Williams seemed a little too nonchalant for Isaac.

  ‘I’ll level with you,’ Isaac said. ‘We have two bodies, a missing woman, and no motive, other than several women who were pleased when Sutherland was murdered. One was even delighted.’

  ‘Sally wasn’t one of them. She didn’t like him and his leering remarks, but she only met him once to my knowledge.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘Some months back. We were wrapping up production for the year. We all met at a hotel near the production lot and had a decent meal and a few too many drinks. Sutherland was drunk, making suggestive remarks, but I don’t remember him going near Sally.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not totally. It was after all a party. Left the Ferrari here, took a taxi.’

  ‘Sally left the party with you?’

  ‘Not that she would have known about leaving.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Mixing her drinks, totally out of it.’

  ‘And she said nothing?’

  ‘About Sutherland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything that night; the next day, she could barely remember the previous evening.’

  ‘You were with her?’

  ‘At the place where she was found dead. I paid for it, the renovations as well.’

  ‘The night she died?’

  ‘I told you before that I had sacked her.’

  ‘And you let her stay in the place?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not a total bastard.’

  ‘The night she died?’ Isaac returned to the standard question. The question that invariably invoked a reply of ‘I didn’t murder her’ or ‘My alibi’s watertight.’

  ‘I was with my personal assistant, the new one. In her bed, if you must know.’

  ‘She will testify to that?’

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be euphoric about it, but I’m sure she will.’

  ‘Sally Jenkins knew something. If it didn’t come from Sutherland, it must have come from you.’

  ‘I don’t know of anything that would warrant murder.’

  ‘You argued with Marjorie Frobisher before she disappeared. Was anything said in the heat of the moment, anything unexpected?’

  ‘How many times have we discussed this?’

  ‘How many times have you evaded the answer?’ Isaac responded, his voice raised.

  ‘Marjorie may have mentioned about the child she had when she was a lot younger, but she never mentioned the name, even if she knew it. That may be good enough for a gossip magazine, but it hardly seems sufficient to justify murder. If you wish to discuss this matter again, I will make sure my legal adviser is present.’

  Isaac left soon after. The briefest of handshakes as they parted.

  ***

  Angus MacTavish and Richard Goddard met at a pub some distance from Downing Street. The detective superintendent was anxious to be updated about the current situation, and to ascertain how his career was progressing. He was not naïve, he knew that the years of loyal service, the innumerable courses and qualifications, and unblemished service record counted for nothing if people at the top, often nameless, disapproved of the nominee. His future revolved around a missing woman, not the two murders. He also knew that he may be forced to make decisions that would affect the ongoing investigations. A major celebrity in the country was impacting his career; he did not like it.

  There was no point in discussing the matter with Commissioner Shaw as he was no doubt feeling the pressure as well. His appointment was due for renewa
l, and questions were already being raised about his suitability. The detective superintendent, a political animal, knew why the questions were being asked. They were political in nature, lacking in substance, and were there to apply pressure on Commissioner Shaw to rein in his people. He also knew that Commissioner Shaw was not a man easily swayed. Neither was he. It was a dilemma he would face if the pressure came. It was clear that Angus MacTavish would have no trouble applying the pressure.

  ‘Goddard, it’s good to see you.’ The meeting started well. The Red Lion, a short distance from MacTavish’s office, hardly seemed the ideal place, as it was well frequented by politicians from both sides of the house, but MacTavish had arranged a private room on the first floor.

  ‘Change of location?’

  ‘Somewhere private.’

  ‘I saw some from the other side of the house downstairs.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them. They’re as thick as two short planks.’

  ‘You saw the press conference?’

  ‘You handled it well. You had to make a statement of some sort. Otherwise the media would have started sticking their noses in more than they already are.’

  ‘They’re a damn nuisance.’ Both had ordered a pint of Fuller’s London Pride, on tap, and a meat pie, a speciality of the house.

  ‘What do you have?’ MacTavish asked. He had already downed the first pint, ordered another.

  ‘Two murders and a missing woman.’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘There are a few suspects for the murder of Charles Sutherland; none apparent for Sally Jenkins.’

  ‘Who would want to kill Sutherland? I’m told he was not the most pleasant person, but murder?’

  ‘Three had a strong enough reason for Sutherland.’

  ‘How do these people make so many enemies?’

  ‘A male chauvinist pig is an apt description for Sutherland.’

  ‘Not really relevant, is it?’

  ‘It will be if one of the women killed him.’

  ‘You know what I’m referring to.’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘Precisely. Where is this woman? Is she dead? Is she likely to be dead soon?’