‘I’m the senior investigating officer. I should be leading them.’
‘That’s fully understood. For now, you and DI Ahmed are to focus on the missing woman.’
Isaac, realising that any further debate was pointless, focussed back to the woman. ‘Names, do you have any of these so-called influential names?’ Isaac persisted, mildly irritating his boss who was in a hurry to get any information he could pass on, in case he was waylaid with pertinent questions later. Apparently, the Prime Minister was to make the keynote speech.
‘Secrets Act at the present moment. If it becomes necessary, then I may be able to get you a special dispensation. We’ve deputised your position on the Murder Investigation Team. You stick with what you’ve got. I don’t know much more than you do. Just keep digging. Any updates, make sure to let me know.’
Farhan was the first to reply. ‘The husband believes she’s got the huff and taken off for a while.’
‘Huff, not a police term that I am familiar with.’
Farhan realised that he had overstepped his familiarity with the senior officer.
‘Sorry, Sir. Occasionally when they’ve had an argument she takes off for a few days ‒ maintains contact by SMS. He’s a little worried, but he assumes the news from the soap opera she stars in is giving her concern, and she’s taken off until she cools down.’
‘What news is this?’
‘She’s being dropped from the series,’ Isaac said. ‘Took it badly by all accounts. If that gets out, it may make my best contact hostile.’
‘Don’t worry, Isaac. I’ll keep it under wraps. If they ask me tonight, I’ll say that she has had an argument with the husband and is hiding out for a few days. She’s done it before, and until we receive further updates to the contrary, that’s our official comment.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ One lingering doubt remained in Isaac’s mind after the detective superintendent had left the room. ‘Why is she so damn important to someone in a position of influence? What’s the secret? He pledged to find out.
With the Detective Superintendent dealt with, Isaac and Farhan sat down to evaluate the situation. The office they occupied was not large, but it was freshly painted with a good desk for Isaac, a smaller one for Farhan as befitted his lower rank. To the right of the door as the office was entered were three comfortable chairs and a coffee table. More private conversations could be held down the corridor in a sound-proofed room, or at least insulated to dampen the sound emanating and entering. Isaac made sure to have all his accreditations, degrees framed and up on the wall. Farhan was not so concerned and had none, just a calendar and a picture of his children.
‘Farhan, getting back to the situation before our unexpected visitor poked his head around the door,’ Isaac asked. ‘What did you find out from the husband?’
‘Made me very welcome.’
‘But what did you find out?’
‘She knows she’s being removed from the series.’
‘Everyone seems to know that already. I just told the boss myself.’
‘Isaac, 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 gained so far. ‘Let’s assume it’s murder. What do we have?’
‘I’ll let you lead off,’ Farhan interjected, breaking Isaac’s train of thought.
‘Firstly, there is an assumption by persons unknown and influential that her disappearance is suspicious. Does this person or persons, whoever they are, concern themselves with her safety or is that a minor consideration?’
‘We need to find out what her importance is,’ Farhan said.
‘Agreed. You can focus on that. Secondly, what was the flaming 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, with many thousands of others made the trip to England with its cold and damp climate. He was relatively dark in complexion, not black, and 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 previous in a pig abattoir, and he had even conducted the investigation with a less than pleasant demeanour. A half pint of beer was ‘Haram’, forbidden as was pork, but he was a serving police officer, and he carried out his duty without complaint. He never told Isaac about the three showers and the scrubbing brush when he arrived home that night, aiming to remove the stench from his body.
‘Thirdly,’ Isaac continued,’ is there likely to be a murder? Does someone know something that we don’t?’
Isaac laid out the plan for them to follow. Failing 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 her importance is, and why someone influential is interested. For me, 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 there’s 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 and as usual, the sun had set. There was a slight drizzle as they left the office. Both realised that they were in for a slow drive to their respective homes. Farhan had managed to purchase himself a small terrace 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 and 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 obvious that Avers appreciated a good meal. The Thai restaurant at the back of the public house served a good meal and with a couple of pints down him, Farhan felt the man would be more open, even more than on their previous meeting.
His estimation proved to be correct. They had managed to secure a couple of seats inside, and there was no fear of being overheard. It was crowded as usual and the noise, sufficiently loud and getting louder as the patrons downed more alcohol would ensure that no one would hear what they said.
‘I’ll be straight with you,’ Avers said. He had just consumed his meal, voraciously, almost shoved it down as Farhan had noticed. 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 whose wife had come by way of 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 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, or at least I did, 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 some lengthy periods at a time.’
‘So, it was a mutual agreement?’ It was not a subject Farhan felt entirely comfortable discussing. 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 maintained a distant second with two half pints of beer. He was hopeful he would not have to drink anymore.
‘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, a good Muslim, haven’t I?’ He repeated a 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 from 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. o
‘You have access to her phone number. Did you trace the messages she sent me?’ Avers seemed to be querying Farhan, not just asking.
‘Inconclusive. They seem valid, mainly from the north of the country and then there are other calls to unlisted numbers. We’ve had trouble tracing them.’
‘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 their being together in a noisy pub, dedicated to the memory of a wartime leader. 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 had 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 upon exiting; Farhan walked unsteadily to his car and vomited in the gutter, stale beer and the contents of a Thai meal. He then took thirty minutes to drink some water and compose himself. He felt ashamed that he had committed a moral sin; he would offer additional prayers by way of compensation. Before arriving back at his house, he ensured that he had 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, located 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 cleavage 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 attempt 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 a forty-minute wait, Richard Williams came out of his office, effusively apologising. ‘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.
Isaac 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.’ Isaac noticed that 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.
Upon entering the office, Williams beckoned Isaac to sit on a comfy chair to one side. Isaac deferred the comfort and sat instead on a chair on the far side of the large desk placed at the far end of the room. A window, the entire wall at the rear gave a panoramic view over the city. Richard Williams, unable to maintain the upper hand in the meeting acquiesced and sat facing Isaac in his high back leather chair on his side of the desk.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’
‘Marjorie Frobisher. We need to find her?’
‘It’s not the first time she’s disappeared?’ The executive producer said. Isaac noticed the slower pace of his speech. Before, on meeting 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 was what you were 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 his combatant’s guard.
‘Are you one of those do-gooders, holier-than-thou types who feel that we should be uplifting the people, educating them?’
Isaac could see 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 programmes we make 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, this time, his voice raised. ‘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. She’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 a conclusion?’
‘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’s manner. He leant forward on the chair, rested his arms on the desk and said, ‘I’ve known her for over thirty-five 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-caste. The only parts were for villains, for a ‘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, over-aged hooligan. The tough-talking, the bad language if they could get it past the censors, the senseless fist-fights ‒ 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 to not work again. However, an extravagant lifestyle had ensured that he continued to rent, although, in Mayfair, it was hardly a slum. Not like the place he had grown up in the west of the country. His parents, good people, had struggled all their life. A son that constantly complained had not helped. The only motorised transport consisted of a tractor that rarely started and an old Land Rover, which did start, but rattled atrociously. The food was wholesome and the animals, never more than twenty or thirty cows and a bull to keep them serviced, several dozen sheep, a few pigs and a chicken coop. The four 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 with a stern father who was capable of removing his leather belt from his work trousers and giving the young Sutherland a good thrashing across his bare backside.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 3