Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Are you serious?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Deadly serious. There are two options here. The first is we back off.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘If you continue, it could get nasty.’

  ‘I’m not one for backing off,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Neither am I,’ Farhan agreed.

  ‘Very well. You will need to carry guns, just in case.’

  ***

  Barely interrupted by the disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher, production of the soap opera watched by millions continued ‒ skilled scriptwriting had glossed over her disappearance: nervous breakdown due to shock over her brother’s death, followed by a heart attack, followed by death.

  The show had even managed to ensure that the long unbroken run of record ratings continued. It had gone on for six weeks, long enough according to the market researchers. On the seventh week, five since Isaac and Farhan had become involved, she finally died. The hospital scene: her lying in the hospital, face mask supplying oxygen. A stand-in actress of similar features, or in this case, the lie-in, as all she had to do, was to remain motionless.

  The death spread over two weeks; the viewing audience hit over nine million. It was regarded as a great success, celebrated with gusto by those remaining in the production, production staff and actors alike.

  The magazines reported her death in detail, interviewed people who Marjorie Frobisher had worked with. None wanted to be the person to spill the beans; to tell the world that she was a promiscuous bitch and good riddance. Not until a dishevelled and by now homeless, Charles Sutherland, the former Billy Blythe on the soap opera was waylaid one morning as he dragged his weary body along to the local charity soup kitchen.

  He had hit rock-bottom. In less than two months he had gone from famous to forgotten to destitute. He had milked it for a few weeks after his untimely removal from the show, but despondent, with a tendency to depression had driven him to a binge of expensive alcohol and even more expensive whores. The parties he had thrown, the money spent, the cocaine he had snorted were legendary. The so-called friends while he was throwing the money around, plentiful. The so-called friends after he was evicted from his upmarket accommodation for non-payment of rent and for trashing the place, non-existent. It was a bleary-eyed morning after his unceremonious eviction, basically a kick in the arse from some thugs employed by the landlord, closely followed by a few meagre belongings. The landlord seized anything of value and dumped the rest on the street with their owner.

  Two days later and sober, he realised the reason for his current situation, Marjorie Frobisher. She was the bitch, he thought. She put me here. He was still an arrogant man, desperate as he blamed his lot on life on others, not himself. It was the reason he had been unsuccessful in his ambition to be a leading thespian in a classical production at one of the major theatres in London. He was not a likeable man, although he had momentarily convinced himself he was when he had been throwing his money around.

  When the gossip magazine found him sitting on the pavement not far from the soup kitchen holding a roll in one hand, coffee in a paper cup in the other, he was, at first, reticent to talk. He thought they had come to do a story on him and his fall from grace. He was correct in his evaluation until he started to talk about why he was out on the street.

  Classically trained, destined for great things, he told her. Boring and mundane, at least that was what Christy Nichols, a freelance contributor to the scurrilous magazine that catered to the followers of minor celebrities and nonentities, thought. She had found him, thought there may be a story in it. A story that she could get published in the magazine, but the more he talked, the more she realised he offered no great copy. He was an arrogant, overweight and smelly man, worthy of no more than a photo and a thousand words.

  She prepared to leave: her with the picture and a signed clearance to use it; he, with two hundred pounds to use wisely or otherwise, although she knew which option Charles Sutherland would choose, as did Charles Sutherland.

  ‘You know about Marjorie Frobisher?’ he said.

  ‘Her disappearance?’ Christy Nichols sat down again on the dirty pavement, her freshly pressed, cream-coloured skirt picking up some dirt marks. She was a good-looking woman, a little overweight which was how Sutherland liked his women. He had no time for skinny tarts with no breasts and ribs so prominent you could play a tune on them.

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘She was a bitch; you know that?’ Sutherland had nothing new. Christy Nichols stood up again. There was no news here, she reasoned. She needed to change, and now there was a dry-cleaning bill to worry about. A glamorous job, others thought, writing copy for a magazine, but she was freelance, paid for the published copy, not for sitting with a man down on his luck. She had no more time, and there was a minor starlet due at the airport within a couple of hours. Another empty-headed individual with inflated breasts wafting into England, hoping to resurrect her career, she thought. The celebrity was better known more for her poor choices in men and her predilection for drugs than her acting ability. She was good copy and if she could score an interview and a few photos, it would pay more than a soap opera cast member, once important and feted, now forgotten.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher was still newsworthy. She had been kept in the public eye for weeks due to the clever scripting on the programme. Magazine covers still showed her face before the fictitious accident, and after, as she lay in the hospital. Some magazines, even the one where she hoped to sell the story, were running articles on what type of funeral she would have. Would it be a cremation or burial? What clothes will her friends on the programme wear? How many episodes will be consumed by the funeral and the mourning afterwards? Her death on the programme had been syphoned for all it was worth, so would her funeral.

  ‘She screwed around.’

  ‘Hardly newsworthy, is it?’

  ‘Maybe it is if you know who she was screwing.’ Sutherland let the conversation hang.

  ‘What do you have?’ To hell with the skirt and the dry cleaner, the reporter thought. She was aware of the rumours, most people were, especially in the industry, but it was never regarded as good copy. Marjorie Frobisher was revered as a celebrity; her character, Edith Blythe, a pillar of society. One magazine had alluded to her unusual marriage, tested the waters, but the response had not been favourable, so they had desisted.

  ‘I’ll talk when I’m paid, only then.’

  ‘No one’s going to pay just because you make a statement that you have something of interest.’

  ‘Something of interest,’ Sutherland emphasised the words the reporter had just said.

  ‘Is it that good?’

  ‘It’s dynamite.’

  ‘I can’t get anyone interested just on your word. I need facts to put forward.’

  ‘Talk to your editor. Tell her what I’ve got.

  ‘And what have you got?’

  ‘Unmarried pregnancy, a child adopted out. Is that enough to be going on with?’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher. Do you mean Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Who the hell do you think I mean?’ Charles Sutherland said.

  ***

  It looked to Isaac and Farhan as if, finally, they were to get down to some real policing instead of in Farhan’s case, drinking too much on occasions with Robert Avers and in Isaac’s case, spending too much out at the production lot. Both Isaac and Farhan were armed. Isaac had one issue to clear up – Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams. Farhan felt he needed to update Robert Avers.

  Robert Avers took it well. Farhan saw no reason not to tell him what they believed. Aver’s reaction was of a man expecting such a statement.

  Isaac’s issue was complicated. His discussions with Jess O’Neill were meant to be strictly professional, yet if she had been sleeping with Richard Williams... It hardly seemed relevant to the case, although he tried to
convince himself that it was. He decided to resolve the confusion in his mind, once and for all.

  It was a good day out at the production lot. For once, it was sunny, and Isaac had to admit the fictional town looked good. As he walked down the main street, past where the Saturday market was held, left at a grocery store on the corner, across the street and down a side alley to where Jess O’Neill’s office was situated, he could only reflect on the task ahead. At least, that was what he tried to think about. He wanted to seem professional when he encountered the woman, not a love-sick puppy, which he thought he was at the present moment.

  He saw her soon enough, obviously in conference with a group of production people around the table. She soon concluded the meeting and came over to him: too friendly, too close. He pulled back a little, she came forward. The safest approach was for him to take a seat and then her seat would, at least, maintain a professional distance. It did not as she leant forward and readjusted the positioning of the chair.

  Isaac saw no reason to attempt to move again. He felt embarrassed, hopeful it did not show, although blushing on a black man is not the same as on a white man. At least, he hoped it wasn’t.

  ‘Jess, there are just a few questions.’

  ‘Yes, Isaac.’ Too pleasantly said, he thought. He endeavoured to sit back on his chair. It did not help.

  ‘We’re concerned about Marjorie Frobisher’s disappearance. We need to cast our net wider.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I will be moving out of London, travelling for a few days.’

  ‘Does that mean I won’t be seeing you?’ Too agreeable for Isaac, too tempting.

  ‘That’s correct. Before I leave, there are a couple of questions.’

  ‘You’ve already said that?’ she said. Isaac realised that she was on to him. She knew he was embarrassed, and she was clearly enjoying it. ‘Just ask me straight. I’m certain I know the question.’

  ‘Richard Williams…’

  ‘You want to know whether I slept with him?’

  ‘It’s a loose bit of information that needs clarifying.’

  ‘Not that it’s relevant, but I know that Ian Stanley brings it up every chance he gets. He doesn’t like it that a woman is his superior.’

  ‘He was fine with me.’

  ‘He’s against anyone and anything that’s not white and male. I’m surprised he was so pleasant to you.’

  ‘He wasn’t until he saw my badge.’

  ‘For the record, and I do not see this as relevant. I did go out with Richard Williams a few times. He was good company and very generous, but I did not sleep with him.’

  ‘Ian Stanley was just making mischief?’

  ‘On one of the occasions, there was an exhibition of production equipment up north. We spent the night there, separate rooms.’

  ‘I assume he tried it on?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but I wasn’t buying it.’

  ‘Thank you for clarifying.’

  ‘Now, Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook, was that question entirely professional?’ She smiled as she made the comment.

  ‘Purely professional.’ Isaac tried to maintain a serious face, but couldn’t. He smiled as well.

  ‘For the record, I’ve made my choice.’

  ‘Choice on what?’

  ‘You did not make detective chief inspector by being naïve, did you?’

  ‘Not at all, but we are treating this as a murder investigation.’

  ‘And you can’t be seen to be fraternising with a potential suspect?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘I can assure you, I’m not guilty, but she could be a bitch. Not a difficult person to dislike.’

  ‘I’ll keep in touch.’ He prepared to leave.

  ‘If you want to phone me up and tell me you fancy me, professionally of course, then that will be okay, won’t it?’ She came near. She kissed him on the lips. Compromised, Isaac left soon after, but not before he had kissed her back. As he walked back down the main street on the production lot, he only hoped she was not involved.

  Chapter 12

  Isaac first noticed the car as he left the production lot. At any other time, he would have regarded it as inconsequential, but the situation had changed. As he weaved through the traffic, he noticed that the car continued to appear. He wasn’t sure how, as his car was a lot more powerful and he wasn’t a slow driver. The car behind was pushing hard. He phoned Richard Goddard.

  ‘Let it follow. Don’t let them know you’ve seen them.’ That was precisely what Isaac had intended in the first place. It was an unwelcome intrusion into the investigation and a sour conclusion to an otherwise pleasant day. He failed to mention he had just kissed one of the persons close into Marjorie Frobisher. He could only imagine his boss’s reaction if he told him.

  Isaac had planned the remainder of his day out carefully. Jess was still off-limits, Sophie wasn’t. He had planned to pick her up from her workplace, but decided against it with a car on his tail; better if she found her way to his apartment. She understood when he told her it was the pressure of work that prevented the pickup. As she told him later: commitment-free and no obligation on either party to look out for the other. Pickups were not part of the deal; however, good company and good sex were.

  With the car following, Isaac headed back to the office at Challis Street. Farhan was in the office. ‘How’s your day been?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I told her husband that we believe his wife is dead.’

  ‘You said you would. How did he take it?’

  ‘Better than expected. I believe he was prepared for the news.’

  Farhan was not looking too well. Isaac asked the reason.

  ‘My wife wants a separation. She believes I’m married more to this job than to her.’

  ‘Is that possible in your religion? Separation, a divorce, I mean.'

  ‘It occurs and besides this is England. She can do what she likes,’ Farhan admitted.

  ‘I always imagined she was a conservative woman.’

  ‘She’s certainly more pious than me. It’s her mother, no doubt, put her up to this, aiming to force me to make a choice.’

  ‘Choice between what?’ Isaac had come over to Farhan’s side of the room bringing a chair with him.

  ‘Between her daughter and the police, what else?’

  ‘But you need to make a living.’

  ‘They believe I should be running a corner store.’

  ‘But you’d be working more hours than you do now.’

  ‘They have this idea that the shop will be downstairs and the family up.’

  ‘Those businesses are finished, swallowed up by the big supermarket chains.’

  ‘It’s her mother. She always listens to her.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘It’s the children, not her. They are my primary consideration.’

  ‘Are you saying if she goes, she’ll deny your visitation?’

  ‘No, she can’t do that. I’m worried they’ll be susceptible to being radicalised.’

  ‘Do you need time off to figure this out?’ Isaac asked, although he could not see how to accede to a request, or how he could refuse.

  ‘No. We’ve got a murder to solve and besides if those guys following us decide to take us out, then it's theoretical.’ It was an attempt at lightening the sombre mood in the office. It did not work.

  ‘Let’s ignore those following us for the moment. We need to find a body, assumed dead.’ Isaac was pleased that Farhan was staying on board. He was also glad that so far, he had remained single. Sophie Frost had the right idea, he thought, but one day he could see stability and marriage and children and in the correct order.

  ‘Where’s the first triangulation off her phone?’ Farhan seemed to pick up in spirits after he had offloaded some of his burdens onto Isaac.

  ‘Central Birmingham,’ Isaac replied. ‘Not much use to us, too many buildings, too much traffic. We need somewhere isolated.’
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  ‘We need a rural area, preferably with few buildings. A small village may be best. Even then it will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.’

  ‘What else do we have?’

  ‘Malvern, Worcestershire.’

  ‘Too big, too many houses,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Not if there is a camera on every other lamppost.’

  ‘That’s true. What’s the best way to check this out?’

  ‘I’ll go up there,’ Farhan offered.

  ‘No, best if you stay there. See if you can draw a trace on any vehicle following you and then talk to the our boss. His contact may be able to help with identification.

  ‘You don’t need to leave me here just because I’ve got family problems. My staying here won’t change the situation, and besides, I’m not leaving the police force. This is more than a job, it’s a vocation. She doesn’t understand. People sleep calmly in their beds at night because of us. What to do about the children? That’s another story.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Isaac agreed. ‘It’s almost as if we are married to this job.’

  ‘You will want to settle down one day, stop playing the field.’

  ‘One day maybe, but not anytime soon.’

  ‘Maybe the woman out at the production lot?’

  ‘Maybe. Not at this time, anyway.’

  ‘That’s why you went out there?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s confidential.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll not tell anyone. Be careful, conflict of interest there.’

  ‘Farhan, let’s find this woman instead of speculating about my love life.’

  ‘Your love life is all I’ve got to speculate about. I’ve not got one to talk about.’ It was the first time Farhan had spoken of such subjects with Isaac. Isaac was not sure if he wanted to hear. He offered no comment.

  It was later in the afternoon after their discussion in the office had come to a conclusion that Farhan took an early mark to pick up the children from school. Isaac could see he was concerned, and he was making a special effort. He wondered for how long.