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

by Phillip Strang

  Police work, especially with the Murder Investigation Team did not come with a nine to five work schedule. Hours were flexible, forty a week according to the book, but most weekdays, more like sixty to seventy, sometimes eighty to ninety and then there were the weekends. Saturdays, often working, Sunday, more times than he cared to remember. Sophie was flexible, Jess O’Neill may not be, but he’d take her in an instant. He put her out of his mind and took an early mark as well.

  Richard Goddard had organised a contact in Worcestershire, about three hours up north, or it should be, but there was the London traffic to clear first. Isaac decided to leave early, before seven in the morning. Isaac saw that a double bed, one occupant was the preferred option that night.

  He wanted to call Sophie, although he didn’t want her endangered. Those following him were unknown, possibly dangerous. Just as Isaac was clearing the office, his phone rang, hands-free.

  ‘I’m being tailed,’ Farhan said.

  ‘Number plate?’

  ‘I’ll SMS it to you. Can you forward it onto Detective Superintendent Goddard?’

  ‘That’s two to give to him?’

  ‘You’ve got a tail as well.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We better hope these guys are harmless. I’m heading to my home.’

  ‘If they are who we suspect, they’ll know the address already.’ Isaac realised they would also know where he lived, probably knew about Sophie as well. There seemed no reason to worry. He called her. She would be over later.

  ***

  Charles Sutherland was enjoying his redemption. The magazine had been suitably impressed, continued to be, as he revealed little snippets ‒ enough to keep them dangling.

  He was not a stupid man; he knew the value of a legally drawn up contract signed by both parties. He also knew the worth of cash up front and the remainder when he delivered the dirt. If he gave too much, too quickly, their offer would reduce or evaporate. He was not willing to let that happen.

  The mention of an open marriage titillated the magazine’s editor, an attractive middle-aged woman, constantly on the television offering advice on how to be successful as a female in a man’s world, how to power dress, how to be like her. Sutherland found her obnoxious and overbearing, full of smugness that comes with a portrayed persona and an inner bitchiness. He didn’t trust her one bit. Sure, she was pleasant to his face, but he could see the sideway glances, the raised eyeballs when she looked over at her deputy ‒ he had no idea what her function was in the office, didn’t care either. She was a stern-faced looking woman with short hair, manly, and a business suit, trouser, jacket and open-necked white shirt. He was certain she was a lesbian, and the relationship between the editor and the woman was not quite right to him, but he observed, said little, and they were paying the money. He wasn’t going to upset the apple cart by a snide remark.

  ‘You’ve given us very little,’ the editor pressured for more.

  ‘I’ve given you plenty,’ Sutherland replied. The room he sat in, one of the best at one of the best hotels in the town came with a well-stocked drinks cabinet, and the cost to him was zero. He was already halfway to drunk, and he was not going to let them get between him and the euphoria he was looking forward to. He had already phoned in for a couple of high-class whores, and they were on the magazine's expense account.

  Sutherland saw himself as Lazarus rising from the dead. He intended to milk it for all it was worth and to hell with the bitch magazine editor and her girlfriend. The contract, legal and very tight was well underway, some minor clauses to iron out, some significant money to be handed over and then he would dish out the dirt. The magazine wanted more than salacious tittle-tattle although it was such nonsense that drove the sales. They wanted names and events and the more important, the more titled, and the more likely to fall from grace with a major embarrassment, so much the better.

  ‘Look here,’ Sutherland said, looking at the editor. He was slurring his words, making suggestive glances at Christy Nichols, who had rescued him from obscurity. ‘This will bring down the government. I guarantee you that.’

  Christy Nichols, now on a suitable retainer from the magazine had been assigned to ensure that Sutherland did not go blabbing his mouth off indiscriminately in a bar or elsewhere. She had been given a room next to his. She did not want to be there, but the retainer, the possible lift up in her career in an industry that was full of casualties who did not make the grade, kept her firmly rooted.

  She agreed reluctantly, although she found Charles Sutherland to be a crude man with a debatable style of lovemaking. She had walked in on him when he was in full fettle, with a couple of whores, all naked on the carpet in the main room. It was an innocent mistake on her part, as it was all quiet and they were hidden by the sofa in the way. Once he had seen her, he had stood up, waved his insignificant wares at her and demanded that as he was her meal ticket, then she better strip off straight away and join in the fun.

  The whores thought it was hilarious, but Christy Nichols assumed it was because they were being paid. She realised they were tolerating the nasty and unpleasant man for the same reason as her.

  It was another two days before the contract was signed, and Charles Sutherland had to come forward with what he knew. He was a troubled man, not because of what he knew, but the proof was vague. What did he really know? he thought. Certainly, there was plenty of innuendoes, some prominent names and some ‒ if it were true ‒ information that would embarrass the government, especially its senior members. That’s all he had, and how the editor and her lesbian friend would take it, he wasn’t sure.

  He decided to deal with the issue when it arose. In the meantime, he intended to enjoy the luxury on offer. He would have preferred Christy Nichols, the prudish prick-teaser, as he saw her. If she wouldn’t have a bar of him ‒ he should have put her availability in the contract, he thought ‒ then he would get her to sign for a couple of whores. There was time to while away and he wasn’t going to sit reading a book, drinking a cup of tea for nobody.

  Chapter 13

  It had been a miserable trip up to Worcestershire for Isaac, rain all the way and his speed had been reduced as a result. It was close to four hours before he pulled into police headquarters in Worcester, the principal city in the county.

  Inspector June Brown greeted him warmly after he had waited for ten minutes in reception at the modern, clinical looking building.

  ‘Isaac, it’s good to see you.’ It was then he remembered her from his police training days. Then she had been a brunette, slim with a figure that all the young police cadets had lusted after.

  ‘June, long time, no see.’ It was clear he was embarrassed.

  ‘You’ve forgotten me already,’ she said, half-serious, half-teasing.

  ‘No, of course not.’ He had not forgotten her. The others cadets may have lusted, but it was only he who had sated the lust. She had latched on to him the second week into training, only let him go when the training had concluded. Both had seen love, but training ended and Isaac back to London, and June, back up north and the relationship had just petered out.

  ‘Isaac, it was a good time in training, and you helped me through, but that’s the past.’

  ‘I never forgot you.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ she joked. ‘Two weeks and I guarantee you were shacked up with another female charmed by your obvious attributes.

  ‘That’s not true.’ He protested, not sure if she was serious or not.

  ‘Look at me,’ she said. I’m married with two kids and the body, not as you remember it. Married an accountant, a good man, not as charming as you, but you’re not the settling-down kind. You weren’t then, I suppose you still aren’t.

  Isaac had to admit that she had changed. Back then in training, she had a figure that could only have been described as sensational. What he saw now was a still very attractive woman, but the weight had come on, and the face showed ageing. He assumed he had changed as well, but he thought
it could not be as much as her.

  ‘Three,’ he said.

  ‘Three what?’

  ‘Three weeks.’

  ‘Okay, I was out by a week, but what woman is going to resist a man like you? You were gorgeous to women back then, still are. Am I correct?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, but so far I’ve not settled down, tried to. A couple have moved in with me, or I’ve moved in with them, but it’s not seemed to last for long.’ He wondered if Jess O’Neill might be the one. He discounted the thought. He inwardly smiled when he thought of the passionate embrace and the kiss when he had left her the last time.

  With so much history between them, June and Isaac spent the next hour chatting about their lives. It was June who finally brought them back to the present situation.

  ‘So what’s important about this woman?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I can tell you. Besides, I don't know too much myself.’

  ‘I suppose it doesn't matter.’ She resigned herself to the fact; she knew him well enough not to press for more.

  ‘It’s a directive from senior management to find this woman.’ He felt the need to offer some explanation due to their past relationship.

  ‘I know who she is, of course. The sad life of a married woman and mother when watching the television becomes a nightly highlight.’

  ‘It comes to us all, I suppose.’ he said.

  ‘Suburbia and raising a family has its drawbacks. I’m not complaining, though.’

  Isaac felt the need to change the subject. She had gone melancholy, better to focus on the missing woman. ‘We know she was in Malvern, and that her phone was used there.’

  ‘I know her phone was there, but are you certain she was?’

  ‘You’re right. We are not sure. Cameras, surveillance, security may have picked her up.’

  ‘I’ve already had a person looking at any there, although it’s not London. There will not be so many. How long are you staying here for?’

  ‘Until I get some answers on her whereabouts.’

  ‘Good, then you can come over to the house for a meal one night.’

  Isaac replied in the affirmative, but sitting down with the husband of a woman he had known intimately did not sit well with him. He would endeavour to steer away from the subject if it came up again.

  The assumption that a camera would have picked up Marjorie Frobisher proved not to be so easy. There were cameras in the banks, the hotels, even some of the shops, but relatively few of them kept the tapes for more than a couple of weeks. The stores were interested in shop-lifters, and if none had been apprehended, then there was no reason to keep the record.

  After the end of the first day, Isaac was anxious to get on with the task. So far, he had spent more time at the hotel than at police headquarters. It was not a case of avoidance, but the request to dine with the husband of a former lover continued to irk him.

  ‘June, this invite to your house,’ he tentatively broached the subject at the office. There had been some developments, but before she expanded he wanted to clear the air, state his position.’

  ‘Tonight at eight. come casual; my husband is looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can come?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a little embarrassing.’

  ‘Isaac, what do you mean?’

  ‘Our past history.’

  ‘How quaint,’ she replied, mocking him with fluttering eyelids and a coy smile.

  ‘I’m not sure your husband would want a past lover in his house.’

  ‘You mean the man who took my virginity.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Of course, you did, and as to being embarrassed; do you think I never slept with another man before I married my husband? I lived with my husband’s best man for six months before I started going out with him. It was even mentioned in the wedding speeches. Everyone thought it was hilarious.’

  ‘If you’re certain it’s alright.’

  ‘Of course, it’s alright. Anyway, you wanted an update.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher stayed at one of the hotels in Malvern. She had a wig on and her face concealed. The receptionist at the hotel identified her, recognised her even, although she didn’t like it and left soon after. She used a false name.’

  ‘Any ideas after that?’

  ‘That’s all there is, and as to where she went?’

  ‘You don’t know,’ Isaac asked.

  ‘All the receptionist could tell us was that she took a taxi to Worcester. The taxi driver dropped her off at the railway station. From there she could have gone anywhere.’

  Isaac saw his time in Worcester was at an end. It was not the function of a detective chief inspector to find out where the woman had gone. He realised they needed help in the office.

  He had only one more obligation. June Brown’s husband proved to be an excellent host, the meal was perfect, and the wine that Isaac had taken, ideal. His premonition about how awkward the situation would prove to be, ill-founded. He left for London early the next morning.

  ***

  Isaac arrived back before eight in the morning. He had purposely left early to avoid the traffic. Not that it made any difference as there was an early morning fog on the motorway. For at least half the distance his speed was almost down to a crawl. It was four and a half hours of stop-start driving. His meeting up with a past lover had left him reminiscing. He felt the need of a woman. Sophie would almost certainly come over that night if he gave her a call.

  He had barely walked in through the door into the office – Farhan was already there - when his phone rang. ‘You’ve heard the news?’ It was his detective superintendent on the other end.

  It was clear from Richard Goddard’s tone that there had been a development. ‘What’s the urgency?’ Isaac could see that his early get-together with Sophie was looking unlikely.

  ‘We’ve got a suspicious death.’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher?’ Isaac put forward the only obvious name.

  ‘It’s her brother. I heard thirty seconds before you walked in,’ Farhan said.

  ‘I didn’t know she had a brother?’ Isaac said.

  ‘The fictitious one.’ Richard Goddard seemed excited.

  ‘Billy Blythe?’

  ‘That’s right. The actor who played him, Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘Do we have any details?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Vague at the present moment. The body was found thirty minutes ago at his hotel.’

  ‘I need to be over there with DI Ahmed?’ Isaac said.

  ‘The local police will be taking control.’

  ‘Sir, it’s best if you stay here.’

  Isaac and Farhan left the office soon after. Isaac mulled over as to how this impacted on the missing woman, but kept it to himself. He was still tired from the drive and not in the mood to indulge in unnecessary conversation with Farhan, who looked excited, but distant.

  The trip to the Savoy Hotel took twenty minutes. It was one of the best hotels in town, definitely expensive, and Charles Sutherland’s suite, one of the best. The media was already setting up in the street outside. He intended to find out how the information regarding a minor celebrity was leaked. It was regarded as a suspicious death, not a murder and definitely not a free-for-all.

  ‘Farhan, what’s the matter?’ Isaac realised that something was troubling his colleague.

  ‘It’s my wife. She moved out, took the children.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘This morning, when I left the house early.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘The normal. How I love my job more than her. How the children never see me.’

  ‘Doesn’t she realise how important our work is?’

  ‘She’s not rational. Mind you if I had told her who the body was, then maybe she would change her mind.’

  ‘It’s hardly the basis for marriage, the machinations of a soap opera.’


  ‘Agreed, but she’s like so many others.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The separation of fact from fiction.’

  ‘I need you here now,’ Isaac realised that Farhan should have been dealing with personal issues, but now there was a real case. He could not let him take time off.

  ‘I know and besides this is where I want to be.’

  How many times had he heard it? Isaac thought. No wonder the marriage breakdown rate is so high, when the spouse and the family become the lesser priority. He knew that Sophie was just a woman to spend time with, but Jess O’Neill may want a different kind of commitment, a commitment he was unable to give.

  Downstairs, the hotel looked calm and collected. Guests were checking in, checking out. The cafes and the restaurants were open; the people appeared to be oblivious of the death upstairs. How they could avoid the melee of media outside, he was not so sure, but some were probably used to media intrusion. He recognised a few famous faces as they moved through the foyer.

  His train of thought was brutally interrupted as they exited the lift on the top floor with Farhan.

  Outside the lift door, a well-presented fresh-faced police constable in uniform intercepted them. ‘Sirs, this area is closed off.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook and Detective Inspector Ahmed,’ Isaac said as they both presented their identification badges.

  Clearing the first obstacle they walked forward to where the constable had directed them.

  ‘Yes, what can I do for you? A tall, red-faced man who, at least to Farhan, looked in need of a healthy diet stood in their way as they proceeded to enter Charles Sutherland’s suite.

  ‘Homicide and Serious Crime,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Sergeant Derek Hamilton, Charring Cross Police Station.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Sergeant. I’m DCI Cook. My colleague is DI Ahmed.’

  ‘I’ll need to see your ID’s, gentlemen.’

  ‘Fine,’ the sergeant said after checking. ‘Forensics is already here.’

  It was clear that guests on either side of Sutherland’s suite were being moved out, their luggage visible in the passageway.