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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Agreed. Interview concluded at 6.20 p.m.’ Isaac said.

  She left in tears with Michael Wrightson supporting her. Isaac wanted to rush up to her, put his arms around her and kiss her, but he did not.

  ‘It’s a good enough motive for murder,’ Farhan said after she had exited the building. Isaac did not answer.

  Chapter 18

  Angus MacTavish was not pleased when Richard Goddard phoned to make an appointment. He relented when told that confidentiality in relation to Charles Sutherland’s death and Marjorie Frobisher could not be guaranteed. He was also concerned that she had been confirmed alive four weeks after her disappearance.

  As usual, they met in MacTavish’s office in Downing Street. The detective superintendent was ushered into his office, closely followed by Mrs Gregory with the tea and biscuits. The friendly banter between the senior politician and his personal assistant, as usual. Once she had left and closed the door behind her, his amenable manner dissipated.

  ‘Detective Superintendent, what have we got here?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This Frobisher woman still remains hidden from sight and then we have a failed actor threatening to sound off to a magazine about something earth shattering. What’s going on?’

  ‘We have formed no connection between Sutherland’s death and Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I think that is a question you could answer.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you inferring I’m involved?’

  ‘Not personally, but you know more than I do. You’ve admitted that much in the past.’

  ‘Certainly, I know more than you, but murder. My requirement was to keep her quiet. We would never condone murder.’

  ‘It’s important that I receive more information.’

  ‘I don’t see that I am liberty to give you much more.’

  ‘Then I don’t see how I can protect you or whoever you’re trying to protect.’

  Richard Goddard knew he was in treacherous waters; There was a promotion he wanted, and he was aware that getting on the wrong side of MacTavish, who answered to the Prime Minister, who was good friends with Commissioner Charles Shaw, the senior man in the London Metropolitan Police Service, was not ideal.

  ‘Detective Superintendent. Of course, you’re right. Let’s look at it from where I’m sitting. Sutherland’s death may be totally unrelated. Correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What sort of man was he?’

  ‘Unpleasant, heavily into alcohol, recreational drugs and prostitutes if he had the money.’

  ‘Gambling?’

  ‘Gambling as well, but that’s taken us nowhere so far. We haven’t found any evidence of anyone hassling him to pay up or else.’

  ‘And if he’s dead, he won’t be paying, anyway.’

  ‘He was aiming to make a lot of money by selling his story. A gambling syndicate would wait their time before threatening to break his leg with a sledgehammer.’

  ‘So who killed him?’

  ‘You mentioned the security services before.’

  ‘I’ve checked with my contacts. They say it’s not feasible. A kill would require paperwork to be in place. The official line is that it does not exist.’

  ‘Do you trust them?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘The motive for killing Sutherland is still unclear.’

  Angus MacTavish, at a loss on how to move it forward, excused himself from the office. One minute later, Mrs Gregory came through the door, a fresh pot of tea and some more biscuits. Richard Goddard teased her about his attempts at trying to lose weight. She laughed, told him not to worry and left the room. It was thirty-five minutes before MacTavish re-entered. The detective superintendent had drunk all the tea in that time, looked out the window and stroked the cat which had wandered in. He sensed the politician was taking instructions.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ MacTavish apologised.

  ‘Not a problem,’

  ‘I told my superiors that I need to take you into confidence.’

  ‘They agreed?’

  ‘Reluctantly. I’ve told them that you cannot find Marjorie Frobisher or solve Sutherland’s murder without some additional facts.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘There was a child,’ MacTavish said.

  ‘You mentioned this before.’

  ‘The father is important, the child more so.’

  ‘The child, does it know who its parents are?’

  ‘Not yet, but it is trying to find out.’

  ‘How old would this child be?’

  ‘Late thirties, early forties.’

  ‘Do you know who this child is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who the father is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then where is the complication? Surely, you can stop the child finding out.’

  ‘It cannot be stopped for much longer.’

  ‘What if the father made a public statement, acknowledged the errors of the past, embraced the child as part of his long lost family?’

  ‘It’s more serious than that.’

  ‘I’ve told you as much as I can. Anymore would place you and your people in a precarious position.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’m already compromised. I’m a marked man if this gets out.’

  ‘And you don’t really know what you are compromising?’

  ‘I am aware that revealing the father will almost certainly bring down the government. The revealing of the child is potentially catastrophic.’

  ‘How serious?’

  ‘My life for one, and I don’t know the full details.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Richard Goddard felt sympathetic towards Angus MacTavish; fear towards himself and his team.

  ‘Find out who killed Sutherland and find Marjorie Frobisher, dead or alive.’

  ‘One more question.’

  ‘Does Marjorie Frobisher know who the child is?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Could it be why Sutherland was killed?’

  ‘Yet again, it’s unknown. My contacts think it’s unlikely that he was killed by an official assassin, but then again who really knows?’

  Detective Superintendent Goddard realised that telling Isaac and DI Ahmed was going to prove difficult. He realised they needed to find Marjorie Frobisher, and they needed additional help.

  ***

  Farhan had drawn the short straw. That was how he saw it when he met with the editor of the magazine that had been paying Charles Sutherland’s bill.

  ‘I paid plenty out for him, including his whores. God knows why that Christy Nichols approved them.’

  He had barely entered the door of her office before she started with the invective, barely had a chance to introduce himself and explain the reason for his visit. A formal introduction, cut short, as to how it was a murder investigation and that he would be recording the conversation.

  He had set up the meeting for three in the afternoon. Her personal assistant had made it clear any earlier was not possible. He had reminded her that it was a murder investigation and his demands had precedence over the magazine’s deadline. The personal assistant made it clear that it was non-negotiable and if he wanted to take it up with her boss, then he could. At the end of their conversation, she had quietly advised him that it was best not mentioned if he did not want to be on the end of an ear-bashing.

  As he sat there, increasingly agitated, listening to the editor, he heeded her personal assistant’s words.

  ‘What do you want to know? My time is precious.’ Victoria Webster, the editor, as well-known on the television as off, was a tall woman, certainly taller than Farhan.

  Close up he could see that the beautiful skin, wrinkle-free, whenever she was on the television was a result of the make-up people and some clever lighting. She was her fifties, dressed elegantly as if in her mid-thirties. Even with the skin blemishes and the
signs of bulging, carefully concealed, he had to agree that she was not an unpleasant looking woman.

  In the confines of the office, she spoke in an aggressive manner. On the television, a different persona with charm and decorum. Farhan realised that the woman that millions admired was no more than a street fighter, brought up on the street, fought tooth and nail to be where she was, and she wasn’t going back.

  Her background was well-known, the illegitimate daughter of an Irish housemaid and a Roman Catholic priest. How she had risen from obscurity and despair in an austere orphanage. How she had put herself through university, worked three jobs to do it, and then at the age of nineteen had joined the magazine. The first position, down in the basement mail room, and after that, year by year, she had worked her way up the corporate ladder until she occupied the top office on the top floor with the best view overlooking London, overlooking her loyal readers.

  It was a good story, although not entirely accurate. Victoria Webster never intended the truth to get in the way of her ambition. Irish, she was, but it was middle-class suburbia and parents who were married. The orphanage, after they had been killed in a car accident when she was eight years old, but it was not austere. University and the three jobs, in part truthful, although the jobs were short-term. She was a brilliant student and many a student, some teachers, had succumbed to her charm and assisted in her financial viability, even sometimes with the reports and the papers she had to submit. The basement at the magazine, correct, but it was not all hard work. There was no doubt that she was brilliant at her job ‒ the circulation attested to that fact ‒ and her public persona was flawless, but the rise from the basement was in part due to competence and hard work, in part due to her seducing whoever she needed to, invariably on the floor above. There were a few who once seduced, found out that she had taken their job. She assured that they were evicted from the building quickly and with minimal fuss ‒ a generous redundancy package if necessary to ensure their silence. A few had tried to inform the owner of the magazine as to what she was, but he did not care as long as it was not illegal, and as long as she delivered the results.

  ‘Miss Webster.’ Farhan attempted to get a word in.

  ‘Mrs Webster.’

  ‘Mrs Webster, it is understood that you were willing to pay Charles Sutherland a great deal of money for information that he possessed. Information you would print in your magazine. Is that correct?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I assume you are aware of the nature of this information.’

  ‘Your assumption is incorrect.’ She looked at her watch and glanced over at the man sitting next to her. She had not formally introduced him, other than to say that he was her legal adviser.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I’m a busy person. Ask what you want. I will answer your questions and then we can conclude this meeting.’

  ‘Mrs Webster is a busy woman and is answering your questions in a spirit of goodwill. It is imperative that you come to the point,’ the man said.

  ‘And you are?’ Farhan had not come to Victoria Webster’s office to be intimidated.

  ‘My name is William Montgomery. I am the senior legal adviser for the magazine.’ It had been the first chance Farhan had since entering the office to take a good look at the man. He was not impressed. Montgomery, from what he could see was a very short man, his body barely above the top of the desk. He was sat on the side of the editor’s desk when Farhan had entered. Farhan thought it strange at the time that he had not arisen to shake his hand and had only given a cursory nod of the head. He could see why. Montgomery was in a wheelchair.

  ‘Mr. Montgomery, Mrs Webster, I would like to remind you that this is a murder enquiry. It is fully understood that you may both be very busy, but my questions take precedence.’

  ‘We realise that,’ Montgomery said.

  ‘Get on with it,’ Victoria Webster said. ‘I don’t have all day for you two to have a social chat.’ It was clear that Montgomery was in fear of his boss. He seemed to visibly shrink, even more than he had before.

  ‘This information, Mrs Webster?’

  ‘Yes, the information I would print in the magazine.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘How the hell would I know?’

  ‘Surely, you wouldn’t pay him until he had given it?’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’

  Farhan found her an incredibly rude woman ‒ nothing like her personal assistant who sat outside. She was young and sweet and in his increasingly frustrated state, desirable. He wondered how anyone could work for such a woman, but then with egregious abuse, probably comes great reward for those who could handle the situation. Montgomery probably could, Farhan thought, even if he appeared to be a mild-mannered man, obviously under the controlling thumb of a difficult woman. He assumed his wife was the same and that he was hen-pecked.

  Farhan returned to the conversation. He chose to ignore the ‘do you think I’m stupid’ comment. ‘He may have been killed for that information. It may place you at risk. Have you considered that possibility?’ It seemed to have the desired effect. Farhan hadn’t considered it before, but it seemed plausible. Temporarily quietened, Victoria Webster sat down and whispered in the ear of her legal adviser.

  ‘We would request a few minutes to discuss this before Mrs Webster answers. Will that be acceptable?’ Montgomery said in a more agreeable tone.

  ‘Fine, I’ll wait outside. Call me when you are ready.’

  ***

  Outside the personal assistant organised a coffee for Farhan and a sandwich. He thought as he ate his sandwich, ham and cheese, that he wouldn’t mind the personal assistant as well. He reflected on his other issue, his wife. How is it? he thought, that every woman I meet is exceedingly kind and generous to me whereas she is hostile and unpleasant; everyone that is, apart from Victoria Webster.

  He decided to give the editor, the benefit of the doubt. She sat supreme in the publishing industry. She had taken a lame-duck of a publication devoted to knitting patterns and handicrafts and transformed it into the premier publication in the country devoted to celebrities and movies and music. Every corner store, every news agency, every street vendor carried a copy of the magazine, prominently displayed. He realised that she had not got to where she was without being tough when she needed to be, gentle when needed. He assumed he was not going to see that side of her today.

  Twenty minutes later, his sandwich finished, his chat with the PA not finished, he was invited in to the editor’s office. He noticed that this time, it was an invite, not so much a begrudging opening of the door.

  Montgomery had moved to another side of the office, closer to some comfortable chairs.

  ‘Detective Inspector, we will sit here if that is okay with you.’ He had been wrong. He was to see the gentle side of Victoria Webster.

  ‘Fine by me,’ Farhan responded. Two minutes later and the personal assistant walked in with some more coffee. He had already drunk two outside, but it would have seemed impolite to refuse.

  Montgomery, the first to speak. ‘Your earlier comment that Sutherland may have been killed as a result of the information he was willing to give to us is of concern.’

  Farhan felt it necessary to clarify. ‘It is only a supposition at this time. We have established no clear motive.’

  ‘Are you saying there is nothing for me to worry about?’ Victoria Webster asked.

  ‘On the contrary. I will be open with you. Charles Sutherland was not the most pleasant of men. He had a tendency to argue with people and to behave in a manner outside of the acceptable norm, especially when drunk or under the effects of drugs.’

  ‘He was a horrible toad of a man,’ Victoria Webster interjected. ‘I didn’t like him at all.’

  ‘Please let me finish.’ Farhan needed her to be concerned, not frightened. He was choosing his words carefully He did not want to reveal the attempted rape of Jess O’Neill as an example, but it was in the back of his mi
nd. He also did not wish to reveal the attempt to draw Christy Nichols into his threesome.

  ‘Victoria, it would be best if we let DI Ahmed continue uninterrupted.’ It appeared that Montgomery had a voice and that the editor was willing to listen to it.

  ‘You’re right, William. My apologies.’

  ‘I can understand your apprehension concerning the matter.’ Farhan could see the pretence of invulnerability as she sat in her ivory tower, cracking. She appeared more than a little nervous. ‘We are aware of some gambling debts, a predilection for prostitutes, usually high-class and expensive, and the occasional abuse of drugs, cocaine mainly. None of those activities as far as we can ascertain made him a candidate for murder.’

  ‘Do you know why he was killed?’ Montgomery asked.

  ‘Am I correct in that you were willing to pay him up to half-million-pounds for the story?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘The final price was dependent on what he gave us,’ Victoria Webster said. ‘If it were only that she played around, slept with some influential men, then he would not have received the full amount, maybe one hundred thousand.’

  ‘What were you expecting to receive?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘An illegitimate child.’

  ‘Is that worth the full amount?’

  ‘He said it was.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘Only hints. I was going to give him another week at the Savoy, allow him to drink himself under the table, screw as many whores as he wanted; then I was going to throw him back on the street. Before throwing him out, I would have given him one more chance.’

  ‘Do you know the name of this child?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘No idea, that’s the truth. Am I at risk?’

  ‘It is uncertain, but it would be best to take extra precautions.’

  ‘I could make a statement in the media.’

  ‘I would not advise that as a course of action,’ Farhan said. ‘Mr Montgomery can advise you. You are just focussing attention on to yourself.’

  ‘DI Ahmed’s correct. It’s best to keep a low profile on this.’

  Farhan left soon after. Victoria Webster thanked him for his consideration. William Montgomery shook his hand.