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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘What does that suggest?’

  ‘That he knew the person.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Farhan agreed. ‘And why didn’t Christy Nichols hear the knocking and the commotion?’

  ‘Good question, you better ask her.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘I intend to meet up with Marjorie Frobisher’s children. I need to see how they feel about their mother’s disappearance. Whether they are involved.’

  ‘Why would they be involved?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure. If the woman is alive, then there is no involvement, but if she’s dead.’

  ‘They could have killed her.’

  ‘If they had a motive.’

  ‘We are assuming her death would be a sanctioned assassination.’

  ‘It’s only an assumption. We know that people in senior places in this country want her dead. That doesn’t mean however that they committed the murder. Maybe someone else did, and it has proven advantageous to them. Charles Sutherland was a loose end; his death may have been an assassination or someone out for revenge.’

  ‘You know what you just said. I said it on the day of the interview with Jess O’Neill. You chose to ignore me.’

  ‘I heard what you said. I just didn’t want to hear it at the time. It is a strong enough motive,’ Isaac finally admitted.

  Farhan changed the subject. ‘I’ll go and see Christy Nichols. You can go and see her children.’

  ***

  Christy Nichols was not hard to find. Her experience at the Savoy had left her downtrodden and downhearted. She had temporarily given away any hope of fame and fortune in the publishing world.

  ‘It’s a cut-throat business,’ she admitted when she met with Farhan. They had agreed on a location to the east of the city, a small coffee shop he had visited in the past, and she knew. He had to admit she was a good looking woman as she entered the shop five minutes after him. He had ordered a cappuccino served by an obviously Italian woman. He had made small talk, assumed she was a member of the family that owned it, but she had told him she was just a backpacker aiming to make enough to pay her weekly costs. She said that no one in the family would work there for the money they were paying, but it was cash, so she saw no reason to complain. Besides, it was the tips that made the money. He made sure to give her a good tip.

  ‘Cappuccino?’ he asked Christy.

  ‘Café Latte, please.’ He caught the eye of the backpacker. Why is every woman that I meet attractive? he thought.

  ‘What are you doing at the present moment?’ he asked.

  ‘Licking my wounds.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad. You know she refused to pay my expenses.’

  ‘Victoria Webster?’

  ‘You’ve met her?’ she asked.

  ‘On official business.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It would be inappropriate for me to comment.’

  ‘I understand. Policeman’s code, something like that.’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘She’s a bitch, isn’t she? Don’t answer that,’ she said. Farhan smiled.

  ‘She’s right of course. It’s a dog-eat-dog business. If you’re soft and kind-hearted like me, it’s impossible to make it.’

  ‘I prefer soft and kind-hearted.’

  ‘That’s because you are a good man,’ she said. Why can’t a woman, any woman, see me as a bad man for once and give me a good screw, he thought.

  ‘Christy, did you see anything?’

  ‘The night he was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw the two women enter, but after his behaviour the previous time, I was keeping well away.’

  ‘The women that you saw, can you describe them?’ Farhan asked. He had met them both. It seemed a good idea to correlate that she was referring to the same women.

  ‘Both were attractive, heavier build than me, but not fat. One seemed to be Indian, not very dark though and the other one, English, late thirties, maybe early forties. They were both well-spoken. I had to pay someone in the hotel to let them in by the back entrance.’

  ‘Your description sounds right.’

  ‘You’ve met them?’

  ‘They did not want to, but it’s a murder investigation. I could have applied the law to force them to come to the police station.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No, I met them separately in a neutral location.’

  ‘What did you think?’ She seemed curious.

  ‘I liked them both. As you say, apart from what they do.’

  ‘It’s not for us to judge, is it?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Farhan replied. ‘Life is tough. People sometimes need to make decisions to survive. Both were desperate to protect their identities.’

  ‘Their alter-egos.’

  ‘You make them sound like superheroes or superheroines.’ Farhan was not sure where the conversation was heading.

  ‘Not really, but I can admire strong-minded, strong-willed people. I can admire Victoria Webster, not necessarily like her. I can even admire the two prostitutes, although I could never imagine myself doing something like that. What if they were seen by someone they knew? What would they do?’

  ‘I never asked. I will the next time.’

  ‘They won’t like it,’ she said. Farhan ordered two more drinks. It was evident she was in no hurry to leave, neither was he.

  ‘It is an interesting thought. What if they had seen someone that night, someone who should not have been there? Would they have told me?’ Farhan said.

  ‘Probably not. Protecting their lives outside of prostituting themselves would be more important.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You know so.’

  ‘I agreed to keep what they told me in confidence. Christy, level with me. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘Don’t you ever feel like throwing away people’s perception of respectability, just being yourself?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. Often, he thought.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I’m not doing a lot at the present moment, just working for a local rag, gossip column.’

  ‘How did you get into that?’

  ‘I’ve been doing it for some time. I mainly work from home, make up most of the “Dear Marigold’s”. It pays the bills.’

  ‘You don’t look like a Marigold.’

  ‘It’s my middle name. A great aunt that my mother was fond of was named Marigold. I think my mother was having a bad day when she gave it to me.’

  Farhan realised he was enjoying his time with Christy Nichols. It was still a murder investigation, and she still remained the closest person to Charles Sutherland. He had discounted the two escorts; he couldn’t call them prostitutes anymore. He did not want to think of Samantha aka Aisha hanging out on a street corner giving blowjobs and a quick root down a back alley. An escort sounded more refined. He also realised that he needed to meet with her again: firstly, because there was a valid reason; and secondly, because he wanted to. He hoped he was not falling into Isaac’s trap of becoming involved with a material witness.

  ‘Coming back to the night of the murder,’ Farhan refocussed. ‘The women said they left around midnight.’

  ‘I never saw them leave.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘No reason to. I showed them in, but I certainly did not want to see Sutherland flashing me again. I’ve led a sheltered life.’ She seemed to be joking.

  ‘Sheltered. What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just a silly remark really. I led a very conservative childhood. My parents did all they could to shield me from the seedier side of life. There were no late night parties or boys over. No alcohol in the house and certainly no bad language. I stayed there until I was in my early twenties and then the company I worked for transferred me to London. It’s left me a little prudish, not sure how to handle some situations.’

 
‘Such as Charles Sutherland when he’s high on drugs and women.’

  ‘Yes, Charles Sutherland. I suppose another woman would have slapped him in the face, kicked him in the groin and screamed for help.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I think I froze.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘It’s too shocking.’

  ‘You need to elaborate, it’s important.’

  ‘I’m ashamed.’ She was shaking visibly. Her face was red, and water was welling up in her eyes. Farhan beckoned the Italian waitress to bring another two coffees.

  ‘He made me do something.’

  ‘And the other women?’

  ‘They weren’t there. They had left by then. I should have gone out with them, but I was scared.’

  She sipped her café latte. ‘He made me perform fellatio on him.’

  ‘Why did you agree?’

  ‘I was scared of what he would do.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘He laughed at me, told me I would have been a lousy screw anyway and that I was only good for a blowjob.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘To who? Victoria Webster would not have been interested. Charles Sutherland was more important than me. I was only the hired help. She would have assumed I encouraged him.’

  ‘After you left?’

  ‘I went to my room, put my fingers down my throat ‒ he made me swallow it all ‒ until I vomited. I then stood in the shower for hours, so hot it almost burned, until it went cold. After that, I laid on my bed sobbing. I did not sleep that night.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘It makes me a murder suspect, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a strong enough motive.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me before?’

  ‘I was ashamed. I was concerned that it would be seen that I had encouraged him ‒ that I was a slut.’

  ‘You wished him dead after that?’

  ‘Of course. Any woman would, but it doesn’t make me a murderer, does it?’

  He did not answer her question. ‘Why did you tell me today?’ he asked instead.

  ‘You’re a good man, I trust you,’ she replied.

  Chapter 21

  Wendy Gladstone was pleased that her time in Isaac and Farhan’s office had been short. She had spent thirty years in the force, pounding the beat initially in uniform with a whistle and a baton; another five, maybe six years before she retired. The concept of retirement did not excite her, but she was getting older, and arthritis was starting to set in. No one knew, not even her husband, Clive.

  He was a good man, she knew he was, but she preferred to spend as little time with him as possible. He had retired five years earlier. He was ten years older than her, a strapping man when she had first met him, an embittered man now. He blamed it all on the migrants coming into the country taking everyone’s job, turning the neighbourhoods into ghettoes. ‘Bloody Paki,’ he would say every time he saw someone Asian in the street. She had no problems with them, the family two doors down had come from India, and they were fine. She knew he would not have liked Detective Inspector Ahmed, although his attempt to reassert his right to move his desk back after she had moved it, had irritated her a little.

  It was minor, and she would not make a scene about it, and besides the office, politically correct, no longer allowed smoking. In fact, she had to go out on the street, rain or shine, and at a suitable distance.

  She didn’t hold with these modern ideas where you couldn’t smoke, drink, discipline your child, or call a spade a spade in case it offended someone. Her father, a potato farmer, humble and poor, smoked all his life. He downed his five pints every night at the pub, was not averse to disciplining the children if they needed it and he had been a good man. He had lived to his mid-eighties. Her mother, teetotal, gentle and a housewife barely made it past sixty before she had a stroke.

  Ambition had never been the driving force in Wendy Gladstone’s life, although policing had, ever since childhood. Her earliest memories apart from her doting mother and her firm but fair father had been the local police constable: uniformed, tall helmet, riding around the area, a rugged and scenic part of the Yorkshire moors in the North of England, freezing in winter, cold in summer. She saw him as a good, almost saintly figure. Senior Constable Terry Clarke was a sweet-talking man who sang baritone in the local choir on a Sunday. Whenever he saw someone, he would stop and greet them. For the children ‒ he knew them all by name ‒ there would always be an edible treat.

  She soon realised after joining the police force and assigned to a police station in Sheffield and then London, that there were villains to be dealt with and not all the children looked forward to an encounter with the local policeman, or in her case, the local policewoman in blue. Some of the children were plainly disruptive, some plainly criminal, some plainly abusive.

  It had been just after her fifteenth birthday that her hormones had kicked in, although Brian Hardcastle, a headmaster’s son and a tall, skinny rake of a boy, had not been the most suitable introduction to the joy of sex.

  The barn where there consummated their lust, each taking the other’s virginity, was hot and smelly. It was a five-minute affair: with him being disappointed in his performance ‒ he had read books on the subject ‒ and her being ecstatic. For a while, her father had tried to confine her to her room, but her mother had eventually intervened. ‘It’s a phase she’s going through. Exploring her sexuality,’ she had said. She had learnt the phrase from a book in the local library. Her father, increasingly annoyed at the ribbing he received down at the pub over his wayward daughter kept away for a few months, but in the end, the ribbing ceased, and he went back to his five pints a night. He was glad when Wendy joined the police force and went to Sheffield. Once out of the village, she found the need for a multitude of men had subsided.

  Her husband came along when she was nineteen, an old man ‒ at least in her mother’s eyes ‒ of twenty-nine. They had married and raised three children, although her husband with early retirement had become an embittered man and not too pleasant.

  ***

  ‘One room, please,’ Wendy said as she stood at the reception desk at the Abbey Hotel in Malvern. She could see that it was five-star, the sort of hotel where Marjorie Frobisher would stay. She also realised that it was outside of her salary, and if it had not been official business and a police-issue credit card, she would have found a room above a pub.

  Her room, second floor with a view overlooking the Priory was splendid. Smoke-free, which she did not like, but the window opened wide. She took the opportunity of a warm bath. Too many cigarettes and too many meals had rendered her body worn and sagging. She had promised many times, New Year’s resolution to change her ways. She failed within one day of the resolution. She knew she always would.

  Refreshed, she headed downstairs. The worst approach with the receptionist who had identified the missing woman would be to flash her badge. She knew it would put her on the defensive; the receptionist had already been identified as female. It seemed best to identify her first. She was not visible, and she did not want to go asking any questions as it may raise suspicion. A good meal, a couple of glasses of wine and an early night seemed the best approach. The next day she would find the receptionist; indulge in idle conversation about the local tourist highlights, television programmes ‒ especially the one she was interested in.

  ***

  Farhan met up with Samantha again. She was pleased when he rang. They met in the same prearranged spot as before. She came equipped with two curries: one for him, one for her, from an Indian restaurant not far from her office. He appreciated the gesture.

  ‘Samantha.’

  ‘Please call me Aisha. I prefer Aisha.’

  ‘Aisha, there was an incident the first night at the hotel.’

  ‘The woman you met, did you speak to her?’

  ‘Not really. She arranged for us to come in. I think she disapproved.
’

  ‘That is probably correct.’

  ‘Aisha, it’s best if you think before you speak. I should really ask you to come down to the station and make a statement…’

  ‘You’re trying to protect me?’

  ‘You and Olivia.’

  ‘You’ve met her? What was she like?’

  ‘I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to tell you.’

  ‘Did you like her? At least, you can tell me that.’

  ‘I did not like her as much as you.’

  ‘I would have been upset if you had,’ she replied.

  ‘She was a good woman. She had her reasons, the same as you.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the first night. What happened?’

  ‘Sutherland was high on alcohol and drugs.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t even drink. I play along with the client, same as Olivia. You need to be a good actor sometimes.’

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘As I told you before, we were on the floor with him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The woman walks in unexpectedly. She must have assumed we had gone, as we were not making much noise. She was checking that all was okay, I suppose.’

  ‘What did Sutherland do?’

  ‘He jumped up and exposed himself to her. She looked as though she had never seen a naked man before. With her standing there and it getting late, I went into the bedroom with Olivia. We dressed in our going home clothes and left soon after.’

  ‘Going home clothes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I can hardly walk in the door at my parent’s house looking like a painted tart. I change into my regular work clothes, take off the perfume.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘We were out of there in five minutes. Sutherland had sobered up by then, and she was serving him coffee. We were not looking, but it appeared relatively calm. It wasn’t for us to nurse-maid them. I assumed her job was to take care of him. She may have been available as well. I don’t think she was, but I never asked or cared.’

  ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘No, that’s it. You can ask Olivia if you like, but she will validate my statement.’