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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I will take your statement. Olivia, if it’s necessary.’

  ‘I finish my degree in a couple of months. I’m not sure if I want to sell myself again.’

  ‘I would have thought after one of your clients was murdered, it would not be a good option.’

  ‘You’re right of course. I’ve seen things, met people, been places; I’m not as naïve as you think.’

  ‘It is the same for me,’ Farhan said.

  ‘If I stop, can we meet again?’ she asked. ‘Socially that is. Or what I have done, too much for you to forget?’

  ‘I think I can handle the situation. This is a murder investigation, and you are a material witness. It would not be advisable for us to meet socially at this time.’

  ‘A confidential witness.’

  ‘I don’t intend to reveal your name unless it is absolutely necessary.’

  ‘You don’t want anyone to know your girlfriend is a former prostitute.’ She smiled. Farhan realised she was teasing him.

  ‘We need to keep this professional.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve embarrassed you, Detective Inspector Ahmed. We will meet again, hopefully soon. For myself, I will remain pure and chaste until you call.’

  ‘It may be some time.’

  ‘Time is not the issue. When is more important.’

  They parted, not aware that they had yet again walked a significant distance. He knew he had made an error in letting his personal feelings interfere with his professional responsibilities. He would talk to Isaac when it was opportune for advice.

  ***

  Isaac instinctively did not like Fiona Avers from the first moment he met her at Robert Avers and Marjorie Frobisher’s home. ‘I would like to ask you about her mother.’

  ‘Before you carry on,’ she attempted to take control of the discussion. ‘I did not like my mother. I despised her.’

  ‘Why do you feel the need to tell me that before I’ve asked you any questions?’ Isaac had seen it before. The desperate need of a witness to explain their intense dislike of a person, as if, somehow it exonerated them from the crime. Often it did, but not always.

  ‘I just want to make it clear, that’s all.’

  Isaac could see why Fiona Avers had never become a major star as her mother had. He had watched her mother on the television a few times, even downloaded some episodes of her latest programme off YouTube. He had also found a movie she had made twenty years previous.

  He did not find the characters she portrayed particularly endearing, but Marjorie Frobisher was, had been, a beautiful woman. The daughter was not. For once he felt calm. Too often a potential witness ‒ attractive and easy to the eye ‒ had caused him some weakening in his interrogational style. It was not going to happen this time.

  ‘Are you saying that you do not miss your mother?’

  ‘I told you in the first sentence. Don’t you listen?’ She had the manners of an alley cat.

  ‘The disappearance of your mother and the murder of Charles Sutherland may be related. Your confrontational style is not conducive to this discussion.’

  ‘What do I care about Charles Sutherland? The only time I met him, he wanted to put his grubby paws all over me.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘Here, in this house. My mother was having one of her celebrity get-togethers. I didn’t receive an invite‒ too embarrassing, having her ugly daughter around.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You’ve got two eyes. You tell me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘I’m not beautiful, that’s the problem. I may not be totally ugly, and it doesn’t concern me, at least not too much, but to my precious mother, beauty and poise and grace were all important. I’m clumsy, more likely to break the best china teapot than pour a cup of tea from it. That’s how she saw it. It was always the same, even from childhood.’

  ‘So why did you come to the party?’

  ‘It’s my house. I’ve a right to come and besides my mother owed me. If she didn’t make the right introductions, ensured I get a part on some programme, I would have made a scene. She wouldn’t allow that.’

  Isaac saw clearly that if Fiona Avers decided to make a scene, no one would have been able to stop her.

  ‘Did she help you?’

  ‘She pretended to. Introduced me to a couple of producers, “drop round anytime and we’ll give you an audition”.’

  ‘Did they work out?’

  ‘Hell, no. The first one was always too busy, come next week. The other one seemed to fancy tall, plain-looking women. He showed me the casting couch; I showed him a bunch of fives and a kick in the shin. He showed me the door.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘The word got around that I’m difficult to work with. Mother probably did little to discourage the information. The only decent part on offer was the casting couch producer. I should have just let him fuck me, will next time.’

  ‘Seems a tough way to get ahead in your line of business,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Ask Mother. She’s been on more casting couches than there are casting couches. She’s a terrible tart. I assume you’ve been told.’

  ‘I am aware that the relationship between your father and mother was unusual.’

  ‘It was no relationship. She told him, he accepted. He loved her, still does, and he’s devoted to both Sam and I. Maybe not so much to Sam, but then he’s a hopeless case: drink and drugs.’

  ‘Your relationship with your father?’

  ‘He’s a wonderful man, deserves better than my mother. I’ve told him enough times to give her the boot and find someone else.’

  Isaac wanted to get back to the issue with Charles Sutherland. First, he needed a break. She went and made two coffees. She returned and placed them on the table; best china, he noticed.

  ‘Let us get back to the incident with Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘It was late in the evening. I was drunk, too many vodkas and whiskies, maybe a couple of beers as well. Sutherland was equally drunk. Father was upstairs asleep. He doesn’t have a lot of time for entertainment people. He finds most of them vacuous and self-obsessed with themselves, which they are ‒ my mother being the prime example.’

  ‘Your father came to the party?’

  ‘He played the perfect host. He ensured everyone had a drink and were fed. He spent about three hours at the party and by then a few had left, a few were drunk and head down in a chair, and some others were sniffing cocaine.’

  ‘Which were you?’

  ‘I was drunk, but not drugged. I’ve tried drugs, the less harmful variety, and they make me psychotic. Alcohol suffices for me.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘I’m at the back of the house. It’s a big house as you’ve seen. I’m sitting there drinking steadily. He comes in on his own. He’s clearly spaced out, and I’m definitely drunk. He sees beauty in me, and I see a handsome man in him.’

  ‘It’s just the two of you?’

  ‘The beautiful woman. The handsome man. That’s what alcohol and recreational drugs do to you - make you see something that is not there.’

  ‘I believe you are playing down your appearance,’ Isaac said. He had to admit that beautiful was not a description he would use, but she had some character in her face. Her manner with people was her main distraction.

  ‘You’re being kind. It’s not required. Let me continue.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We start fooling around, groping each other.’

  ‘I thought you said his advances were unwelcome.’

  ‘Maybe I was not entirely truthful. Anyway, soon after, I’ve got my skirt up around my arse, and he’s on top of me going for dear life.’

  ‘Sexual intercourse?’

  ‘That’s sounds clinical. It was just a drunken fuck.’

  ‘So why the hatred?’

  ‘As I’m climaxing and he’s struggling to come, in walks my mother. It appears that the party has
come to a conclusion and she, and one other are the only ones left. Except for Charles Sutherland and yours truly.’

  ‘What did you mother say?’

  ‘Nothing. She wasn’t interested in me, only the man she had brought in to fuck.’

  ‘Sutherland’s reaction?’

  ‘He jumped up, left me dangling without concluding his part.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He failed to ejaculate, shoot his load. Clear enough?’

  ‘Clear enough.’

  ‘And what did you think of your mother with another man?’

  ‘Not much, but then she was always playing around with one man or another, but in my father’s house with him upstairs asleep. I was angry.’

  ‘There’s a scene with your mother, but what’s this got to do with Sutherland.’

  ‘He takes her side. Calls me an old tart and if he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have touched me with a barge pole. It’s not the first time a man has said that to me. I was livid, making a scene, a lot of noise as well, I suppose. Anyway, father comes down, sees what is going on and takes me out of the room and puts me to bed with a cup of cocoa and a hot water bottle. He is a lovely man.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland?’

  ‘He left soon after.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Ten minutes later the front door slammed shut, and she came upstairs as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘Why ten minutes later if Sutherland had already left?’

  ‘She still needed fucking.’

  ‘Who was the man?’

  ‘Richard Williams.’

  Isaac realised that here in this one embittered woman was the motive for two murders: the murder of Marjorie Frobisher, if she was indeed dead, and the death of Charles Sutherland.

  Chapter 22

  Wendy had not announced the previous day when checking in at the hotel that she was a serving police officer. Experience had taught her that people become secretive and guarded once an ID badge is flashed in front of them. Even those totally innocent start to clam up, check what they say and how they say it. She needed the receptionist free and willing to talk. She was not a difficult woman to recognise as all the staff appeared to be young - in their twenties and thirties - except for her.

  Felicity Pearson, in her late forties, maybe early fifties, her photo courtesy of a board in the hotel foyer showing ‘Employee of the month’. She had already been interviewed by the police; she would not necessarily welcome a second time.

  Wendy decided the best approach was to engage in idle chatter when the reception was quiet. She waited her time. It came around eleven o’clock in the morning when those who were checking out had, and those checking in were waiting until two in the afternoon.

  ‘I was thinking of taking a walk up the hills,’ Wendy said.

  ‘That’s a good idea. It’s best to take a coat. It can get cold up there at times, even snow in the winter, but not today,’ the receptionist replied. Wendy noticed a definite Welsh accent.

  ‘I don’t want to be gone for too long.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They’re repeating the episode where Billy Blythe dies.’ Wendy thought it a good enough way to direct the questioning towards the missing woman.

  ‘She was in here, you know.’

  ‘Who was?’ Wendy, sounding suitably vague, replied.

  ‘His sister?’

  ‘You watch the programme?’ Wendy said. A fellow devotee, ideal, she thought.

  ‘I never miss it.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘It’s a shame about his sister,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I just mentioned it before. She was in here?’

  ‘Elizabeth Blythe.’

  ‘Yes, his sister.’

  ‘That must have been exciting.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She didn’t say much. She didn’t like it when I recognised her.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She left soon after. I think it was because of me.’

  Wendy noticed that Felicity Pearson was ignoring other people standing at the reception. ‘You better deal with them first.’ She did not want the receptionist getting in trouble and then walking out the door in a huff.

  ‘Give me five minutes and then we can chat some more.’ Wendy saw that the woman liked nothing more than a good chat.

  Five minutes later she returned. ‘Marjorie Frobisher, that’s who it was. Mind you, I wouldn’t have recognised her.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Her hair was a different colour, and she wore large sunglasses.’

  ‘How did you know it was her?’

  ‘I only knew it was her when she came to the counter and asked for the linen on her bed to be changed. We only do it every third day, but she was adamant.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I phoned up housekeeping. They sorted it out.’

  ‘You’ve not explained how you knew it was her.’

  ‘You remember how she used to look when she was sad. One side of her mouth appeared to droop, slightly lower than the other.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘That’s what she did with me. I was so excited, I asked her for her autograph.’

  ‘Her reaction?’

  ‘I could see she was not happy, but she remained polite and signed a piece of paper for me. I framed it; put it next to the television at home.’

  ‘What happened after she had signed it?’

  ‘She went upstairs and packed her case.’

  ‘When she left, where did she go?’

  ‘I organised a taxi for her.’

  ‘Do you know the taxi she took?’

  ‘Bert picked her up. We always try to use him for the guests. He’s been driving for us for years.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘Up the road, blue Toyota. You can’t miss him.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why are you so interested as to where she’s gone.’

  ‘Her husband has asked me to find her, bring her home.’

  ‘You’ve been engaging in idle conversation, making me neglect the guests, pretending to be a fan of the programme…’

  ‘I am a fan of the programme. I also need to find her.’

  ‘I hope nothing has happened to her.’

  ‘We’re not sure. We think she may have come to some harm.’ Wendy felt she owed the woman some gossip in return.

  ‘Is it anything to do with Billy Blythe? I never liked him. The actor who played him, his death.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wendy replied.

  ‘Well I never,’ Felicity Pearson said. The last words Wendy heard from the receptionist as she went out to find Bert, the taxi driver, was her telling some quests the latest gossip on Marjorie Frobisher. She could only smile.

  ***

  Isaac had made two appointments that day at Marjorie Frobisher’s house: the first in the morning with the daughter, Fiona Avers. The second, in the afternoon with Sam Avers, the son.

  Sam Avers, the elder of the two children of Marjorie Frobisher and Robert Avers arrived drunk. He was unapologetic. He showed the growth of a five-day beard, and his breath smelt, so much so that Isaac was obliged to move chairs to one side to avoid a frontal assault of stale beer.

  ‘Mr. Avers.’

  ‘Call me Sam, everyone does.’

  ‘Okay, Sam. We are conducting investigations into the disappearance of your mother and the death of Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘What’s his death got to do with her?’ Sam Avers responded. He coughed violently as his spoke. He lit another cigarette.

  ‘We are not sure. I had hoped that you would have some further information that would assist us.’

  ‘Why me? I hardly knew the man and as for her…’

  ‘Your relationship with your mother?

  ‘Hardly ever saw her and when I did she was off out somewhere with her rich friends.’

  ‘W
ere they all rich?’

  ‘Most were, but then she hardly wanted them for their money. Besides, she had plenty, not that she gave me much.’

  ‘I am told by your father that they ensure you have a generous allowance and a credit card. Is that correct?’

  ‘They only give it for me to go away. I’m an embarrassment to them. Did he tell you that?’ Isaac could understand the embarrassment. As to how he had become an embarrassment, another issue. He felt it may be relevant.

  ‘I understand you live here?’

  ‘I come and go, mostly go. I don’t want to be around here any more than necessary.’

  ‘So you come here, ensure your money is available and leave.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ the drunken man said. He had found the drink’s cabinet and was pouring a large whisky. ‘You want one?’ he said. Isaac declined.

  ‘On duty, is that it?’

  ‘Too early for me,’ Isaac replied, which wasn’t true. He certainly did not want a large whisky, and he did not want to drink with the man. He did not like him; careful not to offend or rile.

  ‘Suit yourself. I have to give the old man credit, he certainly keeps a good drop of whisky here, only the best.’

  ‘Before we discuss your mother, let us discuss Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘I only met him once or twice. He could drink ‒ more than me.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘Here once, in town another time.’

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘We got drunk.’

  ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘Are you insinuating that I’m gay, that I fancy men?’

  ‘Not at all. This is a murder investigation. It is important that I am thorough.’

  ‘And besides he liked women. The more he could get hold of.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I ran into him at a club in town once. He had a couple of women with him, real classy.’

  ‘Can you please elaborate?’

  ‘I go over to him. He’s drunk. Wants to tell me what a bitch my mother is. He expects me to argue with him. I’m harmless when I’ve been drinking which is most of the time, but he’s angry drunk.’

  ‘He insults your mother. What do you do?’

  ‘I agreed with him, of course.’ Isaac decided he did not like the man.