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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We are working on that assumption There are a few suspects for the murder of Charles Sutherland; none apparent for Sally Jenkins.’

  ‘Who would want to kill Sutherland?’ I’m told he was not the most pleasant person, but murder?’

  ‘Three had a strong enough reason for Sutherland, one for Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘How do these people make so many enemies?’

  ‘A male chauvinist pig is an apt description for Sutherland.’

  ‘Not really relevant is it?’

  ‘It will be if one of the women killed him.’

  ‘You know what I’m referring to.’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘Precisely. Where is this woman? Is she dead? Is she likely to be dead soon?’

  ‘Are you stating that if she’s not dead, she may be soon?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, I don’t know. Certainly not from my primary contact, but whatever she knows is going to get her killed.’

  ‘You have some updated information?’

  ‘I am aware that there is an assassination order out on her. Don’t ask me who or where or when.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s the truth.’

  ‘What do you want to do about this?’

  ‘If you find her, protect her,’ MacTavish said as he finished his third pint. Richard Goddard had just drunk one. He was prepared to order a half, but with MacTavish downing them so fast, he ordered another pint instead.

  ‘Assuming we find her, where do we protect her? If someone’s serious about her being dead, are we being given the all clear to use violence?’

  ‘Don’t look for official permission from me or anyone else. If it goes wrong, everyone will deny responsibility.’

  ‘The risk seems too high.

  ‘That’s negative.’ MacTavish slammed his beer down on the table, the froth spilling out over the rim of the glass.

  ‘It seems realistic to me.’

  ‘With great risk comes great reward. Do you get my drift?’

  ‘I’m an ambitious man. I don’t deny that.’

  ‘And there’s an assistant commissioner’s position coming up in the near future?’

  ‘Are you saying it’s mine if this is handled correctly?’

  ‘That’s up to Commissioner Shaw. He’s looking for a peerage. You look after us; we look after him. You know how it works, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ll do what is necessary, but I’m not willing to put my men’s lives at risk.’

  ‘The black inspector looked to be a smart man. Ambitious, is he?’

  ‘Also very competent.’

  ‘He’ll be looked after as well.’

  ***

  The question from Agnew at the press conference had interested Farhan. How did he know about the two women Christy Nichols had signed for?

  The young detective inspector realised well-enough that the information wasn’t necessarily the most secretive piece of information. But failing a motive or another body it was one of their few possible lines of enquiry. Isaac was following up on Sally Jenkins’ murder, with Larry Hill providing assistance as he could. Wendy was trying to find the missing woman and Richard Goddard’s last visit to the office had revealed that if Marjorie Frobisher was alive, it was up to the department to protect her at all cost.

  Isaac had raised questions as to why, which lasted until their boss had taken him out of the room for a five-minute chat. On his return, Isaac ceased to ask and acquiesced to his senior’s request. Farhan thought he should have been more persistent.

  Too many unknowns, Farhan thought but kept his own counsel. Isaac believed that following up on how Agnew knew about the prostitutes was shooting in the dark. As he had reasoned: someone let them into the hotel, Christy Nichols had shown them into Sutherland’s suite, and numerous people had seen they exit.

  As Farhan had explained to Isaac, they did not exit the hotel as women of the night. They would have changed and to those moving around in the foyer of the hotel, they would have looked no different from the majority of the people there.

  Farhan found himself at a variance with his DCI, who now seemed more focussed on Marjorie Frobisher than Charles Sutherland and Sally Jenkins.

  Farhan was still living on his own, although the children were fine and his wife had instigated legal proceedings against him for division of the assets ‒ meagre as they were ‒ and maintenance of the children.

  Ironic he had thought when he received the notification, that his wife, traditional and conservative had no issues with embracing English law when it suited her. In her own country, she would not have found such a favourable response from the courts. There the man held predominance, but he had spent too long in England; he saw no issues with his wife’s legal demands. He just hoped that it could be dealt without the bitterness and acrimony that so many seemed to go through when a marriage failed.

  But, it was not the failed marriage or the assets that concerned him the most, it was the children. Would they receive a moderate education and upbringing? Would his daughter be allowed to integrate into British society as an equal, free to choose her direction in life, free to choose who she married when the time come? He saw England for all its beauty and its benefits. It was a country he had come to love, a country that was allowing him to fast-track his career.

  Chapter 26

  Farhan realised several minutes after leaving the office, that his personal issues were just that, personal. There were two bodies, possibly more if he and Isaac did not come up with a solution soon. He laid out his plan of action. First, he first wanted to meet with Aisha, but he felt certain she had not spoken to the reporter.

  Christy Nichols seemed the most likely to have told the media. He realised he had not spoken to the hotel employee who had smuggled them into the hotel. He had deemed it not important in the initial investigations; realised now that it may have been an error in judgement on his part. Maybe that person had seen something, knew something. Christy Nichols would know who that person was.

  Geoffrey Agnew proved to be of little use to Farhan. ‘I only spoke to the person on the phone.’

  Pressed further Agnew claimed that the voice was muffled; he wasn’t sure if it was male or female. Farhan did not believe him, told him that it was a murder investigation and that withholding information was a criminal offence. Agnew, a pugnacious little man, continued to state that he was not withholding information, and any future conversations would be with his company’s full legal team in attendance. Farhan knew he was wasting his time.

  Christy Nichols was easier to deal with, and she would not be threatening in her manner or evasive in her answering. At least, he hoped she would not be. He had to admit that he liked her. She was an ambitious woman in an industry that rewarded ambitious people as long as that came with aggression and bastardry and a complete lack of feeling or emotion. He knew she did not have the aggression and bastardry, she had even admitted it. Victoria Webster certainly did, and Christy Nichols admired her for it, but would never emulate.

  He felt fortunate that he worked within an organisation that rewarded people for their ability, not their gender or their religion or their colour, but then he was not so sure of that. The London Metropolitan Police prided itself that it was equal opportunity, but who were the most senior people in the organisation? He knew the answer; they were male, white, Anglo-Saxon and Christian. Sure, there were signs of change: Isaac was one example. There was every indication that he was in line to move up in the police force, but how far would he go? How far could he go? Farhan dismissed his pessimism and focussed on doing his job. He was not leaving the police force, period. It was where he belonged, he knew that.

  He found Christy Nichols at the apartment where she lived on her own, a two-bedroom, first-floor conversion of a terrace house. The location, close to Hampstead Heath was fine, the condition of the building, mediocre. She was apologetic when he knocked on the door, although she had agreed t
o their meeting at her apartment instead of a local coffee shop or at the local police station as Farhan had suggested.

  ‘Apologies for the mess.’ She had made some attempt at tidying up. She was dressed in a pair of shorts, very short and a tee-shirt. He was sure she was wearing no bra. Her hair was pulled back tight. She had obviously applied some make-up. For a man who was feeling the need of a woman, it was not what he wanted to see. He was a policeman on police business, not a secret lover sneaking in for a snatched thirty minutes of passion.

  ‘That’s fine. You should see my place,’ he replied, although he had to admit his housekeeping, woeful as it was, did not look as bad as hers. The bathroom door was ajar, and he could see the washing hanging from the shower rail.

  ‘Take a seat, not the one in the corner, though.’ He could see why. It was occupied by what appeared to be an old rolled up woollen jumper but turned out to be an old cat. ‘That’s Cuddles,’ she said. It did not seem cuddly to Farhan although old appeared to fit the description. Farhan had no great affinity for animals, no great dislike. His wife had abhorred pets in the house; he would not have been overly concerned. A family pet was good for the children, gave them a sense of responsibility.

  Farhan sat on one of the two remaining chairs; Christy Nichols sat on the other, the tee-shirt tightening as she adjusted her position. He did not feel comfortable in her presence. ‘Did you watch the press conference?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw some of it and then switched it off,’ she replied.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘It reminded me of the events at the hotel.’

  It seemed a fair response to Farhan. After all, she had been in the room next door when a murder had been committed, and Sutherland had forced her into giving him oral sex.

  ‘One of the reporters knew about the two escorts at the hotel.’

  ‘That seems possible,’ she replied.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the first time prostitutes have been in the hotel, do you?’

  ‘It probably happens all the time. What interests me is who told the reporter.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t.’ She went on the defensive and stood up.

  ‘Please, the issue is not whether you did or did not. I’m not here to ascertain whether it was illegal to have spoken with Agnew. That’s a debatable point in law, and I’m sure he would have paid well.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘Four people knew of the two women in the hotel.’

  ‘The escorts, myself and the person who let them in.’ She had resumed her seat.

  ‘Do you know the fourth person?’

  ‘I paid him.’

  ‘How did you arrange it?’

  ‘I spoke to the person who showed us to the rooms.’

  ‘Is that the same person you paid later?’

  ‘No, so that makes it five, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Five at least now, although it may be more,’ Farhan said. ‘I need to meet these people at the hotel.’

  ‘It could still be the escorts. I would have thought the information about them being there would be worth at least several hundred pounds to someone like Geoffrey.’

  ‘Geoffrey?’

  ‘Geoffrey Agnew. I know him personally.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Degree in Journalism. Part of the course required us to spend time as trainee journalists. I spent three weeks at the television company. Work experience, they called it; supposedly assisting in typing up the copy for that day’s broadcast.’

  ‘And?’ Farhan knew the answer.

  ‘I learnt how to make a mean cup of coffee, and how to balance everyone’s lunch order in one arm while I struggled to press the elevator button.’

  ‘I can sympathise.’

  ‘Similar experience for you?’ she asked.

  ‘The first couple of weeks after leaving the Police Academy. First Pakistani, first Muslim, first person with a university degree in the station.’

  ‘What happened?’ she smiled, which did not help him at all. He knew he would have to leave soon. An attractive woman, dressed provocatively and smiling at him was too much for him to handle.

  ‘They found out soon enough that I did not bring any hang-ups with me, that I was moderate in my faith, and I was potentially a good policeman.’

  ‘And a good person as well.’

  Farhan left soon after. She had given him a name at the hotel and an impression that she liked him not only as a policeman but as a friend. He found himself to be in a dilemma. There was Aisha and Christy and family issues to deal with. There were also two murders, possibly more. He felt that life was becoming too complicated.

  ***

  Isaac could only reflect on the similarities between Linda Harris and Sally Jenkins. One was still very much alive and sitting opposite from him; the other, very much dead and lying on a slab in a morgue. He had to admit, Richard Williams had great taste in woman, but then if you were rich and drove an expensive sports car, then maybe that was one of the benefits.

  Sally Jenkins had been young and beautiful and clearly a rich man’s floozy. Linda Harris, Sally’s replacement, in bed and out, according to Williams, somehow did not ring true. To Isaac, she did not seem the sort of person who would be swayed by the executive producer’s charm; that she would have been more than capable of finding a man more her age with wealth and the vitality she needed. He realised it was not for him to make moral judgements, only to observe and question and to formulate a resolve to the murders.

  A missing woman was the least of their worries, but now they were protecting her, if she ever reappeared. Richard Goddard had explained the situation to him. He still didn’t understand fully, although he was certain that his boss did not either.

  As the detective superintendent had said, ‘It’s our futures on the line here. If we get this right, powerful people will look after us.’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘We’re stuffed.’ Not the answer an ambitious policeman wanted to hear. Isaac saw his progression to the top as a result of competent, even exceptional policing, but he was a realist. He knew how it worked. Commissioner Charles Shaw sat in the chair that he wanted to occupy one day, although he would let his senior keep it warm in the interim. He knew as a policeman, a decent, hard-working member of the force, he could get the rungs on the board, but others were looking to climb that ladder as well. It was easy to slide down it if he did not play the game, grease the inflated egos of important people, and let others take credit for results he had achieved.

  Charles Shaw sat in his chair, not because he had been the only contender, but because he had played the game, made the right connections. Isaac had to admit he had done a good job. His reorganisation of the bureaucratic structure of the Metropolitan Police had been good and apart from the threat of terrorist-related activities, crime levels were down in the city. The other contenders when the previous commissioner had stepped down did not have the political savvy, had not gone to school with the Prime Minister, or sat on the PM’s Anti-Terrorism Committee.

  Isaac did not have the contacts, political at least, but he did have Richard Goddard, who had the ear of the Commissioner Shaw. He was certain there was more than a mutual respect involved, although he had never asked.

  What Isaac did realise was that if Marjorie Frobisher was alive, it was up to Wendy to find her. In the meantime, it was theoretical. He had two murders to contend with, possibly three, if Richard Williams’ new personal assistant knew something or someone believed she did.

  ***

  Linda Harris had suggested the restaurant; Isaac had agreed. He hoped it would not too expensive as he felt obliged to pay and getting expenses paid took forever. The mortgage on his apartment was placing him under a lot of pressure, and now he had been landed with a bill to replace the oven. He needed a promotion, not a demotion, although he realised that he was placing himself in the category of expendable, knows too much.

&nb
sp; Isaac ordered fish, lightly grilled with a salad - in line with his new regime of looking after his health. He was aware that tomorrow it may be a late night and another pizza. Linda ordered a Greek salad. Both chose orange juice for a drink. The seats they occupied were placed close to the corner window with a limited view of the street. Camden Town where they met was trendy and interspersed with run-down terraces, many being renovated. Isaac appreciated the colourful atmosphere; she loved it.

  ‘I come from Devon. Too quiet down there for me,’ she said. He had dismissed her at Williams’ office as another rent-a-lay. As he spoke to her, he was not so sure. Sally Jenkins had been obvious, not especially articulate and dressed in the office in a tartish manner. He remembered Linda in the office wearing a long-sleeved blouse, but apart from that, not much else. It was clear in the restaurant that she dressed in a stylish manner. She wore jeans, obviously not cheap with a white top. Her figure, he noticed was not as over-endowed as Sally Jenkins had been, although her breasts were obviously firm and the top clearly showed her nipples.

  ‘What brought you to London?’

  ‘Secretarial College, and then I found work here.’

  ‘You realise why we’re meeting today,’ he said. He had finished his meal; she had barely started.

  ‘I suppose it’s to do with my predecessor’s death. I’m not sure how I can help. I never met her.’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her? Any reason as to why someone would want her dead?’

  ‘Apart from her lousy administration skills. I wouldn’t have thought that was a reason for murder, although if she had been around, I would have felt like throttling her.’

  ‘No good at her job?’ Isaac asked. He had ordered a second glass of orange juice. He was in no hurry to leave.

  ‘Virtually incompetent, but she wasn’t employed for her office skills, was she?’ Isaac thought it was a refreshingly open statement.

  ‘What do you know of her relationship with Richard Williams?’

  ‘Apart from him being the boss and her, the employee?’