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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Not since then, but it’s been difficult. I’ve wanted to.’

  ‘You know what she is, has been?’

  ‘A prostitute, sure. I’m beyond making a judgement.’ Farhan squirmed in his seat. He was pleased that he and Isaac were having the conversation – embarrassed, that they were.

  ‘Are you emotionally involved? Isaac sat upright in his chair and leant across his desk for emphasis.

  ‘I know it’s illogical. I’ve a wife and children, and there I am falling in love with a woman who’s been selling her body for money.’

  ‘Love is blind, or so the saying goes.’ Isaac said. It seemed a throw-away phrase, clichéd, but it appeared, to sum up, Farhan’s predicament.

  ‘As you say, love is blind. She behaves, has behaved in a manner which I abhor, yet when I’m with her, I seem to forgive and forget. What do you reckon I should do?’

  ‘Protect her.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘What about the other woman? She’s disappeared. You arranged that.’

  ‘I advised her. I know where she is, but unless there’s an official request I’ll keep it to myself.’ Farhan did indeed know where Olivia had gone, even had a phone number. The woman was grateful and trusted him enough to tell him that the children were in school, that her husband and herself were trying to work through it, and unless she received a legal request to return to the United Kingdom, they were staying in South Africa.

  ‘You’ll still have trouble keeping her out of this. If we ever find a murderer, they’ll no doubt be a summons issued to all witnesses to come forward, including your girlfriend. You’re putting us right in it, with this woman. You realise that?’

  ‘I know. What do you advise?’ Farhan sat sheepishly in his chair.

  ‘She needs to disappear.’

  ‘But, she has a career, a good career.’

  ‘What will happen to her career when they find out?’

  ‘It’s a prestigious law firm,’ Farhan said. ‘I imagine that a former prostitute, high-class or otherwise will not last long there.’

  ‘You’re right. They’ll have her out of the door with thirty minutes. She won’t have the benefit of innocent until proven guilty. The first hint of scandal and she is condemned.’

  ‘She knows that. She’s putting on a brave face, and then she’s worried about the shame it will bring on her family.’

  Isaac sympathised, but he could see little hope. Even now, the media was theorising as to why Sutherland and Sally Jenkins were murdered and by whom. Was it related to Marjorie Frobisher, and why had she disappeared? They had been up in Malvern, even interviewed the receptionist, Felicity Pearson, at the hotel there.

  Questions were being asked by the media on the television and in the newspapers as to what was going on. Were there to be other murders and what were the police doing? Not very much seemed to be the consensus view.

  ‘She can’t be protected, you know that.’ Isaac affirmed. ‘So, what are you going to do? What are we going to do?’

  ‘It’s not your problem, Isaac. You’ve got your career to think about.’

  ‘To hell with that. If we don’t solve these murders, neither of us has a career. And besides, I need you with me helping, not moping around, staring at the camera on your laptop.’

  ‘We have to get her out of the country. Is that what you think?’ Farhan grateful that Isaac was willing to go out on a limb for him, asked.

  ‘The sooner, the better. You better give her the facts straight, face-to-face.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And don’t go sleeping with her.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Farhan replied, although he wasn’t sure that his answer had been totally truthful.

  Chapter 31

  It was clear that Marjorie Frobisher had walked away from the station, in the company of a man; it was not known if it had been reluctant or otherwise. Wendy felt that reluctance was the more likely of the two scenarios. She was applying experience to the problem. Wayward children, when they returned, invariably made for someone they knew, someone they trusted, but it appeared the woman had not followed that course.

  Isaac had suggested Richard Williams as the most likely person to protect her, but he had denied seeing her when Isaac had phoned. In fact, he had been quite annoyed over the aspersion that he was possibly obstructing a murder enquiry, threatened legal action if such a statement was made again. Isaac felt convinced that he was in the clear, although angry that he could not tell the man what he thought of his pompous manner.

  Besides, he had heard Linda Harris’ voice in the background, and the clinking of glasses indicated they were not in the office. Isaac resented him for his good choice in women, when he was feeling the early signs of rejection from Sophie.

  As much as she had alluded to not being concerned, when he had inadvertently mentioned Jess O’Neill’s name in a moment of passion, she had not been available to come over the last couple of times he had phoned. He could not admit to any undue sadness, only a little frustrated that the relationship was over.

  He was determined to speed up the case. After that, he would be free to call Jess. He knew she would be available.

  Wendy convinced that the only solution was to get out on the street and to commit herself to good old-fashioned legwork found herself outside Paddington Station, early the next morning. She had met with Bridget earlier, agreeing to meet up in a few days for a night out on the town, maybe take in a show, although they both knew it meant having a good gossip and a few too many drinks.

  The morning was bleak. Wendy had dressed accordingly, although she had to admit it was not a flattering ensemble, a heavy jacket with a scarf, trousers and solid walking shoes. She completed it all with a red woollen hat her husband had given her some years before he had become forgetful and cantankerous.

  The clearest that Brian Gee, the nerdish computer man at Paddington Station, and Bridget Halloran had managed to come up with, was that Marjorie Frobisher and the unknown man had walked down Praed Street in the direction of St. Mary’s Hospital. The rain had started; she was not in a good mood. The dampness in the air was starting to play havoc with her arthritis, and she knew at the end of the day, she would be in severe pain.

  Soon, she reached St. Mary’s Hospital, the purple plaque commemorating the discovery of Penicillin by Sir Alexander Fleming in 1928, proudly displayed underneath his laboratory window. Marjorie Frobisher had been seen this far down the street, but after there the trail had gone cold. Why there hadn’t been a car or at least a taxi at Paddington Station to pick her up, seemed strange to Wendy; almost as if the woman was attempting to throw off anyone following. The weather started to worsen.

  She decided that a warm place and a quiet coffee would be a good idea. She found a little café. It did not look very enticing, but as she opened the door, she felt the heat. Taking a seat close to the window, she ordered a café latte and a cake and pondered the situation. Was she wasting her time walking the street? What could she do? Should she go home, admit to Isaac and Farhan that she had no further ideas?

  Desperate to do something she indulged in idle conversation with the waitress, a pleasant looking woman in her late- forties, the tattoos on her arm not to Wendy’s taste.

  ‘I’m looking for someone?’ Wendy said after the waitress - her Irish accent noticeable - asked what she was doing out on such a miserable day.

  ‘Anyone important?’

  ‘Someone you’d know?’

  ‘Not Marjorie Frobisher?’ The waitress’s answer surprised Wendy.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘I suppose they do, but why assume it’s her?’

  ‘I didn’t, until you said it was someone important.’

  ‘But why her?’

  ‘I told everyone in the shop that I had seen her. They all thought I was a bit crazy, and without my glasses, my eyesight is a bit dodgy.’

  ‘You didn’t report seeing her.’


  ‘I was going to, but everyone convinced me otherwise and then it became busy. I suppose I forgot.’

  ‘You’ve reported it now.’

  ‘You’re the Police?’

  ‘Yes. Is that okay by you?’

  ‘As long as I’m not in trouble.’

  ‘Of course, you’re not. We need to talk. Are you free to have a coffee with me and to sit down?’

  ‘Yes. Sure.’

  Wendy could not but help noticing that the waitress, Sheila, was a nervous woman, unsure of herself. She also noticed that she took a piece of cake as well as the coffee. Wendy realised she would be paying for it as well.

  ‘Did you speak to Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘She didn’t speak. The man with her did the ordering.’

  ‘Tell me about him?’

  ‘He spoke quietly, well-mannered. He didn’t leave a tip; I remember that well enough.’

  ‘Did he seem friendly with Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘I kept staring, couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘That’s understood. It’s not often you see celebrities walking into your café.’

  ‘We see the occasional one when they’re visiting the hospital across the road, but she was my favourite. I always watched her on the television, and here she was sitting in my café, drinking my coffee. It’ll be something to tell my family when I get home tonight.’

  ‘This is serious. You can’t tell anyone yet. Can I trust you to keep this quiet?’

  ‘If you say so.’ Wendy knew full-well that as soon as the waitress got home, she would be telling everyone. There was hardly any way they could silence her, and she was the team’s first concrete lead for several weeks.

  ‘Did she look happy?’

  ‘She seemed pleased to be with the man.’

  ‘Is there any more you can tell me about him?’

  ‘As I said, he was polite. In his late-fifties, I suppose.’

  ‘Fat or thin?’

  ‘He certainly wasn’t fat. He seemed a nice man.’

  ‘How long did they stay?’

  ‘I have to go back to work in a couple of minutes.’

  ‘That’s understood. Just two more questions.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How long did they stay and where did they go?’

  They stayed for about twenty minutes. As to where they went, I don’t know. They just walked down the street. Apart from that, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Is there a reward?’

  ‘No reward. How would a fifty-pound tip sound?’

  ‘Great. They don’t pay much here.”

  Wendy realised on exiting the café that her pains had subsided, and there was no need to continue plodding the streets.

  ***

  Isaac felt the need to follow through on a matter that had been given him some concern. It had only been a casual remark from Ian Stanley, the irritating series producer, and nemesis of Jess O’Neill, but it had raised some questions.

  Linda Harris was not Richard William’s typical type of woman. The man liked slightly-tarty, easily impressed and easily laid and in the case of Sally Jenkins, not very competent. What concerned Isaac was that Linda Harris seemed to be none of the above. She was clearly competent, not visibly promiscuous and as to being easily impressed and easily laid, he just couldn’t see her fitting into the mould; but there she was, screwing Williams.

  Her earlier comment that it was just a bit of fun had seemed too frivolous at the time. Ian Stanley had reaffirmed his suspicions. After his senior’s aspersions that MI5 was interested in Marjorie Frobisher, Isaac’s suspicions about Williams’ PA seemed all the more relevant.

  He bit the bullet and invited her out for dinner, socially this time. She accepted readily, too readily for Isaac as Sophie was clearly out of the picture, not even returning his phone calls, and Jess was still off-limits. He still maintained a firm belief she was not involved, but he wasn’t sure if that was personal or professional. Regardless, he knew he had to keep clear.

  The next day, close to seven in the evening he met up with Linda Harris at a discreet restaurant close to the centre of the city. She ate chicken; he ordered beef. Two bottles of a particularly good wine drunk with gusto by the two and Isaac wasn’t a drinker, never had been. Isaac should have reflected, certainly would have if the effect of the alcohol hadn’t dulled his senses, that the evening was going well.

  ‘Why are you working for Williams?’ he asked.

  ‘I needed a job.’ She had dressed for the occasion: a short yellow skirt, with a white top, transparent if she caught the light in the restaurant at an appropriate angle. Isaac had come from work and was still wearing a suit.

  ‘You look too smart for the job.’ Isaac realised he was heading into dangerous waters.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. Isaac could see the signals: the alluring smile, the closeness of her chair to his, the holding of his hand across the table.

  ‘Sally Jenkins.’

  ‘You’re using her as the standard as to what is competent.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘I’m competent, suitable for the job. She wasn’t. But, as we’ve agreed she was not there for his administrative skills.’

  ‘She was there because she was an easy lay, you said that yourself.’

  ‘Are you insinuating that I’m an easy lay as well?’

  ‘You told me that you were sleeping with him.’

  ‘I told you that he was with me, in my bed.’ She reminded him of their previous conversation when she had provided her boss with an alibi.

  Isaac had sensed some pulling back from her – she was no longer holding his hand. Isaac excused himself and visited the toilet at the back of the restaurant. He took the opportunity to splash some water on his face, hoping to revive himself a little. He wasn’t sure it had.

  Returning to his seat, he felt the need to stop sounding like a policeman and to enjoy the evening. The woman was attractive, too attractive, and she was great company.

  Why not just enjoy the moment? he thought.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m acting as a policeman when I should be enjoying our time here.’

  ‘That’s okay. I understand the pressure you’re under.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself. You said you came from Devon, but what are your plans for the future?’

  ‘Find a better job,’ She was holding his hand across the table again. Both had ordered dessert. ‘I’m capable of a better job, but I’m not in a hurry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d rather find myself a decent man, settle down, have a few kids.’

  ‘Williams?’

  ‘Not at all. If I’m not around, he’d be screwing whoever he could lay his hands on; and besides he’s too old. I don’t need a sugar daddy.’

  Isaac slightly more sober after easing up on the wine, took stock of the situation. On the one hand, he’s here in the company of a beautiful, desirable woman, available if he was reading the signals right. On the other, his policeman’s brain saw questions that needed asking.

  ‘The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher concerns a lot of people,’ he said.

  ‘Newspapers, fans, you mean?’

  ‘In higher quarters.’ Isaac still had his suspicions about the woman sitting opposite. She seemed too smart; as if she was directing the conversation, ensuring he didn’t probe too much.

  ‘Political, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘I’m just a humble personal assistant who’s screwing the boss.’ Her remark was a little too curt for Isaac.

  ‘Linda, who are you?’

  ‘Linda Harris, humble personal assistant. That’s all.’

  On the one hand, he could see himself spending the night with the woman; on the other, he could see himself blowing his chance by probing too deep. He chose the latter.

  ‘We’re aware that Marjorie Frobish
er is somehow significant, although we don’t know any details. Do you?’

  ‘Why should I?’ Her manner was frosty.

  ‘You may have overheard something in the office.’

  ‘I don’t eavesdrop. You realise that you’ve spoilt a lovely evening by your aspersions.’

  ‘I realise that, but it’s my job.’

  ‘I thought we were meeting outside of working hours, both off duty.’

  ‘Off-duty, that is not a term I would have expected a PA to use.’

  She stood up, put on her coat, the weather outside not as frosty as the atmosphere currently inside the restaurant. ‘DCI Cook, I’ll bid you goodnight. In future, our meetings will be at your police station or my lawyer’s office.’

  Standing outside as she walked briskly down the road, he could see her in an animated conversation on her phone. Whatever she was, he remained convinced she was more than Williams’ bedtime companion and office administrator.

  ***

  It was as Farhan was preparing for an early night at his cold and lonely house when his phone rang. It was Olivia calling him from South Africa; she was not in a good mood; her cover had been blown.

  Still thankful that he had tried to help, but she had been forced to take the children out of school as the playground teasing was becoming objectionable and it was not their problem, only hers. Also, her husband was having trouble accepting she only sold herself for the family. Farhan was truly sorry, but Olivia still had the advantage of distance, and one or two inquisitive reporters in South Africa would soon be distracted by another, more important story.

  Farhan knew he had to help Aisha. He knew he couldn’t protect her if the Media picked up any clue as to who she was and where she was. She had told him earlier in the day about someone suspicious in her office and a couple of late-night phone calls to her house, no voice at the other end.

  Farhan could only see one solution. ‘You’ve got to leave,’ he said.

  She protested. ‘My career, it’s so important to me.’

  ‘And your family, what about them?’

  They had met at a small café in Regent Street, not far from her office. They had been pleased to see each other, although neither had made a move to embrace the other. Farhan could see she was upset.