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

by Phillip Strang

It was nine o’clock the next day when the first of the two woman arrived. It had been several weeks since Farhan had seen Christy Nichols. Then, she had been a disappointed woman, consigned to being an ‘agony aunt’ for a local newspaper.

  He remembered leaving in a hurry when it had become clear that she was hinting to him that he was welcome to stay the night. He had to admit when she walked into the police station, that she looked exceedingly attractive; he wondered wistfully why he had not seized the opportunity. No longer despondent, she was full of vitality and dressed exceptionally well.

  ‘I found a decent job. Copy editor for a quality magazine. Not that scurrilous publication that Victoria Webster puts out.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ Farhan said, but little more. She was in the police station due to a formal request. He did not want to appear too friendly. She had brought along a lawyer, Linda Kerr. Farhan did not like the look of her. The woman, severely dressed in a dark suit with a white shirt and thin tie was obviously lesbian – her voice, rasping and deep, the sign of a heavy smoker. Isaac had encountered her in the past, and he did not like her. He made a point to tell Farhan that the woman was aggressive, competent and would not take any nonsense.

  The same interview room used as when Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams had come in. The formalities completed, Isaac led off. ‘Miss Nichols. We have reason to believe that Charles Sutherland’s death was murder.’

  ‘I thought that was clear.’ Linda Kerr interjected.

  ‘As you say, clear.’

  ‘Miss Nichols, can you please recount the events of that night.’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘I understand your reticence, but we need to ensure that nothing was missed, no matter how minor.’

  ‘Miss Nichols,’ her legal adviser felt obliged to comment, ‘has complied with the police. The matters which you are now asking her to repeat are deeply embarrassing. Is this necessary?’

  ‘Yes, we believe it is,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘He asked me to perform an act on him. I told DI Ahmed. Must I repeat it?’ Christy Nichols asked.

  ‘It is not necessary,’ Isaac said.

  Farhan felt that it was. ‘Miss Nichols, can you please detail the events of that night.’

  ‘Very well. I let the women in. Later I went to the apartment, and Charles Sutherland was on the ground with the women. He was offensive, naked, flashing his genitals at me.’

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Nothing. The women left quickly, and I was there alone with him.’

  ‘And that is when the incident occurred?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He made you perform fellatio on him.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this necessary?’ Christy Nichols’s lawyer asked.

  ‘Miss Kerr, unfortunately, it is,’ Isaac responded.

  ‘It’s fine, Linda.’ Christy Nichols leant over and spoke to her lawyer. Farhan noticed the sign of affection. Clearly, Christy Nichols liked men. She had made that obvious when they had been alone in her flat. Maybe she likes women as well, he thought.

  ‘Was he violent with you?’ Isaac asked. He needed to push some more.

  ‘He grabbed my arm, forced me down on my knees. Threatened to harm me.’ Farhan noticed the quiver in her voice as she spoke. He felt sorry for her; Isaac showed no emotion.

  ‘I cannot allow this to continue,’ Linda Kerr said.

  ‘I’m nearly finished,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Did you at any time threaten him?’

  ‘I may have. I was angry, frightened. I don’t want to remember.’

  ‘This must stop. This is police brutality,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘Meeting concluded at eleven a.m.’ Isaac pressed the stop on the timer and switched off the recording equipment.

  ***

  ‘What did you think?’ Farhan asked Isaac after Christy Nichols and her lesbian lawyer, possibly lover had left. Feeling hungry, both had stepped out of the building and moved down the street to a small Italian restaurant.

  ‘The motive’s strong enough,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Is she capable of murder?’

  ‘What do we know about her?’

  ‘Not a lot. Apart from what she’s told us.’

  ‘We need to find out more,’ Isaac said. ‘Let’s be clear here. It’s either Christy Nichols or Jess O’Neill. Both had the motive. One had the ability. Is there anyone else we’re missing?’

  ‘If it’s not a professional hit, then it’s either of the two women.’

  ‘I’d prefer it was neither, but we can’t let them off. From what I can see, decent women placed in difficult circumstances with an unpleasant and odious man. He’s no great loss to society, yet one of these women has got to pay for liquidating him.’

  ‘Isaac, we’re here to upload the law, not discuss the relative merits of the murderer and the murdered.

  ‘You’re right. We better bring in the Jess O’Neill.’

  ‘We’re forgetting Fiona Avers. She had a motive,’ Farhan said.

  ‘If it remains unresolved after speaking to Jess O’Neill, we’ll call her in. In the meantime, how’s Wendy going?’

  Farhan phoned her. Apparently, the trail for Linda Harris had gone cold.

  ‘Call her into the office. There’s something more important for her to do.’

  Wendy took thirty minutes to arrive. ‘Christy Nichols, have you read her file?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve had no need to.’

  ‘You do now. We need to know more about her,’ Isaac said. ‘Where she came from? What her life was like before London? Also, would she be capable of murder?'

  Chapter 38

  Jess O’Neill’s facial expression clearly revealed her mood as she entered the interview room. Isaac had seen her walk in, but she had purposely looked the other way. He sensed it was going to be a difficult interview. Her brother-in-law, Michael Wrightson accompanied her.

  ‘Let it be put on record that my client is here under duress,’ Wrightson said after the opening formalities had concluded. ‘She answered all questions submitted last time in an open and frank manner. And, as we know, at some embarrassment. Reopening old wounds and painful memories is neither appreciated nor required. Let me further add, that if as a result of today’s interview, there is no viable reason for her presence, it will be necessary to register a complaint.’

  ‘Please note that certain information had come into our possession,’ Isaac said after the thinly-veiled threat from Wrightson. ‘It has necessitated the presence of Miss O’Neill, as well as others, here today.’ Isaac looked over at Jess. She failed to make eye contact.

  ‘Then, please submit your questions,’ Wrightson responded indignantly. ‘My client is a busy person.’

  ‘Very well,’ Isaac replied. ‘Miss O’Neill, thank you for coming.’

  ‘I am here under the advice of Mr Wrightson.’ Still no eye contact.

  ‘We have reason to believe that the murder of Charles Sutherland is not related to the killings of the other two people. As such, it is necessary for us to re-evaluate the evidence.’

  ‘My client gave a full account of her relationship to Charles Sutherland and her dislike for the man last time. Do we need to go over that again?’

  Isaac chose to ignore Wrightson’s comment. ‘Miss O’Neill, did you at any time threaten the man with physical harm?’

  ‘When he was trying to rape me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I probably did. What woman wouldn’t?’

  ‘I am sorry. I am just trying to ascertain the facts.’

  Farhan chose to remain silent. He knew the relationship between the interviewer and the interviewee. He had to admit that she was a fine looking woman.

  Wrightson continued to interject. ‘This is intimidation. It is unacceptable.’

  Isaac ignored him. He addressed Jess again. ‘Can you tell me about your knowledge of poisons?’

  ‘Is this an accusation?’ Wrightson bello
wed. ‘My client does not need to answer.’

  ‘No, you are right. She does not need to answer. I, however, need to ask.’

  ‘Michael, it’s alright,’ she said to her lawyer.

  Addressing Isaac, this time making eye contact. ‘If you are asking as to whether I poisoned Charles Sutherland, the answer is, no. The aspersion that it would be considered is abhorrent. I did not like the man, but murder…’

  ‘I am sorry for asking. There are others with a motive who have been asked the same question. It would be remiss if I did not ask the question.’ Wrightson sat quietly, knowing full well that Isaac was going easy on his sister-in-law.

  He whispered in her ear. ‘He’s giving you a lead. Take it.’

  Looking back at Isaac, this time, a little friendlier. ‘I have no knowledge of poison, other than tear gas while on assignment in the Middle East. Is that poison?’

  ‘Thank you for your answer.’ Farhan sensed the desperation of his boss to eliminate her from the inquiry, although, none of her answers proved her innocent.

  The interview concluded within sixty minutes. As Jess and her brother-in-law left the room, she leant over to Isaac and quietly said, ‘You bastard!’

  Farhan not far away heard what she said. He knew what it meant. He wondered how Isaac would explain away the actions that had generated such a venomous comment.

  ***

  Wendy was delighted, the expense card reinstated, or at least the opportunity to use without criticism.

  Christy Nichols, the records had shown, came from a small village in the Lake District, close to the Scottish border. Wendy was heading up there, her husband in the hands of a live-in nurse for three days. Isaac had approved the cost, no option but to. He knew their boss would raise some concerns, but he wanted a result, and there were only two suspects. One he felt was innocent, not because he wanted her to be, but her story had checked out. Jess O’Neill had grown up in a pleasant leafy suburb to the north of the centre of London. She had left school with good marks and gone straight to university, majoring in English Literature. It hardly seemed to be suitable training in the administering of drugs, poisonous or otherwise.

  The Lake District, two hundred and fifty miles to the north of London seemed too far to drive. Wendy chose to take the train, three and a half hours to Oxenholme. She departed at eleven in the morning from Euston station, arriving just after two in the afternoon. A short taxi ride took her into Kendal, a small town of about twenty-eight thousand inhabitants. She rented a car and checked into the Castle Green Hotel. The brochures said it was the finest hotel in the town; Wendy could not disagree. The wine list looked suitably impressive. She decided to exercise the credit card that night.

  The address of Christy Nichols’ family was to the west. She decided the following morning would be more suitable. Light rain was falling, and she had been told that the mist could come down at any time. It appeared that the family home was isolated and down some winding roads. Wendy, although a competent driver, felt more aligned with the bumper to bumper traffic in London than an isolated country lane.

  Isaac phoned as she was seated at the bar to check she was okay, and to remind her to go easy on the credit card. Too late, she thought.

  He updated on his and Farhan’s activities that day. And how Jess O’Neill appeared to be in the clear. Wendy thought to herself, he needs to be careful there. And also, how Christy Nichols seemed to be the more likely of the two, although Isaac failed to elucidate on his reasoning. She decided not to press for an answer.

  Isaac was a DCI; she a lowly Constable. He had the brains, the training, the instincts. He had learned to read the body language, the furtive eye movements, the change in voice tone of a defensive person or someone just telling a plain lie. She hoped he wasn’t allowing his overactive libido to get in the way.

  She had known Isaac a long time. Almost, from the first days when he joined the police force, then in uniform, right up until he changed over to plain clothes and his elevation up through the ranks. She had seen the women he had taken out, the women in the police force who had swooned over him. She knew he was partial to one of the women close to the murdered people, closer than she had seen him with others in the past. She reflected on Detective Superintendent Goddard’s comment the other day when he had said, ‘Again’. She would ask her DCI when this was all over, not sure she would get an answer, maybe a knowing smile, but what use would that be? Perhaps, some harmless titillating gossip for her and Bridget to speculate over a few drinks. She knew Bridget could keep a secret and would enjoy the story, even daydream that it was her on the receiving end of one of Isaac’s amorous advances.

  ***

  Farhan, with only loose ends to deal with, busied himself with the preparations of moving Marjorie Frobisher out of the hospital to a ‘safe house’. A suitable location, fifteen miles to the west seemed ideal. Richard Goddard had approved the cost for a one-month rental on a country cottage. The woman had been pedantic in the quality required: no one room apartment, no doss house, no third-rate accommodation. Farhan had checked it out. It looked suitable for the demanding woman. To him, it looked fantastic. His wife, realising that he was close in to her favourite actor was phoning him, asking for an introduction. He felt he did not need her communication as the divorce was progressing. A solicitor from his side, another from hers, and it was progressing amicably. He had even managed to see the children a couple of times in the last week, and he had to admit, they were looking fine.

  Aisha was back from her trip out of the capital, hoping to catch up that night if possible, the following if not. Farhan, desperate as he was, realised there was another priority. He had to ensure Marjorie Frobisher was safe and secure. Her husband had taken a shine to him before. Apparently, she had as well. A condition of her transfer was that he was to take responsibility for her safety. He had no option but to acquiesce.

  The plan was simple; the execution, not so. The media presence had virtually evaporated apart from a couple of junior reporters stationed out by the main entrance looking bored: armed only with a camera and a microphone, namely an iPhone. Farhan hoped they would disappear.

  First, Marjorie Frobisher would dress suitably and put on a surgical gown. Once that was complete, she would lie on a stretcher, suitably bandaged and be taken out to a waiting ambulance. It was to look as if the patient was transferring to another hospital for specialist treatment. Once clear of the hospital and certain of no prying eyes, she was to exit the ambulance and to get into a car driven by a policeman, the windows tinted. The vehicle would then proceed to the cottage.

  Robert Avers was aware of the plan, but he would not be going to the cottage. It was too risky.

  Farhan would stay at the cottage with her until she was calm. She had agreed that she would tell Isaac all he needed to know once she was comfortable. Isaac was frustrated by her hesitancy. He could only see true protection for her, if she revealed what she knew.

  If the media were made aware of the facts, then what point would there be in liquidating her. She had told Isaac that the situation was complicated. There were other issues to consider, and Richard Williams had died because of her. She did not want others to die as well. Isaac had noted that she failed to mention Sally Jenkins, whose body, once released, had been cremated, her distraught parents present at a moving ceremony. Isaac had attended from a discreet distance.

  Richard Williams, more crucial to the investigation, remained on a slab at the morgue. His body, not to be released for at least a few more days.

  ***

  Wendy, a little worse for wear, left her hotel at eight in the morning. She had slept well and woken with a throbbing headache, although not throbbing enough to deter her from a good English breakfast of two eggs, three bacon rashers and a couple of sausages, washed down with two cups of tea.

  Christy Nichols’ home address – Farm Cottage, Underbarrow, Cumbria. It only lay five miles to the west of where she was staying. A small hamlet of no more than fifty c
ottages, most of them stone. A public house stood at the main intersection.

  Wendy had to admit it was a pretty place, somewhere she could live, although she realised the climate in winter would be savage – not conducive to someone with arthritis. She had felt the pain more since venturing north and whereas it was only a couple of degrees colder, it made a difference. South, a long way South where the sun shone every day, was where she was heading, if the opportunity arose.

  Farm Cottage, she found out from a local woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus was up a narrow, winding lane heading away from the village. ‘Don’t go up there,’ the woman had said.

  Wendy had asked why - the answer confusing, unintelligible. She would have pursued the questioning, but the bus appeared, and the woman was gone. As she climbed the slight incline towards Farm Cottage, she could see an old farm house and no perceivable activity. She did not want to go in, just to observe. Ten minutes later, a woman, clearly impoverished with an old dog at her side appeared at the front of the house.

  Wendy stayed for a few hours walking around the area. It was a walker’s paradise, and she did not look out of place, apart from her stopping every few hundred metres for a rest. As lunchtime was approaching, she decided to return to the public house she had seen on her way up. A substantial fire was blazing inside, even though it was not bitterly cold outside.

  ‘Gives it a cosy feeling,’ the landlord said when she asked.

  ‘What do you have to eat?’

  ‘Typical pub lunches. My wife’s steak and kidney, or maybe mushroom, if you prefer.’

  ‘Steak and kidney for me. A pint of your best local bitter, as well.’

  ‘These days, it’s not local.’

  ‘Your best, anyway.’

  ‘Ten minutes for the pie, the beer straight away.’

  Wendy noticed the pub was virtually empty, indicative of pubs up and down the country. The local point of personal interaction supplanted by the world of instant communications and streaming movies on the internet. She missed the old days in many ways. A computer baffled her, a smartphone seemed only useful for making phone calls, the occasional SMS, and as for email, it was fine, but she could see little point in it. The police report she would normally write in long hand and then ask Bridget to type up, the only cost a little bit of gossip. A small price to pay for such a valued service.