DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  He hated them both with a passion ‒ his mother, the most. If they were only dead, he increasingly thought. Then I’d only need to share their money with that bitch sister of mine. There would be plenty enough then, enough for me at least.

  Chapter 4

  Detective Superintendent Goddard continued to be reticent as to who was pushing the search for Marjorie Frobisher. So far, all the probing from Isaac had failed to elicit a clue.

  It was now close to four weeks since Marjorie Frobisher had been seen. Her credit cards occasionally used in one location; the next time, a hundred miles away. Her mobile phone, switched on long enough for an SMS to her husband, – ‘Home soon, love you’ – and then turned off, barely gave time to triangulate its position.

  ‘Sir, this is going nowhere.’ Isaac Cook tried one final time to get an answer from his superior at a hastily scheduled meeting at Isaac’s insistence. They met in the detective superintendent’s office, an office that Isaac aspired to within the next two to three years. He regarded policing as a vocation; the detective superintendent’s office the next major goal to aim for. A goal now being hampered by the forlorn search for a missing person.

  He was determined to hammer out the situation with his boss. ‘I’m suggesting we pull out until the woman is found, alive or dead. This is just a waste of time.’

  Richard Goddard understood the frustration of the man sitting in front of him, but there was nothing he could do. The investigation had to continue. ‘Isaac, you’ve got to stay with it. It’s either the woman or the body. The pressure on me for a result is intense. I can’t take you and DI Ahmed off the case.’

  ‘But we’re wasting our time. The woman was not popular with the people she worked with, but she’s not short of money. And she messages her husband every few days. What’s the point of all this?’

  ‘Are you sure about the SMSs? Is she sending them and using the credit cards? Is there a signature?’

  ‘The credit cards only need a pin number. We can’t be sure about that either, but why? People go missing all the time. Normally, there’s a cursory investigation, and then life goes on. Sometimes they turn up somewhere down the track, or they don’t. It doesn’t mean they’ve all been bumped off, weighted down and thrown to the fishes or fed to the pigs.’

  ‘Isaac, I understand your frustration, but it’s out of my hands.’

  Isaac admitted defeat and left. He did not like leaving on such a sour note. His boss was still answerable to others and forced to follow orders, no matter how illogical.

  Frustrated with the conversation, Isaac met up with Farhan, and they went out for a meal at an Indian restaurant not far from the office. It had been a long day, and neither had achieved much. Isaac had managed to speak to the executive producer’s personal assistant, Sally Jenkins, but that had revealed nothing. He had even met up with Jess O’Neill, and she was still giving him hints that some further investigation, outside of office hours, was acceptable. He was tempted, but the timing was wrong. If Marjorie Frobisher did turn up alive, the first thing he was going to do was to ask the series producer out, even conduct some serious probing of a personal and intimate nature, which looked a strong possibility after his last meeting with her.

  ‘Sally Jenkins, what did you expect?’ Jess O’Neill had said. ‘Did you pick up on the signals?’

  ‘Her and Richard Williams,’ Isaac proffered an answer.

  ‘Yes, of course. He must be nearly forty years older than her, but he’s a pants’ man. Sorry for my crudity, but he hits on everyone if they’re female and attractive.’

  ‘Has he hit on you?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Sure has, but I told him to shove it. I don’t need a sugar daddy, no matter how much money he’s got or what car he drives.’

  ‘Out of interest, what sort of car?’

  ‘Ferrari. Why?’

  ‘I recognised the signals in the office with Sally Jenkins, surmised it was either a Ferrari or a Porsche.’

  ‘I don’t need a man with a fancy car. I’m more than capable of getting my own if I want one.’

  ‘I’ve got a blue one, flashing light with a siren as an optional extra.’ Isaac regretted the comment immediately.

  ‘Blue car, flashing light, sounds fine to me.’ Isaac no longer regretted his previous comment, but had felt embarrassed that he had transgressed from professional to personal.

  Farhan continued to enjoy his meal while Isaac updated him. He omitted the intimate exchange with the series producer.

  Farhan was more interested in finding out who the influential person was. Both were frustrated about where this was heading, or what more they could do. Isaac would continue to interview Marjorie Frobisher’s fellow actors, the production staff, the script writers, but he couldn’t see anything new happening there. It was evident she was full of her own importance, but he had spent time perusing the magazines in his local newsagent and it was obvious she was immensely popular with the public – the indiscriminating public, as he saw it.

  The plan for the following day: the same as the current day, and those previously – keep probing, maybe turn up a needle in a haystack.

  Chapter 5

  Angus MacTavish of the Clan MacTavish was a proud Scotsman who spent most of his time across the border in England. This stance sometimes put him out of kilter with his clan brethren, advocating for separation from the United Kingdom. Elected ten years earlier to the British Parliament in Westminster, he saw no reason to moderate his views on independence or any other subject. A safe seat in the Scottish Highlands ensured him the opportunity to further his political and personal aims.

  A man used to command, the position of Government Chief Whip suited him admirably. His primary function, to organise his party’s contribution to the business of Parliament. If that meant twisting arms to ensure the maximum number of party members’ votes at divisions in Parliament, so be it.

  He was also expected to know of all the party members’ peccadilloes and indiscretions. Sometimes to help them; sometimes to ensure they fell on their swords.

  Detective Superintendent Goddard arrived early for his meeting with MacTavish. He presented himself at the security gates that closed off Downing Street to the general public. The necessary accreditation and his police identification, coupled with his name on the typed list of scheduled visitors, ensured entry. The office where they met, first floor, Number 9, was one house down from the prime minister’s.

  MacTavish wielded substantial unseen power, and when he spoke it was with the full authority of the Prime Ministerial Cabinet. The detective superintendent knew this; he also knew him to be a taciturn man who said little but implied a lot.

  The man barely raised himself from his chair when Richard Goddard entered, other than to grab the policeman by the hand and shake it vigorously. A firm handshake ‒ an indication of power.

  ‘Detective Superintendent, my instructions were clear in this matter.’ A gruff manner, deep-voiced, with a strong Scottish brogue, MacTavish intimidated many, scared most. Tall, with red hair, his forefathers had fought against the British at Culloden – killed more than their fair share. Even today at Highland gatherings over a few drams of whisky, Scotland’s finest gift to the world in Angus MacTavish’s view, those who had fought and died were remembered.

  MacTavish was a pragmatist. Time had moved on. Nearly three hundred years separated the past from the future, and it was the future that he saw as important. He professed no great allegiance to the British Monarchy, but he kept his views guarded, and besides, he would not be averse to a seat in the House of Lords at the appropriate time.

  ‘Sir, I realise that I was meant to keep my people from asking too many questions about why they were looking for this woman.’

  ‘And you phone up asking me for this information.’

  ‘My apologies, but this investigation is going nowhere. My people are charging up blind alleys, hitting dead-ends, and just wasting time. We know she was subject to bitchiness, and there seem to
be some unusual arrangements around the marital bed, but they hardly seem sufficient to believe she is dead.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, you don’t understand. Dead is not the problem. It’s if she is alive that causes concern.’

  Taken aback by the statement, Richard Goddard had to ponder the situation. His people were looking the woman, and indications were that she may still be alive. Why was she so important? He had the ear of the Chief Whip, now was the time to pressure for more.

  ‘In confidence, I’ll give it to you straight,’ MacTavish said. ‘I know about the so-called open marriage, her promiscuity when she was younger, and the banal programme on the television. What is of concern is who the woman has slept with. What dirt she has on them. What scandal she could cause if she spoke out of turn.’

  ‘Is she likely to do that?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a vengeful woman, even threatened to commit such an act.’

  The senior policeman saw it all too clearly. It was an election year; the government was likely to hold on, but only by the slimmest of margins. The last thing they wanted was a scandal, especially if the scandal was related to a senior member of the government aiming to hold on to his seat in a marginal electorate. ‘But would she?’ he asked.

  ‘Detective Superintendent, she’s soon to be out of this programme, and will be paid to dish the dirt on one or another chat show, and then there will be a biography of a life well led, or in her case well laid.’

  ‘Can’t you put a restraining order on its publication, Official Secrets Act?’

  ‘If it’s published in this country, yes, but if it’s scurrilous enough, the publisher’s lawyers will call our bluff, ask us for a reason for halting its release. Once the gutter press gets involved, well, you know the consequences.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  MacTavish relieved that he had given his reasons, phoned for some tea. Five minutes later, a pleasant middle-aged woman entered and placed the pot and two cups on the desk, with some small cakes on a plate to one side.

  ‘Mrs Gregory makes them for me. Wouldn’t know what I would do without her fussing over me.’

  ‘Please sir, you’ll make me blush.’ With that, she left the office unobtrusively.

  Cups of tea in hand, and cake consumed by both men, the conversation continued. ‘Detective Superintendent, here’s the deal. We know she will talk, and there’s every sign that she is becoming irrational. We’ve had some experts assess her behaviour, and there are the early signs of premature senility. She may well say something inadvisable, even when she intends not to. We can’t take the risk. If she’s dead, then that’s fine. Harsh to say, of course, but there it is. If she’s alive, we’ve got to stop any publications and her talking out of turn.’

  ‘But how can you do that?’

  ‘That’s the hard part. We’re a democratic country, with free speech, so we can’t restrict her or the media. I wouldn’t agree to that anyway. It’s a dilemma, and I’m pleased to say that’s not my responsibility.’

  ‘What does she know?’ The detective superintendent wasn’t sure he would get a response.

  ‘You’re putting me on the spot. It’s privileged information, on a need-to-know basis, and frankly you don’t need to know.’

  ‘Sir, I can understand the dilemma, but is it that serious?’

  ‘Political dynamite! Hits at the highest levels of the government. It could cause a major electoral defeat.’

  ‘Who she’s been screwing recently, or in the past, that sort of thing?’

  ‘In the past, and yes, there’s plenty of what you just intimated, plus some more.’

  ‘We’ll keep looking. I’ll tell my people that it’s important. They’ll just have to trust me on this one.’

  ‘Will they?’ MacTavish asked.

  ‘If I give my word, they’ll accept it. It won’t stop them fishing around.’

  ‘If they get too close, let me know.’

  ***

  On the face of it, Fiona Avers had all the right ingredients: celebrity mother, acting ability. There were, however, two elements apparently vital in the acting profession that the daughter of Marjorie Frobisher did not have, the most obvious being that she was not attractive. In fact, the less generous would have said she was plain, verging on ugly. The less obvious of her two main failings was a violent temper, coupled with an incredibly short fuse. Unattractive women have reached the pinnacle of acting success, but invariably they came with a winning personality, a willingness to understand their shortcomings – in fact, to embrace them.

  Fiona Avers was a tall woman with what could only be described as masculine features. Her arms were bulbous and appeared a little short for her height: substantially taller than her mother, a good head and shoulders above her father. Her legs were also on the fat side, her calf muscles tending to bulge. Attempts at rectification through exercises ‒ her parents had paid plenty to help ‒ had come to nought.

  Her face, some would say, showed character, but they were generous in their comments, and the only one who said it with any conviction was her friend, literally her only friend, Molly Waters. They had met at school, experimented with lesbianism, even when at their most precocious, most promiscuous, and most willing to screw any male they could lay their hands on. Unfortunately for both, there was a surfeit of young and attractive females, also at their most precocious, most promiscuous, and invariably both Fiona and Molly were left with each other to satisfy their carnal lusts. Molly did not find the experience unpleasant, Fiona did, although she endured and eventually embraced the experience.

  Molly was fat at school, although she had a pleasant face and a personality to match. The fatness of youth had carried over into adulthood, and now she was severely in need of a healthy diet and a good makeover. The pleasant personality remained, and it served her well in life. She had tried men for a while, even found a man who treated her well, moved in with him for a few months, but realised from her early intimate encounters that it was women that satisfied her sexually, especially a woman by the name of Fiona Avers.

  Fiona Avers, however, felt no such allure for the female body except for hers when a man was labouring on top of her, and that was rare. The world, the society that she moved in, was awash with attractive women, and she was invariably left the wallflower at any social gathering. ‘The girl least likely to get laid’ had become a catchphrase among those she regarded as friends, although they were fair-weather friends lured by her spending and her tenuous connection with celebrity.

  Her face ‒ only Molly Waters saw it as beautiful ‒ was large with a pronounced forehead. Her eyes were sullen with overhanging eyelids. Her ears were small with a distinctive lobe which she concealed by growing her hair long, which did not help as her hair was curly and harsh. Her nose had also given concern. Cosmetic surgery had dealt with that problem, although it had done little to help with her overall appearance.

  Her mother had elegantly balanced features and could only be described as beautiful; her father had a rugged look about him with strong masculine characteristics. Not handsome, but interesting – women felt comfortable in his presence.

  Everyone in her close family, uncles and aunts mainly, always said that she reminded them of Great Granny Maud, but the only photo that Fiona had seen of the family stalwart was old and grainy – she could see no resemblance.

  Her father had shown her great love, made her feel special; her mother had ridiculed her, kept her out of the limelight, and had belittled her too often. How often had she seen her mother telling her friends that her daughter’s looks came from Robert’s side of the family? How many times, when there was a function to attend or an event where the cameras would be clicking, had she been denied the chance to participate? She remembered her brother Sam attending, but then her mother had always said, ‘He’s much older than you. You’re too young to attend such events. People get drunk, make fools of themselves. At your impressionable age, I want to protect you from such influences until you’
re older.’

  Fiona remembered well enough. As the years rolled by through her childhood and formative teenage years, the non-attendance continued, although the reasons given varied.

  Her father ensured that her mother’s rejection was countered by his love and generosity. As a child, she looked for a mother’s love. As a teenager experiencing her first period and then her first playground crush on a boy, rejected with scathing insults, she looked for a mother’s support, a shoulder to cry on. As an adult, she no longer needed her mother, only her hatred for her.

  Her father she adored. She knew full well her mother’s promiscuous behaviour caused him great concern, although he never admitted it, at least to her. He always said that was the way she was, and they should accept her for her flaws. She could see the hurt in her father’s eyes, and the look on his face when he thought no one was looking.

  Her temper had been an inconvenience as a child, just a tantrum, but as an adult it had become an embarrassment, even to her. A failure to obtain an acting part, an inattentive shop assistant, a hairdresser who had failed to achieve a satisfactory result ‒ not difficult given the substandard material that he had to work with ‒ and she would see red, and blow off steam in an uncontrolled manner.

  There had been a production at a theatre in the centre of London, and she had managed to obtain a decent part. Mainly because it required a name to pull in the paying public, and the daughter of Marjorie Frobisher was better than no name, but only just. Secondly, and less important, was that the part of an embittered unattractive woman matched Fiona Avers. The casting agent saw that little makeup would be required.