DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Do you think it’s as bad as that?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Official Secrets Act? What do you think?’

  ‘I believe you're probably right.’

  ‘Then we pull out?’ Richard Goddard posed a rhetorical question.

  Isaac looked at Farhan. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘We continue.’ Farhan was resolute.

  ‘I was told by my contact that if you get close, I was to communicate with him,’ Goddard said.

  ‘We’ll agree to that.’ Isaac looked at Farhan, who nodded in agreement.

  The detective superintendent excused himself and left the room. He returned five minutes later. ‘I’m meeting with my contact tomorrow at eight in the morning. I will brief you on my return.’ It was already two in the morning. Fifteen minutes later, all three left the office: Isaac to an empty bed, Farhan to a complaining wife, and Richard Goddard to a comfortable house in a pleasant suburb. Detective Superintendent Goddard was a worried man. He knew he would not sleep much that night.

  ***

  Angus MacTavish showed none of the affability he had shown the detective superintendent on his previous visit. The man was not in good humour. ‘I told you to keep your people out of this, Detective Superintendent Goddard.’

  ‘I was under the impression that the investigation was to continue.’ The detective superintendent’s hackles raised by the tone of the man in front of him: the man who had deliberately failed to shake his hand.

  ‘I thought I made it clear that they were to focus on finding the woman, not delve into speculation as to her importance.’

  ‘It’s a police investigation. How do you think it’s conducted? They pry, probe, ask awkward questions, and dive into the dirty laundry that everyone carries around as baggage.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, Goddard. I know how the police work.’

  Richard Goddard assumed the changed attitude came with being the Government Chief Whip: when all was going well – magnanimous and affable; when it wasn’t ‒ exactly what he was experiencing now. He saw no reason to let the man ride roughshod over him. He had not become the senior officer of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command at Challis Street by allowing aggressive and bombastic individuals to take control.

  ‘Sir, your attitude is not conducive to this meeting. Last time I was here, you were more agreeable.’

  ‘That was different.’ It was clear that Angus MacTavish was used to putting other people on the spot, making them feel uncomfortable. He did not enjoy the policeman’s comment.

  ‘What was different? The fact that you fobbed me off by appealing to my good nature?’

  ‘No, of course not; well, maybe. Apologies, this is placing me in an awkward position,’ MacTavish said.

  ‘And my people in possible danger?’

  ‘That’s possible.’

  ‘I can call them off. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The problem is that I don’t know the full story, just some parts of it.’

  ‘Are you saying there may be some validity in them continuing?’

  ‘We still need to find out the truth. It was one thing to be out looking for a missing woman, but if we find her murdered, then by whom? The answer may have repercussions that none of us can comprehend.’

  With both men more relaxed, MacTavish called for some tea. Mrs Gregory, after a short delay, entered the room and served the tea. Both men moved from the formal seating to a couple of more comfortable chairs to continue the discussion.

  Mrs Gregory, polite and agreeable, indulged in some banter with her boss. She must have heard the raised voices, Richard Goddard thought. Must be used to it, I suppose.

  With the tea poured, MacTavish spoke again, this time in a more agreeable manner, ‘Have your people seen any unfamiliar faces?’

  ‘Should they have?’

  ‘They’re being watched, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘By whom? Or is that secret?’

  ‘I would say the security services. MI5, probably.’

  ‘What does this woman know that’s so important?

  ‘Detective Superintendent, I’ll level with you. Initially, I thought this was about an affair she had when she was young with a senior member of the government.’

  ‘What’s so wrong about that? We live in liberated times. It’s hardly a case for murder.’

  ‘That’s what I would have thought, but there was a child.’

  ‘What about the child?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was a different time, the baby was adopted.’

  ‘There are large swathes of the public that would see that as unacceptable.’

  ‘Which part? Having a child out of wedlock, or the adoption?’ MacTavish asked.

  ‘Depends on which public we’re talking about.’

  ‘The voting public.’

  ‘A child out of wedlock, thirty plus years ago, would have been seen as sinful. Necessary to cover up at all costs. Even so, would this being revealed affect the outcome of an election?’

  ‘It could make a difference if the parties were running neck and neck, especially if the woman has been murdered.’

  ‘That’s how my detectives see it. It’s the only conclusion.’

  ‘I don’t believe the government would condone murder. Silence the woman, prevent publication of her life story, but murder?’

  ‘Are you saying that if she is found murdered, it has more sinister undertones?’

  Angus MacTavish paused for a while. He seemed to the detective superintendent to be doing mental calculations, analysing the pros and cons of the situation. ‘If it is found that she has been murdered, it can only mean one thing,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not because of an illegitimate birth and an adoption.’

  ‘Then what is it about?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I need to know. We all need to know if we are to make rational decisions.’

  ‘And whether it will impact the result of the forthcoming election?’

  ‘I think an electoral result for or against the ruling party may be a minor issue if people are willing to commit murder, and on the face of it an officially condoned murder.’

  ‘An assassination, is that what you are saying?’

  ‘I believe that is what I am saying.’ Angus MacTavish’s affable manner had changed, not to anger against Richard Goddard, but to worry as to what this all meant.

  ‘Detective Superintendent, your two men. Brief them as you see fit, and put them out in the field. Make sure they are carrying weapons. This is possibly going to be nasty.’

  ‘Who will you inform?’

  ‘The prime minister, in the strictest confidence,’ MacTavish replied.

  ‘Is he the father?’

  ‘Information on a need-to-know basis. You know that.’

  ‘On a need-to-know basis. That’s correct.’

  Chapter 10

  Isaac and Farhan, not clear about the direction to take, and temporarily out of leads, had taken the morning in a leisurely manner. They saw no reason to continue until their senior returned from meeting with his contact. Isaac never asked the name, although he had a shrewd idea who it was.

  Farhan had managed to take the children to school for the first time in a month; Isaac just lay in bed for an extra hour and thought about Jess O’Neill. He could not see her as a murderer. However, he had learnt a long time ago that the least likely person, especially in a murder case, often turns out to be the culprit. Jess O’Neill seemed to have no connection to Marjorie Frobisher, other than they were work colleagues and Jess had told Marjorie that her starring days were drawing to a close. There was still the issue of Jess and Richard Williams. Could she have screwed Williams just because he drove a Ferrari and was rich? He resolved to find out.

  Just as Isaac intended to roll over for another five-minute nap, the phone rang. ‘Two o’clock, your office. Make sure DI Ahmed is there as well.’ Richard Goddard had made the call as he exited MacTavish’s offi
ce.

  Isaac and Farhan were in the office well in advance of the nominated time. Richard Goddard, a stickler for punctuality, arrived on the dot. He had not brought a pizza this time; Isaac was thankful.

  ‘If she has been murdered, then the situation has changed,’ the detective superintendent commenced hesitantly.

  ‘Let’s assume she has,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Her death would be advantageous.’

  ‘Are we condoning murder here, sir?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘That’s a preposterous statement.’ Goddard was not amused.

  ‘Your statement was ambiguous. Farhan was right to ask.’ Isaac had almost made the same remark.

  ‘Let me clarify.’ Goddard said. ‘It is evident from my contact that certain people would not be sorry to hear of her demise.’

  ‘And why?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘She has, or had, information that would prove both embarrassing politically and personally.’

  ‘Would they be willing to kill her to prevent that information being revealed?’

  ‘My contact assures me they would not.’

  ‘And others?’

  ‘I don’t believe they would have given the authority for her assassination.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘I can’t be sure of anything. I may have been fed a line. Have you seen anyone suspicious?’

  Isaac answered first. ‘I’ve not seen anyone.’

  ‘DI Ahmed?’

  ‘Sir, I thought it was suspicious at the time.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The time I went to the Churchill Arms with Robert Avers. There was one man. I assumed he was a local propping up the bar. Then today, when I dropped the children at school, I could swear I saw him across the road from the school.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I believe I am. What does this mean?’

  ‘We’re treading on toes, and they don’t like it. This is where it gets complicated. We’re possibly upsetting powerful and dangerous persons.’

  ‘What kind of persons?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The type who carry guns and MI5 identification. They may just be doing surveillance, but who knows?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Deadly serious. There are two options here. The first is we back off.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘If you continue, it could get nasty.’

  ‘I’m not one for backing off,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Neither am I,’ Farhan agreed.

  ‘Very well. You will need to carry guns, just in case.’

  ***

  Barely interrupted by the disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher, production of the soap opera watched by millions continued ‒ skilled scriptwriting had glossed over her disappearance: nervous breakdown due to shock over her brother’s death, followed by a heart attack, followed by death.

  The show had even managed to ensure that the long unbroken run of record ratings continued. The storyline had gone on for six weeks, long enough according to the market researchers. In the seventh week, five weeks since Isaac and Farhan had become involved, she finally died. The hospital scene: her lying in the hospital, face mask supplying oxygen. A stand-in actress with similar features, or in this case a lie-in, as all she had to do was remain motionless.

  The death spread over two weeks; the viewing audience hit over nine million. It was regarded as a great success, celebrated with gusto by those remaining in the production, production staff and actors alike.

  The magazines reported her death in detail, interviewed people who Marjorie Frobisher had worked with. None wanted to be the person to spill the beans: to tell the world that she was a promiscuous bitch and good riddance. Not until a dishevelled and by now homeless Charles Sutherland, the former Billy Blythe in the soap opera, was waylaid one morning as he dragged his weary body along to the local charity soup kitchen.

  He had hit rock-bottom. In less than two months he had gone from famous to forgotten to destitute. He had milked it for a few weeks after his removal from the show, but despondency had driven him to a binge of expensive alcohol and even more expensive women. The parties he had thrown, the money he had spent, the cocaine he had snorted were legendary. The so-called friends while he was throwing the money around, plentiful. The so-called friends after he was evicted from his upmarket accommodation for non-payment of rent and for trashing the place, non-existent. It was a bleary-eyed morning after his unceremonious eviction, basically a kick in the arse from some thugs employed by the landlord, closely followed by his few meagre belongings. The landlord seized anything of value and dumped the rest on the street with their owner.

  Two days later and sober, Charles Sutherland acknowledged the reason for his current situation: Marjorie Frobisher. She was the bitch, he thought. She put me here. He was still an arrogant man, desperate as he blamed his life on others, not himself.

  ***

  When the gossip magazine journalist found Charles Sutherland sitting on the pavement not far from the soup kitchen, holding a roll in one hand, coffee in a paper cup in the other, he was, at first, reluctant to talk. He thought she had come to do a story on him and his fall from grace. He was correct in his evaluation until he started to talk about why he was out on the street.

  Classically trained, destined for great things, Sutherland told her. Boring and mundane, that was what Christy Nichols, a freelance contributor to the scurrilous magazine that catered to the followers of minor celebrities and nonentities, thought. She had found him, thought there may be a story in it, a story that she could get published in the magazine; but the more he talked, the more she realised he offered no great copy. He was an arrogant, overweight, and smelly man, worthy of no more than a photo and a thousand words.

  She prepared to leave: her, with the picture and a signed clearance to use it; he, with two hundred pounds to use wisely or otherwise, although she knew which option Charles Sutherland would choose, as did Charles Sutherland.

  ‘You know about Marjorie Frobisher?’ he said.

  ‘Her disappearance?’ Christy Nichols sat down again on the dirty pavement, her freshly pressed, cream-coloured skirt picking up some dirt marks. She was a good-looking woman, a little overweight, which was how Sutherland liked his women. He had no time for skinny tarts with no breasts and ribs so prominent you could play a tune on them.

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘She was a bitch, you know that?’ Sutherland had nothing new. Christy Nichols stood up again. There was no news here, she reasoned. She needed to change, and now there was a dry-cleaning bill to worry about. A glamorous job, others thought, writing copy for a magazine, but she was freelance, paid for the published copy, not for sitting with a man down on his luck. She had no more time, and there was a minor starlet due at the airport within a couple of hours. Another empty-headed individual with inflated breasts, wafting into England, hoping to resurrect her career, she thought. The celebrity was better known more for her poor choices in men and her predilection for drugs than her acting ability. She was good copy, and if Christy could score an interview and a few photos, it would pay more than a soap opera cast member, once important, now forgotten.

  ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher was still newsworthy. Her character, Edith Blythe, had been kept in the public eye for weeks due to the clever scripting on the programme. Some magazines, even the one where Christy hoped to sell the story, were running articles on what type of funeral she would have. Would it be a cremation or burial? What clothes would her friends on the programme wear? How many episodes would be consumed by the funeral and the mourning afterwards? Her death on the programme had been milked for all it was worth, and so would her funeral.

  ‘She screwed around.’

  ‘Hardly newsworthy, is it?’

  ‘Maybe it is if you know who she was screwing.’ Sutherland let t
he conversation hang.

  ‘What do you have?’ To hell with the skirt and the dry cleaner, the reporter thought. She was aware of the rumours, most people were, especially in the industry, but it was never regarded as good copy. Marjorie Frobisher was revered as a celebrity; her character, Edith Blythe, a pillar of society. One magazine had alluded to her unusual marriage, tested the waters, but the response had not been favourable, so they had desisted.

  ‘I’ll talk when I’m paid, only then.’

  ‘No one’s going to pay just because you make a statement that you have something of interest.’

  ‘Something of interest.’ Sutherland emphasised the words the reporter had just said.

  ‘Is it that good?’

  ‘It’s dynamite.’

  ‘I can’t get anyone interested just on your word. I need facts.’

  ‘Talk to your editor. Tell her what I’ve got.’

  ‘And what have you got?’

  ‘Unmarried pregnancy, a child adopted. Is that enough to be going on with?’

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher. Do you mean Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Who the hell do you think I mean?’ Charles Sutherland said.

  ***

  It looked to Isaac and Farhan as if, finally, they were to get down to some real policing. Both Isaac and Farhan were armed. Isaac had one issue to clear up – Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams. Farhan felt he needed to update Robert Avers.

  Robert Avers took it well. Farhan saw no reason not to tell him what they believed. Avers’ reaction was of a man expecting such a statement.

  Isaac’s issue was complicated. His discussions with Jess O’Neill were meant to be strictly professional, yet if she had been sleeping with Richard Williams… It hardly seemed relevant to the case, although he tried to convince himself that it was. He decided to resolve the confusion in his mind once and for all.

  It was a good day out at the production lot. For once, it was sunny, and Isaac had to admit the fictional town looked good. As he walked down the main street, past where the Saturday market was held, left at a grocery store on the corner, across the street and down a side alley to where Jess O’Neill’s office was situated, he reflected on the task ahead. At least, that was what Isaac tried to think about. He wanted to seem professional when he encountered the woman, not a love-sick puppy, which he thought he was at the present moment.