DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It certainly does to the media; you must know that by now.’

  ‘In the short time that I have been involved in the Marjorie Frobisher case, I have formed a greater understanding of how the media works: hyperbole, innuendo, assumption, and clever wording.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve picked it up. Marjorie Frobisher, is that murder as well? I didn’t know you had found her body.’

  ‘I need to be careful what I say. Marjorie Frobisher is still declared as missing and there is not a corpse. Is that clear enough?’

  ‘Clear enough. Unless you have anything more to talk about, I’m busy.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I had to get out of the office; too busy down there with the media. The phone’s ringing off the hook. I needed some space and time to work out an appropriate response to his death. Some carefully crafted words on how sorry we are to lose such a great actor in the prime of his life. Those sorts of words.’

  ‘A truthful reflection on the passing of such a great man,’ Isaac said sarcastically.

  ‘A pain in the arse, a lousy actor, and no great loss. Is that what you expect me to say?’

  ‘You and I need to talk.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes while I draft a statement. I’ll give it to the scriptwriters to tidy up the grammar.’

  ‘Thirty minutes. Fine,’ Isaac replied. He headed to the coffee machine. Seated next to a window, the sun shining in, his tiredness finally caught up with him.

  ‘Isaac, Isaac.’ He woke with a start.

  ‘Jess,’ he said, bleary-eyed.

  There was no one around; she attempted to kiss him. He pulled away.

  ‘Sorry, Jess. I don’t want to be rude, but the situation has changed.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland?’

  ‘You’ve heard?’

  ‘Who hasn’t,’ she said. To Isaac, she was a vision of loveliness. The sun was shining in through the window, the blouse she was wearing, delicate and almost transparent. He felt as though he wanted to grab her there and then and seduce her, but knew he could not.

  ‘I’m here in an official capacity now.’

  ‘He was murdered?’

  ‘It’s still listed as suspicious, but it looks that way.’

  ‘I’m sorry that he’s dead.’ She seemed sincere.

  ‘I thought you argued with him?’

  ‘That’s what happens when the pressure’s on.’

  ‘Richard Williams wasn’t much concerned. Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Not really. He’s a bastard, anyway. He only cares about number one.’

  ‘Capable of murder?’

  ‘Richard, no way. As long as he gets plenty of frivolous women to lay, then he’s harmless. Tough businessman, good at his job, but murder? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You seem to care about Sutherland’s death.’

  ‘He was actually an excellent actor.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I get around here.’

  ‘Professional prejudice, that’s all that is.’

  ‘So why do you say he was an excellent actor?’

  ‘Simply because he was. His problem was his attitude. Sure, he wasn’t major movie star great, but in the theatre, he would have been.’

  ‘I thought he failed in theatre, and this was his last stop before the rubbish heap.’

  ‘It was. He did have some failings though. I’m afraid Charles Sutherland was his own worst enemy. His decline was inevitable, but…’

  ‘Not his death.’ Isaac completed the sentence.

  ‘Why would anyone want to murder him?’ she asked. Isaac had completely forgotten about his arranged meeting with Richard Williams.

  ‘I don’t know. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘Not really. He could be a nosey bugger, always sticking his nose in, listening at keyholes.’

  ‘Is he likely to have heard anything?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘That’s for me to find out. Anyone else I should talk to?’

  ‘Not really. He certainly had nothing on me.’

  ‘Is there anything I should know?’ Isaac realised he had weakened. His reply was perilously close to personal concern.

  ‘Nothing that you need to worry about.’ Sensing the moment, she moved closer to him. He failed to move away. She kissed him on the cheek.

  Isaac had yet again failed in his attempt to maintain a purely professional relationship with Jess O’Neill. He left soon after.

  What is it about her? he thought as he drove away from the production lot and back to the office. Why do I keep doing this?

  ***

  ‘I’ve been sacked.’ These were the first words to emanate from Christy Nichols on Farhan’s return to the hotel. Farhan and Isaac had not spoken to her on their first visit – they had left that to Inspector Hopkirk.

  ‘You’d better explain,’ Farhan said as he sat down on the chair in her room. Not as good as Charles Sutherland’s by far, he noted.

  ‘It’s for the hired help when the rich and famous come to stay.’ She had observed him looking around the room.’

  ‘And you were the hired help?’

  ‘He thought I was more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He could see she had been crying.

  ‘I found him out on the street. Have they told you that?’

  ‘No one’s told me anything.’ Farhan had a basic understanding of the situation, in that the tab for the room was being picked up by a magazine, one of the magazines that his wife liked to read.

  ‘I intended to write an article for the magazine. In fact, any magazine that would buy it from me.’

  ‘What sort of article?’

  ‘Lightweight, the type that most people want to read. Anything to do with fallen celebrities is good copy; makes us all feel a little more human, I suppose. If it can happen to them, then maybe the reader’s imperfect life is not so bad after all.’

  ‘You mean those that are no longer in the limelight?’

  ‘That’s it. Charles Sutherland was a big star, at least in the UK, and then all of a sudden he disappears from sight. After they had kicked him off the programme, he was visible on a few television chat shows, but that didn’t last long.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘It’s not what happened to him, more likely what he did to himself.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow.’ Farhan was enjoying his time with Christy Nichols. The setting and the woman were too pleasant. He stood up, moved to the window and looked out over the panorama of London.

  ‘He had been fired. He had plenty of money, so what does he do?’

  ‘Saves it for a rainy day?’ Farhan knew the remark was incorrect.

  ‘Not our Charles Sutherland. He’s out partying, sometimes at his place, sometimes in the various clubs around town where the drugs are available and the women are costly.’

  ‘He blew all the money?’

  ‘In record time, and then his landlord dumps him on the street. Throws him a couple of bags with clothes that can’t be sold second-hand, and there you have it ‒ the fallen celebrity.’

  ‘And you were going to write a story about him?’

  ‘Not only him. There are a few more out there.’

  ‘Did you find the others?’

  ‘I know where a few are supposed to be, but I found Sutherland first, and then he gives me this story about Marjorie Frobisher.’

  Farhan, his interest piqued, sat down again close to her. He noticed the smell of her perfume. He got up again and sat in another seat, this time more uncomfortable. ‘What story is that?’

  ‘He knew things about her that would rock the nation, bring down the government, and so on.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to think. He seemed to know facts not commonly known. He appeared to know a lot about Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Past lovers, some prominent. He also alluded to so
mething more significant.’

  ‘Her personal life is not that well hidden,’ Farhan said.

  ‘It is to her fans.’

  ‘The magazine puts him up in the Savoy, supplies him with whatever he wants – purely on the basis that he knows a few names?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It seems very generous. Are these names important?’

  ‘According to him, they are.’

  ‘You don’t know the names?’

  ‘The magazine editor may. She’s the one who agreed to pay for all this. She even picked up the bills for the prostitutes.’

  ‘Many of them?’

  ‘A couple that I signed for. I suppose they would be called escorts, but they performed the same function as any woman off the street.’

  ‘The women were here?’

  ‘On a couple of occasions. The hotel complained, but I managed to smooth it over. It cost extra money, but Sutherland said for the magazine to pay or he was walking.’

  ‘Walking where?’

  ‘Another magazine. If what he had was dynamite, he could sell it with no trouble. He knew that.’

  ‘Smart man?’

  ‘Foul habits, but he knew how to negotiate. Yes, I would say he was smart.’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘Not at all. Not that I would kill him, though. He was my meal ticket out of freelancing into a responsible and steady position, but he could make me feel dirty.’

  ‘You alluded to that before.’

  ‘He thought I was paid for as well. I couldn’t tell him that I found him morally reproachable and that I wished he was still in the gutter.’

  ‘You could, and then you would be out of a job.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Could one of the women have killed him?’

  ‘Do you see that as likely?’ she asked.

  ‘I would have thought not. They typically perform their function, take the money, and leave.’

  ‘I never saw anyone else in the room, but I wasn’t watching all the time. It’s possible, I suppose. Prostitutes murdering clients seems a little far-fetched.’

  ‘I agree it does,’ Farhan said, ‘but someone was here, and subject to confirmation, someone administered the poison. We need to find these women and check out their alibis.’

  Chapter 14

  After leaving Christy Nichols, Farhan headed over to the company that had been supplying the women for Charles Sutherland. Located in a modern office block not far from Tower Bridge, it did not look to be the sort of place to provide prostitutes, but as Marion Robertson explained, ‘We supply escorts of the very highest quality, not street-walkers. Our women are educated, beautiful, and articulate.’

  ‘But they are available for sex?’ Farhan needed to clarify.

  ‘If that is what the client wants.’ Marion Robertson was a stunner. Farhan, with an awkward wife, found solace in her presence. Christy Nichols had not been calming, quite the opposite. Marion Robertson was in her early forties, he assumed. Still slim and exceedingly attractive.

  ‘What else would they want them for?’

  ‘Escorts. I believe the name says it all. Some men need a date, someone to take to a function. Sometimes that is all they want.’

  ‘It seems unusual.’

  ‘Not at all. Rich men sometimes crave the company. They may have passed the age of wanting to screw every woman they can lay their hands on. Their wealth may have come at a cost, especially if they had started with no money.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. He noticed her mobile phone. The case appeared to be gold.

  ‘The phone?’ She had seen him glance at it.

  ‘It looks expensive.’

  ‘It is. A grateful client.’

  ‘Exceedingly grateful.’

  ‘Please, don’t misunderstand,’ she said. ‘Not for services rendered by me. One of my girls spent a couple of weeks with him. It was just a way of showing his gratitude.’

  ‘You mentioned before that wealth comes at a cost.’ He returned to an earlier question.

  ‘Some men, in the climb to succeed, dispense with relationships, others suffer broken marriages, others take advantage and marry a twenty-something bimbo. At a certain age, they find they need the company of a woman, but not the long-term hassles and not always the sex.’

  ‘And the person who gave you the phone was one of them?’

  ‘Yes. Exceedingly wealthy, obscenely, in fact. To him the cost was negligible. He was in his early seventies, and while still an attractive man, he had no need of a nymphomaniac blonde. The woman I supplied was in her late forties, highly educated, and fluent in several languages. It was her company he wanted, not a quick lay.’

  ‘He didn’t sleep with her?’

  ‘He may have; I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland. I don’t think he was either rich or attractive.’

  ‘With him, it was pure sex,’ she said. ‘Perverse, threesomes ‒ that sort of thing.’

  ‘What kind of women did he like?’

  ‘Early to mid-thirties, stunning, not skinny and flat-chested.’

  ‘You’re able to supply that type of woman?’

  ‘The two I sent him were exactly what he wanted. One was a housewife making some extra cash on the side. Not sure if her husband knows, probably not. The other one was single and into casual sex. She works in the city somewhere, or maybe she doesn’t. I don’t ask too much about their private lives. I ensure that I don’t become too friendly with them.’

  ‘More like an employment agency than a supplier of women for hire.’

  ‘You seem not to approve of what I am doing here,’ she said.

  ‘That is not the issue here, is it? Charles Sutherland is, and the women you procured for him.’

  ‘Procured, such an unpleasant term,’ she said. ‘It sounds illegal, and there is nothing illegal about what we do here. The women come of their own free will. They are not coerced in any way. The only requirements I have are that they are medically certified with a clean bill of health, and if I set up an appointment for them, they keep that appointment. Also, if they negotiate another meeting with the client, they inform me, and I receive my commission.

  ‘Any problems with difficult clients?’

  ‘Rarely. On the first meeting with a new client, I have a man who takes them to the meeting and brings them back. The woman also has a panic button if there’s an issue. It’s happened once in the last three years.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland, what else can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Not a lot. I never met the man.’

  ‘I need to contact the women.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that. They do their job, go home. Their private lives are sacrosanct.’

  ‘At this present time, we regard Charles Sutherland’s death as a possible murder. I could get a court order ‒ even a police car to deliver it to their front door on a Saturday morning, flashing light as well.’

  ‘I understand.’ She came forward, touched him on the knee. He felt a tingling sensation go through his body. ‘Is there an alternative?’ she asked.

  ‘I could meet them at a neutral location, but I’m not sure how I can keep them out of the limelight indefinitely, especially if there is a murder trial.’

  ‘I will set it up. Give me a couple of days. One of the women has a husband and two children. She does it for them. Don’t you think they will be harmed if her activities are revealed?’

  ‘I will do all I can to keep her and the other woman out of the courts and the news,’ Farhan said.

  ***

  Isaac needed an update on how Charles Sutherland came to be sprawled naked on the floor of a hotel room. Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner, had alluded to a suspicious death.

  Isaac knew that the suspicious death of a celebrity would require a full autopsy. He also knew that would take time, weeks possibly. An interim evaluation and the entire Murder Investigation Team could be mobilised. Gordon Windsor was his
best bet for an update. He phoned him.

  ‘I’ll be in your office in an hour,’ the man replied.

  In one hour, almost to the minute, he walked into the room. He was as Isaac remembered him at the crime scene, only this time he was dressed in a suit, his hair combed over to hide a bald spot.

  ‘Gordon, give us the facts without the jargon,’ Isaac said. Farhan was also in the office.

  ‘The poison was administered in a drink,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Any sign of drugs?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Cocaine, but it did not kill him. There was more alcohol than drugs in his system.’

  ‘What type of poison?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Arsenic. It’s tasteless, odourless, and colourless. It was used to kill rats in the past.’

  ‘Is it a subtle method of killing a person without it being discovered?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Subtle, yes. The risk of it being discovered is minimal.’

  ‘But you found it?’

  ‘The toxicologist did. Mind you, that’s only the initial analysis of the bottle found at the scene. How much was in his body, and whether it was the sole cause of death, will not be known until the autopsy report comes in.’

  ‘Then it’s a murder investigation?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Unless advised to the contrary, that would be correct,’ Gordon Windsor replied. ‘They used to call it the inheritor’s powder.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Favoured poison of women in the nineteenth century. Sprinkled in small amounts on the husband’s food over a period of time and a guaranteed death, totally undetectable.’

  ‘And today?’

  ‘Forensics will pick it up. Only one issue, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Normally a person cannot be killed with a single dose.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A sufficient dose usually causes the person to vomit.’

  ‘But you consider it murder?’

  ‘Vomiting is not automatic. If he had been drunk and spaced-out, he might have kept it down for long enough.’

  ‘Are you indicating the murderer may not have known this?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It seems possible, but they must have known that a well-known celebrity found dead in a famous hotel and in apparently good health would be subject to an autopsy.’