DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You think just because you’re the police, you can fuckin’ park wherever you like.’ He was an uncouth man, heavily tattooed, and had the appearance of someone who belonged to a motorbike gang. The tee-shirt emblazoned with Harley Davidson – a testament to the fact.

  ‘You watch your mouth, or I’ll slap a ticket on your truck for a failed brake light.’

  ‘There ain’t no problem with my lights. I checked ’em this morning.’

  ‘There will be once I kick one of them out.’

  ‘That’s police harassment. I could have you nicked for that if I make an official complaint.’

  Wendy, suitably angry, had seen it too many times. She knew that if she had been police and male, the irate truck driver would not have engaged in a slanging match, and he would have moderated his language. Female, police, middle-aged, and it was a different situation.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what we do,’ she said. ‘I’ll kick out your brake light, maybe hit it with a jack handle for good measure.’

  ‘You do that!’

  ‘You can call over a policeman, or I can call one for you on my police radio.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Once he arrives, I’ll show him my police ID, nice and shiny, and you can show him your truck’s registration.’

  ‘You’re threatening me.’ He did not seem as confident as before, and there were the parking fines to consider. He hadn’t paid them, and his driving licence had expired.

  ‘Threat? I don’t think so.’ She knew she had him on the defensive, realised that she should not have indulged in a verbal exchange on a busy street. After a congenial few hours at Paddington, this unpleasant foul-mouthed man had made her see red. Her temper had been a problem a couple of times over the years, even prevented her promotion.

  ‘Okay, I’m leaving,’ the driver said and drove off, cursing under his breath. Wendy left soon after, laughed to herself as she saw the driver five minutes later arguing with a policeman over an apparently bald tyre at the front of his vehicle.

  ***

  Isaac was keeping his distance from Jess O’Neill, even though she had phoned a couple of times. He realised that if he met her, he might have weakened, and of the three women with a motive to kill Charles Sutherland, hers was very strong.

  He had noticed the change in Farhan. It concerned him that he may be falling into the same trap that he had in the past. He decided to talk to him at some stage.

  The information that Wendy had passed on from Paddington Station about Marjorie Frobisher, apparently still alive and now in London, concerned him. Charles Sutherland had probably died as a result of information he possessed about her. That would indicate a professional assassination, but none of the three women appeared to have any background that would suggest they were trained killers.

  Could there be another woman? Isaac thought. It seemed plausible, but if it wasn’t one of the three females they knew about, could it be someone else known or someone hidden in plain sight? The delays in identifying suspects and charges against persons, innocent until proven guilty, still occupied the media. His infrequent watching of television in the past had changed; TV had now become a necessity, so much so that he had installed one in his apartment, one in the office.

  Sophie did not like the one at his home. Even complained when he had interrupted his undivided attention for her to watch the news. Isaac wasn’t sure where the relationship was heading. Casual sex, no obligation, no guilt, sounded great to the average hot-blooded male, but he had realised in recent weeks that he was getting older, it was maybe time to settle down. He wasn’t sure why he felt this. In the past, it had been a thought in passing and no more. Maybe it was Jess O’Neill. He felt the need to see her. He knew he could not unless there was some new information.

  ***

  The next day Isaac’s momentary lapse to think about Jess O’Neill was abruptly halted. A news flash on the television in the office. One of the two prostitutes known to have visited Charles Sutherland on the day of his demise had been identified. He was aware that Farhan would be upset by the news. He phoned him.

  ‘What are they saying? Farhan asked.

  ‘They said her name was Olivia. Is that one of the women?’

  ‘She did it for her family. I said I would never reveal her identity.’

  ‘You never did. It’s not your problem,’ Isaac said.

  Farhan realised that it was his problem, and he felt the need to elaborate why. Here he was in a relationship with the other woman. If one was identified, it would not be long before the other one was found. He had to focus on protecting Aisha, helping Olivia if he could, although she would not be receptive to hearing from him. He knew he had to contact Aisha and quickly.

  On ending the phone conversation with Isaac, he called Aisha – she was occupied with a client at the legal firm where she worked. He left a message, hoped she would get back to him before she heard the news from a third party. He realised he was in love. It was a complication he would not have chosen.

  Still married, a divorce settlement that would almost certainly cost him the house, but that was not an issue as long as the children were fine. And then, how many police regulations had he broken? Fraternising with a witness who may be a murderer, behaviour unbecoming, concealing evidence. He could see his career dashed on the rocks of public opinion and police regulations. If it became known, would he be suspended?

  Phoning Olivia was not necessary. She phoned him soon after the news broke. He reflected that she sounded calmer than he expected. ‘I told my husband.’

  ‘I maintained your confidentiality.’

  ‘It was that Marion Robertson,’ she said.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I phoned her. I thought she was a decent person, but prostitution always was a dirty business.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘There have been some reporters fishing for information, ever since that reporter on the television. If they ask enough questions, knock on enough doors…’

  ‘Have they found out where you live?’

  ‘Marion Robertson doesn’t know my home address. Besides, she only ever contacted me on an anonymous phone number that I gave to her.’

  ‘But she knows where we met and the school run. She set up our meeting.’

  ‘Oh, my God, she does. They are bound to find me. I should never have met you.’

  ‘I understand that, but it is a murder. I would have found you anyway, the same way as the reporters. I’ve done the best I can.’

  ‘I know that. How am I going to protect my family?’

  ‘It may be best to go away for a while until it blows over. Why did you tell your husband?’

  ‘I had to. Too much guilt; he didn’t deserve to find out from someone else.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘He’s in shock, not talking. I did the right thing telling him. I can only hope in time that he gets over it. Could you forgive someone you cared for?’

  ‘In time.’ He did not intend to elaborate that he already had.

  The call ended; the phone rang again. ‘I’ve just come out of a long meeting. I’m pleased to hear from you,’ Aisha said.

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be happy when I tell you what has happened.’

  ‘Tell me?’

  ‘They’ve found Olivia.’ Farhan could hear an audible sigh on the other end of the phone. He wished he could have told her face to face, but it had not been possible.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Marion Robertson. She’s admitted it to Olivia.’

  ‘Has she given my name?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’m heading over to see her right now. Olivia obviously had a contactable phone number. How about you?’

  ‘I changed it. You know that. I gave you the new number.’

  ‘Marion Robertson doesn’t have your contact number. How about an address?’

>   ‘No, although she knows I work in the city. I suppose they could find me.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. It’s best for you not to worry. I’ll see what I can do to protect the two of you.’

  ***

  Bridget was in a talkative mood when Wendy entered her office, clutching the hard disk with the footage of Marjorie Frobisher at Paddington Station. Wendy was still a little miffed after her argument with the van-driving lout. A cup of tea, not as good as British Rail, soon calmed her down. Wendy assumed that Bridget’s computer set up was not as good as Brian Gee’s, but then she knew little about such matters, could barely write an email, and her typing skills were definitely one finger at a time. She had asked Bridget how she managed to type so quickly, barely looking at the keyboard, her eyes focussed on a monitor to the right of the laptop. Bridget said it was easy. Ten lessons to learn how to break the bad typing habits, and then learn the basics, centre line on the keyboard, first finger of each hand on the raised bumps on the F and the J, left hand F, right hand J.

  The teacher at the local college had explained that the two letters formed the reference point. Wendy had repeatedly tried, even drove her husband crazy as she laboured away at night trying to get the hang of it, but the habit was too firmly entrenched. She gave up after six weeks and went back to banging the keyboard. Besides, if it became difficult, there was always Bridget.

  ‘It’s not very clear,’ Bridget said. She had ordered in some cakes, Wendy’s favourite. There goes the diet, Wendy thought. Not that she would ever have dieted, but it was always good to believe it was possible.

  ‘The man she met?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘His complexion looks on the dark side, but I’m not sure if that is the camera or the lighting.’

  ‘Can’t you reference it off Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Are you certain it’s her? With those sunglasses on, it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Almost one hundred per cent.’

  ‘It’s not going to be easy to follow her down the street.’

  ‘With all those cameras?’

  ‘That’s not the problem. It’s the software and the time delays in accessing the film. There’ll be a backup server somewhere; it will have been recorded. May take some time.’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of time.’

  Bridget phoned for some more food to be brought in. ‘It’s going to be a long day, maybe night. Are you up to it?’ she asked Wendy.

  ‘Not a problem. I’ll keep you fed.’

  ‘Slave driver,’ Bridget joked. Wendy knew her husband would be complaining. Tough, she thought. This was more interesting.

  Chapter 28

  Isaac told Farhan that he was a bloody fool and should have known better. ‘She is a witness, maybe more involved than we believe.’

  ‘I met both of them, separate occasions,’ Farhan said.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I kept clear of Olivia, as I knew some of her family history. I made a promise.’

  ‘I don’t think we have the luxury of giving promises.’

  ‘I know that, but I needed her cooperation.’

  ‘You’re too kind-hearted. You know that?’

  Farhan had not seen Isaac so angry before. ‘What would you have done?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not the one who has been sleeping with a witness, am I?’

  ‘It wasn’t intended, but what would you have done with the two witnesses?’

  ‘Probably the same as you, but sleeping with one of them…’

  ‘You make it sound sordid.’

  ‘What was it, an easy lay? I realise that life must be difficult for you at the present moment with your wife and children not around, but sleeping with this woman. Next you’ll be telling me she lives at home with her parents, contributes to the rent money.’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘Good God, Farhan, how do I protect you!’ Isaac exclaimed. His anger was not levelled at Farhan for what he had done. Most men would have acted in the same manner, but he was a policeman, an upholder of the law, and here he was, sleeping with a prostitute who may have seen a murderer. It was indefensible. Isaac knew he should report it officially, but Farhan was too good a policeman, too good a person, to allow his career to be thrown away.

  Richard Goddard had got him out of a couple of tricky situations in the past; maybe he could help. Farhan had hoped it could be kept between him and Isaac. Isaac explained it could not, and if the women were to be protected then Detective Superintendent Goddard was the best man.

  Farhan relented, in part because he knew Isaac was right, but mainly because he wanted to protect the women, especially the one he loved. Her selling herself to help her get through her studies should have automatically condemned her. However, his years in the police service had made him realise that some people were good, while others were bad. Aisha, he knew, was good, as was Olivia. He hoped Detective Superintendent Goddard was good as well. He was not so sure about Marion Robertson. He would reserve judgement on her until she had been given the opportunity to mount a defence. He realised it was conditional on his being a serving policeman, and that was clearly in the balance.

  ***

  Richard Goddard sat quietly while Farhan explained the situation about one of the escorts being identified. He explained his reason for confidentiality. Richard Goddard stated that he was not correct, but Farhan countered that, for a moderate Muslim, it was not open to discussion. He had seen the injustices against women. He was not willing to allow their lives to be prejudiced because of mistakes they may have made.

  Farhan went on to explain that both women had their reasons for indulging in prostitution, and they should be protected from a scurrilous press. They were potentially material witnesses, and it was up to the police department to protect their identities. Detective Superintendent Goddard saw this as illogical.

  Farhan counter-argued that legally in the United Kingdom they had not broken any law except the law of morality, and that was not a punishable offence, except by a higher power.

  Isaac, amazed at the fluidity of Farhan’s argument and the fluency of delivery, in the end could only sit back and declare him the winner. Goddard, suitably impressed, thanked him for his honesty and his reasons but failed to give him his unanimous support.

  ‘Detective Inspector Ahmed, this is all very well, and given I want to give you a kick up the arse as well as a severe dressing down, which I do, how can I protect them and you?’

  ‘Official Secrets Act?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘What has the Official Secrets Act got to do with this?’

  ‘It’s there to restrict information. Why not for these women?’

  ‘I’ll need to meet with my contact; see what we can do.’

  ‘Angus MacTavish?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I suppose it was pointless trying to keep that confidential,’ Goddard admitted.

  ‘What about the women?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘They need to keep a low profile. Explain that you need to know where they are.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. We’re not out of trouble yet, and you’ve still to receive my reprimand. Isaac will tell you that I don’t mince words. You’ve been a bloody fool. Whatever you do, don’t go sleeping with the witnesses until this is over. That applies to you as well, Isaac.’

  ***

  Farhan, suitably humbled after his admission and thankful that there was a potential solution, focussed his attention on the two women. As much as he wanted to phone Aisha first, he decided that Olivia was the person most under threat. As a precaution, he had called Marion Robertson, indicated that she had committed a criminal offence by revealing the name of a witness. He was confident that she would say no more until he got to her office, which he intended to do within the hour.

  Olivia was pleased to hear Farhan on the end of the phone. ‘What can you tell me? What’s going to happen?’ she asked. Her husband was on the phone line as well. Farhan could hear him breathing.

>   ‘You’re not alone?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘My husband is here with me. We’re going to be alright.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you, Detective Inspector Ahmed,’ Olivia’s husband said.

  ‘This must be a difficult time for you both.’

  ‘We love each other,’ Olivia said. ‘My husband will forgive me in time, I hope.’

  ‘In time, as my wife says. I knew what she was before I married her and I know she only did it for the family. It will be hard, but we will survive.’

  ‘Do you want to come to the house?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary, and besides, I already know where you live. I believe it would be best if we don’t meet. Someone might be following me.’

  ‘How do you know my address?’

  ‘I’m a policeman. Your car registration plates. Caroline, am I correct?’

  ‘Caroline, yes.’

  ‘This matter is more involved than you realise. I’m not at liberty to say more. This goes beyond the death of one person.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Olivia’s husband asked.

  ‘Are you able to leave the country?’

  ‘We’ve discussed it, for the sake of the children,’ the husband responded.

  ‘Any possibility?’

  ‘My father was South African. I’ve citizenship there.’

  ‘When can you go?’

  ‘We had thought in two months. I need to give notice at work, and there’s the children’s schooling.

  ‘It would be best if you leave now.’

  ‘I understand,’ the husband said.

  ‘Are you suggesting we hide, have fictitious names?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Nothing so melodramatic. The press is fickle, short-term memory. You’ll be forgotten in time, and there is still the other woman.’

  ‘Is she leaving as well?’ the husband asked.

  ‘Possibly. I don’t believe Marion Robertson knew how to contact her.’