DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

‘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,