DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

puzzle is meaningless without all the pieces, even if it’s the smallest piece in the blandest area of white cloud or blue sky. A criminal investigation follows the same principle. Set out all the facts on a whiteboard, put all the names and the faces and the motives and the reasons there. Just one question mark and it’s impossible to bring the investigation to a conclusion.
It had been Isaac who had suggested Rosemary Fairweather, Marjorie Frobisher’s agent, the previous night. They had been going through the case. The fact that it was a disappearance, not a murder, annoyed them. The best they could do was to get on with it, find the damn woman and then get back to some serious policing.
Farhan noticed framed photos of some recognisable faces on the wall in Rosemary Fairweather’s reception area as he waited to be invited into the inner sanctum – Barbara Reid’s words, not his.
Barbara Reid, Rosemary Fairweather’s personal assistant, was a talkative woman, smartly dressed, designer clothes. She was in her late forties, tending to middle-aged plumpness, but her face maintained the look of youth, or, at least, expensive cosmetics.
‘I’ve been Rosemary’s right-hand person for the last eighteen years,’ she said.
‘Good boss, then,’ Farhan replied. He found her remarkably agreeable, with a mellow, soothing voice. His wife was a decent woman, but she was always covered as befitted a conservative Muslim woman. He could feel loyalty to her as his faith and his family required, but certainly not love, and rarely lust. She had given him two healthy children, a boy and a girl, with another on the way. His attraction to other women was not unknown to him, but his religion and his beliefs were important, and he would not stray from the marital bed. Farhan hoped that Rosemary Fairweather would not summon him into the inner sanctum too soon.
‘The best,’ Barbara Reid continued. ‘When I came here there was only one client, Marjorie Frobisher, but now–’
‘The photos on the wall.’ Farhan interrupted the personal assistant mid-sentence.
‘Yes, they’ve all been in here, plus there are more that Rosemary rejected, some big names even.’
‘She’s very selective?’ He was enjoying his conversation. It was not often that he chatted with an attractive woman in a pleasant environment. It was certainly more agreeable than where he and Isaac worked. There it was clean and functional with everything in its place. Here it was bright, the walls in the reception area painted pale blue. The chairs where he sat were leather and comfortable. The coffee table was glass-topped, obviously expensive, and on the top rested some magazines, recent and related to the acting profession. Barbara Reid sat at a functional table, not overly large, with a laptop in the centre. A computer mouse was to the right, an additional monitor at the far right of the table. Apart from that, her desk was totally clear. From the outside the building, no more than two hundred yards from the Strand in Central London, was Victorian in construction and style, although inside the interior had been gutted and rebuilt in the very best modern style. It was a large building. Rosemary Fairweather’s office occupied the third floor.
Farhan was on his second cup of coffee. The PA had been insistent that he try the freshly brewed coffee, and unable to resist such a pleasant invitation, he had agreed. To him, it was too strong, but he could only say, ‘It’s great, thanks very much.’
The inner sanctum summoned him, all too soon for Farhan. He carried the coffee in with him.
‘What can I do for you?’ Rosemary Fairweather asked. The reception area was tastefully decorated, the office more so. The carpet on the floor, fitted and plush, the walls adorned with original artworks. The desk, unlike the PA’s, was cluttered with files and photos.
‘Apologies for the mess. There’s a major film going into production in three months’ time. I’m trying to get some of my people onto the set.’
‘You have many?’
‘Too many. The photos on the walls are the primary clients. I suppose you recognised some of them.’
‘Most, especially Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘Marjorie, dear Marjorie.’ Farhan could not be sure if Rosemary Fairweather’s response was a sign of affection or sarcasm.
‘I’m told that she was your first client.’
Expensively dressed, hair immaculate, and with an absolute assuredness of her own importance, Rosemary Fairweather sat in a leather chair behind a glass-topped table, her knees and legs clearly visible. In her fifties, but with few lines on her face, she sought to lower her age by a combination of clothes that were too tight and too short, and makeup which would have suited a younger person.
‘My first client, my best client financially,’ she replied.
‘I saw some more famous faces out there. Some major movie stars.’ Farhan had particularly noticed one face, an actor successful in America.
‘Marjorie has been around longer than most, always employed in one programme or another. My commission adds up. The big star you saw outside; he’s only come onto the scene in the last year or so. He’s bringing in plenty of money now, but for how long, who knows?’
‘Tough business?’ Farhan said, realising that he needed to bring the interview back to the questions he wanted to ask.
‘It’s tough for the actors, harder for the agents, the poor suckers who have to keep them occupied, deal with their neuroses, their doubts, and then still try to find work for them.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She’s fine. She can be a bitch, but I’ve not had any trouble with her. Mind you, I am as well. You have to be in this business.’
‘Any idea where she’s gone?’
‘You know about her lifestyle?’
‘Her sleeping arrangements?’ It seemed the subtlest way for Farhan to mention the subject without giving too much detail.
‘Discreetly put,’ she replied.
‘Is it relevant to her current disappearance?’
‘Unlikely, and I