DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

‘Was she bitter as a result?’
‘Maybe, probably explains why she screwed around so much.’
‘Did she?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not as much lately.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘She’d tell me.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m a bastard, she’s a bitch. With me, she could be honest. I wouldn’t repeat what she told me in confidence, would I?’
‘I don’t know. You said she was a bitch, screwed around.’
‘Everyone knows about her screwing around. And as for the “bitch”, she’d admit to that.’
‘Her current disappearance, what do you reckon?’
‘Unusual. She’s done a vanishing trick before but still managed to show up for her scenes. This time, it’s out of character. Look, I’ve got a show to run here. If there are no more questions, I need to get out there and start shouting at people.’
‘Just one more question Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams?’
‘Richard, I’ve known him for years. He can’t keep his hands off the women, including Marjorie in the distant past. As soon as Jess turned up, he was on to her.’
‘And she succumbed to the charm and the Ferrari?’
‘They all do, but most wise up soon enough. He screwed Jess O’Neill a couple of times, that’s all I know. The personal assistant, you’ve met her?’
‘Sally Jenkins.’
‘She’s the standby. Just a bit of fluff, not very competent. A screw at the end of the day, that’s how Richard sees it.’ With that, the series producer rushed out of the door shouting at whoever. Isaac also noticed that his language had changed, and a great deal of bad language spewed from his mouth.

Chapter 7
With little more to achieve that day, Isaac and Farhan met back at Challis Street. Neither was in a good mood: Isaac, because of the revelation about Jess O’Neill; Farhan, because spending time with Barbara Reid and then Rosemary Fairweather had made him realise how dull his home life and his wife were.
‘Farhan, what are we doing here? We used to spend our time on worthwhile murders, and here we are, just messing around, making nuisances of ourselves, asking dumb questions.’
‘And the woman is likely to walk in the door at any time soon.’
‘Is that likely?’ Isaac asked.
‘What do you mean?’
Isaac was sitting on his side of the office, the window behind him. Both men had loosened their ties. Unless the situation changed, they would leave early, which in their cases meant before 8 p.m.
Neither was anxious to leave, mainly because where they were heading was less agreeable than where they were now. Farhan had a dreary house in a dreary street with a dreary wife and a dreary television blasting out all day and virtually all night. The children gave him comfort, but they would be in bed, fast asleep by the time he arrived home. His wife, heavily pregnant, would not be receptive to his amorous advances, and after spending time with two not young but very attractive women, he was in need of an outlet. There was no outlet, he knew that. The best he could do was to keep working until exhausted and then go home to sleep.
‘I believe Marjorie Frobisher to be dead,’ Isaac said.
‘Why do you come up with that conclusion?’ Farhan could see them remaining in the office for a few more hours. He recognised he had the traits of a workaholic, but he could never be sure if his diagnosis was correct, or whether it was a result of an unsatisfactory home life. It caused him great conflict. He had attempted a discussion with the Imam at the local Mosque that he tried to visit every Friday for Jummah, the most significant prayer time in the Muslim calendar. He rarely made it, and would on most occasions make his prayers in a quiet part of the office, or out at a crime scene.
The Imam, although excessively conservative, could offer no tangible advice other than ‘Allah will guide you. It is for you to trust in his wisdom.’
‘Let’s look at the facts,’ Isaac said. He was on his third cup of coffee, and hunger had set in. A potential world-class runner in his day, sub-ten seconds for the one hundred metre dash, but he was not as dedicated as he should have been, and academia had been where his parents wanted him to focus. He reflected on that fact as he ordered the pizza, the third that week, and noticed his slight paunch, a clear indication of too much fast food and lack of exercise.
‘I realise we don’t have a corpse,’ Isaac said as he consumed the last slice of pizza.’
‘You may well be right. Detail your analysis,’ Farhan said.
‘One, she’s disappeared before, but never for so long, two, she’s never missed her work obligations, and three, there’s the interest of the so-called influential persons.’
‘There are a lot of uncertainties in there. It wouldn’t hold up in a court of law.’
‘Farhan, we’re not a court of law. We are just speculating.’
‘Okay, then let’s analyse what we know.’
Isaac stood up, moved over to the whiteboard and started to write. The whiteboard marker was dry. He chose another. It worked. ‘Firstly, it is now over four weeks,’ he said, ‘almost five since she was last sighted. The most she has disappeared before has been a week to ten days.’
‘What about the SMSs?’
‘If it’s not her, then someone else is sending them.’
‘But why?’
‘What if someone doesn’t want us to know she’s dead?’
‘Is that possible?’ Farhan asked.
‘What else can it be?’
‘Can we prove this?’
‘I don’t see how we can. We know the general location of the SMSs, but they are only triangulated off the nearest communication towers. They will be accurate to within ten, twenty yards at most, maybe more if it’s a remote area.’
Farhan moved to the whiteboard. ‘If