DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

one of the SMSs came from a remote location in the countryside it might be possible to pinpoint it. If the area is sparsely populated, then maybe it’s possible.’
‘And then one of us goes there and starts sniffing around.’
‘It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose?’
‘Okay, let’s do that.’ Isaac continued his analysis; Farhan resumed his seat after idly drawing a circle on the whiteboard and then rubbing it off.
‘Secondly, she has never missed a work commitment before. That validates my opinion that she is dead. From what we know of the woman, she would not have missed her opportunity to play the grieving sister when her on-screen brother died. It would have been irresistible for her.’
Farhan could only agree. He didn’t mention that his wife had put forward that conclusion. A housewife and she comes up with a better result, Farhan thought.
‘These so-called influential persons, any luck there?’ Isaac asked. He had resumed his seat. A cursory glance at the clock revealed that it was after ten. Outside, it was dark, and the rain had started. He sent a text message. He did not want to conclude the day with a hot drink and a cold bed.
‘Not really. The most I’ve found out is that there have been a few previous lovers of significance, but they’re not recent.’
‘Her agent, what did she have to say?’
‘She had plenty to say, but then she started clamming up.’
‘Why?’
‘She was very agreeable, as was her PA, but once I started to dig deeper, she hurried me out of the room. She knows the dirt, or at least some of it.’
‘And she was not going to dish it out to you?’ Isaac said, aware that Farhan’s easy and pleasant manner of drawing out information, especially from women, was exceptional.
‘If we have a body, she will give names.’
‘That doesn’t help us much, does it?’
‘We’re at a dead end,’ Farhan said.
Isaac, before he could respond, was momentarily distracted by an SMS on his phone, ‘see you in one hour’. At least his bed would be warm tonight. ‘Farhan, let’s wrap it for this evening, meet tomorrow early and discuss our strategy. Interviewing people will not get us anywhere. We need to go and find this woman, or what remains of her.’
Farhan agreed. He had heard the beep on Isaac’s phone, seen his smirking smile. He wished that it had been him going home to a willing and liberated woman. He had little to look forward to except the sullen expression on his wife’s face, and a complaint about the late hour.

Chapter 8
Sophie White was a decent person. Isaac knew that well enough. They had met three years earlier, during an investigation he had conducted into the murder of a hooligan in an alley in Brixton. It had appeared to be a case of rival gangs indulging in a tit-for-tat: ‘you kill one of ours, we’ll kill one of yours’.
That was how they wanted to record it down at the police station. It was just too much paperwork, and one less hooligan only served society well. The police realised that catching the guilty gang members was the ideal, but invariably there were extenuating circumstances: still a minor, self-defence, deprived childhood, mentally unstable. There were just too many opportunities for the guilty party to get off: slap on the back of the hand, community service, or time in an air-conditioned reform home.
That was how Isaac’s boss saw it. A gnarled, old-school policeman, he remembered a time when a kick up the arse and a good beating were perfectly acceptable forms of crime deterrent. He didn’t hold with the modern style of policing: too politically correct, too cosmetic, too soft on the criminals. He believed that a villain respects authority and strength and that the police handbook did little to help.
Isaac, then a detective sergeant, fresh out of uniform, understood his plight, but he had been university educated, his boss had not. Thirty years previously, a different style of policing was suitable. Those were the days before heavy drugs, Islamic terrorism, and a population explosion. Isaac had studied the period. His boss had been prepared to write off the hooligan’s death as death by misadventure, person or persons unknown.
Sophie White had changed all that. She lived in Twickenham, worked in Brixton as a social worker. As Isaac was wrapping up the case at his boss’s insistence, she had come forward with new information. She had seen a person running away from the alley, his arm covered in blood.
The inevitable questions had come up when she walked into the police station: Why had she waited so long to come forward? Why did she believe it was not gang-related? Did she recognise the person?
She had answered them all with aplomb. One, she had just finished work and was heading to the airport. Her sister in Canada was getting married, she was the maid of honour – it was checked out, found to be true. Two, the person she saw did not dress like a gang member. There was no hooded jacket, no trainers, no surly look about the individual – in fact, he was dressed well in a suit. Three, no, she did not recognise the person, although it was not an area where you saw men wearing suits too often.
With the case reopened and his boss none too happy, it was left to Isaac to do the legwork, to further interview Sophie White and to wrap up the case, tout de suite. His boss had just bought a renovator’s delight in France as a retirement project and was continually trying out his basic French. Isaac, who had studied French at school and spoke with a reasonable fluency, ended up the recipient of some very crude French with a pronounced cockney undertone. It grated on Isaac’s nerves, but he said little, only