DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

had not brought a pizza this time; Isaac was thankful.
‘If she has been murdered, then the situation has changed,’ the detective superintendent commenced hesitantly.
‘Let’s assume she has,’ Isaac said.
‘Her death would be advantageous.’
‘Are we condoning murder here, sir?’ Farhan asked.
‘That’s a preposterous statement.’ Goddard was not amused.
‘Your statement was ambiguous. Farhan was right to ask.’ Isaac had almost made the same remark.
‘Let me clarify.’ Goddard said. ‘It is evident from my contact that certain people would not be sorry to hear of her demise.’
‘And why?’ Isaac asked.
‘She has, or had, information that would prove both embarrassing politically and personally.’
‘Would they be willing to kill her to prevent that information being revealed?’
‘My contact assures me they would not.’
‘And others?’
‘I don’t believe they would have given the authority for her assassination.’
‘Are you certain?’ Farhan asked.
‘I can’t be sure of anything. I may have been fed a line. Have you seen anyone suspicious?’
Isaac answered first. ‘I’ve not seen anyone.’
‘DI Ahmed?’
‘Sir, I thought it was suspicious at the time.’
‘What was?’
‘The time I went to the Churchill Arms with Robert Avers. There was one man. I assumed he was a local propping up the bar. Then today, when I dropped the children at school, I could swear I saw him across the road from the school.’
‘Are you certain?’ Isaac asked.
‘I believe I am. What does this mean?’
‘We’re treading on toes, and they don’t like it. This is where it gets complicated. We’re possibly upsetting powerful and dangerous persons.’
‘What kind of persons?’ Isaac asked.
‘The type who carry guns and MI5 identification. They may just be doing surveillance, but who knows?’
‘Are you serious?’ Isaac asked.
‘Deadly serious. There are two options here. The first is we back off.’
‘And the second?’
‘If you continue, it could get nasty.’
‘I’m not one for backing off,’ Isaac said.
‘Neither am I,’ Farhan agreed.
‘Very well. You will need to carry guns, just in case.’
***
Barely interrupted by the disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher, production of the soap opera watched by millions continued ‒ skilled scriptwriting had glossed over her disappearance: nervous breakdown due to shock over her brother’s death, followed by a heart attack, followed by death.
The show had even managed to ensure that the long unbroken run of record ratings continued. The storyline had gone on for six weeks, long enough according to the market researchers. In the seventh week, five weeks since Isaac and Farhan had become involved, she finally died. The hospital scene: her lying in the hospital, face mask supplying oxygen. A stand-in actress with similar features, or in this case a lie-in, as all she had to do was remain motionless.
The death spread over two weeks; the viewing audience hit over nine million. It was regarded as a great success, celebrated with gusto by those remaining in the production, production staff and actors alike.
The magazines reported her death in detail, interviewed people who Marjorie Frobisher had worked with. None wanted to be the person to spill the beans: to tell the world that she was a promiscuous bitch and good riddance. Not until a dishevelled and by now homeless Charles Sutherland, the former Billy Blythe in the soap opera, was waylaid one morning as he dragged his weary body along to the local charity soup kitchen.
He had hit rock-bottom. In less than two months he had gone from famous to forgotten to destitute. He had milked it for a few weeks after his removal from the show, but despondency had driven him to a binge of expensive alcohol and even more expensive women. The parties he had thrown, the money he had spent, the cocaine he had snorted were legendary. The so-called friends while he was throwing the money around, plentiful. The so-called friends after he was evicted from his upmarket accommodation for non-payment of rent and for trashing the place, non-existent. It was a bleary-eyed morning after his unceremonious eviction, basically a kick in the arse from some thugs employed by the landlord, closely followed by his few meagre belongings. The landlord seized anything of value and dumped the rest on the street with their owner.
Two days later and sober, Charles Sutherland acknowledged the reason for his current situation: Marjorie Frobisher. She was the bitch, he thought. She put me here. He was still an arrogant man, desperate as he blamed his life on others, not himself.
***
When the gossip magazine journalist found Charles Sutherland sitting on the pavement not far from the soup kitchen, holding a roll in one hand, coffee in a paper cup in the other, he was, at first, reluctant to talk. He thought she had come to do a story on him and his fall from grace. He was correct in his evaluation until he started to talk about why he was out on the street.
Classically trained, destined for great things, Sutherland told her. Boring and mundane, that was what Christy Nichols, a freelance contributor to the scurrilous magazine that catered to the followers of minor celebrities and nonentities, thought. She had found him, thought there may be a story in it, a story that she could get published in the magazine; but the more he talked, the more she realised he offered no great copy. He was an arrogant, overweight, and smelly man, worthy of no more than a photo and a thousand words.
She prepared to leave: her, with the picture and a signed clearance to use it; he, with two hundred pounds to use wisely or otherwise, although she knew which option Charles Sutherland would choose, as did Charles Sutherland.
‘You know about Marjorie Frobisher?’ he said.
‘Her disappearance?’ Christy Nichols sat down again on the dirty pavement, her freshly pressed, cream-coloured skirt picking up some dirt marks. She was a good-looking woman, a little overweight, which was how Sutherland liked his