DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

women. He had no time for skinny tarts with no breasts and ribs so prominent you could play a tune on them.
‘Not that.’
‘What then?’
‘She was a bitch, you know that?’ Sutherland had nothing new. Christy Nichols stood up again. There was no news here, she reasoned. She needed to change, and now there was a dry-cleaning bill to worry about. A glamorous job, others thought, writing copy for a magazine, but she was freelance, paid for the published copy, not for sitting with a man down on his luck. She had no more time, and there was a minor starlet due at the airport within a couple of hours. Another empty-headed individual with inflated breasts, wafting into England, hoping to resurrect her career, she thought. The celebrity was better known more for her poor choices in men and her predilection for drugs than her acting ability. She was good copy, and if Christy could score an interview and a few photos, it would pay more than a soap opera cast member, once important, now forgotten.
‘There’s something else.’
‘What do you mean?’ The disappearance of Marjorie Frobisher was still newsworthy. Her character, Edith Blythe, had been kept in the public eye for weeks due to the clever scripting on the programme. Some magazines, even the one where Christy hoped to sell the story, were running articles on what type of funeral she would have. Would it be a cremation or burial? What clothes would her friends on the programme wear? How many episodes would be consumed by the funeral and the mourning afterwards? Her death on the programme had been milked for all it was worth, and so would her funeral.
‘She screwed around.’
‘Hardly newsworthy, is it?’
‘Maybe it is if you know who she was screwing.’ Sutherland let the conversation hang.
‘What do you have?’ To hell with the skirt and the dry cleaner, the reporter thought. She was aware of the rumours, most people were, especially in the industry, but it was never regarded as good copy. Marjorie Frobisher was revered as a celebrity; her character, Edith Blythe, a pillar of society. One magazine had alluded to her unusual marriage, tested the waters, but the response had not been favourable, so they had desisted.
‘I’ll talk when I’m paid, only then.’
‘No one’s going to pay just because you make a statement that you have something of interest.’
‘Something of interest.’ Sutherland emphasised the words the reporter had just said.
‘Is it that good?’
‘It’s dynamite.’
‘I can’t get anyone interested just on your word. I need facts.’
‘Talk to your editor. Tell her what I’ve got.’
‘And what have you got?’
‘Unmarried pregnancy, a child adopted. Is that enough to be going on with?’
‘Marjorie Frobisher. Do you mean Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘Who the hell do you think I mean?’ Charles Sutherland said.
***
It looked to Isaac and Farhan as if, finally, they were to get down to some real policing. Both Isaac and Farhan were armed. Isaac had one issue to clear up – Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams. Farhan felt he needed to update Robert Avers.
Robert Avers took it well. Farhan saw no reason not to tell him what they believed. Avers’ reaction was of a man expecting such a statement.
Isaac’s issue was complicated. His discussions with Jess O’Neill were meant to be strictly professional, yet if she had been sleeping with Richard Williams… It hardly seemed relevant to the case, although he tried to convince himself that it was. He decided to resolve the confusion in his mind once and for all.
It was a good day out at the production lot. For once, it was sunny, and Isaac had to admit the fictional town looked good. As he walked down the main street, past where the Saturday market was held, left at a grocery store on the corner, across the street and down a side alley to where Jess O’Neill’s office was situated, he reflected on the task ahead. At least, that was what Isaac tried to think about. He wanted to seem professional when he encountered the woman, not a love-sick puppy, which he thought he was at the present moment.
He saw her soon enough, obviously in conference with a group of production people. She soon concluded the meeting and came over to him: too friendly, too close. He pulled back a little, she came forward. The safest approach was for him to take a seat and then her seat would, at least, maintain a professional distance. It did not as she leant forward and adjusted the position of the chair.
Isaac saw no reason to attempt to move again. He felt embarrassed, hopeful it did not show, although blushing on a black man is not the same as on a white man.
‘Jess, there are just a few questions.’
‘Yes, Isaac.’ Too pleasantly said, he thought. He endeavoured to sit back on his chair. It did not help.
‘We’re concerned about Marjorie Frobisher’s disappearance. We need to cast our net wider.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I will be moving out of London, travelling for a few days.’
‘Does that mean I won’t be seeing you?’ Too agreeable for Isaac, too tempting.
‘That’s correct. Before I leave, there are a couple of questions.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ she said. Isaac realised that she was on to him. She knew he was embarrassed, and she was clearly enjoying it. ‘Just ask me straight. I’m certain I know the question.’
‘Richard Williams…’
‘You want to know whether I slept with him?’
‘It’s a loose bit of information that needs clarifying.’
‘Not that it’s relevant, but I know that Ian Stanley brings it up every chance he gets. He doesn’t like it that a woman is his superior.’
‘He was fine with me.’
‘He’s against anyone and anything that’s not white and male. I’m surprised he was so pleasant to you.’
‘He wasn’t until he saw my badge.’