DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

man, but it did not seem wise to offer his opinion. ‘I’ve heard worse.’
‘Just one thing. When she takes off, there’s never been another man.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Totally. We’re open if there is any dalliance by either party.’
‘So, where is she?’
His fifth pint consumed, Avers willingly conceded, ‘I haven’t a clue, and honestly, this is much longer than the previous occasions. In the past, it’s been a few days, a week at most, but now we’re looking at over two and a half weeks.’
‘It’s imperative we find her as soon as possible,’ Farhan said.
‘You have access to her phone number. Did you trace the messages she sent me?’ Avers asked.
‘Inconclusive. Mainly from the north of the country.’
‘Not like her to be secretive.’
‘We’re aware that her disappearance has raised concerns in influential circles. Anyone you can think of?’ Farhan broached the question that concerned him the most, the primary reason for being in a noisy pub; the reason he had downed another half pint. The reason he was feeling decidedly unwell.
‘Not really. Her history before our marriage is vague. Since then, no one I can think of.’
‘You don’t know any names?’
‘She’d tell me if I asked, but I’m not sure I want to know. The openness of the marriage is more on her side than mine, and we’ve always been discreet. At least, I hope we have.’
With no more questions and thankfully no more beers for Farhan, they left the public house. Avers took a cab; Farhan walked unsteadily to his car and vomited in the gutter, stale beer and the Thai meal. He then took fifteen minutes to drink some water and compose himself. He felt ashamed that he had sinned; he would offer additional prayers by way of compensation. Before arriving back at his house, he sucked on some mints to remove the smell from his breath. His God may well forgive him, his wife would not.
***
Richard Williams, the executive producer of the soap opera, proved to be an elusive man. Isaac had come out early to his office in the city, not on the draughty and wet production lot. Williams’ personal assistant, Sally Jenkins, a vivacious woman in her mid-twenties with a tight top, her cleavage showing, and wearing a skirt that could only be described as no more than a bandage, was most agreeable. She was steadily plying the detective chief inspector with cups of coffee and biscuits. He knew what she was, a prick-teaser. He had come across her type before, making out they were available, taking every opportunity to show the goods on offer, and then when a man got up close and cosy, they would go coy and tell him they were not that kind of girl. Of course, if the man came with a Ferrari or a Porsche, they would be available. She did not interest him.
After Isaac had waited forty minutes, Richard Williams came out of his office, apologising effusively. ‘Busy day, production schedules delayed, temperamental actors, and the weather is not helping with the outdoor scenes. What can I do for you? My apologies, by the way, unavoidable.’ His statement by way of an introduction, Isaac felt, was disingenuous, hurried.
He chose not to comment and responded in a cordial manner. ‘That’s fine. Sally’s kept me occupied, looked after me well.’
‘Sally, I don’t know what I would do without her.’ The executive producer looked over at her as he spoke. She acted embarrassed, yet smiled a knowing smile back at him. Isaac had seen the look before. He knew something was going on between the two. It seemed unlikely that she would give him much assistance about the fracas between her boss and Marjorie Frobisher.
In his office, Williams beckoned Isaac to sit on a comfy chair to one side of the room. Isaac declined, and sat instead on a chair on the far side of the large desk at the end of the room. A window, the entire rear wall, gave a panoramic view over the city. Richard Williams, unable to maintain the upper hand in the meeting, acquiesced and sat facing Isaac in a high-backed leather chair on his side of the desk.
‘Detective Chief Inspector, what can I do for you?’
‘Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘It’s not the first time she’s disappeared,’ the executive producer said. Isaac noticed the slower pace of his speech. Before, it had appeared rehearsed, now it seemed measured. He realised that the man was used to manipulating conversations.
‘We’re aware this is not the first time.’
‘Why the interest of the police? It seems melodramatic to me. The sort of thing we may well put in a script, but hardly real life.’
‘I thought that is what you are producing, a representation of reality.’ Isaac realised he was baiting the man to see how he would react.
‘Have you ever watched the programme?’ Williams asked. He had taken a defensive posture, his arms folded, leaning back in his chair.
‘Once,’ Isaac admitted.
‘And what did you think?’
‘It’s not my kind of programme.’
Richard Williams weighed up the situation. He realised he was not dealing with a member of the viewing public, but a seasoned and astute policeman. His answer was honest. ‘Fodder for the masses, but it draws the viewers in, makes everyone plenty of money.’
‘Don’t you feel some guilt that you are spoon-feeding it to millions of people?’ Isaac needed to break Williams’ guard.
‘Are you one of those do-gooders, those holier-than-thou types who feel that we should be uplifting the people, educating them?’
Isaac knew that he had annoyed the man, his intention. ‘Not totally.’
‘This is a commercial world, dedicated to the pursuit of money. If a few million wish to watch the programme and pay us plenty of money, then so be it.’
‘A few million? I’m told it’s between seven and eight million.’
‘Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,’ Williams said