DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1

angrily. ‘I’m a busy man. If you haven’t any more to discuss, we should end here. Any more questions or can I get on with what I do best?’
‘There are some more questions. What did you and Marjorie Frobisher argue about the day before her disappearance, and what is your relationship with her?’
‘There was no argument, just a heated discussion. Who told you this?’
‘I am aware that there was an argument.’ Isaac was circumspect. He did not want to reveal what Jess O’Neill had told him.
‘You’re right. She was going to be dumped. Good for ratings and the future of the programme, not so good for her. I can’t blame her for being angry.’
‘Were you angry as well?’
‘In the end, I was. Marjorie’s a professional, been in the business for many years. She knows how it works, and it’s not as if we’re putting her out on the street. There was every intention of paying out her contract.’
‘But her career was coming to an end?’
‘She’s not immortal. It was going to happen at some time, and then there are all the chat shows and the newspaper interviews to keep her occupied. Maybe do a few adverts. She’d be fine.’
‘Is that enough for someone like her?’ Isaac asked.
‘For Marjorie, never. She wanted the continuing adulation. She’s welcome to it, but I’m no longer going to supply it.’
‘How long have you known her?’
Isaac noticed a change in Williams’ manner. He leant forward, rested his arms on the desk and said, ‘I’ve known her for over forty years, ever since she had a one-line walk-on in a dreary period piece. We’ve always been friends.’
Isaac could see no more to be gained by prolonging the meeting.
He would talk to Sally Jenkins about the argument at a later date.
***
Charles Sutherland had accepted the death of Billy Blythe graciously. At least, that was how it had been publicly portrayed. The appearances on the chat shows kept him occupied for a few weeks, the bottle for a few weeks more. His agent had put out the feelers for some more work, but he was typical of many who had enjoyed the comfort of a long-running soap opera – he was type-cast. The only parts were for villains, for another ‘Billy Blythe’, and he had had enough of him. He saw himself as a Shakespearean actor, a classicist involved in a major production at one of the major theatres in the country, not playing an overweight, aged hooligan. The tough-talking, the bad language if they could get it past the censors, the pointless fistfights ‒ they always used a stand-in when his back was to the camera ‒ failed to impress him. He saw himself on stage reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy to an enraptured audience. To be, or not to be: that is the question…Maybe even, Hamlet Act 5 Scene 1: Alas, poor Yorick!
He had earned good money, and if it had been invested wisely, he would have had sufficient not to work again. However, an extravagant lifestyle meant that he continued to rent, although, in Mayfair, it was hardly a slum. Not like the place where he had grown up in the west of the country. His parents, good people, had struggled all their life. A son that always complained had not helped. The only motorised transport was a tractor that rarely started and an old Land Rover that did start but rattled atrociously. The food was wholesome. The animals: never more than twenty or thirty cows and a bull to keep them serviced, several dozen sheep, a few pigs and chickens. The 4 a.m. starts in winter to look after the animals and collect the eggs, before he walked the three miles to school over frozen fields, still brought back unpleasant memories. He had been an inherently lazy child, a trait that continued to adulthood, but laziness was not allowed by a stern father who was capable of removing the leather belt from his work trousers and giving the young Sutherland a good thrashing across his bare backside.
Charles Sutherland never considered that the principal acting parts eluded him because of his inability to resolve his West Country accent. He had made significant improvements, and for Billy Blythe, a country accent was just right, but the classics required an eloquent tone. To reach the heights he desired needed more than he could give. It needed discipline and perseverance, and he possessed neither. He was a sloppy man, both in his hygiene and his movements. His car, an ageing Volvo, was full of discarded crisp packets and sweet wrappers, the ashtray full of ash from unpleasant smelling cigarettes. He presented poorly, but he did not blame himself – he blamed others, and the person he blamed most was Marjorie Frobisher. He knew it was her who had him killed off, Jess O’Neill had told him, and he didn’t have much time for her either. If he was to suffer, then others would as well. That was how he saw it.
***
Sam Avers, the son of Marjorie Frobisher and Robert Avers, was a major disappointment to his parents. Their income had given him the best of opportunities, the best of schooling, but he had a weakness for alcohol and an ever-increasing dependence on recreational drugs. His father was a heavy drinker, but he came from a generation where people drank heavily, got drunk and stopped. The son came from a generation where people drank until silliness and then started hitting the shots of tequila or vodka: his favourite, Slippery Nipple, a mix of Bacardi rum and Wild Turkey bourbon. He had grown up in the better parts of London, Chelsea mainly, and the clubs and the pubs were awash with binge drinkers. He had been flush with money; his father was successfully running an import/export business, his mother was an increasingly affluent and famous celebrity.
He had little time for either,