There had been a production at a theatre in the centre of London, and she had managed to obtain a decent part. Mainly because it required a name to pull in the paying public, and the daughter of Marjorie Frobisher was better than no name, but only just. Secondly, and less important, was that the part of an embittered unattractive woman matched Fiona Avers. The casting agent saw that little makeup would be required.
There had been a lesser reason, although to Fiona it had been significant. The director of the play, one of the Russian classics, had a perversion for unattractive women, which he made clear the first night of rehearsals, in his office at the back of the theatre. Everyone had gone home; she had stayed for some additional coaching at his insistence and encouragement. He had plied her with alcohol, vodka mainly, which had little effect, as she had a substantial capacity for drink, having regularly drunk too much since her teens. There, sitting close in his office, the touching, the compliments, and it was not long before they were both naked on the floor. The carpet was old and dirty, although both were beyond caring and it was her that was underneath, her breasts feeling the heaviness of his body and the scratching of his chest hair. It was soon over. Once he had expended his lust, she had quickly been hustled out of the office.
The next day he was cool, maybe from guilt, perhaps to show a neutral approach to the cast in his praise and criticism of them all. At least, she wanted to believe that, until she saw him approaching Mary O’Donnell, the lead actress, and his request for her to stay back for some extra coaching. Fiona knew that yet again a man had used her for his base needs and had left her high and dry, emotionally and sexually.
The weeks passed by, she kept her emotions in check, until he had criticised her once too often, and the cow Mary O’Donnell had offered some choice comment about Fiona’s acting, and that she was an easy lay. It was clear that the director had told Mary about his night-time encounter with her and the office floor.
Unrestrained, Fiona slapped the woman hard across the face with such force that she fell back and banged her head against a box in the corner of the stage. They took her off to hospital and evicted Fiona from the theatre.
Since then the parts had been few, and she saw her career was at an end. She blamed her mother for her life, but the few times they had met in the last few years her mother had been unapologetic. ‘It was my career, darling. I had to do what was right, what was necessary to look after the family, and you always had the best.’
Fiona knew she had had the best that money could buy, but not what she longed for, the love of a mother for a daughter. She hated her mother, the one emotion that was not subject to scathing comments from talentless actresses, critical seducing directors, and playground arbiters on her lack of good looks. That one emotion, hatred for a person that she should love, could only hate, remained constant.
Chapter 6
With Isaac out looking for Marjorie Frobisher, Farhan had taken on the responsibility of finding out why she was so important. So far, he had only come up with blanks, but he and Isaac had decided it was integral to the case to know, although they had been told to focus on finding her.
Their boss, Detective Superintendent Goddard, should have known better than to ask a detective to look in one place, avoid another. A good detective looks everywhere, no matter how insignificant and supposedly irrelevant. A jigsaw puzzle is meaningless without all the pieces, even if it’s the smallest piece in the blandest area of white cloud or blue sky. A criminal investigation follows the same principle. Set out all the facts on a whiteboard, put all the names and the faces and the motives and the reasons there. Just one question mark and it’s impossible to bring the investigation to a conclusion.
It had been Isaac who had suggested Rosemary Fairweather, Marjorie Frobisher’s agent, the previous night. They had been going through the case. The fact that it was a disappearance, not a murder, annoyed them. The best they could do was to get on with it, find the damn woman and then get back to some serious policing.
Farhan noticed framed photos of some recognisable faces on the wall in Rosemary Fairweather’s reception area as he waited to be invited into the inner sanctum – Barbara Reid’s words, not his.
Barbara Reid, Rosemary Fairweather’s personal assistant, was a talkative woman, smartly dressed, designer clothes. She was in her late forties, tending to middle-aged plumpness, but her face maintained the look of youth, or, at least, expensive cosmetics.
‘I’ve been Rosemary’s right-hand person for the last eighteen years,’ she said.
‘Good boss, then,’ Farhan replied. He found her remarkably agreeable, with a mellow, soothing voice. His wife was a decent woman, but she was always covered as befitted a conservative Muslim woman. He could feel loyalty to her as his faith and his family required, but certainly not love, and rarely lust. She had given him two healthy children, a boy and a girl, with another on the way. His attraction to other women was not unknown to him, but his religion and his beliefs were important, and he would not stray from the marital bed. Farhan hoped that Rosemary Fairweather would not summon him into the inner sanctum too soon.
‘The best,’ Barbara Reid continued. ‘When I came here there was only one client, Marjorie Frobisher, but now–’
‘The photos on the wall.’ Farhan interrupted the personal assistant mid-sentence.
‘Yes, they’ve all been in here, plus there are more that Rosemary rejected, some big names even.’
‘She’s very selective?’ He was enjoying his conversation. It was not often that he chatted with an attractive woman in a pleasant environment. It was certainly more agreeable than where he and Isaac worked. There it was clean and functional with everything in its place. Here it was bright, the walls in the reception area painted pale blue. The chairs where he sat were leather and comfortable. The coffee table was glass-topped, obviously expensive, and on the top rested some magazines, recent and related to the acting profession. Barbara Reid sat at a functional table, not overly large, with a laptop in the centre. A computer mouse was to the right, an additional monitor at the far right of the table. Apart from that, her desk was totally clear. From the outside the building, no more than two hundred yards from the Strand in Central London, was Victorian in construction and style, although inside the interior had been gutted and rebuilt in the very best modern style. It was a large building. Rosemary Fairweather’s office occupied the third floor.
Farhan was on his second cup of coffee. The PA had been insistent that he try the freshly brewed coffee, and unable to resist such a pleasant invitation, he had agreed. To him, it was too strong, but he could only say, ‘It’s great, thanks very much.’
The inner sanctum summoned him, all too soon for Farhan. He carried the coffee in with him.
‘What can I do for you?’ Rosemary Fairweather asked. The reception area was tastefully decorated, the office more so. The carpet on the floor, fitted and plush, the walls adorned with original artworks. The desk, unlike the PA’s, was cluttered with files and photos.
‘Apologies for the mess. There’s a major film going into production in three months’ time. I’m trying to get some of my people onto the set.’
‘You have many?’
‘Too many. The photos on the walls are the primary clients. I suppose you recognised some of them.’
‘Most, especially Marjorie Frobisher.’
‘Marjorie, dear Marjorie.’ Farhan could not be sure if Rosemary Fairweather’s response was a sign of affection or sarcasm.
‘I’m told that she was your first client.’
Expensively dressed, hair immaculate, and with an absolute assuredness of her own importance, Rosemary Fairweather sat in a leather chair behind a glass-topped table, her knees and legs clearly visible. In her fifties, but with few lines on her face, she sought to lower her age by a combination of clothes that were too tight and too short, and makeup which would have suited a younger person.
‘My first client, my best client financially,’ she replied.
‘I saw some more famous faces out there. Some major movie stars.’ Farhan had particularly noticed one face, an actor successful in America.
‘Marjorie has been around longer than most, always employed in one programme or another. My commission adds up. The big star you saw outside; he’s only come onto the scene in the last year or so. He’s bringing in plenty of money now, but for how long, who knows?’
‘Tough business?’ Farhan said, realising that he needed to bring the interview back to the questions he wanted to ask.
‘It’s tough for the actors, harder for the agents, the poor suckers who have to keep them occupied, deal with their neuroses, their doubts, and then still try to find work for them.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher?’
‘She’s fine. She can be a bitch, but I’ve not had any trouble with her. Mind you, I am as well. You have to be in this business.’
‘Any idea where she’s gone?’
‘You know about her lifestyle?’
‘Her sleeping arrangements?’ It seemed the subtlest way for Farhan to mention the subject without giving too much detail.
‘Discreetly put,’ she replied.
‘Is it relevant to her current disappearance?’
‘Unlikely, and I don’t know of anyone recently.’
‘Has there been someone in particular in the past?’
‘It’s none of my business, but sometimes she feels like talking.’
‘Anyone she could be with now?’
‘She’s taken off in the past, but there’s never been a man. I don’t believe she would be with anyone. She was always open with her husband when something was going on, poor man.’
‘Why do you say poor man?’
‘Robert, he’s a good person. He went along with the agreement, but I don’t believe he often strayed; no more than any normal heterosexual male, but Marjorie…’
‘She was more likely to stray?’
‘She was rampant in her younger years, but now…’
‘Now?’
‘She’s in her fifties, menopausal. The fire doesn’t burn as strong. It’s part of the ageing process, unfortunately.’
‘Are you saying she doesn’t stray anymore?’
‘Not too often, but there are tales I could tell you, who and where.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ve said too much. Client confidentiality.’
‘It’s important that we know,’ Farhan insisted, a little more forcefully than maybe he should have.
‘I’m not at liberty to say more. She’s only gone missing. It’s not the first time, you know.’ Her reply was curt.
‘That may be the case, but we’re treating it as suspicious.’
‘Until it becomes an official investigation, I don’t believe I can help you anymore.’ With those closing words, he was quickly hustled out of the room with a flimsy excuse. He regarded her change in attitude as suspicious. Not about her, but the people that Marjorie Frobisher knew: her paramours, past and present.
***
Isaac had been out at the production lot. He had decided to keep clear of Jess O’Neill, not because the situation was becoming complicated, but because there were other people he needed to talk to. The production office, set at the rear of the car park, consisted of some portable offices arranged into a compound. They were functional and warm, which was as well as the rain was spasmodic and a gusting wind was blowing through the area.
Ian Stanley, the producer of the series, was not hard to find, a small man with a big voice. That wasn’t how the person outside the office constructing a plywood-fronted house to add to the fictitious town referred to him: ‘Loud-mouthed prick,’ was his estimation, ‘always pushing us around.’ There were a few expletives which Isaac chose to ignore.
It was evident to Isaac on entering the first office building that he had indeed found Ian Stanley. A little gnome-like man, with accentuated features, pointy ears, an ungainly gait, and the top of his head barely reaching the shoulders of those around him, was holding court. Napoleon complex, Isaac thought.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ His initial response to Isaac as he stood patiently at the door, waiting for him to be free, was indicative of the man.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Apologies,’ Stanley’s manner changed. ‘I assumed you were here to sell me something.’
He may have had a Napoleon complex, but his office did not reflect his self-perceived Big Man status. It was relatively small, cluttered with papers, and had a distinct smell of cheap cigars. Isaac found out later that Ian Stanley was the least politically correct person at the production lot. He was not averse to insulting his actors, production team, scriptwriters ‒ in fact, anyone who was subservient to him. He also found out that he was a sycophant who sucked up to those who would keep him in his position.
‘Apology accepted,’ Isaac magnanimously replied. He instinctively did not like the man. Racist, crude, and a bore, he thought.
‘What can I do for you, although I suppose it’s related to Marjorie?’
‘We’re trying to find her.’ Isaac took a seat.
‘I don’t know why.’
‘Her disappearance is regarded as serious.’
‘It’s playing havoc with the series, but apart from that, she’s not been missed much, especially by me.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Isaac asked. Ian Stanley seemed to be a person who had no problem speaking his mind.
‘Look, she’s a pain in the arse, but for me…’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘Yes, why not? It’s a bloody hard job bringing this together on a day-to-day basis. We’re here six days a week, most days fifteen hours at least, and that only gives us five days’ worth of thirty minute daily episodes. It has to be run with military precision. We’ve no time for prima donnas past their prime.’
‘Is she a prima donna?’ Isaac had heard it before. In fact, it seemed to be the general view of Marjorie Frobisher.
‘She’s the only one I can’t control out there, and the only one who holds up the production, apart from that stuck-up bitch Jess O’Neill. She’s only here because she’s screwing Richard Williams.’
Isaac was perturbed to hear the reference to Jess. He decided to continue with the interview and to come back later to that particularly disturbing piece of news.
‘I was told she is brilliant,’ Isaac said.
‘Of course she is. Made the others look as if they were straight out of a school production of Macbeth. She knew how to act, I’ll grant her that.’
‘So why the pain in the arse reference?’
‘As I told you, we need to run this with military precision. This is not the Royal Shakespeare Company. This is just entertainment for the masses.’
‘Are you saying she was too good for the production?’
‘That's what I mean. She could have achieved something in the theatre.’
‘Any idea why she didn’t?’
‘Fame and glory.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Isaac replied.
‘It’s a simple equation. Here, she is paid a handsome salary, King’s ransom, or in her case a Queen’s ransom. Out there in theatreland, she’d have her name up in lights being paid a regular actor’s wages. She wanted the fame, the adoring fans, and the money. She couldn’t have it all.’
‘Was she bitter as a result?’
‘Maybe, probably explains why she screwed around so much.’
‘Did she?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not as much lately.’
‘How would you know that?’
‘She’d tell me.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m a bastard, she’s a bitch. With me, she could be honest. I wouldn’t repeat what she told me in confidence, would I?’
‘I don’t know. You said she was a bitch, screwed around.’
‘Everyone knows ab
out her screwing around. And as for the “bitch”, she’d admit to that.’
‘Her current disappearance, what do you reckon?’
‘Unusual. She’s done a vanishing trick before but still managed to show up for her scenes. This time, it’s out of character. Look, I’ve got a show to run here. If there are no more questions, I need to get out there and start shouting at people.’
‘Just one more question Jess O’Neill and Richard Williams?’
‘Richard, I’ve known him for years. He can’t keep his hands off the women, including Marjorie in the distant past. As soon as Jess turned up, he was on to her.’
‘And she succumbed to the charm and the Ferrari?’
‘They all do, but most wise up soon enough. He screwed Jess O’Neill a couple of times, that’s all I know. The personal assistant, you’ve met her?’
‘Sally Jenkins.’
‘She’s the standby. Just a bit of fluff, not very competent. A screw at the end of the day, that’s how Richard sees it.’ With that, the series producer rushed out of the door shouting at whoever. Isaac also noticed that his language had changed, and a great deal of bad language spewed from his mouth.
Chapter 7
With little more to achieve that day, Isaac and Farhan met back at Challis Street. Neither was in a good mood: Isaac, because of the revelation about Jess O’Neill; Farhan, because spending time with Barbara Reid and then Rosemary Fairweather had made him realise how dull his home life and his wife were.
‘Farhan, what are we doing here? We used to spend our time on worthwhile murders, and here we are, just messing around, making nuisances of ourselves, asking dumb questions.’
‘And the woman is likely to walk in the door at any time soon.’
‘Is that likely?’ Isaac asked.
‘What do you mean?’
Isaac was sitting on his side of the office, the window behind him. Both men had loosened their ties. Unless the situation changed, they would leave early, which in their cases meant before 8 p.m.
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 5
