The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘They weren’t there. They had left by then. I should have gone out with them, but I was scared.’

  She sipped her cappuccino. ‘He made me perform fellatio on him.’

  ‘Why did you agree?’

  ‘I was scared of what he would do.’

  ‘And afterwards?’

  ‘He laughed at me, told me I would have been a lousy screw anyway, and that I was only good for a blowjob.’

  ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘To who? Victoria Webster would not have been interested. Charles Sutherland was more important than me. I was only the hired help. She would have assumed I encouraged him.’

  ‘After you left?’

  ‘I went to my room, put my fingers down my throat ‒ he made me swallow it all ‒ until I vomited. I then stood in the shower for hours, so hot it almost burned, until it went cold. After that, I lay on my bed sobbing. I didn’t sleep that night.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘It makes me a murder suspect, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a strong enough motive. Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘I was ashamed. I was concerned that it would be seen that I had encouraged him ‒ that I was a slut.’

  ‘You wished him dead after that?’

  ‘Of course, any woman would, but it does not make me a murderer, does it?’

  He didn’t answer her question. ‘Why did you tell me today?’ he asked instead.

  ‘I trust you,’ she replied.

  Chapter 20

  Wendy Gladstone was pleased that her time in Isaac and Farhan’s office had been short. She had spent thirty years in the force, pounding the beat initially in uniform with a whistle and a baton; another five, maybe six years before she retired. The concept of retirement did not excite her, but she was getting older, and arthritis was starting to set in. No one knew, not even her husband.

  He had retired five years earlier. He was ten years older than her, a strapping man when she had first met him, an embittered man now. He blamed it all on the migrants coming into the country, taking everyone’s job, turning the neighbourhoods into ghettoes. ‘Bloody Paki,’ he would say every time he saw someone Asian in the street. She had no problems with them; the family two doors down had come from India, and they were fine. She knew he would not have liked Detective Inspector Ahmed.

  It was minor, and she would not make a scene about it. And the office no longer allowed smoking. In fact, she had to go out on the street, rain or shine.

  She didn’t hold with these modern ideas where you couldn’t smoke, drink, discipline your child, or call a spade a spade in case it offended someone. Her father, a potato farmer, humble and poor, smoked all his life. He downed his five pints every night at the pub, was not averse to disciplining the children if they needed it, and he had been a good man. He had lived to his mid-eighties. Her mother, teetotal, gentle and a housewife, barely made it past sixty before she had a stroke.

  Ambition had never been the driving force in Wendy Gladstone’s life, although policing had, ever since childhood. Her earliest memories, apart from her doting mother and her firm but fair father, had been the local police constable: uniformed, tall helmet, riding around the area, a rugged and scenic part of the Yorkshire moors in the north of England, freezing in winter, cold in summer. She saw him as an almost saintly figure. Senior Constable Terry Clarke was a sweet-talking man who sang baritone in the local choir on a Sunday. Whenever he saw someone, he would stop and greet them. For the children ‒ he knew them all by name ‒ there would always be a sweet.

  She soon realised, after joining the police force and being assigned to a police station in Sheffield and then London, that there were villains to be dealt with, and not all the children looked forward to an encounter with the local policeman, or in her case, the local policewoman. Some of the children were plainly disruptive, some plainly criminal, some plainly abusive.

  It had been just after her fifteenth birthday that her hormones had kicked in. Brian Hardcastle, a headmaster’s son and a tall, skinny rake of a boy, had not been the most suitable introduction to the joy of sex.

  The barn where there consummated their lust, each taking the other’s virginity, was hot and smelly. It was a five-minute affair: with him being disappointed in his performance ‒ he had read books on the subject ‒ and her being ecstatic. For a while, her father had tried to confine her to her room, but her mother had eventually intervened. ‘It’s a phase she’s going through. Exploring her sexuality,’ she had said. She had learnt the phrase from a book in the local library. Her father, increasingly annoyed at the ribbing he received at the pub over his wayward daughter, kept away for a few months, but in the end the ribbing ceased and he went back to his five pints a night. He was glad when Wendy joined the police force and went to Sheffield. Once out of the village, she found the need for a multitude of men had subsided.

  Her husband came along when she was nineteen, an old man ‒ at least, in her mother’s eyes ‒ of twenty-nine.

  ***

  ‘One room, please,’ Wendy said as she stood at the reception desk at the Abbey Hotel in Malvern. It was five-star, the sort of hotel where Marjorie Frobisher would stay. She also knew that it was beyond her salary, and if it had not been official business and a police-issue credit card, she would have found a room above a pub.

  Her room, second floor with a view overlooking the Priory, was splendid. Smoke-free, which she did not like, but the window opened wide. She had a warm bath. Too many cigarettes and too many big meals had left her body worn and sagging. She had promised many times to change her ways; she always failed within a day.

  Refreshed, she headed downstairs. The worst approach with the receptionist who had identified the missing woman would be to flash her badge. She knew it would put her on the defensive. It seemed best to identify her first. She was not in view, and Wendy did not want to go asking questions and raising suspicion. A good meal, a couple of glasses of wine, and an early night seemed the best approach. The next day she would find the receptionist; indulge in idle conversation about the local tourist highlights, television programmes ‒ especially the one she was interested in.

  ***

  Farhan met Samantha again. She was pleased when he rang. They met in the same prearranged spot as before. She brought two curries: one for him, one for her, from an Indian restaurant not far from her office. He appreciated the gesture.

  ‘Samantha.’

  ‘Please call me Aisha. I prefer Aisha.’

  ‘Aisha, there was an incident the first night at the hotel. The woman you met, did you speak to her?’

  ‘Not really. She arranged for us to come in. I think she disapproved.’

  ‘That’s probably correct.’

  ‘Aisha, it’s best if you think before you speak. I should really ask you to come down to the station and make a statement…’

  ‘You’re trying to protect me?’

  ‘You and Olivia.’

  ‘You’ve met her? What was she like?’

  ‘I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to tell you.’

  ‘Did you like her? At least, you can tell me that.’

  ‘I did not like her as much as you.’

  ‘I would have been upset if you had,’ she replied.

  ‘She has her reasons, the same as you. Let’s go back to the first night. What happened?’

  ‘Sutherland was high on alcohol and drugs.’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t even drink. I play along with the client, same as Olivia. You need to be a good actor sometimes.’

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘As I told you before, we were on the floor with him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The woman walks in unexpectedly. She must have assumed we had gone, as we were not making much noise. She was checking that all was okay, I suppose.’

  ‘What did Sutherland do?’

  ‘He jumped up and exposed himself to h
er. She looked as though she had never seen a naked man before. With her standing there and it getting late, I went into the bedroom with Olivia. We dressed in our going home clothes and left soon after.’

  ‘Going home clothes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I can hardly walk in the door at my parent’s house looking like a painted tart. I change into my regular work clothes, take off the perfume.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘We were out of there in five minutes. Sutherland had sobered up by then, and she was serving him coffee. We weren’t looking, but it appeared relatively calm. It wasn’t for us to nursemaid them. I assumed her job was to take care of him. She may have been available as well. I don’t think she was, but I never asked or cared.’

  ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘No, that’s it. You can ask Olivia if you like, but she will confirm my statement.’

  ‘I will take your statement, Olivia’s too, if it’s necessary.’

  ‘I finish my degree in a couple of months. I’m not sure if I want to sell myself again.’

  ‘I would have thought after one of your clients was murdered, it would not be a good option.’

  ‘You’re right of course. I’ve seen things, met people, been places. I’m not as naïve as you think.’

  ‘It is the same for me,’ Farhan said.

  ‘If I stop, can we meet again?’ she asked. ‘Socially, that is. Or is what I have done too much for you to forget?’

  ‘I think I can handle the situation. This is a murder investigation, and you are a material witness. It would not be advisable for us to meet socially at this time.’

  ‘A confidential witness.’

  ‘I don’t intend to reveal your name unless it is absolutely necessary.’

  ‘You don’t want anyone to know your girlfriend is a former prostitute.’ She smiled. Farhan realised she was teasing him.

  ‘We need to keep this professional.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve embarrassed you, Detective Inspector Ahmed. We will meet again, hopefully soon. For myself, I will remain pure and chaste until you call.’

  ‘It may be some time.’

  ‘Time is not the issue. When is more important.’

  They parted, unaware that they had yet again walked a significant distance. He knew he had made an error in letting his personal feelings interfere with his professional responsibilities. He would talk to Isaac when it was opportune, for advice.

  ***

  Isaac instinctively did not like Fiona Avers from the first moment he met her at Robert Avers and Marjorie Frobisher’s home. ‘I would like to ask you about your mother.’

  ‘Before you carry on,’ she said, attempting to take control of the discussion, ‘I despised my mother.’

  ‘Why do you feel the need to tell me that before I’ve asked you any questions?’ Isaac had seen it before. The desperate need of a witness to explain their intense dislike of a person, as if somehow it exonerated them from the crime. Often it did, but not always.

  ‘I just want to make it clear, that’s all.’

  Isaac could see why Fiona Avers had never become a major star, as her mother had. He had watched her mother on the television a few times, even downloaded some episodes of her current programme off YouTube. He also found a movie she had made twenty years previously.

  He did not find the characters she portrayed particularly endearing, but Marjorie Frobisher was, had been, a beautiful woman. The daughter was not. For once he felt calm. Too often a potential witness ‒ attractive and easy to the eye ‒ had caused him to soften his interrogational style. It was not going to happen this time.

  ‘Are you saying that you do not miss your mother?’

  ‘I told you in the first sentence. Don’t you listen?’ Fiona Avers had the manners of an alley cat.

  ‘The disappearance of your mother and the murder of Charles Sutherland may be related. Your confrontational style is not conducive to this discussion.’

  ‘What do I care about Charles Sutherland? The only time I met him, he wanted to put his grubby paws all over me.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘Here, in this house. My mother was having one of her celebrity get-togethers. I didn’t receive an invite ‒ too embarrassing, having her ugly daughter around.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You’ve got two eyes. You tell me.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘I’m not beautiful, that’s the problem. I may not be totally ugly, and it doesn’t concern me, at least not too much, but to my precious mother, beauty and poise and grace were all-important. I’m clumsy, more likely to break the best china teapot than pour a cup of tea from it. That’s how she saw it. It was always the same, even from childhood.’

  ‘So why did you come to the party?’

  ‘It’s my home. I’ve a right to come, and besides my mother owed me. If she didn’t make the introductions, ensured I got a part on some programme, I would have made a scene.’

  Isaac saw clearly that if Fiona Avers decided to make a scene, no one would have been able to stop her.

  ‘Did she help you?’

  ‘She pretended to. Introduced me to a couple of producers: “drop around anytime, and we’ll give you an audition”.’

  ‘Did they work out?’

  ‘Hell, no. The first one was always too busy: come next week. The other one seemed to fancy tall, plain-looking women. He showed me the casting couch; I showed him a bunch of fives and a kick in the shin. He showed me the door.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘The word got around that I’m difficult to work with. Mother probably did little to discourage that. The only decent part on offer was the casting couch producer. I should have just let him fuck me, will next time.’

  ‘Seems a tough way to get ahead in your line of business,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Ask Mother. She’s been on more casting couches than there are casting couches. She’s a terrible tart. I assume you’ve been told.’

  ‘I am aware that the relationship between your father and mother was unusual.’

  ‘It was no relationship. She told him, he accepted. He loved her, still does, and he’s devoted to both Sam and I. Maybe not so much to Sam, but then he’s a hopeless case: drink and drugs.’

  ‘Your relationship with your father?’

  ‘He’s a wonderful man. I’ve told him enough times to give her the boot and find someone else.’

  Isaac wanted to get back to the issue with Charles Sutherland. First, he needed a break. Fiona went and made two coffees. She returned and placed them on the table; best china, he noticed.

  ‘Let us get back to the incident with Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘It was late in the evening. I was drunk, too many vodkas and whiskies, maybe a couple of beers as well. Sutherland was equally drunk. Father was upstairs asleep. He doesn’t have a lot of time for entertainment people. He finds most of them vacuous and self-obsessed, which they are ‒ my mother being the prime example.’

  ‘Your father came to the party?’

  ‘He played the perfect host. He ensured everyone had a drink and was fed. He spent about three hours at the party, and by then a few had left, a few were drunk and asleep in a chair, and some others were sniffing cocaine.’

  ‘Which were you?’

  ‘I was drunk, but not drugged. I’ve tried drugs, the less harmful variety, and they make me psychotic. Alcohol suffices for me.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland.’

  ‘I’m at the back of the house. It’s a big house, as you’ve seen. I’m sitting there drinking steadily. He comes in on his own. He’s clearly high on drugs, and I’m definitely drunk. He sees beauty in me, and I see a handsome man in him.’

  ‘It’s just the two of you?’

  ‘The beautiful woman. The handsome man. That’s what alcohol and recreational drugs do to you – make you see something that is not there.’

  ‘I think you are playing down your
appearance,’ Isaac said. He had to admit that beautiful was not a description he would use, but she had some character in her face. Her manner with people was her main disadvantage.

  ‘You don’t need to be kind. Let me continue.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We start fooling around, groping each other.’

  ‘I thought you said his advances were unwelcome.’

  ‘I was not entirely truthful. Anyway, soon after, I’ve got my skirt up around my arse, and he’s on top of me going for dear life.’

  ‘Sexual intercourse?’

  ‘That’s sounds clinical. It was just a drunken fuck.’

  ‘So why the hatred?’

  ‘As I’m climaxing and he’s struggling to come, in walks my mother. It appears that the party has come to a conclusion and she, and one other, are the only ones left. Except for Charles Sutherland and yours truly.’

  ‘What did you mother say?’

  ‘Nothing. She wasn’t interested in me, only the man she had brought in to fuck.’

  ‘Sutherland’s reaction?’

  ‘He jumped up, left me dangling without concluding his part.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He failed to ejaculate, shoot his load. Clear enough?’

  ‘Clear enough.’

  ‘And what did you think of your mother with another man?’

  ‘Not much. She was always playing around with one man or another, but in my father’s house, with him upstairs asleep… I was angry.’

  ‘There’s a scene with your mother, but what’s this got to do with Sutherland.’

  ‘He takes her side. Calls me an old tart, and said if he hadn’t been drunk, he wouldn’t have touched me with a barge pole. It’s not the first time a man has said that to me. I was livid, making a scene, a lot of noise as well, I suppose. Anyway, my father comes down, sees what’s going on, and takes me out of the room and puts me to bed with a cup of cocoa and a hot water bottle.’

  ‘Charles Sutherland?’

  ‘He left soon after.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Ten minutes later, the front door slammed shut, and she came upstairs as if nothing had happened.’