‘Miss Nichols,’ her legal adviser felt obliged to comment, ‘has complied with the police. The matters which you are now asking her to repeat are deeply embarrassing. Is this necessary?’
‘Yes, we believe it is,’ Isaac replied.
‘He asked me to perform an act on him. I told DI Ahmed?’ Christy Nichols asked.
‘Very well. I let the women in. Later I went to the apartment, and Charles Sutherland was on the ground with the women. He was offensive, naked, flashing his genitals at me.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Nothing. The women left quickly, and I was there alone with him.’
‘And that is when the incident occurred?’ Isaac asked.
‘Yes.’
‘He made you perform fellatio on him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this necessary?’ Christy Nichols’ lawyer asked again.
‘It’s fine, Eileen.’ Christy Nichols leant over and spoke to her lawyer.
‘Was he violent with you?’ Isaac asked. He needed to push some more.
‘He grabbed my arm, forced me down on my knees. Threatened to harm me.’ Farhan noticed the quiver in her voice as she spoke. He felt sorry for her; Isaac showed no emotion.
‘I cannot allow this to continue,’ Eileen Kerr said.
‘I’m nearly finished,’ Isaac said. ‘Miss Nichols, did you at any time threaten him?’
‘I may have. I was angry, frightened. I don’t want to remember.’
‘This must stop. This is police brutality,’ the lawyer said.
‘Meeting concluded at 11 a.m.’ Isaac pressed the stop on the timer and switched off the recording equipment.
***
‘What did you think?’ Farhan asked Isaac after Christy Nichols and her lawyer, possibly lover, had left. Feeling hungry, both had walked down the street to a small Italian restaurant.
‘The motive is strong enough,’ Isaac replied.
‘Is she capable of murder?’
‘What do we know about her?’
‘Not a lot. Apart from what she’s told us.’
‘We need to find out more,’ Isaac said. ‘Let’s be clear here. It’s either Christy Nichols or Jess O’Neill. Both had the motive. One had the opportunity. Is there anyone else we’re missing?’
‘If it’s not a professional hit, then it’s either of the two women.’
‘I’d prefer it was neither, but we can’t let them off. From what I can see, decent women placed in difficult circumstances with an unpleasant and odious man. He’s no great loss to society, yet someone has got to pay for liquidating him.’
‘Isaac, we’re here to uphold the law, not discuss the relative merits of the murderer and the murdered.
‘You’re right. We’d better bring in Jess O’Neill.’
‘We’re forgetting Fiona Avers. She had a motive,’ Farhan said.
‘If it remains unresolved after speaking to Jess O’Neill, we’ll call her in. In the meantime, how’s Wendy going?’
Farhan phoned her. Apparently, the trail for Linda Harris had gone cold.
‘Call her into the office. There’s something more important for her to do.’
Wendy took forty minutes to arrive. ‘Christy Nichols. Have you read her file?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ve had no need to.’
‘You do now. We need to know more about her,’ Isaac said. ‘Where she came from. What her life was like before London. Also, would she be capable of murder?’
Chapter 37
Jess O’Neill’s facial expression clearly revealed her mood as she entered the interview room. Isaac had seen her walk in, but she had purposely looked the other way. He sensed it was going to be a difficult interview. Her brother-in-law, Michael Wrightson, accompanied her.
‘Let it be put on record that my client is here under duress,’ Wrightson said after the opening formalities had concluded. ‘She answered all questions submitted last time in an open and frank manner. And, as we know, at some embarrassment. Reopening old wounds and painful memories is neither appreciated nor required. Let me further add that if as a result of today’s interview it is clear there is no viable reason for her presence, it will be necessary to register a complaint.’
‘Please note that certain information has come into our possession,’ Isaac said after the threat from Wrightson. ‘It has necessitated the presence of Miss O’Neill, as well as others, here today.’ Isaac looked over at Jess. She failed to make eye contact.
‘Then please submit your questions,’ Wrightson responded. ‘My client is a busy person.’
‘Very well,’ Isaac replied. ‘Miss O’Neill, thank you for coming.’
‘I am here under the advice of Mr Wrightson.’ Still no eye contact.
‘We have reason to believe that the murder of Charles Sutherland is not related to the killings of the other two people. As such, it is necessary for us to re-evaluate the evidence.’
‘My client gave a full account of her relationship to Charles Sutherland, and her dislike for the man, last time. Do we need to go over that again?’
Isaac chose to ignore Wrightson’s comment. ‘Miss O’Neill, did you at any time threaten the man with physical harm?’
‘When he was trying to rape me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I probably did. What woman wouldn’t?’
‘I am sorry. I am just trying to ascertain the facts.’
Farhan chose to remain silent. He knew the relationship between the interviewer and the interviewee. He had to admit that she was a fine-looking woman.
Wrightson continued to interject. ‘This line of questioning is unacceptable.’
Isaac ignored him. He addressed Jess again. ‘Can you tell me about your knowledge of poisons?’
‘Is this an accusation?’ Wrightson asked. ‘My client does not need to answer.’
‘No, you are right. She does not need to answer. I, however, need to ask.’
‘Michael, it’s alright,’ she said to her lawyer.
Addressing Isaac, this time making eye contact. ‘If you are asking whether I poisoned Charles Sutherland, the answer is no. The accusation that I would be considered is abhorrent. I did not like the man, but murder…’
‘I am sorry for asking. There are others with a motive who have been asked the same question. It would be remiss if I did not ask you the question.’
He whispered in her ear, ‘He’s giving you a lead. Take it.’
Looking back at Isaac, this time a little friendlier. ‘I have no knowledge of poison, other than tear gas while on assignment in the Middle East. Is that poison?’
‘Thank you for your answer.’ Farhan sensed the desperation of his boss to eliminate her from the inquiry, although none of her answers proved her innocent.
The interview concluded within sixty minutes. As Jess and her brother-in-law left the room, she leant over to Isaac and quietly said, ‘You bastard!’
Farhan, not far away, heard what she said. He knew what it meant. He wondered how Isaac would explain away the actions that had generated such a venomous comment.
***
Wendy was delighted: the expense card reinstated, or, at least, the opportunity to use it without criticism.
Christy Nichols, the records had shown, came from a small village in the Lake District, close to the Scottish border. Wendy was heading up there, her husband in the hands of a live-in nurse for three days. Isaac had approved the cost, no option but to. He knew their boss would query it, but he wanted a result, and there were only two suspects. One he felt was innocent, not because he wanted her to be, but because her story had checked out. Jess O’Neill had grown up in in north London. She had left school with good marks and gone straight to university, majoring in English Literature. It hardly seemed to be suitable training for administering drugs, poisonous or otherwise.
The Lake District, two hundred and fifty miles to the north of London, seemed too far to drive. Wendy chose to take the train, three and a half hours to O
xenholme. She departed at eleven in the morning from Euston station, arriving just after two in the afternoon. A short taxi ride took her into Kendal, a small town of about twenty-eight thousand inhabitants. She rented a car and checked into the Castle Green Hotel. The brochures said it was the finest hotel in the town; Wendy could not disagree. The wine list looked suitably impressive. She decided to exercise the credit card that night.
The address of Christy Nichols’ family was to the west. She decided the following morning would be more suitable. Light rain was falling, and she had been told that the mist could come down at any time. It appeared that the family home was isolated and down some winding roads. Wendy, although a competent driver, felt more familiar with the bumper to bumper traffic in London than an isolated country lane.
Isaac phoned as she was seated at the bar; reminded her to go easy on the credit card. Too late, she thought.
He updated her on his and Farhan’s activities that day. And how Jess O’Neill appeared to be in the clear. Wendy thought to herself, he needs to be careful there. And also on how Christy Nichols seemed to be the more likely of the two, although Isaac failed to elucidate on his reasoning. She decided not to press for an answer.
Isaac was a DCI; she a lowly constable. He had the brains, the training, the instincts. He had learnt to read body language, the furtive eye movements, the change in voice tone of a defensive person, or someone just telling a plain lie. She hoped he wasn’t allowing his overactive libido to get in the way.
She had known Isaac a long time. Almost from the first days when he joined the police force, then in uniform, right up until he changed over to plain clothes and his elevation up through the ranks. She had seen the women he had taken out, the women in the police force who had swooned over him. She knew he was partial to one of the women close to the murdered people, closer than she had seen him with others in the past. She reflected on Detective Superintendent Goddard’s comment the other day when he had said ‘Again’. She would ask her DCI when this was all over, not sure she would get an answer, maybe a knowing smile, but what use would that be? Perhaps some harmless titillating gossip for her and Bridget to speculate about, over a few drinks. She knew Bridget could keep a secret and would enjoy the story, even daydream that it was her on the receiving end of one of Isaac’s amorous advances.
***
Farhan, with only loose ends to deal with, busied himself with the preparations for moving Marjorie Frobisher to the safe house. A suitable location, fifteen miles to the west, seemed ideal. Richard Goddard had approved the cost for a one-month rental on a country cottage. The woman had been precise in the quality required: no one-room apartment, no doss-house, no third-rate accommodation. Farhan had checked it out. It looked suitable for the demanding woman. To him, it looked fantastic. His wife, realising that he was close to her favourite actor, was phoning him, asking for an introduction. He felt he did not need her communication as the divorce was progressing. A solicitor from his side, another from hers, and it was proceeding amicably. He had even managed to see the children a couple of times in the last week.
Aisha was back from her trip out of the capital, hoping to catch up that night if possible, the following if not. Farhan, desperate as he was, realised there was another priority. He had to ensure Marjorie Frobisher was safe and secure. Her husband had taken a shine to him before. Apparently, she had as well. A condition of her transfer was that he was to take responsibility for her safety. He had no option but to agree.
The plan was simple; the execution, not so. The media presence had virtually evaporated, apart from a couple of junior reporters stationed out by the main entrance looking bored: armed only with a camera and a microphone, namely an iPhone. Farhan hoped they would disappear.
First, Marjorie Frobisher would put on a surgical gown. Then she would lie on a stretcher, suitably bandaged, and be taken out to a waiting ambulance. It was to look as if the patient was transferring to another hospital for specialist treatment. Once clear of the hospital and confident of no prying eyes, she would exit the ambulance and get into a car driven by a policeman, the windows tinted. The vehicle would then proceed to the cottage.
Robert Avers was aware of the plan, but he would not be going to the cottage. It was too risky.
Farhan would stay at the cottage with her until she was calm. She had agreed that she would tell Isaac all he needed to know once she was comfortable. Isaac was frustrated by her hesitancy. He could only see permanent protection for her if she revealed what she knew.
If the media was made aware of the facts, then what point would there be in liquidating her. She had told Isaac that the situation was complicated. There were other issues to consider, and Richard Williams had died because of her. She did not want others to die as well. Isaac had noted that she failed to mention Sally Jenkins.
Richard Williams, more crucial to the investigation, remained on a slab at the morgue. His body was not to be released for a few more days.
***
Wendy, a little the worse for wear, left her hotel at eight in the morning. She had slept well but woken with a throbbing headache, although not throbbing enough to deter her from a good English breakfast of two eggs, three bacon rashers and a couple of sausages, washed down with two cups of tea.
Christy Nichols’ home address – Farm Cottage, Underbarrow, Cumbria. It lay five miles to the west of where she was staying. It took Wendy twenty-five minutes to drive there. A small village, it consisted of no more than fifty cottages, most of them of a stone construction. A public house stood at the main crossroads.
Wendy had to admit it was a pretty place, somewhere she could live, although she realised the climate in winter would be savage – not conducive to someone with arthritis. She had felt the pain more since venturing north, and while it was only a couple of degrees colder, it made a difference. South, a long way south where the sun shone every day, was where she was heading if the opportunity arose.
Farm Cottage, she found out from a local woman standing on a corner waiting for the bus, was up a narrow, winding lane heading away from the village. ‘Don’t go up there,’ the woman had said.
Wendy had asked why – the answer confusing, unintelligible. She would have pursued the matter, but the bus appeared, and the woman was gone. As she climbed the slight incline towards Farm Cottage, she could see an old farm house and no perceivable activity. She did not want to go in, just to observe. Ten minutes later, a woman with an old dog at her side appeared at the front of the house.
Wendy stayed for a few hours walking around the area. It was a walker’s paradise, and she did not look out of place, apart from her stopping every few minutes for a rest. As lunchtime was approaching, she decided to return to the public house she had seen on her way up. An open fire was blazing inside, even though it was not bitterly cold outside.
‘Gives it a cosy feeling,’ the landlord said when she asked.
‘What do you have to eat?’
‘Typical pub lunches. My wife’s steak and kidney, or maybe mushroom, if you prefer.’
‘Steak and kidney for me. A pint of your best local bitter, as well.’
‘These days, it’s not local.’
‘Your best, anyway.’
‘Ten minutes for the pie, the beer straight away.’
Wendy noticed the pub was virtually empty, like pubs up and down the country. The local point of personal interaction supplanted by the world of instant communications and streaming movies on the internet. She missed the old days in many ways. A computer baffled her, a smartphone seemed only useful for making phone calls, the occasional SMS, and as for email, it was fine, but she could see little point in it. The police report she would usually write in long hand, and then ask Bridget to type up, the only cost a little bit of gossip. A small price to pay for such a valued service.
‘What brings you up here?’ the landlord asked. He was a red-faced man with an extended belly. She instinctively liked him.
‘I was on business i
n Carlisle. I just thought I’d take the opportunity to check out the Lake District.’
‘What do you reckon?’ he asked. He had joined her with a pint of beer as well. Wendy could see from his appearance that he often had his beefy hand clasped around a pint of beer.
‘Very pretty. The winters must be tough up here?’
‘Can be. Last year was not so bad. Something to do with global warming, I assume.’
‘Probably,’ Wendy said.
‘Are you a hiker?’
‘I used to be.’
‘Not now?’ he asked. Wendy noticed that he had poured himself another beer, bought another for her. ‘On the house,’ he said as he put the two beers down on the bar.
‘Thanks. Arthritis, unfortunately.’
‘I’ve got a bit myself. It’s a nuisance, but that’s how it is.’
‘I had a stroll up near Farm Cottage.’
‘It’s grim up there.’
‘It seemed pretty enough.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Just a woman and an old dog.’
‘Sad story.’ Wendy put her glass of beer down and took off her jacket. The fire in the corner too warm for her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bill Nichols, a strange character, used to come in here occasionally.’
‘What about him.’
‘Believed in corporal punishment, taking a strap to the kids if they played up.’
‘Is that allowed?’
‘No, of course not. But it could never be proved. His kids always supported him. Attractive children they were.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I’ve no idea. They disappeared a few years back. The son sometimes comes back to see the mother. The daughter, not seen her since. Pretty young thing, she was.’
‘What were the children’s names?’ Wendy asked.
‘Terry, the son. The daughter, Christine, Christy. No, it was Christy. They never said much; fear of a leathering from their father, I suppose.’
‘Where’s the father now?’
‘Dead. Accident, they said.’
The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3 Page 30
