‘It’s important that we know,’ Farhan insisted, a little more forceful that 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 parting 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 in the people that Marjorie Frobisher knew: her paramours past and present.
***
Isaac for his part had been out to 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, although they had been arranged into a compound and 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 of 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 thinning head, barely at 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 Napoleonic Complex, but Isaac clearly saw 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 out at the production lot. He was not averse to insulting his actors, production team, scriptwriters ‒ in fact, any who were subservient to him. He also found out that he was a sycophant who had no problem sucking 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 looked 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 impression 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 O’Neill. He decided to continue with the interview and to come back later to that particularly disturbing piece of news.
‘I was told she was brilliant in the part,’ Isaac said.
‘Of course, she was. 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 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 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. He still intended to challenge Ian Stanley over his ‘Jess O’Neill’ reference before concluding the conversation. It had upset him more than it should.
‘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 about 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 many years ago. 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 piece 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, to get action. Isaac also noticed that his language had changed, and a great deal of bad language spewed forth from his mouth.
Chapter 7
With little more to achieve for the 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?’ Farhan saw where Isaac was heading. Isaac sat on his side of the office, window to his rear. Both had loosened their ties, and unless the situation changed they would leave early, which in their cases meant before eight p.m.
Neither was anxious to leave, mainly because where they were heading to was less agreeable than where they were now. Farhan
had a dreary house in a dreary street with a dreary wife and a dreary television blasting out all day and virtually all night. At least, the children gave him comfort, but they would be in bed, fast asleep by the time he arrived home. And his wife, heavily pregnant, would not be conducive to his amorous advances and after spending time with two, if not young, but very attractive women he was in need of an outlet. There was no outlet, he knew that. The best he could do was to keep working until exhaustion and then go home to sleep.
Isaac had a different problem. A woman to occupy his bed was easy to arrange. He had a phone number, and he knew, she would respond and be around to his apartment within the hour. He had always needed an emotional attachment to the woman he was bedding, and that person was not possible at the present time. It was obviously Jess O’Neill, but he couldn’t go near her if the investigation were to escalate. The longer Marjorie Frobisher stayed missing, the more likely that foul play was afoot. The fact that Richard Williams had already bedded her also gave him concern. He saw her as better than that, although it had come to him from an unreliable source. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt until he confronted her.
‘I believe her to be dead?’ Isaac said.
‘Why do you come up with that conclusion?’ Farhan could see them remaining in the office for a few more hours. He recognised the traits of a workaholic in him, but he could never be sure if his diagnosis was correct, or whether it was as a result of an unsatisfactory home life. It caused him great conflict. He had attempted a discussion with the Imam at the local Mosque that he tried to visit every Friday for Jummah, the most significant prayer time in the Muslim calendar. He rarely made it, and would on most occasions make his prayers in a quiet part of the office, or out at a crime scene.
The Imam, a good man, even if he was excessively conservative, could offer no tangible advice other than, ‘Allah will guide you. It is for you to trust in his wisdom.’
Farhan could only agree, but he knew the solution was not so easy for him. The Imam stayed within his community, spoke mostly the language of the homeland and saw little of the other world. Farhan had seen plenty, been to places where no Muslim should ever venture. He had seen the raw underbelly of society, the decadence, the depravity, even the naked writhing females in a strip joint – it had been part of a murder investigation.
‘Let’s look at the facts,’ Isaac said. He realised he was on his third cup of coffee, and hunger had set in. He ordered a Pizza to be delivered, at least as far as the entrance to the building. He would need to go down to pick it up. He had been a potential world-class runner in his day, sub-ten seconds for the one hundred metre’s dash, but he was not as devoted as he should have been, and academia had been where his parent wanted him to focus. Besides, an unfortunate twisting of his left ankle on the university sports field had rendered his improving on the time not possible. He only reflected on that fact as he ordered the Pizza, the third that week, and had noticed the slight paunch, a clear indication of too many occurrences of fast food and lack of exercise.
Michelle, his previous live-in lover, or, at least, she was in his bed enough times at his apartment to qualify for the title had seen the validity of a balanced diet. She had made sure he ate well, at least, when she was around; even had him running around the park on a Sunday. If he achieved a respectable time, she would joke that she would reward him with a special treat. She always did regardless, as she was sexually voracious. She had been an accountant, someone he had been fond of, but with time and the pressure of work and the fact that she had been transferred to the north of the country, the relationship came to its natural conclusion.
They communicated by email but she had moved on, met another man who was talking about marriage. Isaac wished her well, but marriage for him was for later, not now, although going home to an empty apartment and an empty bed filled him with no great joy.
‘I realise we don’t have a corpse,’ Isaac said as he consumed the last slice of Pizza, ‘but everything else points to that scenario.’
Farhan could see the coherent thought pattern, could see how Isaac was formulating his assumptions into possible facts. He would let him continue. ‘You may well be right. Detail your analysis.’
‘One, she’s disappeared before, but never for so long. Two, she’s never missed her commitment to her work obligations and three, there’s the interest of the so-called influential persons.’
‘There are a lot of vagaries in there. It wouldn’t hold up in a Court of Law.’
‘Farhan, we’re not a Court of Law. We are just speculating.’
‘Okay, then let’s analyse what we know.’
Isaac stood up, moved over to the whiteboard and started to write. The whiteboard marker was dry. He chose another. It worked. ‘Firstly, it is now over three weeks,’ he said, ‘almost four since she was last sighted. The most she has disappeared for before has been a week to ten days.’
‘What about the SMSs?’
‘If it’s not her, then someone else is sending them.’
‘But why?’
‘That’s a question for which we don’t have an answer. What if someone doesn’t want us to know she’s dead?’
‘Is that possible?’ Farhan asked.
‘Admittedly, it sounds illogical, but what else can it be?’ Even Isaac thought the scenario seemed implausible, but aimlessly conducting a missing person investigation with no tangible results was pointless.
‘Can we prove this?’
‘I don’t see how we can. We know the general location of the SMSs, but they are only triangulated off the nearest communication towers. They will be accurate to within ten, twenty metres at most, maybe more if it’s a remote area.’
Farhan moved to the whiteboard, ‘If one of the SMSs came from a remote location, say a building isolated in the countryside it may be possible to pinpoint. If the area is sparsely populated, then maybe it’s possible.’
‘How are we going to do that?’
‘I suggest we get the SMS records, evaluate and then pick one or two possibilities.’
‘And then one of us goes there and starts sniffing around.’
‘It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose?’
‘Okay, let’s do that.’ Isaac continued his analysis; Farhan resumed his seat after idly drawing a circle on the whiteboard and then rubbing it off.
‘Secondly, she had never missed a work commitment before. That validates my statement that she is dead. From what we know of the woman, she would not have missed her opportunity to play the grieving sister when her on-screen brother died. It would have been irresistible for her.’
Farhan could only agree. He failed to mention that his wife had put forward that conclusion. A bored and poorly educated woman and she comes up with better results, Farhan thought.
‘These so-called influential persons, any luck there?’ Isaac asked. He had resumed his seat. A cursory glance at the clock revealed that it was after ten. Outside it was dark and the rain had started. He sent a text message. He did not want to conclude the day with a hot drink and a cold bed.
‘Not really. The most I’ve found out, is that there have been a few previous lovers of significance, but they’re not recent.’
‘Her agent, what did she have to say?’
‘She had plenty to say but then she started clamming up.’
‘Why?’
‘She was very agreeable as was her PA, but once I started to dig deeper, she hurried me out of the room. She knows the dirt or at least some of it.’
‘And she was not going to dish it out to you?’ Isaac said, aware that Farhan’s easy and pleasant manner of drawing information, especially from women was exceptional.
‘If we have a body, she will give names.’
‘That doesn’t help us much, does it?’
‘We’re at a dead end,’ Farhan said.
Isaac, before he could respond was momentarily distracted by an SMS on his phone, ‘see you in one hour.’ At least, his
bed would be warm tonight. ‘Farhan, let’s wrap it for this evening, meet tomorrow early and discuss our strategy. Interviewing people will not get us anywhere. We need to go and find this woman or at least what remains of her.’
Farhan agreed. He had heard the beep on Isaac’s phone, seen his smirking smile. He wished that it had been him going home to a willing and liberated woman. He had little to look forward to except the sullen expression on his wife’s face, and a complaint about the late hour.
Chapter 8
Sophie White was a decent person; Isaac knew that well enough. They had met three years earlier during a case he had conducted into the murder of a hooligan down an alley in Brixton. It had appeared to be a case of rival gangs indulging in a tit-for-tat, ‘You kill one of ours, we’ll kill one of yours.’
That was how they wanted to record it down at the police station. It was just too much paperwork and one less hooligan only served society well. The police realised that catching the guilty hooligan or hooligans was the ideal, but invariably there were extenuating circumstances: still a minor, self-defence, deprived childhood, mentally unstable. There were just too many opportunities for the guilty party to get off: slap on the back of the hand, community service or time in an air-conditioned reform home.
That was how Isaac’s boss saw it. A gnarled, old-school policeman, he remembered a time when a kick up the arse and a good beating were perfectly acceptable forms of crime deterrent. He didn’t hold with the modern style of policing: too politically correct, too cosmetic, too soft on the criminals. He believed that a villain respects authority and strength and that the modern police handbook did little to help.
Isaac- then a detective sergeant, fresh out of uniform - understood his plight, but he had been university educated, his boss had not. Thirty years previous, a different style of policing was suitable. Those were the days before heavy drugs, Islamic terrorism and population explosion. Isaac had studied the period. His boss belonged to that time. He was a good man, a relic of the past. He had been prepared to write off the hooligan’s death in an alley at the back of a particularly depressing row of shops as death by misadventure, person or persons unknown.
Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1) Page 6
