Murder is a Tricky Business (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 1)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He invites me to sit down with him. It appears he had paid plenty for these women, and he doesn’t mind sharing.’

  ‘How long did you stay in the club?’

  ‘About two hours and then we went to his place in Mayfair.’

  ‘With the women?’

  ‘Of course, what else would I go there for?’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘He took one, I took the other and then we swapped. Eventually, I fell asleep and the next I knew it was early morning, and a bird was sitting outside on the balcony railing making a noise.’

  ‘The women, where were they?’

  ‘They had gone, so had Sutherland. I left soon after, nothing for me to do there.’

  ‘Why leave? I understand from your father that you do not work.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘I spoke to your sister before. She is very fond of her father.’

  ‘She would be. He always spoiled her, buying her presents.’

  ‘You were not spoiled?’

  ‘From him? No way. The most he would give me was a lecture about how to stand up straight, be a man. He was a fine one to give lectures.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He couldn’t even control his wife. What sort of man allows his wife to fuck anyone she wants to, even in his house?’

  ‘Did that happen often?’

  ‘Not often, I suppose.’

  How often?’

  ‘There was that time with Richard Williams. He’s been screwing her for years. Did he tell you that?’

  ‘I’m aware they were involved many years ago before your parents were married.’

  ‘They’re still involved. If you want to find out where she is, you better talk to him.’

  ‘Your dislike for your mother, is it a strong enough motive to wish her harm?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of murdering my own mother?’

  ‘No. I need to ascertain the intensity of your ambivalence towards your mother.’

  ‘If by ambivalence, you mean hatred, then I hated her. Not enough to kill her and she’s the one with the money, not my father.’

  ‘I thought your father was successful in his own right.’

  ‘He made some money, but nothing like her. She was the earner in this house. No doubt why he allowed her to screw around.’

  ‘Are you an earner?’

  ‘I’m just a drunken layabout. My father must have told you that.’

  ‘He mentioned you had some issues. Just one more question before we conclude.’

  ‘Let me get a top up.’ Isaac had counted three large whiskies consumed by Sam Avers since he arrived. It was apparent that he did not intend to stop until the bottle was drained.

  ‘Your father. Capable of murder?’

  ‘Him? I don’t think so.’

  ***

  Wendy Gladstone armed with the new information set off to find Bert, the taxi driver. He was not difficult to find. The taxi rank, a five minute walk up the road, only had places for three vehicles. Bert’s was the second. The one in front was a grey Vauxhall - looked as though it could do with a wash. The blue Toyota of Bert was fresh and clean, and she could see why the hotel used his in preference to the other taxis in the small town.

  ‘Felicity recommended me,’ she said.

  ‘From the Abbey?’ he replied. She could see that he was closer to seventy years of age than sixty. He still maintained a luxuriant growth of hair on his head, a small balding patch just starting to show. He was dressed in a suit with a white shirt and tie. She was impressed.

  ‘The Abbey, yes.’

  ‘She should have phoned. I would have come down and picked you up, saved you the walk.’

  ‘I enjoy walking,’ she said, which was true enough before arthritis had set in. Now she had to take care, not walk too fast. It annoyed her that she was not as agile as she had been as a child and then a young woman. She complained little and certainly to no one except her husband, and he was starting to repeat words, forgetful at times. She assumed it was senility setting in.

  ‘Where can I take you?’

  ‘I’ll be honest, Bert. I’ve been asked to find one of your clients.’

  ‘Are you police?’

  ‘I was not entirely honest with Felicity down at the hotel. I told her it was her husband who had asked me. My name is Wendy Gladstone.’

  ‘What’s the truth?’ the taxi driver asked. Wendy could see that he was an agile man, quick of mind.

  ‘We’re treating the woman’s disappearance as suspicious.’

  ‘You’re from London?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The accent mainly. Some others were asking after her.’

  ‘I grew up in Yorkshire,’

  ‘Maybe you did, but it’s a London accent now. Pure cockney, although, now you mention it, there’s a bit of Yorkshire in there.’

  ‘You mentioned some others looking for her?’

  ‘You never confirmed that you were police.’

  ‘Police Constable.’

  ‘I didn’t like them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The two who were looking for her?’

  ‘Did they say who they were?’

  ‘I’ve not mentioned who the woman is yet. Did they tell you?’

  ‘Felicity was desperate to tell me. My wife was excited when I told her.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve never taken much notice of her before. I don’t watch the television apart from the sport’s channel.’

  ‘Are you free to talk?’ she asked.

  ‘The taximeter is running. I assume that’s fine by you?’

  ‘Fine, expense account. You may as well have the benefit of it as well.’

  ‘Can it stand a decent meal?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, why not.’

  ‘Hop in and we’ll treat ourselves to a good meal up the road.’

  Bert or Bert Collins, his full name, at least for the report she would have to write up later, apparently enjoyed the little luxuries in life. He ordered the best, including the best wine. She knew she should not and had been promising to go on a diet, but in the end, she matched him, course for course.

  ‘She didn’t say much, just mumbled a few words and paid the fare,’ he said between gulps of wine.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me that will help me find her?’

  ‘I dropped her off at the railway station in Worcester, which made little sense. We have a perfectly good railway station here which connects into Worcester.’

  ‘Did she give you a reason?’

  ‘I saw no reason to ask. She was paying, and Worcester is farther than the local station.’

  ‘When you dropped her off, did she say where she was heading?’

  ‘She saw the time and a train coming into the station. She made some comment under her breath and dashed off. I assumed she wanted to catch the train.’

  ‘Where was it heading?’

  ‘Paddington. Two and a half hours. I take it myself when Arsenal is playing at home.’

  ‘She never arrived, or at least, she never made it to her home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that. She paid my money, and as I said, she dashed off. There wasn’t another train for some time after so I can’t see where else she had gone.’

  Wendy found him a congenial man, appreciative of a good meal and a bottle of wine, two in fact as he had just ordered another. There goes my diet, she thought.

  ‘The other two men. What can you tell me about them?’

  ‘Then sat in the back of the taxi and asked me to drive them around the area. They said they were up for a business conference and were taking the opportunity of a couple of hours to do some sightseeing.’

  ‘Did you believe them?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It was raining heavy, could barely see where I was going, and there were no business conferences on in the tow
n that I knew of.’

  ‘Would you know if there was?’

  ‘I’m confident I would.’

  ‘As you’re driving around, what did they ask?’

  ‘They made small talk and then they started asking about this woman?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘This Marjorie Frobisher.’

  ‘Did that cause you some concern?’

  ‘It sure did. How did they know about her? They weren’t staying at the Abbey. I know that Felicity Pearson is a bit of a gossip, but why should two men, business men, be interested in the whereabouts of a woman off a programme on the television.’

  ‘Did they say why they were interested?’

  ‘I asked. They made up some lame reason that their wives watched the programme. Then they started offering me money, wanting to take me to the pub for a few drinks.’

  ‘Did you tell them what you told me?’

  ‘No. I just said that my shift was coming to a close, which wasn’t true, and dropped them back at the taxi rank. That’s the last I saw of them.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell them anything?’

  ‘You were honest. Bought me a nice meal.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  ‘It’s a good enough reason for me,’ he said. There was still half a bottle of a good wine to drink. Wendy thought they might be able to drink another bottle after that. She was sure Bert would not object.

  Chapter 23

  Richard Williams did not appreciate the official request to present himself at the police station. He was a man used to giving orders, not receiving them. ‘What right have you to demand my presence here? I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Some new information has come to light. Information in relation to you,’ Isaac said. Farhan as usual, at his left. Richard Williams, dressed formally in a suit, sat opposite Isaac. Williams had brought legal representation, Quinton Scott, Queen’s Counsel, of Scott, Scott and Fairlight. To Isaac, he looked landed gentry. To Farhan, he looked to be a man who did not appreciate anyone who had not been born with a silver spoon in their mouth or a white complexion with blue eyes. He had reluctantly shaken Isaac’s hand, made a clear attempt to avoid repeating the same mistake with him.

  Isaac commenced the interview, following the official procedure, noting the time of the interview, informing the client of his rights and asking those present to state their names and details.

  ‘My client is here at the express request of the police. He is willing to answer any reasonable questions that are put to him,’ Quinton Scott, William’s QC said. He made an attempt to emphasise his superior breeding. Toffee- nosed git, Farhan thought, which surprised him as he was not a man to indulge in character assassinations.

  ‘Mr Williams, we are in possession of information that clearly indicates you lied to us on previous occasions,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I reject that aspersion. I have upheld my responsibility and always given the truth when asked.’

  ‘I hope that these accusations can be validated. It will be seen as police harassment if they are fabrications. The Commissioner of Police, Charles Shaw, will take a dim view of this if I am obliged to inform him.’ Isaac, a usually patient man, was enraged at the Queens Counsel throwing his weight around, mentioning important names and aiming to frighten him.

  ‘Let me remind you that this is a murder investigation,’ Isaac said. ‘I am sure that Commissioner Shaw will fully endorse my position.’

  ‘Very well, continue.’ Quinton Scott appeared muted for the moment.

  ‘Mr Williams, you mentioned on a previous occasion in your office, that your relationship, your intimate relationship with Marjorie Frobisher, occurred many years ago, and that you have remained as friends since then.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Recent information indicates that your relationship has continued.’

  ‘Our friendship has.’

  ‘There was a party at Marjorie Frobisher’s house when it became more than a friendship.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ Williams said. His legal adviser maintained a thoughtful pose, arms folded, listening to the conversation.

  ‘Is this true?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Williams, I am led to believe you are lying. We are not here to pass moral judgement; we are here to ascertain the truth. Whether you were or are sleeping with her only concerns us in relation to our enquiries.’

  Quinton Scott felt the need to speak. ‘My client has clearly indicated the current and past status. He is not required to say anymore.’

  ‘That is his right,’ Isaac continued. ‘However, Mr Williams is the last person to have seen Marjorie Frobisher alive, and that is by his own admission.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Quinton Scott turned towards his client to ask.

  ‘I knew she was in Malvern, at least for some of the time she has been missing. I went there and met her.’

  Quinton Scott turned to Isaac, ‘DCI Cook, I would request fifteen minutes with my client.’

  ‘Interview halted at 11.30 a.m.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the QC said.

  ‘I’ll send in two coffees,’ Farhan said.

  A begrudging grunt from the QC; thanks from Williams.

  ***

  Forty minutes later the interview recommenced. During the interval, Farhan and Isaac had managed to grab a bite to eat. Richard Williams and Quinton Scott had asked for a Pizza each. A young female police officer had delivered them to the interview room.

  ‘Interview resumed at 12.10.’

  ‘My client would like to make a statement,’ the QC said.

  Richard Williams commenced. ‘I have maintained a relationship with Marjorie Frobisher over the years. This has been infrequent in its nature, but as I had indicated before we have a history of when we were both struggling to make our way in the world. There have been years when we have just been friends, others where we have been intimate.

  ‘Marjorie phoned me from Malvern. I went up there to meet her. The programme was in need of her, and I did not want her to be absent. There are a number of reasons as to why I did not tell you, not the least that I am genuinely fond of the woman. Also, the ratings and the advertising revenue were sure to be enhanced by her being on the screen, grieving elder sister, vengeful and determined slayer of those who had killed her brother.

  ‘She was frightened. I reasoned with her, and she agreed to return to London within a few days. I offered to provide her with security, although the reason it was needed remained obscure. That is the end of my statement.’

  ‘Do you have any knowledge of why she was frightened?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘She has skeletons in the cupboard, the same as most people.’

  ‘Hers were substantial.’

  ‘As you say, substantial.’

  ‘Are you aware of a child?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is there any more you can tell us about this child?’

  ‘It was before we met.’

  ‘Was the child yours?’

  The QC intervened. ‘My client will not answer that question.

  ‘It’s okay, Quinton,’ Williams said.

  ‘The child was not mine,’ he addressed Isaac.

  ‘Do you know who the father is?’

  ‘She would never tell me.’

  ‘Did she know?’

  ‘Are you insinuating that she may have been sleeping with more than one man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s possible, of course. She was promiscuous in a casual manner. Most people were then. It was a time before HIV and Aids.’

  Does Robert Avers know about this child?’

  ‘How would I know? You better ask him.’

  ‘Do you think he knows?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Isaac could see that he had exhausted one line of questioning. He could not fault Richard Williams in his responses. ‘Did you at a party at her house have sexual relations with Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Are you someho
w trying to imply that because of Charles Sutherland and his daughter, I am somehow responsible for his death?’

  ‘I am purely attempting to ascertain whether you deny the incident.’

  ‘I’d prefer to forget it.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Her daughter, plain Jane, legs up in the air with Charles Sutherland’s bare arse bobbing up and down. Not one of the prettiest sights.’

  ‘How did Marjorie Frobisher react?’

  ‘Badly.’

  ‘Out of shame?’

  ‘No. She had just had the sofa reupholstered. Her fat daughter and Sutherland were hardly the cleanest of people. She didn’t want him spraying his mongrel sperm over it.’

  ‘She didn’t care about the daughter?’

  ‘She never had. Why should she start then?’

  ‘Fiona Avers has a reason to dislike her mother?’ Isaac commented.

  ‘I didn’t like the way Marjorie treated her children, but it wasn’t for me to complain. That was Robert Aver’s responsibility.’

  ‘Is there any more?’ Quinton Scott asked. ‘It appears that we have lapsed into innuendo and questions on morality, not the investigation of a murder.’

  Isaac followed official police procedures and then hit the stop recording button.

  Williams and Scott left soon after. Isaac spoke to Farhan. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘He answered the questions. I can’t see that he has a motive for murder.’

  ***

  It had been some time since Isaac and Farhan had seen the tails on their cars. They contacted Richard Goddard. Normally, they would have just contacted the vehicle identification department, but they knew their registrations would be classified.

  Wendy, back in the office, rearranged the furniture to Farhan’s chagrin. She reckoned the two cars tailing might be tied in with the two men, Bert, the taxi driver had mentioned up in Malvern. Isaac was not pleased with her presence in the office, as not only did they have to contend with stale cigarette smoke, now they had the smell of stale wine. Farhan was certain that she was slightly hungover.

  As soon as she had debriefed them, she decided to focus her investigations at Paddington station. On the way through Worcester, she had spoken to the ticket seller on duty at the railway station. It had been busy the day that Bert had dropped off Marjorie Frobisher, the ticket seller had said. And besides, he added, most tickets are sold from a machine. She had managed to get tapes of the security cameras at the station. They were typically kept for a period of time and then erased. One day more, he had told her, and the video would have been gone forever. The tapes she passed over to Constable Bridget Halloran, the CCTV viewing officer on arriving at Challis Street. She would scan through using facial recognition technology and a trained eye. Wendy had wished her well.