‘Edith Blythe, what can I say? Brilliant characterisation, excellent delivery, great timing ‒ undoubtedly the star of the show.’ A well-dressed, prim and proper woman in her mid-thirties, Jessica O’Neill had come to the position of series producer through a torturous route. She had started some years earlier as a continuity editor on a period drama set in seventeenth century England. It had not been well-received in that the script writing lacked tension, and the intensity of the novel from which it had been adapted had been lost. It lasted one season before the production company pulled the plug.
Jessica, attractive, slim, and articulate, had found herself very quickly out of work after such a promising start. The one highlight of the programme according to Alexander Lewis, one of the directors of the production company, had been the quality of the continuity.
Jeremy Lewis, Alexander’s eldest son, was only two years older than her. They had dated for a while, became lovers, moved in together only for her to move out two months later. No reason other than they both felt they were too young, and they still wanted to play the field. The one result of the coupling was that she acquired a close friend, and he had guided her career since then.
He ensured that her career progressed in a succession of increasingly important jobs, including a stint working with a news unit covering an outbreak of insurrection in the Middle East. She had been enamoured of the job when it was first offered – soon became disillusioned after she had become separated from her team during a demonstration.
She had found herself surrounded by a group of men who forgot what they were protesting about and turned their attention to her. It took a few soldiers and a lot of shots to get her away from them and to the nearest hospital. She decided after the wounds had healed and the trauma had subsided that she was better off back in England.
The series producer’s job had come about as a result of the previous incumbent having a blazing row with one of the directors over editorial content, and storming off the set.
She had been brought in at short notice on the recommendation of her ex-lover, and most, at least the senior production team, agreed that the end result was good, but her dictatorial style was hard to take. She had taken control of the Billy Blythe episode where he met his fate and had done it well – even dealt with Charles Sutherland when he called her an arrogant little bitch. It was clear to her and senior management that she was going to stay, and a two-week stand-in had extended to six months and looked to be continuing for the foreseeable future.
Isaac Cook’s previous question had generated a glowing reference. His next question would be more telling. ‘Miss O’Neill, the actor who portrays Edith Blythe?’ he asked.
‘Call me Jess.’
‘Jess, of course. Marjorie Frobisher, the person, not the actor.’
‘Unless she’s confirmed dead, I have to be careful what I say.’ Her manner had changed. Isaac noticed that she had subtly pulled back from him. Before his earlier question, she had been close, personable. Now, she was professional and distant. The change interested him. He determined to persevere.
‘Jess, you’re right, of course. At the present moment, we’re not dealing with a murder, only a missing person.’
‘But you’re here from the Serious Crime Division. I can’t see why they would send a detective chief inspector purely to find a missing person. It seems incongruous to send someone as smart as you to look for her unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘Orders from on high or I wouldn’t be here. I’ve got enough bodies out there looking for a culprit. Here is the last place I want to be at the present moment.’
‘DCI, I’ll give it to you straight, in confidence.’
‘Sure, in confidence. This is not an official enquiry yet, so what you tell me doesn’t have to be reported. Of course, if it does become official, then what you say may become relevant and on the record.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher was not a nice person. In fact, she was not popular at all with anybody here. Always pushing her weight around, causing trouble, debating her lines, the camera angle, her profile. She saw herself as a prima donna, an A-List movie star, but what was she? Just an actor.’
‘But you said she was brilliant.’
‘Brilliant, of course, but this is hardly Gone with the Wind or Casablanca.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was at the pinnacle of her career. I know she believed she was destined for greatness in a major movie in America, but that was never going to happen.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Isaac struggled with the answer. Jess had once again relaxed and moved closer to him, disarmingly close. It was always an occupational hazard. Start interviewing a female witness and they were invariably charmed by his good manners and his black complexion.
He was not a vain man who regarded himself as automatically attractive to the opposite sex, but he was not impervious to reality. He remained single, not out of any great desire for bachelorhood but because a succession of attractive women was constantly heading in his direction and his bed. He did not want Jess O’Neill to be one of them, especially if a body was found and the missing person’s case became a murder investigation.
Conflict of interest would have been an issue if one of the witnesses, possibly one of the suspects, possibly the murderer, was sharing his bed as well.
Jess continued. ‘She was ideal for a television drama. For a woman in her fifties she was certainly attractive, but not attractive enough for a major movie, or, at least, not as one of the leading ladies.’
‘That’s a broad statement.’
‘I worked on a major movie here in England. Just one of the script writers, but I interfaced with some big names in the business, Oscar winners.’
‘And?’
‘There’s something about them. They had a presence, magnetism, a “je ne sais quoi”. Marjorie Frobisher didn’t have it.’
‘Is that because they are major movie stars?’
‘In part I would agree, but that definable quality is, I believe, with the person regardless of their star status.’
‘Are you saying that Marjorie Frobisher was at the peak of her career, and it was downhill from here?’
‘Yes, that is what I am saying.’
‘Does she know this?’
‘In the strictest confidence, yes. Please don’t use it and certainly don’t let the gossip magazines hear of it.’
‘I’ll agree, but if it becomes a murder enquiry.’
‘She’s becoming older, maybe too old for the programme. There’s a decision to reinvigorate the programme. Bring in some younger characters; get rid of some of the older ones.’
‘I thought you had record ratings.’
‘Record ratings, but they drop and very quickly if you don’t give them something new.’
‘Older characters. Is Edith Blythe one of them?’
‘She’s out in three to six months at the most. They’ll honour her contract, but she’s going. We killed off Billy Blythe, her brother, now it’s time for her. Mind you, Billy Blythe’s death generated record ratings and substantial revenue. What do you think will happen when we kill her off?’
‘This is your game. You tell me.’
‘We had over eight million viewers in England alone for his death. She should generate somewhere close to nine if it’s promoted correctly.’
‘No doubt it will be.’ It was odd that he had barely heard of the programme. He had watched a recent episode on the internet, three hours earlier. It did not impress him.
‘Don’t worry, they’ll get the numbers. The increased revenue will cover the cost of paying out her contract.’
Isaac prepared to leave. The conversation had ranged from stand-offish to amenable, then to professional, and eventually back to very amenable. He was feeling a little uncomfortable with the situation, and a little concerned that he found Jess O’ Neill an attractive woman. Any other time, he would not have hesitated to make a play.
He stood up to leave, sooner than he would have preferred. ‘Just one question.’
‘Yes, what is it?’ She had made a point of shaking his hand and moved forward as if she was going to give him a hug.
‘Did Marjorie Frobisher know that she was going to be written out of the series?’
‘I told her in confidence.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘She hit the roof, gave me a diatribe about how she was the programme, and that once she left the ratings would plummet through the floor, and we’d all be out on the street looking for a job.’
‘How did you react?’
‘I stood my ground and told her the facts.’
‘So when did she go missing?’
‘She never came in the next day.’
‘Do you believe it was you telling her that prompted her to leave?’
‘I’m not sure. She may have been angry, but for all her faults, she was a professional. I can’t see that it was the reason, although it may have been.’
‘Just one more question, maybe two: was it your responsibility to tell her and whose idea was it to write her out of the script?’
‘I told her on a directive from the executive producer. My timing was not great; I should have waited until we finished shooting Billy Blythe’s death, but she had asked me a direct question about script development. Not really for me to answer, but it was a question, and I told her the truth. It seemed the only professional approach that I could take.’
‘And the second question. Whose idea was it to write Marjorie Frobisher out?’
‘I had put forward the idea some weeks earlier at a production meeting, and there was unanimous support. It was only a suggestion during a brain-storming session, but it appeared to hit a nerve, and from then on it was accepted. The date when she leaves is not clear. There may still be a change, even at this late date.’
‘Does she know the suggestion came from you?’
‘After she stormed out of here, she drove out to Richard Williams’ office, the executive producer, and confronted him. Apparently, he acknowledged the fact that I had been the catalyst, and she left soon after.’
‘Any idea what was said?’
‘You’ll need to ask him. I only know what I was told. I’m told the conversation was acrimonious, lots of shouting, some bad language.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘The fact that she had confronted him? The executive producer’s personal assistant. She’ll corroborate my statement, but don’t let on that I told you.’
‘Marjorie Frobisher would see you as being responsible for her removal.’
‘Clearly, and I don’t think she’s a person who forgives easily,’ Jess O’Neill said.
***
Isaac Cook’s dependable colleague Farhan Ahmed focussed on trying to find the missing woman: the standard approach, visit the nearest relative. Robert Avers, Marjorie Frobisher’s husband, was an avuncular man who warmed to the young policeman immediately.
‘Come in, please.’ The house, in one of the better part of Belgravia, was obviously expensive and exquisitely decorated. Farhan was ushered into the main reception room. A maid went off to make tea: no milk for the policeman, milk and two sugars for his host.
‘We’ve been asked to assist in finding your wife.’ Farhan wasn’t sure if his questioning would be appreciated. Typically, it would be the nearest relative who opened a missing file case, not somebody of ‘influence’.
The reply allayed his fears. ‘Detective Inspector, I don’t know what the fuss is about. She’s become a pain in the arse recently with her celebrity status. She sees herself as better than the likes of me.’
‘Does that indicate any marital issues? Would that explain her disappearance?’
‘Not at all. I just ignore her. She gets over it soon enough. Give her a few weeks, and she’ll reappear.’
The maid entered, poured the tea and left some chocolate biscuits on a plate. The conversation temporarily halted while she was present. Farhan took one of the biscuits.
‘Has she done this before?’
‘When we’ve had a blazing row, she puts on this “you never appreciated me. I’m going to find someone who will” attitude, and then two days later she’s back.’
‘The marriage was strained?’
Robert Avers laughed out loud, a raucous bellow. ‘Not at all, although this is longer than usual. Mind you, it’s not aimed at me, is it?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘They’re going to dump her from that soap opera she holds up as a beacon of art.’
‘Does she hold it up?’
‘In public, but she doesn’t believe it, though. It’s an inane insult to the intelligence.’
Farhan, increasingly comfortable with the man, said, ‘My wife is addicted to it.’
Robert Avers adopted a serious tone. ‘Apologies if I offended.’
‘Apologies not needed.’
‘Mind you, it paid for all this.’ Robert Avers waved his arms around the room, indicating the house in general.
‘Then it seems that you’ve both done well out of it.’
‘Sure have. Let’s be honest, Marjorie can be a bitch, especially with the people she works with, and then if we walk out the door, it’s the photographers and the drooling fans. It’s bound to make anyone a bit difficult.’
‘Difficult for you?’
‘Not really. I just let her have her tantrums, and then it’s fine.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘She sends me the occasional SMS.’
‘We’re anxious to talk to her, check she’s okay.’
‘I don’t follow up on her, although I suppose you could check the location from her phone.’
‘It may not be so easy: rules and regulations, protection of privacy, that sort of thing.’
‘I’ll leave it up to you. Just let me know Marjorie is okay, but I don’t need to know where she is or when she’s coming back.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘She’s an affectionate woman. There’ll be plenty of making up when she gets back.’ Marjorie Frobisher’s husband let out another raucous bellow. ‘You know what I mean.’
***
Isaac and Farhan met later that day to compare notes, plan strategy. Detective Superintendent Goddard stuck his head briefly around the door for an update. He was off, apparently to another of the conferences which seemed to occupy a lot of his time. He was a man destined for greatness – or that was how he saw it. Any opportunity to press the flesh with the shakers and the movers, government or otherwise, and he was bound to be there.
‘It’s irritating, sir,’ Isaac said when asked for an update. He had just made himself a coffee and was seated at his desk, Farhan on the other side, a cup of tea in hand.
‘What’s irritating?’ The detective superintendent realised where the conversation was heading.
‘We’ve got a murder of a ten-year girl, a grisly death down by the docks, and here we are traipsing around the countryside to try and find a corpse, or if she’s not dead, a vain and silly woman with air and graces.’
‘Understood, but this woman is important. I don’t know why, but I’m bound to be grilled by a couple of people tonight, and some of them are very influential. And besides, we have a Murder Investigation Team dealing with those cases.’
‘I’m the senior investigating officer. I should be leading them.’
‘That’s fully understood, but for now, you and DI Ahmed are to focus on the missing woman.’
Isaac, realising that any further debate was pointless, focussed back on the woman. ‘Names, do you have any of these so-called influential names?’ Isaac persisted, mildly irritating his boss, who was in a hurry to get any information he could pass on, in case he was waylaid by pertinent questions later. Apparently, the prime minister was to make the keynote speech.
‘Official Secrets Act at the present moment. If it becomes necessary, then I may be able to get you a spe
cial dispensation. We’ve deputised your position on the Murder Investigation Team. You stick with what you’ve got. I don’t know much more than you do. Just keep digging. Any updates, make sure to let me know.’
Farhan was the first to reply. ‘The husband believes she’s got the huff and taken off for a while.’
‘Huff, not a police term that I am familiar with.’
Farhan realised that he had overstepped boundary of familiarity with the senior officer.
‘Sorry, sir. Occasionally, when they’ve had an argument, she takes off for a few days ‒ maintains contact by SMS. He’s a little worried, but he assumes the news from the soap opera she stars in is giving her concern, and she’s taken off until she cools down.’
‘What news is this?’
‘She’s being dropped from the series,’ Isaac said. ‘Took it badly by all accounts. If that gets out, it may make my best contact hostile.’
‘Don’t worry, Isaac. I’ll keep it under wraps. If they ask me tonight, I’ll say that she has had an argument with the husband and is hiding out for a few days. She’s done it before, and until we receive further updates to the contrary, that’s our official comment.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ One significant doubt remained in Isaac’s mind after the detective superintendent had left the room. Why is she so damn important to someone in a position of influence? he thought.
With the detective superintendent dealt with, Isaac and Farhan sat down to evaluate the situation. The office they occupied was not large, but it was freshly painted, with a good desk for Isaac, a smaller one for Farhan, as befitted his lower rank. To the right on entering the office were three comfortable chairs and a coffee table. More private conversations could be held down the corridor in a sound-proofed room. Isaac had all his accreditations framed, and up on the wall. Farhan was not so concerned and had none, just a calendar and a picture of his children.
‘Farhan, getting back to the situation before our unexpected visitor poked his head around the door,’ Isaac said, ‘what did you find out from the husband?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 1 Page 2
