The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14)

by Phillip Strang

  ‘A heart attack,’ Larry interjected.

  ‘Almost. Army training, I know about weapons,’ the foreman said as he looked at the rifle mount that had been left behind.

  To the rear of the men, the sound of an approaching elevator, the crime scene investigators arriving, the site closed for the day.

  Kitted up, the CSIs went to work, a further safety barrier installed by the site foreman at Gordon Windsor’s request.

  Time was of the essence as the weather was inclement, storm clouds rolling in. It was sheer luck that only two days had passed since someone had lain on the dusty concrete floor and taken the shot, the site protected from the harshest winds by a small rise from the floor, the base of an expansive yet so far open window, the glass not installed. However, the rain would soak the immediate area, making investigation difficult.

  ‘Not sure we’ll gain too much here,’ Windsor said. ‘A clear sign that whoever it was used gloves, and judging by the mount, he knew what he was doing.’

  ‘Professional?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Competent,’ the reply. ‘Either an enthusiastic sports shooter or ex-military.’

  ‘Not ex-military,’ the foreman said.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Windsor asked.

  ‘Did my bit for Queen and country, served overseas, saw action.’

  ‘Admirable,’ Windsor said. ‘Why not military?’

  ‘One floor down, there’s glass in some of the window frames, less wind turbulence, a better place for a sniper.’

  ‘Yet, the shot was successful,’ Larry said.

  ‘But where, on the shoulder?’

  ‘The upper body.’

  ‘It’s a difficult shot; the best position was down below. At least, the shot would have been fired from a more stable position, increase the percentage of success, and if you want to distract someone, don’t go for the shoulder, go for the lower back. Simmons was an experienced climber; he must have encountered birds flying out from a crevice in a rock, put his hand on a spider, even a snake. Nerves of steel, balls the size of an elephant, that man.’

  ‘You admired him?’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  The foreman was right on two counts, Larry realised. Angus Simmons was a person universally admired, someone who would not easily be distracted by a bullet slamming into him, or in this instance, impacting his upper body. His focus on the climb, the same as someone in the middle of a battle, not registering an injury, continuing to fight.

  ‘Was it murder?’

  ‘Murder as a result of a criminal act, taking a shot at Simmons.’

  ‘I was trained that if I took the shot, the target was taken down, not winged. You don’t leave it to chance.’

  ‘Nothing much to be gained from here,’ Windsor said. ‘From what we can tell, a man of medium height, size nine boots. Forensics will conduct tests, see if they can give you more, but I doubt it. Still, we’ll be here for the rest of the day, try and trace the boots back down the stairs, and you can get Bridget Halloran to check CCTV cameras in the area, see if you can pick up the person, but that’s a long shot, busy on the street.’

  ***

  Charles Simmons, Angus’s father, was dressed in a suit when Isaac and Wendy visited him at his home. An imperious-looking man, Wendy instinctively didn’t warm to him. However, as the senior investigating officer, Isaac chose not to form impressions of a person until their actions and what they said allowed it.

  ‘Angus was always headstrong, individualistic, not given to discipline or following the consensus,’ Charles Simmons said. ‘You’ve spoken to his mother?’

  ‘We have. She’s said more or less the same,’ Isaac said. ‘She also expressed an opinion that she wasn’t surprised at his untimely death.’

  ‘I’ve not seen her for over thirteen years, and we don’t agree on much, but she’s right. Not that the police should be surprised either. After all, climbing buildings when there’s an elevator doesn’t make a lot of sense, nor does climbing mountains just because they’re there.’

  ‘You sound as if you disapproved,’ Wendy said.

  ‘On the contrary. We get one shot at life, no reason to waste it, only to get hit by a bus outside your front door. Too many people are stagnating these days, bleeding the social services, contributing nothing. To hell with the lot of them, a blight on civilised society.’

  ‘Your views are not conventional,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Aren’t they? The world is in a mess, and it’s up to a select few to right it. Too much pussyfooting around, a government committed to pandering to every fringe group, desperate for their vote.’

  ‘Did your views impact your son? Did your wife agree with your stance?’

  ‘My ex-wife would disagree. Granted, she believed it was up to the individual to stand up for themselves, to be counted, make their mark, and not burden society. But, for me, I’m more extreme, a believer in affirmative action.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘He was the most balanced and courageous individual a person could be proud to know, and he was my son. I believe that explains my position.’

  ‘And now he’s dead, and neither you nor your ex-wife shows the expected emotional response.’

  ‘If that means we’re not breaking down in tears, barely able to stand up or to function, then that is a failing of those observing. Our son was stoic, unemotional, impervious to fear or outright demonstrations of affection or hate or loathing.’

  ‘Mr Simmons, do you loathe?’

  ‘I will express my views. This world is going downhill fast, and changes are afoot, an eventual battle for society.’

  They were the words of an educated man, Isaac knew, but they were not what the majority would agree with. Charles Simmons was a radical, ready to instigate change if he could, but that was not what was important. The death of his son was.

  ‘Who would have wanted your son dead?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘The world is full of malcontents. Try Mike Hampton.’

  ‘Your ex-wife mentioned his name. We’ve not interviewed him yet.’

  ‘I suggest you do. His hatred of Angus was pathological.’

  Simmons took a seat, removed a small flask from inside his jacket and took a sip of what Isaac assumed to be whisky. ‘Purely medicinal,’ he said.

  ‘Mike Hampton?’ Isaac reminded him.

  ‘Hampton’s luck changed. The two were climbing in Patagonia, a technically challenging ascent. Hampton fell, broke his back, paralysed from the waist down. He lives in Kent, a small cottage, drafting endless diatribes about mountaineering and whatever else, including how Angus had destroyed his life.’

  ‘Unhinged?’

  ‘Mentally, I’m sure he is. However, you can’t blame him in some ways. An active outdoorsman, similar to Angus, and then a vegetable.’

  ‘Not totally,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It was to him, would have been to Angus. Angus died doing what he enjoyed best, living life to the fullest. He couldn’t have handled incapacitation. Die if you have to, best to do it in full control of your faculties. Go out on a high.’

  The reaction of the parents troubled Homicide.

  However, despite an apparent lack of sensitivity, both parents were peripheral to the investigation. Mike Hampton was not.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I hated the man, glad he’s dead.’ Mike Hampton, confined to a wheelchair, bearded and earringed, was not sparing in his appraisal of the man he blamed for his current condition.

  ‘Your position is clear,’ Isaac said, staggered by the intensity of Hampton’s venom.

  After all, he and Larry had only just met the man, having made the trip down from London to Kent.

  ‘So that you know, I didn’t kill him. How could I, stuck in this goddamn chair day and night, barely able to feed myself?’

  However, Hampton’s misfortune on a mountain in South America was not the pressing issue; it was Simmons’s subsequent death.

  ‘We’re not accusing you, Mr Hampton,’ Is
aac said. ‘Apart from your dislike of the man, the general opinion is that Angus Simmons was well-liked.’

  ‘Maybe by others, but not me,’ Hampton said, grabbing hold of a bottle of water and taking a long drink.

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘She let you in the door, not that she’s here every night, got herself a fancy man.’

  ‘Did your accident render you incapable?’

  ‘That’s about the only part of me that works, but she wants to party. She told me the night before we left for South America that she and Simmons were involved. She said it to rile me, to get me to divorce her, but she knows what she’ll get.’

  ‘What will that be?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘We had a prenup, clear that my money was sacrosanct, and her only entitlement was what she earned, a portion of the increased value of our assets.’

  ‘Mr Hampton, pardon my being blunt, but you don’t appear to be financially sound, not enough assets for her to worry about.’

  ‘You can be as blunt as you like. It’s not much this place, but it’s functional, and Kate thought that once she had her claws into me, I’d indulge her whims, dig into the money I’ve got invested.’

  ‘Are you saying her marriage to you was mercenary?’

  ‘We had a few good years, and then this,’ Hampton said, looking down at his withered legs.

  ‘Her attitude changed?’

  ‘Over time, and before I broke my back, we drifted apart. I can’t say that I helped, but what was the point? Angus and me, we were like brothers.’

  ‘‘You fell. Tell us about it.’

  ‘‘It was Patagonia, down the bottom of South America. Mountaineers, we’re never finished. After you’ve climbed Everest, the Matterhorn and the Eiger in the Alps, a few more in the Himalayas, then you’re challenged to look for more difficult climbs. Patagonia’s got plenty of technically challenging climbs, not the highest summits, though. Cerro Torre, part of a four-mountain chain in the Southern Patagonian Ice Field, is not that high but was regarded as the world’s most formidable mountain, with constant high winds, a mushroom of rime ice overhanging at the top. Some reckon the ice isn’t part of the mountain, so it’s not the summit, and they get up to it, claim they’ve conquered the mountain, but not Angus and me. After all, we had climbed the other three peaks in the chain; we weren’t going to accept a compromise.

  ‘I was leading, just below the ice overhead. The wind was intense, the temperature was dropping fast, snow clouds coming in. Only a handful of climbers have made it to the top, but we were determined. Angus slipped, hanging in mid-air, held by a bolt rammed into the mountain during a previous attempt. I’m trying to get down to him; Angus is struggling, his judgement impaired. The bolt weakens, gives way, puts his weight onto me. I can’t hold him, not for long. It’s up to him; we’re compromised, and it’s either him or me, but Angus, he claimed afterwards that he was confused, disoriented, made a mistake, but I don’t believe it. After dangling for what seemed an eternity, probably no more than twenty seconds, I can’t hold on.’

  ‘You could have cut his rope.’

  ‘It’s not the movies up there. It’s a real life-and-death situation; people don’t make magnanimous gestures, dramatic music in the background. I wasn’t going to condemn my friend. It was up to him to do what I would have.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘I would have, but Angus – all those years of friendship, the trust we had placed in each other when climbing, and his courage failed him. He chose his life over mine.’

  ‘You fell?’

  ‘We both fell, only there was a ledge thirty feet below. He managed to land on fresh snow; it winded him, but he was out of danger, a safe place to descend from.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I caught the ledge at an angle. Angus managed to hold on to me, but I couldn’t move, in agony, screaming for him to let me go, to plummet to my death.’

  ‘An unusual reaction,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The only reaction. I was incapacitated, beyond help. It’s a decision that an experienced climber must be prepared to make.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Angus propped me up against a rock overhang, secured me to the mountain with bolts and rope and left me, promising to be back within eight hours.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘The weather set in, but he made it back in fifteen. I was stretchered down, then airlifted to a hospital, spent six weeks in traction, then flown back to England.’

  ‘Angus saved your life.’

  ‘It was his life that was forfeit, not mine. He failed us both on that mountain.’

  ‘The mountaineering community?’

  ‘They lauded him for what he had done, but they never knew the truth.’

  ‘You didn’t tell them?’

  ‘Regardless of the truth, Angus had condemned me to purgatory. I hate him, always will, but I didn’t kill him. I should have on that mountain, but I couldn’t have done it, and I certainly couldn’t have taken a shot at him.’

  ***

  It seemed to Isaac and Larry as they drove back to London that Hampton’s hatred of Angus Simmons was ill-founded. On a mountain, the wind strong enough to blow you off, the temperature well below zero and getting colder, was not the place to undertake a detailed analysis of how a person should or should not behave. And besides, nothing that had occurred hadn’t been detailed by Angus Simmons after their return to England. The slipping, the hanging from a rope, the tragic fall and the breaking of Hampton’s back – all recorded in detail.

  According to Simmons, there had been a tragic set of circumstances, and the decisions made, based on years of climbing together, had been correct. Hampton’s blaming Simmons after the accident and making that invective public led to him becoming ostracised by his mountaineering peers.

  If Hampton had a jaundiced view on life, it was clear that his wife, Kate, didn’t. One day after the visit to her husband. Wendy and Larry sat down with her at a restaurant in Knightsbridge. Larry, always ready for a good meal, ordered a steak, and Wendy, more conscious of the calories, ordered fish, the same as Kate Hampton, an attractive woman in her early forties.

  ‘Mrs Hampton,’ Larry said, ‘thanks for meeting with us.’

  ‘Please, call me Kate.’

  ‘Kate,’ Larry said, ‘your husband was a great friend of Angus Simmons.’

  ‘He was. Did he mention about my having an affair with Angus?’

  Wendy was taken aback by the woman bringing up the subject, assuming that she and Larry would have to tease around the subject.

  ‘He inferred it,’ Larry said. ‘It could be that his current situation may cause him to say things that he doesn’t believe, a need to get a reaction, to be noticed and listened to.’

  ‘Sympathy, that’s what you mean. When we met, a wonderful man, so alive, full of dynamism, optimistic without equal, and then, that accident. It not only destroyed him, but it destroyed me as well.’

  ‘You realise that our interest in your husband and your relationship with him is because of Angus Simmons’s death.’

  ‘I do. Mike and I will resolve our issues, although Angus won’t. He was a good man; someone, my husband, had loved.’

  ‘Loved?’ Wendy said.

  ‘As a brother. Two men able to judge each other’s mood, what the other was thinking, an ideal attribute when mountaineering. Mike used to say, “the man’s got my back; I’ve got his”. They had great success up until that incident.

  ‘I was against them going; too much in one year. They had climbed K2 in the Himalayas, and then they were off to Patagonia. They were pushing the envelope, too many mountains, too much success. We all need a rude awakening at times to give us a sense of reality, but the two of them, lauded from pillar to post, endorsements for this and that, plenty of money, not that Mike ever needed it.’

  ‘Your husband alluded to that, that he didn’t care for money or assets.’

  ‘Angus didn’t come from money, not as much as M
ike’s anyway. Mike’s parents in the north of England, successful in business, made sure their son could follow his dreams.’

  ‘We researched it, found that neither he nor Angus used their own money, not if they could, sponsors once that had made their mark, friends in the early days or on a shoestring.’

  ‘You’ve met Mike, formed an opinion, probably not favourable. Regardless, he never was into showing off, no designer clothes, expensive motor cars, big houses. He could have afforded it all.’

  ‘Embarrassed?’

  ‘Of his wealth, yes. Mountaineering, his great passion, is to do with struggle, forcing the body and the mind to tackle extremes. He didn’t want to be a champagne climber.’

  ‘Did Angus know this?’

  ‘He did, not that he ever betrayed Mike’s confidence. Mike changed after he came back, and sure, once or twice after he came home, we slept together, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had become depressive, too sorry for himself. After that, he and I went our separate ways, led our own lives. It’s a pretence, but what can I do?’

  ‘He said you wouldn’t leave on account of the money.’

  ‘I don’t leave because I’d prefer it to be the way it was, not that he’d believe it.’

  ‘Since you and he stopped sleeping together, what have you done?’ Larry asked.

  ‘A person doesn’t live by bread alone; I find myself the occasional man, no emotional involvement. Mike knows, I’m sure he does, but what can I do?’

  Wendy understood the dilemma: an aura of all-pervading negativity would eventually suck the life out of any in the immediate vicinity.

  ‘Angus, one of these men?’

  ‘Never. I’d meet with him occasionally. Angus was concerned for Mike, always wanted to help, blamed himself for what had happened.’

  ‘I thought no blame was attached to him.’

  ‘None was, but you always wonder after the event. A tragedy had occurred; the instinctive reaction is to look for a reason, to justify it, but Angus had done the right thing. Two men trapped in an impossible situation with no ideal solution, only the reality that someone was likely to be injured or killed. It could easily have been Angus, but it wasn’t. I wish Mike would understand, and then he and I could continue as before.’