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

by Phillip Strang

  Chapter 6

  The only person who professed genuine hatred of the dead man was Mike Hampton, and he wouldn’t have been capable of taking the shot.

  As Homicide’s senior investigating officer, Isaac Cook surfed the internet, checked out the backgrounds of both men, their climbing exploits, the picture of the two of them on the top of Mount Everest, a Union Jack strung from one to the other. The greatest of friends, men who trusted each other with their lives, cognisant of the risks, able to mentally compartmentalise them, knowing that if there was a problem up high on a mountain, it was about teamwork and self-sacrifice if needed. Yet, Hampton maintained a pathological hatred of Simmons. It concerned Isaac more than it should. To him, there was something amiss in the animosity, a missing piece of the jigsaw, but if there was, did it matter?

  Putting Hampton to one side, the team refocussed on Simmons’s father. He was a wealthy man, but none of it had been forthcoming to his son.

  ‘I used to see my son from time to time,’ Simmons, an eccentricity about him, said. His house, more of a museum than a home, the lights dimmed, the curtains closed, the smell of leather and wood. To one side of the front door, a full set of armour.

  ‘Japanese,’ Simmons said. ‘I’m a collector, war paraphernalia, weapons, that sort of thing.’

  He spoke casually, a throwaway line as if he collected matchboxes or stamps. Isaac, not an expert on ancient weapons of war, knew one thing, reinforced as they entered a room at the rear of the house, two large swords crossed and mounted above the fireplace – that what was in the place was worth millions of pounds.

  Another suit of armour in the room, English this time.

  ‘Genuine?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Everything in this house is,’ Simmons replied. He was impressed by Isaac, tall, black, a proud bearing, elegantly dressed. His reply to Larry was casual and disparaging, not pleased to be questioned by a person who should have recognised quality but didn’t.

  Another time, Isaac would have gladly spent an afternoon at the house, going from one item to another, quizzing Simmons about where he had obtained each piece, its history, construction method, and its significance.

  ‘Angus met a tragic fate,’ Isaac said as he sat down in a plush chair. He thought it to be from the nineteenth century, Napoleon the Third.

  ‘My son was a unique individual, a man who lived life to the fullest. I can’t say that I’m pleased he died, but if you challenge yourself, take risks, no doubt alienates people, then sometimes it comes back to bite. My ex-wife, Angus’s mother, raised him well. I did what I could, but it wasn’t that much, not as much as I would have liked.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘We weren’t destined to be together for long. I’m too impatient, irascible, whereas my ex-wife is more easy-going. There’s nothing wrong with either, but hardly the requisite for a long and happy marriage, and we didn’t want Angus to be the meat in the sandwich. My wife took Angus up to Scotland, gave him the upbringing that he needed. I stayed here, made money, and ensured he had the best education he was willing to accept and all the opportunities he wanted. Neither of us agreed with mollycoddling the boy: too much of that in society these days. What he achieved, he achieved through tenacity, the right attitude. We made a man out of him.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Larry said, not as diplomatically as he should.

  ‘If by your tone, you believe that I should show more remorse, Inspector, then you are sadly mistaken. The Simmonses do not show weakness; a proud tradition of military service, stiff upper lip.’

  ‘I’m sure Inspector Hill didn’t mean to offend,’ Isaac said, ‘but this is a murder enquiry. If it had been a climbing accident, we wouldn’t be here, nor would we have spoken to your ex-wife, but this is different, one that is proving to be frustrating.’

  ‘I can understand your concern,’ Simmons said. ‘However, in my defence, life is finite. If life has been abruptly terminated, the reason why is immaterial. He risked his life on many occasions, somehow always came back intact from wherever. Murder or a genuine mishap, the reason is unimportant. It may be for you. It’s not to me.’

  ‘Will you mourn him?’

  ‘Behind closed doors, Chief Inspector. Not here with you and your inspector, not in public.’

  ‘Our problem is that we’ve only found one person who disliked him,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Hampton knew the risks. There was no reason to have blamed Angus. It shows a weakness of character on the man’s part. Don’t consider him a suspect.’

  ‘Due to his disability?’

  ‘Not that it would help, but that’s not what I meant. Hampton hasn’t enough nerve to do it.’

  ‘You’re ex-military?’ Larry asked, choosing his words carefully.’

  ‘I am. That’s why the interest in historical war memorabilia.’

  ‘An impressive collection,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It is. Cost a fortune, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘We believe your son had a cavalier approach to money.’

  ‘An admirable trait garnered from his mother, approved of by me. If you do what gives you the greatest satisfaction, then money will never be an issue. This collection that you see. I never considered the cost, only the joy of these items, not caring at the time, but now, worth a fortune, not that I’d ever part with them.’

  ‘Your wealth? This house? Where did it come from?’

  ‘In part, inheritance from my father, and after that, trade.’

  ‘What type of trade?’

  ‘It’s not relevant, as you’ve already said, considering you’re here about the death of my son.’

  ‘Possibly not, but we need an angle as to why someone would go to the extreme of killing your son.’

  ‘Are you sure that it’s murder? It could have been a warning.’

  ‘A warning about what? Is there something we don’t know about? Although it’s murder, the intention was obvious.’

  ‘Angus and Hampton’s wife, you’ve been told?’

  ‘Hampton’s wife has denied it; her husband believes it to be true.’

  ‘It was. He came here once with her, spent the night upstairs.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘It was supposedly a domestic argument, Hampton and his wife, and Angus, the Good Samaritan, was consoling her.’

  ‘More consoling than she needed?’

  ‘He spent the night with her, came down the next day, looked as though he hadn’t slept, not much anyway, and she wasn’t much better.’

  ‘Was this before or after Hampton fell, broke his back?’

  ‘After, I believe. I can’t be sure, and it was only the one time I saw her here.’

  ‘Why here? Why not a hotel or his place?’

  ‘Maybe it was before he fell. Hampton, if he had suspected, might have been looking for his wife. Mike Hampton didn’t know about this address. If it was before the man fell, then Angus was pushing his luck.’

  ‘Do you have any ideas on why someone would target Angus?’

  ‘Apart from Hampton, not really, but then again, Angus didn’t grow up with me. I was there for him, but we weren’t close, and he never took me into his confidence. Surprised he brought the woman back here that night, pleased he did. Showed that he was comfortable with me, not the ogre that he believed.’

  ‘Your wife telling your son tales when he was a child?’

  ‘To some extent, but that was fine. Angus was an exuberant child, hyperactive. Down here in London wasn’t conducive to his well-being; in Scotland with his mother was. He grew out of the hyper stage, but still exuberant, pushing the envelope. If it hadn’t been mountaineering, it would have been something else, possibly criminal, probably stupid.’

  ‘Does crime run in the family?’

  ‘It depends what your political leanings are. There’s an ancestor, picked the wrong side during the English Civil War in the seventeenth century, sided with the Royalists, lost his head for that error of judgement.’

 
‘You would have chosen the other side?’

  ‘I doubt it, although I would have been more careful. If you’re losing, you sue for peace or make a strategic withdrawal. Standing up in the main square professing your devotion to the king and his successors is not the most discreet.’

  ‘Your business, you never mentioned what it was before,’ Larry said.

  ‘Trade, nothing more. I would suggest you focus on my son, not me. And now, gentlemen, I wish you a good day. If you wish to talk further, please telephone and make an appointment.’

  ***

  Tricia Warburton, by association, was tainted with scandal and intrigue. She had been close to Angus, having co-hosted their weekly programme with the man. She had already been interviewed; her alibi was solid as she had been reporting Angus’s ascent, and she had denied any romantic involvement.

  It was midday, a café not far from Tricia Warburton’s house. Wendy Gladstone assigned the task of getting behind the attractive exterior, the celebrity persona, and the makeup that Wendy thought excessive.

  ‘I told the police that Angus was a colleague, not a love interest,’ Tricia said as she drank her coffee, careful not to spill any onto her clothes, to wipe her lips with a small handkerchief after every sip.

  ‘You’ve said that before, and we’re not forming a judgement, only getting to the truth. It’s the same with every murder investigation, a need to conceal the truth, a fear of what might be found, other lovers suspicious. Do you, Tricia, have a lover?’

  ‘Blunt, aren’t you? Why would I answer a question like that? And if I did, it’s personal.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. We don’t have time for beating around the bush. Angus was killed for a reason, although it could have been only intended as a warning. The most logical explanation is a distraught lover, statistically the most likely, although it could be something else. Fame through association, someone with mental issues could garner celebrity status by killing the celebrity. That’s happened before.’

  ‘I know, John Lennon.’

  ‘Would you, if you and Angus had had a few too many alcoholic beverages one night, have ended up in bed with him?’

  ‘You mean a one-night stand?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Tricia Warburton looked over at the waitress, raised her hand, pointed at the two cups on the table. ‘You’ll have another?’ she said to Wendy.

  ‘Avoiding the question?’ Wendy’s reply.

  ‘I’m just not sure how to respond. Is this important?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Yes, I would have been interested. I’m not that innocent, a bit of a tart in my teens, made men out of a few boys, but not these days, slowed down a lot.’

  ‘We’ve all been there,’ Wendy said. ‘A farmer’s son, didn’t know what hit him.’

  ‘That might be alright for you, but for me, media fodder.’

  ‘Is your celebrity that important?’

  ‘My career’s not over, not by a long way, and if there’s a scandal, it stays around forever. Why these women send naked photos to their boyfriends, I’ll never know. One way or the other, they always end up on social media.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that?’

  ‘I’m not saying I wouldn’t if there was no risk, but I can’t afford it. I can tell you the truth. I don’t want to be damned, and believe me, I’ll be labelled a slut by those that don’t like me, a hussy even by those that do.’

  ‘You’ve not answered the question.’

  ‘It was soon after we started working together, an assignment up north. Angus intended to swim the length of Loch Ness, a charity gig with another twenty swimmers. Angus wasn’t into a relay of swimmers; he wanted to complete the distance solo, harder than the Channel as the water temperature is around five degrees centigrade year-round.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  ‘He came close, but the cold got to him. In the end, we didn’t focus on him, only on the others.’

  ‘He’s got time on his hands, pent-up energy, disappointment.’

  ‘All three. It’s late at night, the two of us in the hotel bar. We’re downing whisky, Angus talking about his life, me about a failed romance. One thing led to another, and then the next morning, I wake up, and there he is in my bed.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t remember what happened?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing more, only that social media would make it sleazy and dirty, the two hosts of a popular programme screwing on the shores of Loch Ness, frightening the monster. The only monsters that night were Angus and me, and neither of us would have scared anyone, that drunk we were.’

  Chapter 7

  Charles Simmons identified his son’s body; Angus Simmons’s mother preferred to stay in Scotland for the time being. Meanwhile, the investigation continued, albeit slowly. Initially, a flurry of media interest, but soon the public’s interest in Simmons waned, replaced by another murder somewhere, a war elsewhere, by the general flotsam, celebrities getting married, getting divorced, some going to jail.

  A person who had never watched much television, not even as a youth, Chief Inspector Isaac Cook sat in his office, his laptop open, staring disinterestedly at the screen. There was a report to prepare, a budgetary estimate to give to the chief superintendent, Richard Goddard, up there on the top floor; hallowed ground some of the cynical jokers in Challis Street would say, but never Isaac.

  To him, Goddard was a good man, dedicated to the police force and justice, a hard taskmaster at times, defensive of his people. The two men had known each other for a long time and had formed a friendship outside of the office, but inside Challis Street, no favours were shown.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Larry said as he put his head around Isaac’s door.

  ‘Perplexed,’ Isaac’s reply. ‘Why would someone want to kill Simmons? Apart from Hampton, everyone else admired him.’

  ‘Not everyone’s been honest that we’ve spoken to, or there are others we don’t know about yet.’

  ‘Former lovers?’

  ‘Bridget’s compiling a list, checking women photographed with him.’

  ‘Are there many?’

  ‘Not a lot find. Most times, Simmons kept his private life just that, private.’

  ‘What about Tricia Warburton? I reckon she could be a hard woman,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Her alibi’s firm. Other than that, some men, one she lived with for a year, broke up two months ago.’

  ‘Have you contacted the last one, the one who moved out?’

  ‘It was her that moved back to a place in Bayswater. Since then, she’s been single, no man in her life.’

  ‘She’s a celebrity of sorts; the newspapers and the magazines always find them another romance, whether it’s true or not. Who are they showing her with?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘Not my area, celebrities and their love lives. And besides, she may be all smiles and teeth on the television, but she’s got a degree in English from Oxford University,’ Larry said. ‘She’s very smart, careful to conceal it, no doubt uses it when the time is right.’

  ‘We’ve seen her on camera, interviewed her. She appeared the same whether a camera’s in her face or not.’

  Isaac did not feel comfortable with the situation. The manner of Simmons’s death was so bizarre as to stretch credulity. Why would anyone go to such trouble to cause the man to fall, knowing there was a probability that he would have hung on, or the shot could have missed?

  ‘Wendy met with her, got an admission that she had had a one-night stand with Simmons. That must count for something,’ Larry said.

  ‘Sleeping with the man after a night of heavy drinking doesn’t mean she was fond of him.’

  ‘Are you suspicious of her, instinct telling you there’s more to the woman than what we see?’

  ‘Lack of anything better. Any success with where the shot was fired from?’

  ‘A competent shot, a man of medium height, fit enough to have walked up tw
enty-one floors carrying a rifle mount and a rifle with telescopic sights.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Not on the mount.’

  ‘Why leave it? If the rifle’s taken, then why not the mount?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It’s easier to trace a weapon back to its owner.’

  ‘A rifle would need a firearm certificate, assuming it was registered.’

  ‘Murderers don’t usually worry about technicalities, not if they’re serious.’

  ‘Which means you’re leaning towards a gifted amateur.’

  ‘Supposition, and what about the father? Devious?’

  ‘Almost certainly. Ex-military, personal inheritance, trade. Qualifications for a position in espionage or dodgy trade deals on behalf of the government, easy to make enemies.’

  ‘Even if that’s so, why would it impact the son?’ Larry queried.

  Two men put forward possibilities, restating what was known, speculating on what was not, formulating a plan to move forward, an integral part of policing, accomplished by the cohesive, functioning group of individuals he had formed in Homicide. Isaac was confident of a new avenue of enquiry.

  ‘We can’t answer that. Unless we have a motive, we’ve got nothing. Pressure Tricia Warburton, try to break through the veneer. The woman’s skilled at adopting a persona. Her parents might open up, childhood friends, any issues with the law, rebellious teen, drugs, protesting in the street, that sort of thing.’

  ‘In court when she was fifteen, marijuana, and then two years later on probation for knocking off a policeman’s helmet while under the influence.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Alcohol. Youthful high jinks, a period of stupidity, flirted with Bolshevism at university, but she still got her degree.’

  ‘Lovers?’

  ‘A child at twenty-one, the father unknown. The child’s twelve now, a private school.’