Distraught, an inviolate trust broken, she had moved into another room in the house for two months, leaving Charles one night after the two had discussed the situation and returning to Scotland, back to her parents’ neglected home. In time, and with money from Charles, she renovated the house, built on an extension with two more bedrooms, a bathroom with hot water and a shower. She had the electricity connected, no longer reliant on an old diesel generator that was out of order more than it was in.
Angus Simmons had the outdoor life during holidays and weekends, a school in Edinburgh during the week.
Neither wishing to remarry, the parents occasionally met to discuss his upbringing and to attend school events. After Angus left school, forsaking university for challenges other than academic, his parents met less often, the reason so many years had passed since they had last seen each other.
‘I’m sorry about Angus,’ Charles said.
‘We always knew that his life would be short,’ Gwyneth said.
‘What a life, so many adventures, places he went, things he did, challenges conquered.’
In a rush of emotions, the two embraced, tears streaming down their cheeks.
‘I miss him.’
‘No more than I,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Who could have done such a wicked thing?’
The two hugged, long and lingering, remembering a past life, their son who was no more.
‘We always knew, didn’t we?’ Charles said.
‘But murder?’
‘Some people embrace life, yet burn too soon. Angus was always to meet his fate, and it should have been on that mountain when Hampton fell.’
‘Do you know the story? That Mike believed Kate was having an affair with Angus when all along it was Justin Skinner.’
‘That snake,’ Charles replied. ‘What did she see in him?’
‘Life.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Mike Hampton was Angus’s friend, a great mountaineer, a lousy human being.’
‘The same as me, is that what you’re saying?’
Charles Simmons had been an unfaithful philanderer. A man who saw no wrong in what he did, giving scant regard to the woman he married, the child he had produced, preferring the company of others – a successful man, liked by many, charismatic, a charmer, his conscience unscathed.
‘It’s what men do,’ Charles had said when Gwyneth took him to task. It wasn’t, not as far as she was concerned. Then, to rub salt into the wound, three weeks after she had left for Scotland, a phone call from one of her so-called friends saying that she was moving in with him.
Gwyneth reflected that Angus, removed from his father’s wayward influence, had grown up to be a better person, a girlfriend at school, a few other relationships and then Maddox Timberley, a woman she liked.
It had been Angus’s twentieth birthday, a small affair at a pub. Gwyneth had arrived with an older sister of hers, a matronly woman, given to church work and singing the praise of the Lord, the pub anathema to her. Still, she had relented and come, only drinking orange juice, looking with disdain at her sister quaffing champagne.
Gwyneth’s lapse was due to Angus’s friend, a long-haired blond boy of nineteen, their hands touching under the table.
She had suspected that her son found attraction in either sex, noncommittal in her distaste. After all, she was a libertarian, believing in the individual’s right to follow whatever course they chose in life as long as no other person was offended or hurt. However, it upset her to see Angus with another male, realising that her values, open and free with others, didn’t embrace her son, a young man who had pursued manly activities all of his short life, not men, and not in that pub, and not in front of her sister.
‘A lousy human being? No, you were never that,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Frustrating, a bad liar, an even worse husband, but you did your duty, made sure I was secure and that our son was educated, a good grounding at school.’
‘Could we?’ Charles asked.
‘Get together again? An interesting thought. Not that I’m averse, but no, not now, not at our time of life, and not with our son dead, his murderer still out there.’
‘But we know who it is?’
‘Do we? I’ve thought about it, the reaction when Angus won that award. Justin Skinner thought it should have been him, and Mike Hampton was seething.’
‘He always seethed, nothing unusual there.’
‘It was around the time Skinner started messing around with Kate, but with him, water runs off a duck’s back. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he blamed Angus, Kate going along with it.’
‘I never liked her, a look about her,’ Charles said. Even though the relationship between him and his wife had ended a long time ago, he had to admit that it was good to see her, to talk to each other the way they had when they were young: the plans they had, the number of children they wanted, where to live, where to love. And then he had fouled it up, all for a night of passion with a work colleague, a woman not worthy to stand in his wife’s shade.
The next day he returned, guilty as charged, feeling the sorrow within him, knowing that he had crossed the line from forgiven to condemned. And then, Gwyneth and their child at the railway station; a long and lingering kiss, like two lovers parting for a couple of days, but each knowing that it was forever. And here she was, talking to him again, the way it had once been, but not of plans for the future, of love, but murder and hatred and disloyal wives and false friends.
‘Why Kate married Mike, I’ll never know,’ Gwyneth said. ‘Sure, he was the hero type, but he was always grumpy. Not like Angus, but then we always suspected, even from a young age. Not that it mattered, not that much, but it seemed apparent that he would never marry, and then he met Maddox.’
‘Do you think he would have married her?’
‘He might have. Maddox was keen.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’ Charles asked.
‘Not since it happened. I want to see her, to say how sorry we are.’
‘And to try to find out who killed Angus. It has to be either Justin or Mike.’
‘But how? Most of the time, Justin’s up in north Wales and Mike’s hardly agile. Anyway, Mike’s angry, not violent.’
‘He was supposedly in Patagonia.’
‘Angus said he was,’ Gwyneth said, an emotion sweeping over her, a possible doubt.’
‘Are you sure that Angus told you the truth?’
‘I have to,’ Gwyneth said as she put her arms around Charles. Whatever the truth, she needed someone to be with her. ‘I’ll stay here with you if that’s all right.’
‘That’s fine. Welcome home,’ Charles said.
***
Emulating the phoenix, a legendary bird rising from its funeral pyre, renewed and youthful, Tricia Warburton’s resurrection was no less dramatic.
It was seven o’clock in the evening, and for Isaac an early night away from the office, a promise to Jenny to spend time with the baby, ‘bonding’ she called it.
The rest of the team were still in the office, processing paperwork, writing reports, taking the opportunity to sit down quietly and mull over the murder investigation. However, for Larry Hill, after a busy day out at the crime scene, following up with shooting clubs, checking who of those known to the investigation might have had an interest in shooting, his mulling consisted of closing his eyes and falling asleep.
Wendy Gladstone, also tired but not having the benefit of a couple of beers for lunch, was awake but sore, arthritis troubling her again. She sat with Bridget Halloran, looking over her shoulder as Bridget typed at the keyboard.
‘Any luck with car registration numbers close to where the shot was taken?’ Wendy asked.
‘Needle in a haystack, better to find the weapon,’ Bridget said.
Two minutes after Jaden came on the television screen, Isaac’s phone call woke Larry. ‘Put on the television, Jaden’s channel,’ he said.
‘We’re excited, ecstatic even, that Tricia is back with u
s in an exciting new format, a programme that will elate you, our friends,’ Jaden said. To one side, Tricia Warburton, even more provocatively dressed, her bosoms proud, the makeup thicker than ever.
Jenny, who had watched with Isaac, thought the woman looked tarty in a classy way. ‘She’s sold out if what you said about her is true.’
‘She admitted the clothes and the breasts were for the viewing public, but she’s ambitious.’
‘I can see why you like her,’ a nudge in Isaac’s ribs.
‘Purely professional,’ Isaac said jokingly. He still appreciated a pretty woman, and the woman on the television was undoubtedly that.
It was Tricia’s turn to speak. She was not as upbeat as Jaden, more subdued, reflecting on past events. Coached by Karen Majors and the ever-smiling Alison, who was, as Jaden had said at the meeting six days earlier, giving herself to Tom Taylor any way he wanted.
‘Pathos,’ Karen had said. ‘Show plaintiveness, a sadness about Angus Simmons. Don’t overdo it, don’t dampen the mood of the press conference, but humility goes a long way.’
Coached almost as much as an American president delivering a state of the nation address, Tricia spoke. She spoke of her fondness for Angus Simmons, his heroic character, his taming of Mount Everest, his commitment to the programme they had co-hosted, to the television station and the leadership of Jerome Jaden. The last statement a pencilled-in addition from the man himself.
‘Nice touch,’ Jaden had said, ‘shows that we’re a team dedicated to our viewers and each other.’
Bob Babbage, the company lawyer, careful to ensure that the wording of Tricia’s speech didn’t cross over the line from honest and heartfelt to probably criminal, had to cover his mouth with a hand at Jaden’s comment. Too many years with the man had long since destroyed any belief in Jaden’s interest in others; he knew him to be a money-grabbing bastard who’d shaft Tricia at the first hurdle if he could, ratings or no ratings. Even so, Babbage would stay for the foreseeable future, see which way the ratings went, whether Jaden could achieve what others thought impossible, work a miracle.
‘We’re in production,’ Tricia continued, ‘and our excitement is high, bringing you stories from around the world, giving me the chance to experience different cultures, diverse opinions. To show men and woman achieving great things; the family of man, or should I say persons, united as never before by what we’ll be bringing to you.’
Jaden took the microphone from Tricia who took the opportunity to pull down her dress.
There were more speeches, Karen Major putting in a none too subtle plug for her sales department. Tom Taylor wet behind the ears, but learning fast, giving a rundown on the exciting and innovative programming, a touch of the new with the old, streamlining as needed, expanding as required, cognisant of the viewers. It was clichéd but effective; Alison was watching from one side, proud of her man, loving towards him and of him. She was anxious to move on from public relations, to host a programme, Tricia’s if she faulted or became too demanding, more than willing to dress the same as Tricia, to do whatever was necessary. To her, Tom Taylor was in the bag, and he was making a go of it; he’d do for now, but one step backwards, and she’d re-evaluate.
A voice from the back of the room.
‘Jerome, Ashley Otway, The Sun newspaper.’
‘Yes, Ashley,’ Jaden replied. He smiled but knew that the conference was about to go south if he didn’t nip it in the bud.
‘We’re excited to hear of Tricia’s new programme.’ Ashley Otway knew that a gentle wind up was better than going full blast at Jaden.
‘Thank you, Ashley, for your remarks,’ Jaden replied, hoping to head the woman off, to wrap up the press conference, to get out of the room.
‘I’ve not finished. Jim Breslaw, removed at short notice, Tom Taylor, brought in soon after. A good decision?’
‘I believe so. Jim served us for many years, did a great job, made mistakes at the end, but times change, people’s viewing habits are not the same as before. New ideas, innovation, someone who understands the younger generation, a person savvy with social media. That’s what Tom’s brought with him. He’s integral, a force for change, positive change, he told us when we offered him the job. He’ll not let us down, I’m sure of it.’
‘The police believe that Angus Simmons was murdered. Doesn’t that concern you more than this hoo-ha we’ve seen here today. And isn’t Jim Breslaw implicated, the man who would have approved that stunt, now thrown to the wolves?’
‘Ashley,’ Jaden said, a broad smile on his face, ‘Jim was in error, not us. And besides, this is a police matter, let us not forget. I can’t speak about what happened, nor can anyone else here today.’
‘But…’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s good of you to come, to join with us in this celebration, to wish Tricia all the best, knowing that she has our full support,’ Jaden said. He wasn’t about to let a petty-minded, mealy-mouthed reporter destroy the press conference.
Jaden left the room abruptly, the others following soon after.
In the next room, away from the dispersing crowd, Jaden grabbed hold of Babbage by the collar. ‘You bastard. You’re our lawyer. I told you to make sure there were no dumb questions.’
‘I did, paid her off not to act dumb. No one else asked.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Her newspaper. It’s not only the television stations that are struggling; it’s the newspapers as well. She’s protecting her job, taking a backhander from us.’
‘Deal with her,’ Jaden said. ‘Offer her a job, bribe her more, but make sure she doesn’t write it up.’
‘Jim Breslaw?’
‘Make sure he doesn’t talk, not about Simmons or us.’
‘He’ll want money,’ Babbage said.
‘Don’t tell me, just make sure Breslaw keeps his mouth shut. Simple enough, even for you, or do we have to get rid of you, give the job to Taylor?’
Babbage, not sure what to say, nervously replied, ‘He hasn’t got the time or the legal qualifications, what with programming and keeping Alison entertained.’
Jerome Jaden, his anger vented, said, ‘You’re right, Bob. The man’s busy. Just deal with that damn Ashley whatshername, make sure Breslaw doesn’t talk.’
Chapter 12
A bizarre press conference, Isaac had thought, initially full of positivity, not forsaking that one of their media stars had died recently. Degenerating into verbal fisticuffs with a determined reporter and concluding with Jerome Jaden walking off stage and out of the door, Homicide met at six the next morning, prompt.
‘It didn’t go according to plan,’ Larry said.
‘They must have paid Tricia Warburton plenty,’ Wendy’s comment.
‘Bridget, what do you reckon?’ Isaac asked, the woman holding three folders in her hand.
‘Selling herself, not that I minded either way.’
‘Cheapened herself?’
‘If she’s smart, it might be a good move, but I wouldn’t be sure. You’ve met Jaden; a decent man?’
‘An entrepreneur, been in the business a long time,’ Isaac said. ‘Any dirt on him?’
‘He’s not made himself popular, put a few competitors out of business.’
‘Is there any more?’
‘Heads of sales tend not to last long. He keeps his lawyers close, takes action easily, protects his base.’
‘All in the file?’ Wendy asked.
‘It is,’ Bridget said. ‘I’ve added more details on Jim Breslaw, included Ashley Otway. Jim Breslaw, you know about. The whiz-kid, Tom Taylor, was given the position soon after.’
‘Whiz-kid?’ Larry said.
‘You know what I mean. Young, smart-arse, thinks he knows it all.’
‘Research or a personal opinion?’
‘A bit of both,’ Bridget said. ‘Taylor left school, good results, a degree in media management; did well again, won a prize one year for best student. He’s no dummy, but no real-world exp
erience. More than likely Jaden’s stooge, not like Breslaw, who had been around forever, almost back to black and white television, the epilogue at the end of programming for the day, the national anthem as the television channel turned to black.’
‘Prehistoric,’ Isaac said.
‘It seems that way, although it was only 1967 when colour kicked off. Breslaw became involved in the eighties, did well, but then the world moved on. Breslaw, fifty-nine, not so good with computers and the youth today, started to lose market share.’
‘Market share, or was it across the board?’
‘Across the board; fifty minutes less viewing per day on average across the population since 2010. Significant if you’re generating revenue. Jerome Jaden’s haemorrhaging money, not got enough to pay for Tricia Warburton to fly around the world, bringing you the stories you want, not if it’s unsuccessful. The man’s taking a gamble, and Breslaw, if he’d still been there, would have told him so.’
‘Ashley Otway?’
‘Entertainments reporter. Interviews celebrities, endures their piffle, makes out she’s interested,’ Bridget said.
‘What else?’ Larry asked. ‘She seemed to be on to something last night.’
‘Thirty-seven years of age, single, a political reporter, up and coming, spoilt her copybook, asked questions where she shouldn’t have.’
‘Such as?’ Isaac said.
‘Do you remember a couple of years back, Members of Parliament cheating on their expenses, claiming their primary residence in London as a second home, only used when parliament is sitting?’
‘I do; a couple of ministers forced to resign.’
‘There was another one, more senior, a house in Richmond, close enough to be a daily commute to the Houses of Parliament, a small two-storey terrace. He claimed it as a second residence.’
The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14) Page 8
