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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Lines of cocaine, a perk?’ Wendy asked as she grabbed the last sandwich.

  ‘I wasn’t addicted. My mum is teetotal; my father would have a couple of pints on a Friday night in the pub on the way home. I didn’t even smoke until I was seventeen, and then only to look cool, to fit in with the gang.’

  ‘Gang?’ Larry said.

  ‘Not the type of gang you’re thinking of. Just a group from school, hitting puberty, getting through it, experimenting.’

  ‘Sex?’

  ‘I wasn’t any worse than the other girls. It was cigarettes I didn’t like. I tried marijuana once, thought it was okay, take it or leave it. Anyway, the gangly girl’s filling out, the teeth are straight, no braces by then, and I’m working in a takeaway joint of a night time, at college during the day, studying economics. I had never given my looks a thought, although I could see that men were often giving me the eye.’

  ‘What age were you?’

  ‘I was close to nineteen.’

  ‘Still a virgin?’

  ‘If you call a fumble in the dark, sex, then no. But only once or twice, no one in particular. Just feeling our way, as I said before.’

  ‘The fast-food joint?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’m at the counter. It was a quiet night, not much happening, and there’s this man, in his forties, asking me if I’ve considered modelling.’

  ‘Your response?’

  ‘We used to get the occasional guy in, the grey overcoat brigade, twenty quid for a photo, thirty if you show your underwear. You can’t avoid them where I come from, but this man, he looks different, and outside I can see he’s got a fancy car.’

  ‘You got in?’

  ‘No way. I asked the manager to phone my dad. We didn’t live far away, and he’s there within five minutes, grabbed hold of the man, threatened to punch him. My dad, he’s not violent, and the man is head and shoulders above him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘As I said, it was quiet. The manager intervened. Separated the two of them, and then the man opens his wallet, shows my father his business card, told us he was a photographer. He says he’s on the up and up, and I’ve got a look about me, tall and skinny. He gives my dad the card, another one to me, gave us both a lift home. A couple of weeks later, I’m in London. It’s my first photo shoot, a magazine for a department store, a dozen changes of clothes, standing in front of green cloth, a bikini under palm trees, a sunny beach, or else a heavy coat with a hood, me on skis, although how you can ski with a coat on is beyond me. He said not to worry. He’d shoot a couple of hundred photos, and they would choose.’

  ‘Your career’s on the way?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds for an afternoon’s work. After that, another department store, then prancing up and down catwalks, trying not to fall or make a total cock-up, somehow succeeding and getting noticed. Soon I’m on a tropical beach, no green background, the real thing.’

  ‘Men?’

  ‘Photographers, those that weren’t gay, fancied their chances. I slept with one or two, but never any pressure. We were valuable commodities, not to be mishandled.’

  ‘Angus?’

  ‘I’ll come to that. After eighteen months, I’m not as fresh as I was, and they’re looking for the next new girl, the quirky nose, the gangly walk, the skinny legs, or in my case, they wanted waifs, so skinny they were all bone, their ribs showing. I was slim, but I can’t starve myself. There’s a demand for centrefolds, bosoms and curves wanted. I wasn’t too keen at first; it made me think of the lechers with no film in the camera, just getting off behind a screen while you posed for them.’

  ‘You had experienced it?’

  ‘Not me. Some of the other girls had though; upset some, didn’t worry others.’

  ‘You started posing for the magazines?’ Larry said.

  ‘At first, a couple of vodkas before the shoot made me relax, but nowadays, I don’t bother. Just ensure there’s some privacy, don’t want the locals getting an eyeful, do I?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘Some of the places we take the photos are sensitive about female flesh, although the men make sure they get a good look before they start throwing the stones.’

  ‘We’re digressing,’ Wendy said. Maddox’s verbosity was either the result of a natural high or artificial, neither of which concerned Wendy and Larry.

  ‘My career was waning, and I’m getting bad media, the photos becoming more risqué.’

  ‘They always wanted a bit more?’

  ‘Not that I always said no; it depended on the photographer and how much they paid. At first, topless, crossed legs. But they’re insistent, and the more you relax, the easier it becomes, and then, soon enough, it’s the full-on frontal, no holds barred.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain Angus.’

  ‘It does, in a way. I was at a celebrity event, not sure which one it was, strutting my stuff, on the arm of someone or other.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  ‘I do, but it’s unimportant. The cameras are flashing, the Page 3 girl and her movie star boyfriend. It was a setup to get the clicks from the paparazzi. I get paid for my time, play along with it, sidle up to him, make him look good.’

  ‘He wasn’t that good without you?’

  ‘A big name, you’d know it. He’s a total loser, and his people know it, but in front of a camera, delivering his lines, he’s magic. I’m known for my wild ways, not that there were too many, and for getting my gear off; he’s there to promote himself, to make out that he’s a regular guy with a knockout girlfriend, the sort of woman men lust after. It enhances his reputation as a lady killer, not that he was; barely work up a sweat, let alone kill one.’

  ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘No one did, not those that knew him. As I said, put him in front of a camera, give him a few lines to deliver, and he was the stuff of legend. Sit him down next to you, try to engage him in conversation, and he was tongue-tied, disinterested, and a waste of space.’

  ‘Whereas you are smart but known as a bit of a tart?’

  ‘It was my manager’s idea, improve my reputation, make me go upmarket.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Skinny waifs were on the way out. They’d had a couple of years, but then one or two died of heart failure or another ailment. Bulimia, starvation, exercising themselves to physical exhaustion, whatever.’

  ‘And taking drugs,’ Larry said.

  ‘Him that left, he’s more into it than me, not that I haven’t tried, but it’s not my nature. I know it looks bad, him up here with me.’

  ‘It does,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You can’t blame a girl, her man dead, feeling lonely.’

  ‘I can, but carry on.’

  ‘As I was saying, the market’s changing, demand is back for the fuller figure, but I’ve been getting my gear off too often, posing more provocatively than I should. My manager arranges for me to attend a sports award, Angus’s date. Similar to when I had been with the movie star.’

  ‘You liked Angus?’

  ‘He didn’t play up to the camera, held the door for me, pulled the chair out when I sat down, the perfect gentleman. Not that it was meant to be more than that, him and me together on the night, a write up in the newspaper, shown on television. Angus was a natural showman, and he was always looking for funding for his next adventure.’

  ‘A mutual trade-off, you and him. He got money; you got respectability.’

  ‘He got me. He wasn’t much into romance, but after some that I’ve encountered over the years, it was refreshing. And then, I’m his woman, which I was, not because it paid, but because I wanted it. Nobody touches Angus’s woman, not with the admiration that he engendered. I was in love with him, still am, but he’s not here, not now.’

  ‘And you’re back on the slippery slope to obscurity and men in raincoats, a Polaroid camera in hand?’ Larry said.

  ‘Easy way down, hanging about in a hotel suite with Valentine, taking drugs,�
� Wendy said.

  ‘Distraught, the love of her life snatched from her arms, a hero falling to his death, struggling to reclaim her dignity. Sounds plausible,’ Maddox said.

  ‘For a soap opera,’ Larry said.

  ‘For the servile celebrity-obsessed, it’s reality.’

  ‘Assuming we buy what you’ve just spouted, Maddox, it raises other questions,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Why am I sleeping with Brett?’

  ‘That’s one. What’s the answer?’

  ‘A few too many drinks, something else that you don’t want to know about, and it just happened.’

  Larry, frustrated by the puerile rantings of the vapid, broken-hearted paramour of a much-beloved adventurer and hero, raised himself from his chair and walked around the room. ‘You must think we’re stupid,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t; really, I don’t. I’m committed to making something of myself.’

  ‘Inspector, sit down, please,’ Wendy said. ‘Getting upset with Maddox isn’t going to help.’

  ‘It’s hogwash, and she knows it,’ Larry said, resuming his seat.

  ‘You’re hot property now, more so than before. His death has benefited you,’ Wendy said.

  A knock on the door. ‘Is it okay to come back?’ Maddox’s lover said.

  Wendy went over to where he stood and opened the door wide. ‘She awaits your pleasure.’

  ‘Please, you’re wrong,’ Maddox said. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Miss Timberley,’ Larry said. ‘We’ll meet again soon enough, but don’t leave England without telling us.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Wendy said, ‘screw for England if you want, swing from the chandeliers, and have your photo taken any which way with lover boy here. We’re serving notice on you that your rise to stardom on the back of Angus Simmons’s death is a motive.’

  ‘You can’t talk to her like that,’ Valentine said.

  ‘Shut up, go back to bed with her, snort whatever foul concoction you want, but never tell me to be quiet,’ Wendy said.

  Outside the room, down in the hotel foyer, Larry and Wendy sat.

  ‘You were rough in there,’ Larry said. ‘Do you believe she’s involved?’

  ‘Probably not, but she’s going to ruin her life. It’s alright now, young and pretty, but another ten years, the fat piling on, the face no longer peachy fresh, and she’ll be turning tricks in porno movies.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘It’s a slippery slope to obscurity. I hope I’m wrong.’

  ‘Do you think she cared for Simmons?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Simmons had been good for her, and I don’t believe Maddox had anything to do with Simmons’s death, but others might be making the decisions, taking actions.’

  ‘Do you, Wendy, honestly believe what you’ve just said?’

  ‘I hope I’m wrong. If she was my daughter…’

  ‘She’s not. Don’t get emotionally involved. She could be Dorothy or the wicked witch of the west.’

  ‘I still think she’s Dorothy, and without Glinda, the good witch of the south, she could be doomed.’

  ‘It’s not your problem. DCI Cook’s said it enough, don’t get involved, just do your job.’

  Wendy knew that her inspector was right, but she had been around longer than him. She knew their chief inspector had become involved on two occasions, and he had survived each time. She only wished she could protect the young woman from her folly.

  ***

  Karen Majors had worked the telephone, written numerous emails, visited with all of the companies that had previously placed advertisements at the television station. As head of sales, responsible for bringing in the money, she had failed.

  ‘Tricia’s not saleable,’ Karen complained to Jerome Jaden.

  ‘You said she was.’ Jaden, known in the industry for his no-nonsense approach to the management of a television company, knew his laurel crown was slipping; he did not intend to let it slip further. The other stations were experiencing similar problems, undercutting on advertising rates, looking for a way out of the dilemma. The revenue pie was reducing in size, and the economists, those that could be trusted, knew that one station had to fold in the next three to six months.

  Jaden did not follow the so-called experts. One piece of paper told him what he needed to know. Karen Majors was not to blame, and she had worked hard. However, he had no intention of letting her off the hook. It was her job; she would deliver one way or the other.

  ‘They see her as insincere, no substance, just a pretty face. Simmons had the pulling power, not her. You made the wrong decision.’

  Sitting calm and composed, Jaden spoke. ‘I don’t like your tone.’

  ‘Nor I, yours,’ the reply. ‘You give me a pig in a poke, expect me to work miracles. Well, I can’t, nor can you.’

  ‘Tricia Warburton’s not a pig, and as for the poke, the market’s large enough. You should be able to do something with it.’

  ‘I have increased our market share. Tom Taylor is doing his best, but he’s not up to it, and the production values are not as good as when Breslaw was driving them. The man was focussed on quality, regular screenings with a selective cross-section of the community.’

  ‘Taylor’s doing that.’

  ‘Sending a boy to do a man’s job doesn’t work, and you know it. Why are you hanging onto him, not willing to talk to Breslaw, to make him an offer?’

  ‘Because, regardless of what everyone thinks of him around here, I can’t trust him,’ Jaden said. He had Breslaw in his pocket, but so far, he hadn’t used him, knowing that the former head of programming, regardless of what he said, would interfere.

  ‘Trust, a two-edged sword. Does he trust you?’

  ‘He’s sitting in that house of his, fretting over his garden, slowly going mad with frustration and boredom. He lays the blame at my feet for how we got rid of him.’

  ‘He was treated with respect,’ Karen said. She was sitting down, her heart beating more than it should. She was tired; gardening sounded good to her. Her boss, a man she had respected, looked no better, and the twinkle in his eye, the enthusiasm that was always there, was gone, never to return.

  ‘It was his life, as it is ours. Take a person away from their family, their home away from home, and see what it does to them.’

  ‘What would it do to you? What would you do to stay on top?’ Karen Majors said. ‘Jerome, it’s now or never, and you know it.’

  Chapter 17

  Ashley Otway’s junior, now the newspaper’s new entertainments reporter, was delighted that her first assignment had been to interview Chas Longley, an American rapper, one of the latest in a long string of warblers that Ashley didn’t appreciate. However, Chloe, fresh out of university, did.

  ‘He was great, so friendly. Did you know he broke up with his girlfriend?’ she had oozed on her return from interviewing the man.

  Ashley did because she had read the media briefing about how he had made his first record at the age of eighteen, growing up in a crime-ridden ghetto in Detroit. And from then on, a meteoric rise, a chart-topper, Midas wealthy.

  Ashley, not wanting to hear any more, cut the woman off. ‘Must go,’ she said. ‘Write it up.’

  Outside the building, Ashley Otway climbed into a car’s passenger seat; a balaclava hid the driver’s face.

  ‘How much is it worth?’ the driver asked.

  ‘How good is it?’ Ashley, frightened yet excited at the same time, asked. Aware that she should have told her office where she was going, aware that others would have stopped her, she had drafted an email, set it to transmit in two hours, explaining what she had agreed to, where she thought she was going. Her smartphone was on; the details included how to track it.

  ‘It’s gold.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I’m not here for my health.’ The voice was gruff, a nondescript accent.

  Ashley judged the man to be above average height, carrying more weigh
t than he should, more from a lack of exercise than an excess of food. He was dressed in light-coloured jeans, an open-necked blue shirt, and was wearing a sports jacket.

  ‘Why the secrecy? How did you get my number?’

  ‘I prefer to stay in the shadows.’

  ‘Driving around London in disguise is hardly inconspicuous.’

  The man drove too fast, weaving in and out of traffic, although he seemed more than competent. She thought he might be a racing driver, maybe a courier, or drove a taxi, as he seemed to know his way with ease.

  ‘I saw you challenge Jerome Jaden, not that you got anywhere.’

  ‘I didn’t expect to, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy.’

  ‘What if I told you he was broke?’

  ‘That piece of information is worth a couple of pounds. It’s common knowledge, and it’s not only his station. You’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Your driving?’

  ‘Do you get a thrill out of getting in cars with mystery men; think you’re playing at espionage, letter drops, invisible ink, sultry sirens baiting honey traps.’

  ‘Whoever you are, you’ve got a twisted sense of humour, if this is what this is,’ Ashley said.

  ‘It’s not humour; it’s terror. I need to know if you’re worthy.’

  ‘Worthy of what? Of you? Slow down.’

  The car slowed; the man removed his balaclava. ‘Sorry about that. You could have informed the police, had them follow us. I had to be sure.’

  ‘I haven’t, and why don’t you go to them?’

  ‘The name’s McAlister, Otto McAlister. A German mother explains the first name. I’ve not gone to the police, not that I couldn’t, as I can prove this, but because times are tough, and you’ll pay me a king’s ransom for information. I’d be lucky to get the taxi fare home from them.’

  ‘And if I give it to the police?’

  ‘Then do so, mention my name if you must. I’ll have your money, and you’ll have an exclusive. Deal?’