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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It depends on what you’re trading and how much you want,’ Ashley said. Calmer now and in the company of an earthy, ruggedly handsome man.

  ‘I was in Patagonia when Hampton fell. I was there; I saw it happen.’

  McAlister drew the car over to the side of the road and parked. He leant over to the passenger side glove box, causing the woman to flinch.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got something, a sample, to show you.’

  The man withdrew an envelope. ‘Take a look at what’s inside,’ he said.

  After she had looked at the five photos, four of them fuzzy, one clear, Ashley Otway handed them back to McAlister. ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Squint your eyes, look at this one,’ he said as he handed over the clearest of the five. ‘You can see two men, one in blue, the other in dark grey.’

  ‘The outlines of two men, neither recognisable.’

  ‘Those two men are Angus Simmons and Mike Hampton. Anyone who knows mountaineering and those two would recognise them instantly.’

  ‘Not in a court of law; invalid, I’d say.’

  ‘But you’ve never seen photos when Hampton fell; no one has, not until now.’

  ‘I’ve not. Have you hung onto these since then?’

  ‘Accidents happen. People lose it up on a mountain, start acting crazy.’

  ‘And you think that Simmons or Hampton did?’

  ‘Or both. It doesn’t matter, only that if you know what to look for, it’s proof that Simmons was at fault. Hampton blames the man, and he’s right to. Angus, whether it was intentional or whether he was scared or angry, that I don’t know. All I know is that these photos are proof.’

  ‘And you want how much?’

  ‘Two thousand pounds.’

  ‘A story about something that happened in the past doesn’t amount to much.’

  ‘That’s the sampler. The real scoop, the proof of who shot Angus, is still with me.’

  ‘Provable?’

  ‘Yes. First, take those photos to your editor, get them blown up, run software over them, take out the fuzziness and print the story.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Don’t mention my name until the final proof is in your possession. Until then, they can’t sweat it out of me. You see, I’m getting your newspaper to pay, the police to get the evidence, you to get the glory, and for me, a chance to leave this country. But don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Have we got a deal?’

  ‘Cash or cheque?’

  ‘Either. Debit card if you prefer. I’ve got a reader with me, a market stall at the weekend.’

  Ashley flashed her card, entered her PIN, took hold of the photos and got out of the car. ‘The originals?’

  ‘I’ll email them to you.’

  ‘How much for proof of the murderer?’

  ‘We’ll talk. Check with your editor, find out how much a scoop is worth.’

  ‘Withholding evidence is a crime,’ Ashley said.

  ‘So is paying for it and not handing it over to the police.’

  ‘We’ve got smart lawyers who can deal with our misdemeanours. What do you have?’

  ‘The proof they want. Mine’s more powerful,’ McAlister said.

  ‘They could make you talk.’

  ‘Strongarm stuff? Give me a good beating?’

  ‘They could put you in the cells.’

  ‘They could. The information I have is not written down, but I can still prove it.’

  ‘Where can I contact you?’

  ‘It’ll be on the email. Don’t call until you’ve published the first article. After that, I’ll drip-feed you, sweeten the deal, and make your editor willing to part with the readies. Bank transfer in future; no need for a meeting, not unless you’re keen.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Ashley Otway said.

  ***

  Aware that withholding evidence was a crime, Ashley phoned Isaac to let him know that she was in contact with someone offering information in exchange for money. She failed to mention the photos, not intending to do so until the editor had seen them, approved them for publication, and the legal department was happy with releasing them. Only then would she hand them over to Homicide.

  Isaac, unsure why she had contacted him, had no option but to remind her that she had to hand over evidence. He knew that stating the obvious was pointless, but he felt duty-bound to do so.

  For his part, he did not believe her, not entirely, but powerless to do more. He had thanked her for phoning him and told her to be careful, as a person or persons unknown were still out in the community. A murderer was at large, a murderer whose motive could have been revenge or hatred, love even, fame possibly, Maddox Timberley in the back of his mind.

  And Ashley Otway, sleuth that she was, was looking for glory, to solve the case before the police, getting too close, taking risks that she shouldn’t. Isaac met with her, a small bistro off Oxford Street, the sort of place where the midday crowd congregates, where lovers get together at night. Her hand touching his over the table sent shivers up his spine. He did not want romance, not now, not with a wife and child, but the woman was attractive, and she was making the right signals.

  ‘I’ve embarrassed you,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Isaac lied.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not poaching other women’s husbands. But if you want?’

  ‘Ashley, be careful,’ Isaac said as he pulled his hand back sharply. ‘You’re a risk-taker, nosing in where you shouldn’t. Not that I want to lecture.’

  ‘But you are, aren’t you?’

  Isaac did not want to be there. A waiter with a menu, a couple of drinks on the table, ambient music in the background. If it weren’t for what she knew, he would have made his excuses and left.

  ‘Why were you removed as a political reporter?’ Isaac said. ‘Access to the highest echelons of power in this country, privy to the intricate workings, the secrets of state, decisions that would shape our country for years.’

  ‘Behind the scenes, Machiavellian scheming.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re a first-year philosophy student at a progressive university, not someone who has experienced the rough and tumble of reality.’

  ‘You don’t think they should be held accountable?’

  ‘I’m trying to advise you. Finding out that a senior minister has got a bit on the side, and then losing your job over it is hardly a recipe for success.’

  ‘He wasn’t the only one; there are more: a secret love nest, another taking their parliamentary secretary on an all-expenses jolly to Switzerland.’

  ‘That’s left-wing Bolshevism.’

  ‘It’s unjust.’

  ‘Believe me, I know as much as you do about government officials and what they get up to.’

  ‘The government minister, the soap opera diva, a secret child?’

  ‘Where did you find that from?’

  ‘Whispers in the corridors,’ the woman said as she held up her glass, clinked it with Isaac’s.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Rumours.’

  Isaac felt fear for her. Aggressively ambitious, a talent for spotting wrongdoing, a willingness to make it known, the ingredients for a short and fulfilled life. ‘Take care. You could be heading down a path of no return,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll trade,’ Ashley said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Tell me about the secret child, and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.’

  ‘Official Secrets Act, I can’t. I’m telling you, be extremely careful. People who take shots at other people are unpredictable, and they have no intention of giving themselves up, more than willing to take another life. You could be playing with fire.’

  ‘People died?’

  ‘Innocent people. Please, don’t become one of those who end up dragged from the River Thames on a Saturday morning, your face half-eaten by crabs.’

  ‘I won’t. You care?’

  The waiter hovered; Ashley
ordered fish; Isaac ordered meat.

  Isaac felt uncomfortable, unable to leave, feeling swayed by the mood, and knowing that at home, his wife only wanted to talk about their son, what he had done that day, and why did he have to work so long. And him there, a beautiful woman, available and desirable and single.

  ‘Sorry, can’t do this,’ Isaac said. Professionally, he should have stayed; personally, he couldn’t. ‘Be careful; call me anytime. Don’t get into potentially dangerous situations.’

  She already had that day with Otto McAlister. Checking her emails, she found the number.

  Any port in a storm, she said to herself.

  ‘Ten minutes, make mine meat.’

  ‘I already have. Red wine okay by you?’

  ‘Dessert?’

  ‘We’ll discuss that when you get here.’

  If she couldn’t have a suave and tall black police chief inspector, ruggedly handsome wasn’t a bad substitute.

  ***

  Perturbed that Jim Breslaw was back at the station, Tom Taylor made his concerns known to Jerome Jaden.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Jaden said from behind his desk, a cigar in his mouth.

  ‘But Jim’s starting to order me around, treats me as if I’m the office boy, only fit for menial tasks, getting him this, getting him that, running errands.’

  ‘Alison, how is she?’

  ‘We argued.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘She accused me of chasing another woman. What if I was?’

  ‘Take a seat,’ Jaden said. ‘We’ll talk this through. I might have something special for you.’

  Taylor realised the seat was a command, not an option. He complied.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Jaden continued. ‘You’re not up to the task of the head of programming, are you?’

  ‘A fresh approach, the optimism of youth, an understanding of what the viewing public want.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘It’s what you said, and Alison…’

  ‘What did my relative say?’ A subtle hint from Jaden to remind the woman’s boyfriend of the importance of his relative.

  ‘That you were a wily old fox. The ratings are down, and from what I know, the banks are hammering at the door.’

  ‘Dear sweet, innocent little Tom Taylor, whining like a child in the school playground. Did you believe what I said when I promoted you?’

  Taylor was at a loss for words.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘Say nothing and listen. I know all about this other woman you’ve got on the side. Not that I care much either way but upset Alison, and you’re out. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. Alison is family, you’re not, and I’m particularly fond of her mother. The Jadens look after their own.’

  ‘She’s a Glassop.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve. You’re playing with fire, upsetting her.’

  ‘Is Jim taking over?’

  ‘No, he’s not. Breslaw’s making sure that Tricia Warburton does this right. She’s the best we’ve got, not that I’d choose her, but we go with her.’

  ‘You preferred Angus?’

  ‘I preferred what we had ten years ago, but we deal with what we’ve got. The advertising revenue is down, and that’s the primary consideration.’

  ‘It’s down everywhere,’ Taylor said.

  ‘And where did you read that? The Beano?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A comic, what the young used to call entertainment.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. Breslaw does, not that he likes it any more than me.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Make Alison happy,’ Jaden said. ‘You’re still green, full of yourself, believe that you know more than you do, no harm at your age. But remember, you know nothing about life. The viewers are not there, not the way they were, but they’re fickle, easily swayed, putty in the hands of smart people.’

  ‘You’re one of the smart?’

  ‘How far would you go for this company? For me?’ Jaden asked.

  ‘Anything. Are there any guarantees for me?’

  ‘There’s a woman, razor-sharp, likely to cause us trouble.’

  ‘I won’t do that.’

  ‘Do what? Kill her?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘The killer instinct is not in you. You have a limit to what you’ll do.’

  ‘Angus Simmons was murdered. Whoever did it will spend time in jail.’

  ‘Will they? What if they’re not caught?’

  ‘Are you saying that you know?’

  ‘Am I?’

  Tom Taylor sat back on his chair, the realisation dawning that career advancement came at a cost, which he wasn’t sure he could pay.

  ‘What do you want? Is she that much of a threat?’

  ‘You know who I’m referring to?’

  ‘Ashley Otway. She wanted to ask questions about Angus’s death, accuse you of taking advantage.’

  ‘She hasn’t proof, not yet, but she’s no dummy. Took on a politician once, got shafted, ended up interviewing washed-out singers and talentless actors. But now, she’s back doing what she does best, investigating.’

  ‘The station? You?’

  ‘Us. And you’re right. She’s getting some dirt; I know that, although what it is and how much, I don’t know.’

  ‘Who’s keeping you informed?’

  ‘I’ve been around a long time; I’ve got contacts out there, some who owe me a favour, others who want money. The woman is playing it close to the chest, not letting anyone know, not until publication.’

  ‘You know the editor where she works?’

  ‘I do. A friend, or as much as anyone can be in this business. He’ll not tell me, no more than I would if I was in his position.’

  ‘So, what do you want with me?’

  ‘Ashley Otway, older than you, not a saint by all accounts. Karen will get the advertising revenue after we’ve tickled the viewing public’s fancy, a few titbits from you, courtesy of what you can get from Otway.’

  Not feeling the heat as before, Taylor relaxed, felt more willing to talk. ‘What sort of titbits?’

  ‘What she’s planning to publish. Prewarned, we’ll head her off at the pass, discredit her. Pay her off if we have to. All I know is, we need Otway’s feet cut from beneath her.’

  ‘What do you know so far?’

  ‘She came on strong with a chief inspector. When he wasn’t biting, she phoned Otto McAlister, a colleague of Simmons and Mike Hampton. He and Otway spent the night together.’

  ‘Your source is reliable?’

  ‘The best. We know that McAlister’s feeding her information, although what and how much, we’re not sure. Could be insignificant, could be damaging, but whatever it is, Otway will make sure it’s printed.’

  ‘You could bribe McAlister, make him work for us, let him feed falsehoods to her.’

  ‘You’re learning,’ Jaden said. ‘However, paying McAlister off is now complicated by Ashley Otway having him in her bed. You’ve seen her?’

  ‘Not so easy to throw away, is that what you reckon? McAlister’s getting a bonus we can’t give.’

  ‘You’re going to seduce her, get her away from McAlister. If you can find anything from her, or drip-feed her what we tell you, we’ll decide how to proceed.’

  ‘Alison,’ Jaden shouted out from where he was sitting. The door opened; Alison Glassop appeared.

  ‘He’ll do it,’ Jaden said.

  ‘I knew he would,’ Alison said, throwing her arms around Taylor, giving him a big kiss.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ Taylor said.

  ‘What option do we have? And besides, it’s nothing, not to you. A woman who’s twelve years older than you. She’s almost ancient.’

  Tom Taylor was unsure what to think. Sure, he had been unfaithful to Alison, but fo
r her to agree to his seducing another woman seemed immoral. Alison had dropped in his estimation.

  ‘Alison will work with you. McAlister’s not attractive, not pretty-faced like you, Tom,’ Jaden said. ‘We’ve researched Otway, know something of her history. To you, it’ll be easy, and no doubt, fun.’

  ‘I hope it isn’t,’ Alison said. ‘It’s the only way, Tom, don’t you see?’

  He did; he just didn’t like it, although he would do what was wanted.

  ‘If McAlister’s kicked out of her bed, he might turn hostile, sell his story elsewhere,’ Taylor said.

  ‘We’re keeping a watch on him, and McAlister’s broke, desperate for money. When the time’s right, we’ll meet with him, put a proposal to him. He’ll go for it; we know that.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Neither Simmons nor Hampton liked him much, used him as one of the team, reserving the glory of the summit for them. McAlister’s not interested in Otway, not in the long term, prefers to be on his own out in the wild somewhere. He’ll be no competition for you.’

  Chapter 18

  Publication of five photos on the third Sunday after the death of Angus Simmons and the accompanying article by Ashley Otway improved sales by eight per cent on the day.

  Ashley’s junior was elevated to the role of entertainments reporter permanently, the previous incumbent wishing her well. She cautioned her about sleeping with every rap artist and bedraggled would-be singer but knew that her advice fell on deaf ears.

  ‘And watch out for boy bands. All for one, one for all, as the three musketeers would say.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Alexandre Dumas, a French classic, published in 1844.’ In exasperation, ‘Forget it, before your time,’ Ashley said as she hugged the girl and left her to it. Either the young woman would learn that picking up strays could end badly, and as for a future in journalism, there would be no Pulitzer Prize for her.

  ‘What’s next,’ the editor asked.

  Ashley, sitting in a leather chair to one side of the office, enjoying the afterglow of the controversy on the television and YouTube, wondering whether Simmons’s action in Patagonia had been accidental or intended.

  Mike Hampton, confined to his home, Kate at his side, attempting a reconciliation, not succeeding. She knew what was right, but she also needed excitement, not negativity. Justin Skinner was fun but facile, and she knew that her husband was the best bet, but apart from a momentary lifting of spirits, he was still the same: dull, someone who did not want to come near her. She knew she couldn’t stay, not for long.