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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Now, young Tom, tell me what Jaden wants, and don’t give me the sanitised version of the truth and fair play. Television’s passé, the same as the print media. Sure, there’ll always be a place for both, but they’re changing. Jaden’s no dummy, he knows that, and he’s no more concerned about Simmons’s reputation than you are.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework.’

  ‘Another bottle?’

  ‘We should order,’ Tom said.

  ‘Call over the waiter, tell her to send over the fish of the day, a side of salad, and something to wipe that lecherous look off your face.’

  ‘I like you, Ashley,’ Tom said. ‘You’re a lot of fun, not what I expected.’

  ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘A pretty face, a hard-nosed bitch.’

  ‘Right on both counts. Cross me and Jaden will go down.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The pen is mightier than the sword, or haven’t you heard?’

  ‘I have, but the truth will prevail.’

  ‘The truth is that Mike Hampton did have murderous intent towards Angus Simmons and that halfway up a mountain, he probably realised that only one was going to come off it. Forced into a situation, people make decisions they have to live with, and whether they regret them or not is another issue. I will prove that Simmons is guilty; I will also solve his murder.’

  ‘McAlister?’

  ‘Don’t assume it’s only him. I found out about a government minister and his love nest, exposed it as well, lost my job as a result.’

  ‘You could have lost your life.’

  ‘If he had found out in advance what I was going to write, I might have.’

  ‘And you don’t think that could happen this time?’

  ‘Tom, dear sweet Tom,’ Ashley said as she touched him on the arm, ‘don’t say things you don’t understand. Nothing’s going to happen to me. Jerome Jaden’s not a bad man. He’ll fight to keep his television station, his money, but he won’t commit violence against me for it. And even if he considered it, which he won’t, it needs others more capable of carrying it out. Jaden’s not taking this personally, and nor should you.’

  ‘Someone shot at Simmons. We don’t know the reason.’

  ‘Don’t we?’

  ‘Are you saying…?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. The truth is out there, and I’ll publish it first, let the police have the evidence afterwards, and Jerome, enough time to issue a statement.’

  ‘If I’m not going to sway you?’

  ‘It’ll take more than a night of passion.’

  ‘If not that, would you be open to a counteroffer?’

  ‘Of what? Money?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘It’s not money I want. It’s the prestige, being respected as a serious journalist, never again having to interview head-up-their-arse talentless actors and singers. That’s what I want. Would you take some advice from someone older than you?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Jerome Jaden is going broke. He won’t say it openly, but he’s in debt, and Tricia Warburton’s not going to cut the mustard. Sure, she looks good, but she doesn’t have the depth of Simmons nor the credibility, and as for heights, she would shake at the top of a ladder.’

  ‘Tonight?’ Tom said.

  ‘Eat your fish, and go home to Alison, tell her you lucked out. No doubt, she’ll be pleased, put you out of your misery.’

  Chapter 19

  Angus Simmons’s parents parted company after spending two weeks together. She, back to Scotland, to resume her solitary life, and for him, his mistress and his life of mild eccentricity.

  Maddox Timberley, her relationship with Brett Valentine a matter of social interest, continued to find solace in his arms.

  By his own admission, Valentine’s future as a model would only last as long as the demand for chisel-jawed, flat-bellied and slightly effeminate men lasted. Being an adjunct to Maddox didn’t make him a murderer.

  Karen Majors beavered away, realised that she was losing the battle and that the advertisers were looking for a discount, something she couldn’t give, not beyond a certain point.

  Bob Babbage continued to look out for other opportunities, aware that the financials don’t lie.

  The young Cook, the first-born of Isaac and Jenny, was now taking tentative steps around the house, becoming more adventurous, banging into things, crying until either parent came to soothe.

  Isaac was not enjoying himself; the hours were long, and when he got home, invariably late at night, he wanted peace, the sort that Jenny had given him, but now there were issues to discuss. Which school would be best? So intelligent, so beautiful, from Jenny. He had to agree, but it was sleep he needed, and he knew he was irritable, likely to snap at his wife, something he didn’t want to do.

  Apart from Homicide, there was nothing he would have preferred than spend time at home with his wife and his young son, to see the world through their eyes, the simple pleasures, the contentment, the joy. But it was not to be for him, not yet, probably never as long as people committed crimes and killed.

  A Thursday night, close to midnight, Isaac was in bed, Jenny by his side, their son in the other room. He had worked every day for the last twenty-two. Tomorrow, he intended to lie in, arrive at Challis Street Police Station at midday.

  The phone rang; Isaac ignored it. Others could deal with whatever drama it was, he thought.

  It rang again. ‘You can’t ignore it,’ Jenny said.

  Isaac put the phone to his ear. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, and usually I wouldn’t bother you, but…’ Larry Hill said.

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Maddox Timberley’s attempted suicide. She’s in the hospital.’

  ‘Will she live?’

  ‘It appears that it was a half-hearted attempt, sleeping pills washed down with vodka.’

  ‘Even so. Which hospital?’

  ‘Praed Street, St Mary’s. Just up from Paddington Station.’

  ‘I know where it is. I’ll be there in thirty minutes, maybe thirty-five. Uniform?’

  ‘I’ve got one outside her room.’

  ‘Tell him to be vigilant.’

  ‘Sorry about the hour.’

  ‘You were right to call, and besides, Jenny’s already running the shower for me.’

  Isaac arrived forty-one minutes later; at Jenny’s insistence, he wore a clean shirt, knowing that he wouldn’t be back until late that day once he left the house.

  ‘Make sure your inspector takes you for breakfast,’ she said as she kissed him goodbye.

  ‘I’ll make it up.’

  ‘You won’t. Besides, I signed up for this. I knew what it was going to be like.’

  Isaac found Larry propping up a vending machine, a paper cup in one hand, a bar of chocolate in the other.

  ‘Milk, no sugar,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Here, take this one.’ Larry handed over the cup. ‘I saw you parking your car.’

  ‘Maddox?’ Isaac said as he drank his coffee, the taste of the paper cup.

  ‘They’ve pumped her stomach. We can see her in a few minutes. Don’t expect much from her.’

  ‘Any idea?’

  ‘Not yet. Valentine found her after he came back from a night out with friends.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Drunk and drugged. I’ve left a uniform there. Once he’s conscious, we’ll go and talk to him.’

  Inside the hospital room, Maddox Timberley revived, a nurse giving her a drink, an intravenous drip in her arm.

  ‘Not so smart,’ Isaac said when the woman looked at him. He thought that asking her how she was wasn’t the best approach. He knew how she felt – sick as a dog and aware of her stupidity.

  ‘I suppose it wasn’t, but you wouldn’t understand,’ Maddox said.

  ‘Try me,’ Isaac said. Larry had left, gone to visit Brett Valentine, as the uniform had phoned to say that the man was stumbling
around the kitchen, looking for something to eat, burning his hand on the hob as he attempted to fry bacon.

  ‘It just got too much, this pretending, a new love, the world at my feet.’

  ‘Whereas you’re a decent person from a stable background, seduced by the bright lights, is that it?’

  ‘It’s empty, and as for Brett, he’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘You’re sleeping with him.’

  ‘That doesn’t make him my boyfriend.’

  ‘Why the pills? The truth.’

  ‘Sure, I’m making a lot of money, flying around the world, living in great places, but it’s shallow. With Angus, it was fine. He kept me grounded, and he never let it go to my head. I’m lost without him.’

  ‘No help from Valentine?’

  ‘Testosterone-charged, drug-addicted man-child, what do you think? His career’s on the wane, not that he’s sober long enough to realise it.’

  ‘You could find another man.’

  ‘I don’t want another; I want Angus.’

  ‘Your future after here?’

  ‘My mother’s coming down to London. I’ll spend a couple of weeks with her.’

  ‘Valentine?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have slept with him,’ Isaac said, realising that he was close to lecturing the young woman.

  ‘On the rebound, don’t you see?’

  Isaac thought it a weak excuse.

  ***

  ‘Your side of the story?’ Larry said to the man propped up in bed, a towel around his head, shivering from the after-effects of a wasted night out.

  ‘I came home, found her on the floor,’ Valentine said. ‘Nothing more to say, nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Aren’t you interested in how she is?’

  ‘I phoned for an ambulance. What more do you want me to do?’

  ‘How? You weren’t in a fit condition to phone anyone, let alone emergency services.’

  ‘I knew the number, used it before.’

  ‘The perils of a drug addict, overdosing?’

  ‘Not that I’ve done it myself, not yet, but I’ve friends who have.’

  ‘But you will?’

  ‘Inspector, you might not think very much of me, but I’m not stupid. Okay, you’re right. I’m not stupid when I’m sober or clean, but I’m addicted, and addicted people make bad decisions, go over the limit. You don’t need me to tell you, do you?’

  ‘You could get treatment.’

  ‘You’ve got the look of a man who drinks. Are you an alcoholic?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Inspector Hill, once an addict, always an addict. Denial doesn’t count for anything. One day, when you’re down, and life’s kicking you in the guts, you’ll find the bottle, the same as I will with drugs.’

  ‘Did Maddox have any reason to commit suicide?’

  ‘You mean with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maddox is a good person, probably too good for the life she leads, the life she thinks is important. There are sharks and rogues out there, unscrupulous people who’ll bleed a person dry, and when there’s no more to give, kick them in the guts.’

  ‘You have experience of these people?’

  ‘Maddox does as well. Believe me, Inspector, she’s the homely type, happy to be at home with a good man, a budgerigar in a cage and a couple of kids.’

  ‘She’s not said that.’

  ‘She doesn’t know it herself, not yet, but she will soon enough. The pretty face doesn’t last forever.’

  ‘What do you feel for her?’ Larry asked.

  ‘We were thrown together, made to look as though we were in love, but we’re not. I agreed. Who wouldn’t? And Maddox is obliging, although at night she sometimes cries.’

  ‘For Simmons?’

  ‘Who else? If she’s got any sense, she’ll walk away from this life, find herself a steady man, pop out a couple of kids, throttle herself with a mortgage and be happy. Simmons would have given her that, but he got himself killed, damn stupid thing to do.’

  ‘Not something you’d do?’

  ‘My future’s mapped out. No long life for me. It’ll be drugs, drink and women. After that, when my time’s up, I’ll grow old disreputably.’

  ‘You’ve not made plans for the future?’

  ‘No point. My parents were losers, so am I. For a while, I made myself some money, had a good time, got to sleep with some classy women. It was as if I’d won the lottery. No regrets from me.’

  Larry, believing there was no more to be gained, left the man and headed back to the police station, giving Isaac a call to join him for breakfast. He knew just the place in Notting Hill: full English, bacon, eggs, toast, the works.

  ***

  As he looked at the woman beside him in the bed, Otto McAlister believed that life couldn’t get any better. Not only was Ashley Otway giving him money, but she was also giving herself. He knew she did not like the second part of the deal, but he didn’t care. He felt as little for her as she did for him.

  The same hotel as before, one floor up from the previous visit, a view out over the countryside, idyllic to some, but McAlister was not interested, and it bored him. He had money; he wanted action.

  ‘Ashley,’ he said as he nudged her, ‘we need to talk.’

  ‘I thought that was why we’re here,’ the woman replied, keeping to her side of the bed, drawing the sheet in close to her. ‘Who fired the shot? Are you saying you’ve not got it, and I’m here under false pretences?’

  ‘No, not that.’

  Sitting up in bed, the woman pulled a jumper over the top of her body. She didn’t want him getting excited again, not sure she could hide her disgust of him, of herself for what she was doing.

  ‘Then what?’ she said, moving further away from him, putting her feet on the ground, pulling on a pair of jeans. ‘We need to keep the story alive. You need to give me more.’

  ‘The slower this goes, the more money I get paid. Is your editor ready for this?’

  ‘The cost or the information?’

  ‘The cost,’ McAlister moved over near to her, put his arm around her. ‘We wouldn’t want to sour our relationship, would we? Not when we’re so near.’

  ‘Near to what?’

  ‘I want more money.’

  ‘Is this for the final proof?’

  ‘Not yet. In the meantime, you have to make a decision.’

  ‘Whether I continue to sleep with you or not?’

  ‘There are others who would be willing to pay me what I want?’

  Ashley weighed up the options; she didn’t like the choices presented.

  ‘How much and how soon before you give me the final proof, the name of the murderer?’

  ‘Today, if you’ll pay what I want.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘No one will pay that much.’

  ‘Jerome Jaden will.’

  ‘Are you inferring…?’

  ‘I’m inferring nothing.’

  Ashley knew the man enjoyed his control over her.

  ‘I’ll need to talk to my editor, see what he has to say.’

  For now, the man would have to remain with his tongue hanging out; she wasn’t going to whore herself anymore.

  ‘Are you going to play ball?’ McAlister said, patting her side of the bed.

  ‘I’ll get you the damn money. You need to be prepared to give it over, whatever it is.’

  ‘I will be. A down payment?’

  ‘Not from me. Otto, you’re slime.’

  ‘From you, Ashley, I take that as a compliment,’ McAlister said.

  ***

  Jock, an uncomplicated man, waited at the farmhouse in Dorset.

  Deb, tired of her brother’s belittling and complaining behaviour, had finally walked out of the door, phoning his wife to get off whoever she was shacking up with and to get back and look after him.

  ‘How could you,’ Kate had protest
ed, ‘leaving him on his own.’

  ‘He won’t be, once you get down here. I’ve got better things to do.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Jock received a kiss on Deb’s return, never asked one question about her time away, nor how she was. She went to a cupboard, took out a bottle and poured two whiskies, one for her, one for him.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ she said.

  ‘One of the cows calved,’ Jock said.

  To Deb, they were the most romantic words she had ever heard.

  ‘We’ll talk to the vicar tomorrow; tell him we’re getting married,’ Deb said.

  ‘The calf’s not feeding properly, and the cow’s not sure what to do, and then the others need milking, and by the way, you’ve got to do something about the chickens, that cockerel’s not pulling his weight.’

  No holding of hands or overt signs of affection, Jock continued as he always did. To him, the world didn’t exist outside of the farm and the nearby village. He had never been to London, nor did he want to go, regarding Dorchester, the nearest town, with a population of twenty thousand, too big and too busy for him.

  Deb was sublimely happy, and as for Jock, once he had finished eating the meal, he left the cottage, walked over to the wayward cockerel, wringing his hands to let it know its fate if it didn’t perform.

  ‘I’ve got to go and check my place,’ Jock shouted. ‘Back later.’

  And that from Jock was the limit of his romantic inclinations. Deb knew that others wouldn’t understand, especially her sister-in-law.

  Ashley, feeling dirty and soiled and abused and used, all in the cause of a story, felt cheapened, more so than her former junior, Chloe, who had been elated at seducing one of her idols.

  Neither did she want to meet with Tom Taylor, even if he was attractive and young, knowing that he and McAlister were peas in a pod. One was rough and ready, the other was soft and fresh-faced, but neither cared deeply for their women, only for what they could give.

  ‘Jerome,’ Ashley said, ‘we should meet.’

  She had thought long and hard before phoning Jaden, not sure if she’d get a favourable response. But there was a dilemma in that McAlister was demanding, and he would want her again, something she didn’t want to do, so she’d have to find someone who’d pay the money, get him off her back. Her editor had given a flat refusal to McAlister’s outrageous demand. ‘Not even if pigs fly,’ he had said.