‘Another day’s grace,’ Jaden said.
‘Otto’s money?’ Ashley asked.
‘And your cut?’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
‘If Otto can prove it was Hampton who took the shot, then we’ll come to a deal. In the interim, I’ll pay him for services rendered. If he appears on camera, discusses that day at the bungee jump, says a few words about Tricia, then he’ll be paid for that. As for you, Ashley, I’m not sure that you have much to offer. You’re no longer required.’
‘You can’t do that. I protest.’
‘Protest as much as you like. Where’s the contract?’
‘You paid fifty thousand. That served as a contract.’
‘Then, Miss Otway, you’re not as smart as you believe yourself to be. Alison will show you the way out.’
‘You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,’ Ashley, indignant and angry, said.
‘If you want to waste your time and your money, that’s fine by me. But for now, get out of my office.’
‘Otto?’ Ashley looked over at him.
‘Sorry, Ashley. It was fun while it lasted,’ McAlister’s reply.
‘Miss Otway, if you would be so kind as to follow me,’ Alison said.
***
Apart from a charge of murder, Mike Hampton had the added burden of Deb and Kate in the house. To him, neither woman was welcome.
If Deb was in the kitchen, Kate was upstairs making beds; if one was in the garden, the other was in the house. The conversation between the women was muted, and when they did speak, it was in low voices, the type used in the presence of death, but Hampton knew he wasn’t dead, not yet.
He had been careful to conceal his improving mobility. At times that had been difficult, and if McAlister hadn’t dropped that soup on his lap, the man wouldn’t have seen the pressure he had applied on the floor. Deb had sensed something before, but not Kate, thinking of other places and other men.
‘Your dinner’s ready,’ Deb shouted from the kitchen. ‘In here, or do you prefer it where you are?’
For him, it made no difference. He wasn’t about to move from the chair he was sitting in.
‘I’ll be glad when you two leave me alone,’ he said.
‘No doubt you will, but murder is serious. We’re here for moral support.’
‘In here. That way, I won’t have to listen to you. And besides, what about this man of yours, won’t he be missing you?’
‘Jock? Barely acknowledges me when I’m there.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘In my own way. He’ll never climb a mountain or do anything great, nor will he murder anyone.’
‘Do you believe I did?’
‘What I believe is unimportant.’
‘And if I had, could I rely on you?’
‘You know you can.’
‘What about Kate?’ Hampton asked.
‘She’s a selfish woman,’ Deb said. ‘You can’t rely on her.’
‘Where has she been the last week? Where did you find her?’
‘I left a message on her phone.’
Hampton flexed his leg muscles, a cramp in one leg. He wanted to stretch it out to massage, but not with Deb in the room.
‘Ask Kate to come in here,’ he said.
After two minutes, long enough for her to end her phone call, Kate entered the room.
‘I can’t prove that I didn’t kill that woman,’ Mike Hampton said.
‘But you couldn’t have killed her, not from here.’
‘The police will check my medical condition, conduct tests to check nerve impulses, muscle density. They will know.’
‘Know what? That you can’t walk,’ Kate said.
‘Kate, so blind, too busy enjoying yourself. Who is it now? Not Skinner, or could it be McAlister?’
‘Is this important?’
‘Not really. Some fancy man you met somewhere or other. And besides, what do I care?’
‘He’s a doctor,’ Kate said.
‘I want you to leave the house,’ Hampton said. ‘Today, as soon as you’ve packed your case.’
‘You need our help.’
‘You were doing your duty, and I’ll thank you for that, but I don’t need your help or Deb’s. Both of you can leave.’
‘What will you do?’ Deb asked.
‘I will survive, the way I always do.’
Removing the blanket covering his legs, Mike Hampton took hold of his upper left leg and placed a foot on the ground in front of him. He repeated the action with the other leg. Then, with his hands on the chair’s armrests, he pushed himself upwards.
The two women watched, unsure of what to say.
Standing up, Hampton moved one foot in front of the other, halting steps, slowly improving.
‘Some days are better than others.’
‘How long?’ Kate asked.
‘Slowly over the last few months. McAlister was right, what he told the police, what he attempted to sell to that reporter.’
‘We need to be by your side,’ Deb said. ‘They will convict you of Tricia Warburton’s murder, of Angus’s.’
‘They can prove one, not the other. Kate, don’t stay here. You haven’t committed a crime.’
‘It’s my duty,’ Kate said.
‘It’s not. What I am saying is rational, not embittered. Go!’
‘Deb, will you look after him?’ Kate said, looking over at the woman.
Kate put her arms around her husband, kissed him on both cheeks, packed her case and left. He did not expect to see her again.
‘Deb, I don’t want you here when the police return,’ Hampton said. ‘Go back to your farm and your man, raise cattle or children, whatever you want, but don’t come back here, not for now.’
Deb knew her brother was right, and the bond that had tied them as children remained. She would comply with his request, the same as when they were both young in that house of misery with their parents.
***
Mike Hampton opened the front door of his house. He was standing.
In the time since Kate and Deb had left, Hampton had exercised his legs, ambled around the garden twice, stopping three times to catch his breath. He felt that an almost complete recovery might be possible, but time was not on his side.
Before the walk around the garden, he had phoned the police, told them to come down, and he would make a full confession to the murders of an innocent woman and a guilty man.
‘As you can see, I can walk,’ Hampton said, standing in the house's kitchen with Isaac and Larry.
‘Are you telling us that you climbed that building carrying a rifle?’ Isaac asked.
‘I will subject myself to any tests that you want.’
‘Doctor Henstridge stated that you could walk in time, but he hadn’t seen any evidence of it.’
‘He was right. The feeling in my legs started to come back after the last time that I saw him. At first, I ignored it, but with the improvements, my mood started to change, although it did not go from depressed to optimistic, but instead to hate.’
‘Did you hate McAlister?’
‘I did. You would never have considered me for the murder of Angus Simmons, not without McAlister’s accusation.’
‘He never said that you could, only that you had strength in your legs.’
‘You would have continued to probe, come up with the only logical conclusion: that I am a murderer.’
‘The rifle?’ Larry asked.
‘I threw it in a river, not far from here. You can trawl for it if, not that you’ll find it.’
‘Then, Mr Hampton, we have conjecture but no proof. If an admittance of guilt is what you’re ready to give now, then where does that place us? Sure, your charge can hold, you could be convicted, but your mental state is still questionable. Do you believe that you will be declared mentally incapable of standing trial? Of conviction?’
‘Inspectors, I do not. I will provide you with evidence as far as I can. I’m sorry about the w
oman; I hadn’t wanted to kill her.’
‘So are we. But why did you leave it open to error? No doubt you had researched the subject extensively.’
‘I’m not familiar with bungee jumping, always regarded it as more frivolous than serious. I could see that the cords, regularly tested, changed as needed, were subject to wear and that there were weak spots over the length.’
‘You miscalculated, and how could you be sure that McAlister would go first?’
‘It was simple. I was there.’
‘We didn’t see you?’
‘I suggest you check your footage, a man in his fifties, a peaked cap, dark-skinned, standing to the rear of the group on the bridge.’
‘We have the names of all those who were there,’ Larry said.
‘Have you interviewed all of them?’
‘All except one.’
‘Ivor Putreski?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t interview him because he wasn’t there, not after I heard that McAlister was to jump first.’
‘How could you be sure that cutting the cord was sufficient?’
‘Research, meticulous research.’
‘Which proved to be wrong?’
‘It was correct, but I failed to take into account that he had lost a lot of weight over the last year after contracting typhoid in Nepal.’
‘When did you realise you had made a mistake?’
‘They checked his weight just before jumping. Even so, I was certain that what I had done was sufficient.’
Isaac opened his laptop, played the television footage from the day, ensuring that only he and Larry could see the screen. A man at the rear of the group on the bridge, the mysterious Ivor Putreski.
‘Describe the clothes you were wearing,’ Larry said.
‘Blue jeans, a red shirt, a greyish-coloured jacket, zip up the front.’
‘And you intended to jump?’
‘I was down for the last jump of the day, a last-minute booking. I was certain it wouldn’t come to that and that McAlister would be of more interest. The man, if he continued with his aspersions, would have damned me, and I wasn’t willing to allow that to happen.’
‘But you’ve damned yourself.’
‘It was the woman, don’t you see?’
‘Were you there when she died?’
‘No. With the cameras and everyone excited on the bridge, I managed to get through unseen and cut the cord. I knew that once McAlister died, there would be an attempt to make sure no one left the scene. I melted into the background before he jumped and then disappeared. No one missed me, and if they did, they probably thought I’d chickened out.’
Isaac went into the other room, phoned Henstridge and updated him as to the situation.
‘I’ve seen it before,’ Henstridge’s reply. ‘Although a plea of insanity won’t go far.’
Isaac expanded on Hampton’s condition to Henstridge, his ability to walk, his determination to confess. He had possibly said more than he should have, and it would be imperative for independent and police-accredited personnel to check Hampton, but Henstridge was on the phone. More importantly, as the senior officer in Homicide, Isaac could see that the confession, so freely given, was lacking in crucial details. And if Hampton was also confessing to climbing up twenty-one flights of stairs and shooting Simmons, then where was the rifle, which river had he thrown it in.
Isaac wasn’t a psychoanalyst, but he knew inconsistencies when he heard and saw them.
‘Will he improve from here?’ Isaac asked.
‘It depends if the physical recovery is complete.’
‘He killed the wrong person, feels remorse. With his confession, we can’t leave him at the house.’
‘If he can walk, then he can travel in your vehicle.’
Isaac ended the phone call, went into the other room. Hampton was writing a confession.
Twenty minutes later, Hampton looked up. ‘There you are,’ he said as he pushed three sheets of paper across the table. ‘Either you type it up here, and I’ll sign it, or we do it at the police station.’
‘You seem anxious,’ Isaac said.
‘Tired of living a lie.’
‘Sign them for now,’ Larry said. ‘We’ll get it typed up at the station, get you to sign that it’s an exact copy of what you’ve just written, but the original remains the primary document.’
‘Have you included both murders?’ Isaac asked.
‘Only Tricia Warburton’s for the present. She’s the only one I regret. I’m sure you understand.’
Isaac didn’t, but for now, what they had would suffice.
On the trip back to the police station, the wheelchair folded up, and in the boot of the vehicle, Hampton said nothing, only closing his eyes and falling asleep.
‘I’m not sure what to make of this,’ Isaac said to Larry, who was sitting alongside Hampton in the back seat.
‘An itch you can’t scratch?’
‘That’s it.’
No one spoke again until the three arrived at the station. Hampton preferred to walk to the interview room than to take the chair that Larry wheeled behind.
Chapter 25
Chief Superintendent Goddard was delighted. Two murders solved, one with a signed confession. It was to him a red-letter day, a chance to praise his team in Homicide, to let his superiors know that once again, under his tutelage, his people had delivered.
Isaac Cook, a man who had known Goddard from the first week he had joined the force, could not share in his senior’s evident joy. Something niggled him, or as Larry had said, an itch he couldn’t scratch.
‘You worry too much, Isaac,’ Goddard said as the two men sat in the Chief Superintendent’s office, up high on the top floor.
Isaac had taken the stairs up the three storeys, preferring not to use the lift, conscious that he didn’t exercise as much as he used to, a thickening around the waist, a flabbiness in the jowls.
Now free of his chief superintendent, Isaac sat in the interview room with Larry; Hampton was on the other side of the table with his lawyer friend, Duncan Harders.
‘I’ve advised my client that he was unwise to give a confession,’ Harders said.
‘It’s signed,’ Isaac said.
‘Even so, I will argue that it was a confession made under duress: a disabled man in a precarious mental condition, badgered by the police.’
‘Mr Harders, the facts are damning. Firstly, Mr Hampton was at the bungee jump, and secondly, and more importantly, he has consistently hidden from us and those closest to him that he is not confined to a wheelchair. You do acknowledge that last fact?’
‘I acknowledge both. It would be pointless to deny the evidence.’
‘Duncan, I appreciate what you’re doing,’ Hampton said, ‘but it’s not necessary. I was there; I cut the cord.’
Ignoring his client, Harders continued. ‘A man confessing without the supporting evidence is not guilty. I’ve seen the footage, and nowhere can I see where Mr Hampton bent down and cut the cord. My client may well feel sadness that his hatred of McAlister was indirectly responsible for an innocent woman’s death, but the facts don’t point to murder.’
‘Why was Mr Hampton at the bungee jump? Surely you’re not going to say that he intended to make the jump later on?’
‘I’m not. My client had intended to confront McAlister, to argue with him, and try and reason with him if it was possible. After all, they had been friends once.’
‘Fellow mountaineers, two men who placed trust in each other, doesn’t make for a friendship.’
‘The chief inspector is right,’ Hampton said. ‘I didn’t like him, never did. Although if he said the bungee jump was safe, it was.’
‘Yet you managed to sneak through, cut the cord and then get away?’ Larry said.
‘I did,’ Hampton replied. To add emphasis, he stood up, pushed the wheelchair away, grabbed a chair in one corner of the room, pulled it up to the desk and sat down.
‘The
knife?’
‘I tossed it out of the car window as I drove. Don’t ask me where because I can’t remember.’
‘Why? You’ve just doomed a man to his death. People usually experience heightened emotions after committing a murder, and they can remember everything in infinite detail.’
‘It was on the radio that the woman had died. I wasn’t thinking straight. I tossed the knife not far from the house. I could show you, but I doubt if it’s still there.’
‘Why? It’s hardly likely to have got up on its own and moved.’
‘My client is confused. I am requesting a thorough mental examination be conducted before we proceed further,’ Harders said.
‘The purpose of this investigation is to confirm that your client committed the murder, not whether his mind was disturbed,’ Isaac reminded the lawyer.
‘I’m protecting my client from himself, arguing that he is not in a fit state and that any confession he has given is invalid.’
Isaac thought Harders’ approach unusual but saw no point in pursuing it further. Instead, there was another murder that he needed to focus on.
‘Mr Hampton, you admitted to shooting Angus Simmons,’ Isaac said.
‘I did.’
‘Yet, you have still not written a confession.’
‘I will be tried and sentenced for one murder. Why should I give you the benefit of two? The first death was justifiable. I do not regard Angus Simmons’s death as murder. My lawyer would back me up on this.’
‘Would you?’ Isaac said to Harders.
‘I would advise my client to act in his best interests.’
‘You’re not concerned that two people have died?’ Larry asked, perturbed at the man’s attitude.
‘I am here in a professional capacity; your question is irrelevant.’
‘The defence of your client is more important,’ Isaac said. ‘That’s understood. However, a confession for the first murder is required; otherwise, we will continue to investigate. Whether he is tried for both is not for us to debate here.’
‘I’ll confess, I was there. It was me that took the shot,’ Hampton said.
‘Is that it? Three sentences, no more?’
‘What more do you want?’
‘You wrote close to one thousand words detailing how you were on the bridge, how you severed the cord and threw the knife away. Yet, Angus Simmons dies, and you give us platitudes.’
The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14) Page 23
