Chapter 7
Charles Simmons identified his son’s body; Angus Simmons’s mother preferred to stay in Scotland for the time being. Meanwhile, the investigation continued, albeit slowly. Initially, a flurry of media interest, but soon the public’s interest in Simmons waned, replaced by another murder somewhere, a war elsewhere, by the general flotsam, celebrities getting married, getting divorced, some going to jail.
A person who had never watched much television, not even as a youth, Chief Inspector Isaac Cook sat in his office, his laptop open, staring disinterestedly at the screen. There was a report to prepare, a budgetary estimate to give to the chief superintendent, Richard Goddard, up there on the top floor; hallowed ground some of the cynical jokers in Challis Street would say, but never Isaac.
To him, Goddard was a good man, dedicated to the police force and justice, a hard taskmaster at times, defensive of his people. The two men had known each other for a long time and had formed a friendship outside of the office, but inside Challis Street, no favours were shown.
‘Any ideas?’ Larry said as he put his head around Isaac’s door.
‘Perplexed,’ Isaac’s reply. ‘Why would someone want to kill Simmons? Apart from Hampton, everyone else admired him.’
‘Not everyone’s been honest that we’ve spoken to, or there are others we don’t know about yet.’
‘Former lovers?’
‘Bridget’s compiling a list, checking women photographed with him.’
‘Are there many?’
‘Not a lot find. Most times, Simmons kept his private life just that, private.’
‘What about Tricia Warburton? I reckon she could be a hard woman,’ Isaac said.
‘Her alibi’s firm. Other than that, some men, one she lived with for a year, broke up two months ago.’
‘Have you contacted the last one, the one who moved out?’
‘It was her that moved back to a place in Bayswater. Since then, she’s been single, no man in her life.’
‘She’s a celebrity of sorts; the newspapers and the magazines always find them another romance, whether it’s true or not. Who are they showing her with?’ Isaac asked.
‘Not my area, celebrities and their love lives. And besides, she may be all smiles and teeth on the television, but she’s got a degree in English from Oxford University,’ Larry said. ‘She’s very smart, careful to conceal it, no doubt uses it when the time is right.’
‘We’ve seen her on camera, interviewed her. She appeared the same whether a camera’s in her face or not.’
Isaac did not feel comfortable with the situation. The manner of Simmons’s death was so bizarre as to stretch credulity. Why would anyone go to such trouble to cause the man to fall, knowing there was a probability that he would have hung on, or the shot could have missed?
‘Wendy met with her, got an admission that she had had a one-night stand with Simmons. That must count for something,’ Larry said.
‘Sleeping with the man after a night of heavy drinking doesn’t mean she was fond of him.’
‘Are you suspicious of her, instinct telling you there’s more to the woman than what we see?’
‘Lack of anything better. Any success with where the shot was fired from?’
‘A competent shot, a man of medium height, fit enough to have walked up twenty-one floors carrying a rifle mount and a rifle with telescopic sights.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Not on the mount.’
‘Why leave it? If the rifle’s taken, then why not the mount?’ Isaac asked.
‘It’s easier to trace a weapon back to its owner.’
‘A rifle would need a firearm certificate, assuming it was registered.’
‘Murderers don’t usually worry about technicalities, not if they’re serious.’
‘Which means you’re leaning towards a gifted amateur.’
‘Supposition, and what about the father? Devious?’
‘Almost certainly. Ex-military, personal inheritance, trade. Qualifications for a position in espionage or dodgy trade deals on behalf of the government, easy to make enemies.’
‘Even if that’s so, why would it impact the son?’ Larry queried.
Two men put forward possibilities, restating what was known, speculating on what was not, formulating a plan to move forward, an integral part of policing, accomplished by the cohesive, functioning group of individuals he had formed in Homicide. Isaac was confident of a new avenue of enquiry.
‘We can’t answer that. Unless we have a motive, we’ve got nothing. Pressure Tricia Warburton, try to break through the veneer. The woman’s skilled at adopting a persona. Her parents might open up, childhood friends, any issues with the law, rebellious teen, drugs, protesting in the street, that sort of thing.’
‘In court when she was fifteen, marijuana, and then two years later on probation for knocking off a policeman’s helmet while under the influence.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Alcohol. Youthful high jinks, a period of stupidity, flirted with Bolshevism at university, but she still got her degree.’
‘Lovers?’
‘A child at twenty-one, the father unknown. The child’s twelve now, a private school.’
‘The father?’
‘There’s no name on the birth certificate, and besides, it’s before Angus’s time, nothing to do with him.’
‘Even so, find out more about her, but not from the woman herself.’
***
The news that the programme Angus Simmons and Tricia Warburton had co-hosted was to be cancelled, did not come as a shock to the pundits who followed such matters.
Tricia Warburton was the first person Homicide contacted after the announcement.
‘The bastards,’ Tricia said as she sat in Challis Street.
‘What’s behind it?’ Isaac asked.
‘The bastards,’ Tricia repeated, the makeup askew, wearing a pair of jeans ripped at the knee, a blouse that was stained, her hair going in all directions.
‘Did you drive here?’ Wendy asked.
‘I did.’
‘You’ll not be driving home. You’re
