‘Just a couple.’
‘A couple of dozen. Hand over your car keys. We’ll make sure you get home safely. Drunk in charge of a vehicle won’t make your day any better.’
‘It can’t get any worse.’
‘Miss Warburton, it can,’ Isaac said. He didn’t feel inclined to be as agreeable as Wendy. What he needed was the truth, the reason behind her sacking. He intended to get it.
Wendy put out her hand, receiving in return a set of keys. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘No problems, not now. How about black coffee?’
‘I could do with vodka, not coffee. Those bastards.’
‘Those bastards terminated your contract and your crew without a warning and an explanation. The most they said was a mealy-mouthed statement that due to financial restraints and the recent death, the man irreplaceable according to them, they had decided to break with Miss Warburton and her team. There’s more, but most of it is thanking you for your valued service, the usual jargon when you get shafted.’
Isaac chose ‘shafted’ over ‘terminated’. It was a subtle attempt to show that he sympathised with the woman, empathic even, as he had been sidelined in the past, pushed to another department for no other reason than a commissioner who wanted his own man in charge of Homicide. For Isaac, the woman might be innocent of all sins, but for now, she was guilty of an error of judgement, an indiscretion or possibly a crime.
‘No more alcohol, Tricia,’ Wendy said. ‘You need sobering up, and what’s happened to you brings the focus onto you, what you know, what they suspected.’
Wendy made a phone call. Five minutes later, Bridget entered the room. She carried a coffee for Tricia, as well as a plate of sandwiches. ‘I thought your visitor might be hungry,’ she said.
‘Not for me,’ Tricia said as she picked up one of the sandwiches. Her behaviour, alcohol aside, was erratic.
Isaac bade his time as the coffee was drunk, the sandwiches eaten, and Tricia had taken time out to freshen up. Eventually, all three were ready, Tricia looking better than before, her hair brushed, lipstick applied.
‘Tricia, let’s go through the reason they terminated you, not this nonsense about financial constraints.’
‘They believe that Angus and I were pulling a stunt, that he was meant to pretend to fall, regain his grip and complete the climb.’
‘Is that it?’ Wendy asked.
‘Not totally.’
‘The truth is always the best,’ Isaac said.
‘The same as honesty is always the best policy. Well, let me tell you, it isn’t, never was, never will be.’
‘What do you mean? Was it a stunt gone wrong?’
‘Angus knew what he was doing. He could have been up that building in half the time. And if he had, he wouldn’t have been shot.’
‘Who else knew this?’
‘The film crew, no one else.’
‘Does senior management believe that someone passed on that information to the person who shot Angus?’
‘They don’t believe; they know it.’
‘Proof?’
‘Condemned at the altar of public opinion; pronounced guilty by social media, a pariah in the newspapers, my career over.’
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Isaac said.
‘Talk to them, but they’ll tell you what I’m about to. They received an email, anonymous as they always are. Slagged me off, called me a conniving bitch, an adulterer, a murderer, and the crew with me, in collaboration.’
‘They took it seriously?’
‘Conspiracy theories don’t need proof, just enough people to believe the nonsense.’
‘You had a substantial following on Facebook,’ Wendy said.
‘I did. It served me well, raised my profile, but the public is fickle. By this time next week, my following, apart from the determined, the neurotic and those with their marriage proposals, will be gone, and no one, regardless of whether you find the murderer or not, will retract their condemnation. I’ll be forgotten, a nobody.’
‘Hardly a nobody,’ Wendy said. ‘Does other people’s opinion matter that much?’
‘To me, it does.’
Isaac knew that Tricia Warburton was right, having had an experience of television and the viewing public in the past: another murder investigation, the suspected murder of a leading lady.
He remembered the woman long after the case was closed, her eventual death resulting from a hit and run, the investigation swept under the carpet, a file long buried in the police vaults.
‘Did you see the email?’ Wendy asked.
‘I saw a printout.’
‘Do you know who it’s from?’
‘Anonymous. I thought I was clear about that.’
‘You were,’ Isaac said. ‘Could it be the actions not of a disgruntled fan, but someone astute, recognising gains to be made?’
‘It doesn’t matter, not to me. My career is over.’
Isaac felt like giving the woman a shake. Her state of mind, the creeping negativity, dramatically changed from her previous optimism.
‘Emails can be traced back to the source,’ Wendy said.
‘I don’t have it. You’ll need to talk to those who shafted me.’ The bitterness remained.
‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ Wendy said. ‘I’ll get someone to follow with your car. Tomorrow will be better.’
Chapter 8
Allan Baxter's death, a person that both Simmons and Hampton had climbed with, made the evening news. An avalanche earlier in the season than expected had buried him under a hundred feet of snow.
Maddox Timberley, who had met Baxter, had been asked for comment, the closest person to the late Angus Simmons. A wonderful man, well respected and well-liked, especially by Angus, she had said.
Wendy met with the woman later that day, received a different opinion.
‘Angus didn’t care for Allan, thought him a difficult man to work with, as well as he took chances sometimes. Not that I’d say that, would I?’
Wendy understood the woman’s sensitivity. Nobody wanted to hear evil of a person after their death, except Hampton, but he was a man embittered by circumstance, a man condemned to loneliness and derision.
‘We’re no
