Out on the street, the crowds restrained by uniformed police officers, people staring out of office block windows, cameras with zoom lenses attempting to get a better view. After all, the death of Angus Simmons, the conqueror of Everest, the adventurer and generally acknowledged good guy, was big news.
‘Considering the condition of the body, I wouldn’t expect a gunshot to be visible. Simmons, a friend of yours?’
‘An honest answer?’ Tricia Warburton said.
‘It’s always the best,’ Isaac said, ‘and besides, the truth always comes out eventually.’
‘The station intends, or they did, to get rid of either Angus or me. Another cost-cutting exercise; happens every few weeks. Not that it’ll hit the back pockets of those in charge, a bunch of hypocritical money-grabbing bastards. Pardon my language, but that’s how I see them.’
‘Did Angus?’
‘What do you think this stunt was about?’
‘Simmons was making sure that it was you who received the literal kick up the arse out of the door.’
‘Not that I can blame him, and if I could have climbed that damn building, I would have, but I’m just here as eye candy.’
‘Did you hate Angus for what he was?’
‘No, why should I? He was a decent enough man, never tried it on with me, not like those bastards who intend to kick me out. Besides, I don’t need to. Angus and I were talking about forming our own production company, plenty of ideas. He was good at the stunts, a natural showman, and I’m good at logistics, putting the people in place, dealing with the finances, sweet-talking those who want to invest in two highly marketable commodities.’
‘You and Angus, involved?’
Isaac’s initial impressions of Tricia Warburton hadn’t been favourable, but he found her astute as he spoke to her.
‘Angus didn’t fancy me, nor I, him.’
‘I thought he was a man about town, squiring women, living with a model.’
‘He was my friend, I’ll admit to that, but I’m a one-man woman, not a floozy, and besides, behind the macho-man exterior, the women, the model as you say, Angus Simmons wasn’t a lothario, quite the contrary.’
‘Gay?’
‘Bisexual. He concealed it well, probably didn’t do anything about it, not good for the image.’
‘Tormented?’
‘We’d talk about it. He knew I was not available, not that he wanted me, felt comfortable in my confidence.’
‘You’re telling me now.’
‘What else can I do, and besides, you said it yourself, the truth always comes out, and if he was gay or bisexual or asexual, pink or green, what does it matter? It’s a liberated world, be what you want, do what you want, and what I want is for you to find out who killed him.’
‘His death to be avenged?’
‘Something like that.’
Isaac cast a glance over to the crime scene, saw his team and Gordon Windsor, the senior crime scene investigator. He needed to talk to them.
‘What do you mean?’ Isaac asked.
‘The world’s gone crazy, people killing people for no apparent reason. Angus, no reason to kill him other than his celebrity. I was his co-host; I could be a target.’
‘I suggest you take care for the next few days.’
Tricia placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself as well. Who knows where this will end,’ she said.
Tricia Warburton returned to her camera crew and picked up a microphone.
Isaac knew that she wouldn’t take the care she should. There was a news story to film.
Chapter 2
Detective Inspector Larry Hill, DCI Isaac Cook’s second in charge in Homicide, was standing close to the crime scene investigators. He was forty-five years of age, struggling with his weight, the result of overeating and alcohol, much to the chagrin of his wife.
Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, more years as a police officer than anyone else at the police station, worked through those who had seen Simmons fall. She was aware that some would have enjoyed the ghoulish entertainment, others would be traumatised, and increasingly in recent years, a dedicated group with their smartphones relaying the action to the four corners of the globe.
Isaac walked over to where Gordon Windsor, the senior CSI, was standing.
‘Damn fool thing to do,’ Windsor said.
Isaac had done foolish things in his youth, such as on a trip to Jamaica when he was sixteen. Jumping off the cliffs in Negril had seemed a good idea. However, he had hit the water at an angle, torn a muscle in his back and spent the last week of the holiday either in bed or taking it easy.
But now, he was older and wiser, a similar age to the dead man, and married to Jenny, as white as he was black, their son at the crawling stage.
‘Falling was. Probably would have made it otherwise,’ Isaac said.
‘Even so, it doesn’t alter the fact. The man was endangering public safety, making a spectacle of himself. And what about her over there?’ Windsor said, nodding his head in the direction of Tricia Warburton.
‘I’m not sure what to make of her. Either she’s putting on a show for the viewing public, or she’s an emotional void. She’ll need checking, but regardless, she was down at ground level, in clear view, no way she could have taken the shot. She reckoned the bullet hadn’t penetrated.’
‘She was right, hit him in the back, two vertebrae down from the neck. It could have been a ricochet off the building. If he hadn’t been hanging onto the building, but somewhere more sensible, he would have been knocked over by the force, been in pain, but he would have recovered.’
‘Can you graduate a bullet’s trajectory and speed to ensure minimal damage, enough to cause the man to flinch, loosen his grip?’
‘It’s possible but
