‘How long to go?’ Tricia asked. The short dress, the curvaceous figure, concealed by green overalls.
‘Down and dirty,’ Jaden had said the day before. ‘Show them another side, a daring personality.’
Even so, she wasn’t sure; she hadn’t slept the night before, wondering if the fame she craved was worth the fear.
In Homicide, Bridget watched the event, live-streamed by the television station; Wendy was looking over her shoulder.
‘Not me,’ Wendy said. Bridget could only agree.
McAlister took his position, gave a thumbs up and launched himself, arms splayed. On his return, he declared it safe for Tricia to jump.
After a snatched gulp of alcohol, Tricia took her place after her weight had been double-checked, the length of the bungee cord adjusted.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Tricia,’ McAlister said. ‘Your heart will beat stronger, you may feel an adrenaline buzz, but it’s over within seconds.’
There was a weak smile from Tricia, a wave to the camera, and then she followed through with what McAlister had done, crossed herself for luck and pushed off.
A feeling of exhilaration as she fell, not enough time to achieve the sense of accomplishment, a camera tracking from a distance, the sound of screaming, and then at the maximum trajectory, the recoil of the cord, drawing her back up some distance before dropping her again. A shout of ‘I did it’. And then, at the lowest point of the second time down, when the cord should have recoiled again, a sound of sheer horror as it snapped.
Tricia Warburton was in free fall. She hit the river headfirst, soon bobbing back up to the surface. Pandemonium up above, disbelief, people were standing around, others overwhelmed by what they had just seen.
McAlister was rushing down a track to the river; the rescue crew at the bottom, not used to what had just occurred, not snapping into action, valuable time lost.
In Homicide, Bridget and Wendy watched the unfolding drama, the commentators on the early-morning show at the television station unsure what to say or do, and then, over to a commercial break.
Wendy was on the phone with her DCI, updating him on the unfolding events. Larry in the office, but not watching, was on the phone to Tom Taylor or whoever he could get, rushing to pick up his phone and car keys, Wendy not far behind him.
‘She couldn’t have survived,’ Bridget said.
‘It’s murder,’ Larry’s comment.
Publicity was what Jaden had wanted; publicity was what he got. The other stations started to pick up on the unfolding events, and it was on YouTube within five minutes, on Facebook in an even shorter time.
McAlister was down at the riverbank, wading into the water to grab the woman and pull her in. On one side of her face, blood was pouring out, the result of hitting shallow water, a rock below the surface. Tricia Warburton was dead.
Larry and Wendy arrived forty-five minutes later, a still stunned crowd of onlookers watching, McAlister with his head in his hands, wandering around, zombified.
‘How could it happen?’ he said. ‘I tested it myself.’
The bungee jump owner, a pugnacious little man, was there, having arrived five minutes before Larry and Wendy. ‘The first time,’ he said. ‘The cords are checked regularly.’
‘You knew Tricia Warburton was to jump?’ Wendy asked.
‘Her people asked for permission to film, wanted to see all my certificates, our level of insurance.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Filming for commercial purposes is, but usually, no one asks to see the certificates, nor the insurance, not that we don’t have them, we do. But you don’t expect an accident, and certainly not death. The rules and regulations in this country are stringent, unlike in some countries overseas, and accidents are rare. It’s not that dangerous. People have jumped into their nineties.’
‘Has anything been touched?’ Larry asked.
‘Nothing. Everyone’s stunned, never seen this before.’
Isaac arrived within the hour and made his way down to the river. The crime scene investigators were with the body, as were McAlister and two people from the bungee jump company.
‘You checked it?’ Isaac asked.
‘I made a jump myself with the same cord,’ McAlister said.
‘You compensated for her weight difference?’
‘I checked that those up top shortened the cord. It was right what they did, she stopped at the right level, and then the cord tensed, brought her back up. It was on the second drop that the rope snapped. It could have been a faulty cord.’
‘You don’t believe that likely?’
‘I’m not sure what to think. It’s a different discipline to mountaineering. We’re not looking at the same thing. They want the cord to stretch, but in climbing, it’s whether the rope will support the weight, although we allow a certain amount of stretch. A bungee cord is no more than a glorified elastic band.’
Larry was on the bridge, watching the crime scene investigators.
Gordon Windsor, overseeing his crime scene team’s work, looked over the bridge briefly.’
‘No head for heights?’ Larry said.
‘Suspicious, that’s what it is,’ Windsor said.
‘It’s too coincidental for us. Two deaths from the same programme, both of the hosts attempting stunts.’
‘Climbing a building with no safety gear is foolhardy; bungee jumping isn’t, not that I’ve tried it, but my children have, so’s my wife. And from what I’ve seen so far, this appears to be a professional operation.’
‘The cord snapped, plain and simple.’
‘If that was intentional, then someone must have interfered with it.’
‘Before or after McAlister jumped?’
‘It might not be so easy to prove that one way or the other. After all, there was only a few minutes’ difference between him and her. He could have been the target.’
‘If he was, then why? McAlister doesn’t seem viable.’
‘Whereas Tricia Warburton was, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m not sure yet. And why kill the woman?’
‘I can’t help you there.’
Larry took one
