‘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 woman; 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
