‘Not sure we’ll gain too much here,’ Windsor said. ‘A clear sign that whoever it was used gloves, and judging by the mount, he knew what he was doing.’
‘Professional?’ Larry asked.
‘Competent,’ the reply. ‘Either an enthusiastic sports shooter or ex-military.’
‘Not ex-military,’ the foreman said.
‘How can you be sure?’ Windsor asked.
‘Did my bit for Queen and country, served overseas, saw action.’
‘Admirable,’ Windsor said. ‘Why not military?’
‘One floor down, there’s glass in some of the window frames, less wind turbulence, a better place for a sniper.’
‘Yet, the shot was successful,’ Larry said.
‘But where, on the shoulder?’
‘The upper body.’
‘It’s a difficult shot; the best position was down below. At least, the shot would have been fired from a more stable position, increase the percentage of success, and if you want to distract someone, don’t go for the shoulder, go for the lower back. Simmons was an experienced climber; he must have encountered birds flying out from a crevice in a rock, put his hand on a spider, even a snake. Nerves of steel, balls the size of an elephant, that man.’
‘You admired him?’
‘Who didn’t?’
The foreman was right on two counts, Larry realised. Angus Simmons was a person universally admired, someone who would not easily be distracted by a bullet slamming into him, or in this instance, impacting his upper body. His focus on the climb, the same as someone in the middle of a battle, not registering an injury, continuing to fight.
‘Was it murder?’
‘Murder as a result of a criminal act, taking a shot at Simmons.’
‘I was trained that if I took the shot, the target was taken down, not winged. You don’t leave it to chance.’
‘Nothing much to be gained from here,’ Windsor said. ‘From what we can tell, a man of medium height, size nine boots. Forensics will conduct tests, see if they can give you more, but I doubt it. Still, we’ll be here for the rest of the day, try and trace the boots back down the stairs, and you can get Bridget Halloran to check CCTV cameras in the area, see if you can pick up the person, but that’s a long shot, busy on the street.’
***
Charles Simmons, Angus’s father, was dressed in a suit when Isaac and Wendy visited him at his home. An imperious-looking man, Wendy instinctively didn’t warm to him. However, as the senior investigating officer, Isaac chose not to form impressions of a person until their actions and what they said allowed it.
‘Angus was always headstrong, individualistic, not given to discipline or following the consensus,’ Charles Simmons said. ‘You’ve spoken to his mother?’
‘We have. She’s said more or less the same,’ Isaac said. ‘She also expressed an opinion that she wasn’t surprised at his untimely death.’
‘I’ve not seen her for over thirteen years, and we don’t agree on much, but she’s right. Not that the police should be surprised either. After all, climbing buildings when there’s an elevator doesn’t make a lot of sense, nor does climbing mountains just because they’re there.’
‘You sound as if you disapproved,’ Wendy said.
‘On the contrary. We get one shot at life, no reason to waste it, only to get hit by a bus outside your front door. Too many people are stagnating these days, bleeding the social services, contributing nothing. To hell with the lot of them, a blight on civilised society.’
‘Your views are not conventional,’ Isaac said.
‘Aren’t they? The world is in a mess, and it’s up to a select few to right it. Too much pussyfooting around, a government committed to pandering to every fringe group, desperate for their vote.’
‘Did your views impact your son? Did your wife agree with your stance?’
‘My ex-wife would disagree. Granted, she believed it was up to the individual to stand up for themselves, to be counted, make their mark, and not burden society. But, for me, I’m more extreme, a believer in affirmative action.’
‘Your son?’
‘He was the most balanced and courageous individual a person could be proud to know, and he was my son. I believe that explains my position.’
‘And now he’s dead, and neither you nor your ex-wife shows the expected emotional response.’
‘If that means we’re not breaking down in tears, barely able to stand up or to function, then that is a failing of those observing. Our son was stoic, unemotional, impervious to fear or outright demonstrations of affection or hate or loathing.’
‘Mr Simmons, do you loathe?’
‘I will express my views. This world is going downhill fast, and changes are afoot, an eventual battle for society.’
They were the words of an educated man, Isaac knew, but they were not what the majority would agree with. Charles Simmons was a radical, ready to instigate change if he could, but that was not what was important. The death of his son was.
‘Who would have wanted your son dead?’ Isaac asked.
‘The world is full of malcontents. Try Mike Hampton.’
‘Your ex-wife mentioned his name. We’ve not interviewed him yet.’
‘I suggest you do. His hatred of Angus was pathological.’
Simmons took a seat, removed a small flask from inside his jacket and took a sip of what Isaac assumed to be whisky. ‘Purely medicinal,’ he said.
‘Mike Hampton?’ Isaac reminded him.
‘Hampton’s luck changed. The two were climbing in Patagonia, a technically challenging ascent. Hampton fell, broke his back, paralysed from the waist down. He lives in Kent, a small cottage, drafting endless diatribes about mountaineering and whatever else, including how Angus had destroyed his life.’
‘Unhinged?’
‘Mentally, I’m sure he is. However, you can’t blame him in some ways. An active outdoorsman, similar to Angus, and then a vegetable.’
‘Not totally,’ Wendy said.
‘It was to him, would have been to Angus. Angus died doing what he
