The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14) by Phillip Strang (best classic romance novels txt) 📗

‘He eyed me up and down, wondered what you were doing here with me, whether we were an item?’

‘Something along those lines.’

‘They assume that I’m an easy lay, sleeping around with whoever.’

‘Do they?’ Larry said although he knew pub conversation, not averse to taking part in it sometimes. And yes, Tricia Warburton would be regarded in that light, even more so given that her co-host had fallen to his death under mysterious circumstances, speculation about her and Angus Simmons.

‘You know they do, more so now. You must have heard it, a man like you, out and about, delving into humanity’s cesspit.’

‘Sergeant Gladstone reckoned you had been coy with her.’

‘Wendy never bought me a drink.’

‘Tricia, if you’re trying to make me feel embarrassed, you’re succeeding. But if you’re trying to be smart, it’ll backfire on you. There’s nothing to be gained by any attempt at subterfuge and deception.’

‘I don’t think I was any more than open with you.’

In front of a camera, you may be excellent, but I’m the expert here; this is my game, not yours.’

Tricia took a drink from her glass, put it down on the table. ‘I’m not sure if you just ticked me off or if you were joking,’ she said.

‘I don’t joke, not when there’s a murder. Hiding facts because you believe they would prejudice you will not work, cannot work.’

‘Did you know that actresses were regarded as no more than prostitutes, liberal with their favours, selling their bodies for gain?’

‘I’ve never understood why,’ Larry said. ‘That’s what he thought, the barman.’

‘During the eighteenth century, actresses’ and prostitutes’ social standing was targeted by moral reformers and satirical authors. The moral reformer targeted actresses for criticism as their actions and speech on stage were considered immodest. The satirical author was interested in publishing any related scandal that surrounded the actresses.’

‘That’s not the view today.’

‘Isn’t it? I’m not an actress, but I’m in the public eye. Your friend at the bar, he’s typical, reckons I’m easy, and I’ll have you twisted around my little finger in an instant.’

‘You’re denigrating yourself,’ Larry said. ‘I don’t share his views.’

‘You’re a police officer. You’ve seen the dregs of society, the wanton licentiousness of some, the perversions of others, but that barman – he’s seen nothing, been nowhere, experienced nothing. I’m guilty by association, convicted by the social media warriors, seduced, at least in their minds, by him and his ilk.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I know how it appears, that Jerome Jaden had planned it and that I was a party to it.’

‘Your contract?’

‘Precisely. And believe me, once it’s general knowledge, the pundits will be out there in the ether, saying that Angus’s death was planned to get the ratings and that my contract was in the bag before he died, that I was screwing Jerome all along.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Of course I am. How much of what they splash on a magazine’s front cover about people such as me is true?’

‘I don’t take notice of it.’

‘You don’t, but others do. The perception of the actress, or in my case the television host, as a prostitute, is alive and well. I’m about to be lambasted.’

‘It’s happened before?’

‘You know it has. You would have checked my background, found old boyfriends, where I’d gone to school.’

‘I did. What are you going to do?’

‘What I’ve done in the past. I’m going to ride it out, take the flak, the slurs, the innuendos, even smile at the cameras.’

‘If you’re lying…’

‘I’m not. Once my contract is signed, Karen Majors goes into overdrive, drumming up advertising revenue. The station’s promotions team starts getting me onto the early-morning chat shows, putting me on every other radio station throughout the country, and Angus not even cold in his grave.’

‘Abhorrent as it may be, you embrace it,’ Larry said.

‘It’s seductive, the same as alcohol is to a drunk.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘You’d be a good-looking man if you lost some weight, looked after yourself,’ Tricia said.

***

The appearance of Gwyneth Simmons at Challis Street on a wet and rainy day had not been expected. After all, it had been she, stoic in Scotland, who had said that she would not come to London until her son’s body had been released for burial.

‘It was time,’ Angus’s mother said. She looked unfashionable and old, dressed in a heavy coat that had seen better days, the sleeve cuffs frayed, the collar askew and on her head, a yellow plastic hood. She was dry, if not warm.

Wendy brought a heater over to where she sat, and Bridget gave her a hot drink.

‘Time for what?’ Wendy asked once the woman had removed the hood, taken off the coat and placed them to one side of her.

‘The truth.’

Not wishing to proceed without either her DCI or her DI, Wendy messaged both.

Larry arrived first, realised the implication of the woman’s presence, phoned Isaac and told him to get to the office pronto, no time to lose.

Jenny, Isaac’s wife, looked over at her husband, saw him bouncing their son on his lap. She was happy, content with her lot in life, a loving husband, a healthy child. However, she knew the look on her husband’s face after receiving the phone call. He was champing at the bit, desperate to get to the station.

Jenny took their son from Isaac, kissed him on the cheek, and said, ‘Go.’

Isaac responded with a kiss for his wife and another gurgle for the baby, wriggling its toes as he left, eliciting a smile in return. Soon, the child would be walking, and then, the first day of school. Life was passing him by, and he hadn’t made superintendent, and the bills were coming in, the cost of living increasing,