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

said, ‘I’m not that attractive, not when the makeup’s off, blotchy skin, acne scars, and my nose isn’t the one I was born with. Not mutton dressed up as lamb, not yet, but I choose this life; and I chose Angus, a decent man, not like some of the sleaze-buckets I have to deal with, think they can get a leg over any time they want if they’re dangling a contract and a trip to the Caribbean.’

‘You’re there now,’ Isaac reminded her.

‘The photographer reckons he’s God’s gift; he’s sidling up to me, trying to get a better angle, to make me remove more clothes, wiggle my assets in his face, but he’s got no chance.’

‘Clothes haven’t been an issue for you in the past.’

‘In the past, when I was starting. I needed an edge back then, not that I was cheap…’

‘Sometimes you did things your mother wouldn’t approve of?’

‘I wouldn’t be the first. You choose your life; I thought I knew the realities, but I was naïve.’

‘No nudity now?’

‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Who’s paying and how much. If it’s classy, helps my career, why not?’

‘Maddox, let’s be honest amongst ourselves,’ Wendy said. ‘You’re young, attractive, and your man’s dead. You’re not going to embrace virtue, are you?’

‘No, and why should I? It’s not that I was ever promiscuous, but Angus wasn’t my first lover, not even my first love. When the time’s right, but not with the man they’re pairing me with. He’s not a bad-looking man, but he’s not my type. Sure, if it’s good for my career, I’ll be seen with him, arm in arm, dancing together, even the occasional kiss, but that’s where it ends. No hanky-panky, topless photos, or bleary early-morning shots snapped by a long lens.’

‘We’ve met with Mike Hampton’s sister.’

‘She was rude to me, looked me up and down, thought I was a piece of trash.’

‘Did she? The truth?’

‘That’s how I saw it. She didn’t speak, not to me, but Angus. She told him that Mike didn’t want to see him and that he could go to hell.’

‘It’s important,’ Wendy said. ‘We’ve met with Deborah Hampton. She’s not a person to grace a magazine cover or to get a trip to Barbados, but aside from her disarming manner and her appearance, she seems to be a decent person, not as you portrayed her.’

‘I might have been harsh,’ Maddox said. ‘She was not pleasant. I know that.’

‘She wouldn’t have approved of you,’ Isaac said. ‘She would have thought you to be shallow, hanging off the shirt-tails of a famous man. Were you?’

‘No. We lived together. It was serious.’

‘Was it? Did he make love to you, sleep in the same bed? Or was it a stunt cooked up by his management company? Money paid to you to play along. After all, you’ve admitted that the man you’re now going around with is a publicity stunt, and you’re not opposed to milking it for what it’s worth.’

‘Angus wasn’t the greatest lover, no animal passion, a bit of a dullard in the bedroom, but our relationship was serious, everybody knows that.’

‘So do we,’ Isaac said. ‘I’m pushing you, need to. We’ve not got an angle on why he died, and your career seems insufficient reason.’

‘That’s a dreadful thought that I had wanted Angus to die.’

‘People have died for less.’

‘In your sordid world, they might. In mine, it’s the casting couch; not much difference, I suppose.’

‘Not a lot,’ Isaac conceded. ‘Good night. Give us a call when you’re back in London.’

‘Three days’ time. Call my home at any time. I’ll be alone.’

Isaac ended the call, looked over at Wendy. ‘Did you believe her?’

‘Not totally, but then I don’t know of anyone we can trust, not completely.’

‘Deborah Hampton?’

‘I trust her more than Maddox,’ Wendy said. ‘It’s the edge she talked about. What a person needs to do to get ahead, and she’s done well, and Angus has given her a boost. But if his death has helped her, who knows.’

***

Two investigations were underway, one by Homicide, the other by Ashley Otway. After Jerome Jaden’s attempt to ignore her at the press conference, her editor had given her instructions to do what she did best, to dig deep into the underbelly of the television station. And besides, the newspaper’s owner had a vested interest in another television station, and in business, as in love, all’s fair.

Invigorated, refreshed, and glad to be free of making small talk with another petulant celebrity with the intellect of a ten-year-old, she had offloaded the next interview to a nineteen-year-old junior. A fan of the man, she had been delighted to get the interview.

Homicide was aware that Otway was sniffing around, making waves, digging deep, getting under Jaden’s skin, and especially irritating Babbage. He had tried the heavy tactics, threatened the newspaper, received a rebuke from their legal department.

So far, Otway had found someone at the station, a quietly spoken, thoughtful woman who had worked with Jim Breslaw, but had stayed the course, kept her head down, said yes and no to Tom Taylor as required, even after catching him and Alison Glassop on the floor in his office late at night.

‘Gave me a fright, I can tell you,’ Grace Shean said.

The women sat on a park bench two hundred yards from the station, near enough for Grace to have walked, far enough for them not to be disturbed or recognised.

‘How did you find me?’

‘A friend,’ Ashley said, not willing to mention that Jim Breslaw had given her the name. ‘Tell me what you know.’

‘I’m not that important. You know that. Do my job, go home.’

‘Inconspicuous, part of the furniture?’

‘Nobody knows I’m there, left alone most of the time, that is these days. Young Tom, he calls me mum, not that I like it much,