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

‘But you’ve never seen photos when Hampton fell; no one has, not until now.’

‘I’ve not. Have you hung onto these since then?’

‘Accidents happen. People lose it up on a mountain, start acting crazy.’

‘And you think that Simmons or Hampton did?’

‘Or both. It doesn’t matter, only that if you know what to look for, it’s proof that Simmons was at fault. Hampton blames the man, and he’s right to. Angus, whether it was intentional or whether he was scared or angry, that I don’t know. All I know is that these photos are proof.’

‘And you want how much?’

‘Two thousand pounds.’

‘A story about something that happened in the past doesn’t amount to much.’

‘That’s the sampler. The real scoop, the proof of who shot Angus, is still with me.’

‘Provable?’

‘Yes. First, take those photos to your editor, get them blown up, run software over them, take out the fuzziness and print the story.’

‘The police?’

‘Don’t mention my name until the final proof is in your possession. Until then, they can’t sweat it out of me. You see, I’m getting your newspaper to pay, the police to get the evidence, you to get the glory, and for me, a chance to leave this country. But don’t worry about me.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Have we got a deal?’

‘Cash or cheque?’

‘Either. Debit card if you prefer. I’ve got a reader with me, a market stall at the weekend.’

Ashley flashed her card, entered her PIN, took hold of the photos and got out of the car. ‘The originals?’

‘I’ll email them to you.’

‘How much for proof of the murderer?’

‘We’ll talk. Check with your editor, find out how much a scoop is worth.’

‘Withholding evidence is a crime,’ Ashley said.

‘So is paying for it and not handing it over to the police.’

‘We’ve got smart lawyers who can deal with our misdemeanours. What do you have?’

‘The proof they want. Mine’s more powerful,’ McAlister said.

‘They could make you talk.’

‘Strongarm stuff? Give me a good beating?’

‘They could put you in the cells.’

‘They could. The information I have is not written down, but I can still prove it.’

‘Where can I contact you?’

‘It’ll be on the email. Don’t call until you’ve published the first article. After that, I’ll drip-feed you, sweeten the deal, and make your editor willing to part with the readies. Bank transfer in future; no need for a meeting, not unless you’re keen.’

‘I’m not,’ Ashley Otway said.

***

Aware that withholding evidence was a crime, Ashley phoned Isaac to let him know that she was in contact with someone offering information in exchange for money. She failed to mention the photos, not intending to do so until the editor had seen them, approved them for publication, and the legal department was happy with releasing them. Only then would she hand them over to Homicide.

Isaac, unsure why she had contacted him, had no option but to remind her that she had to hand over evidence. He knew that stating the obvious was pointless, but he felt duty-bound to do so.

For his part, he did not believe her, not entirely, but powerless to do more. He had thanked her for phoning him and told her to be careful, as a person or persons unknown were still out in the community. A murderer was at large, a murderer whose motive could have been revenge or hatred, love even, fame possibly, Maddox Timberley in the back of his mind.

And Ashley Otway, sleuth that she was, was looking for glory, to solve the case before the police, getting too close, taking risks that she shouldn’t. Isaac met with her, a small bistro off Oxford Street, the sort of place where the midday crowd congregates, where lovers get together at night. Her hand touching his over the table sent shivers up his spine. He did not want romance, not now, not with a wife and child, but the woman was attractive, and she was making the right signals.

‘I’ve embarrassed you,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ Isaac lied.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not poaching other women’s husbands. But if you want?’

‘Ashley, be careful,’ Isaac said as he pulled his hand back sharply. ‘You’re a risk-taker, nosing in where you shouldn’t. Not that I want to lecture.’

‘But you are, aren’t you?’

Isaac did not want to be there. A waiter with a menu, a couple of drinks on the table, ambient music in the background. If it weren’t for what she knew, he would have made his excuses and left.

‘Why were you removed as a political reporter?’ Isaac said. ‘Access to the highest echelons of power in this country, privy to the intricate workings, the secrets of state, decisions that would shape our country for years.’

‘Behind the scenes, Machiavellian scheming.’

‘You sound as if you’re a first-year philosophy student at a progressive university, not someone who has experienced the rough and tumble of reality.’

‘You don’t think they should be held accountable?’

‘I’m trying to advise you. Finding out that a senior minister has got a bit on the side, and then losing your job over it is hardly a recipe for success.’

‘He wasn’t the only one; there are more: a secret love nest, another taking their parliamentary secretary on an all-expenses jolly to Switzerland.’

‘That’s left-wing Bolshevism.’

‘It’s unjust.’

‘Believe me, I know as much as you do about government officials and what they get up to.’

‘The government minister, the soap opera diva, a secret child?’

‘Where did you find that from?’

‘Whispers in the corridors,’ the woman said as she held up her glass, clinked it with Isaac’s.

‘What else?’

‘Rumours.’

Isaac felt fear for her. Aggressively ambitious, a talent for spotting wrongdoing, a willingness to make it known, the ingredients for a short and fulfilled life. ‘Take care. You could be heading down