The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14) Phillip Strang (microsoft ebook reader .TXT) 📖

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know, but Tricia’s flirting with Bob Babbage. That man’s slimy.’

‘Not an attractive man,’ Ashley said.

‘Does it matter? Mr Jaden’s no oil painting, but he’s got women stashed around the city.’

Grabbing her handbag, Grace Shean opened the car door and got out, looking back at Ashley, shouting that she was late and had to get back to work, almost colliding with a car.

Ashley knew she was onto something. She considered whether to let the police know or wait and see. The latter option appealed more.

***

Maddox Timberley breezed into town, a man on her arm, a contract to pose nude for a lads’ magazine. All in all, she was pleased with herself, her star in the ascendency, although her mother was distressed at her lax morals, not believing that the pretty little girl she had given birth to would be splattered once again across the pull-out centrefold of a magazine, showing what should be reserved for someone she loved, not every Tom, Dick, Harry and pervert.

‘Don’t worry, mum,’ Maddox had said as she sat in the kitchen of her parents’ council home. They had refused to move, even when their daughter could afford to buy them a small place of their own. ‘It’s where I was born, where I’ll die,’ the mother’s rebuke, more to do with where the money had come from than the uprooting from familiar surroundings.

Isaac read the guff on Maddox Timberley’s return, her new beau, speculation as to whether she was on the rebound or if she had found true love.

He knew it wouldn’t be long before Maddox was asked her opinion on global warming, the damage to the environment, rioting in America, feminism, and whatever else.

Wendy met with Maddox, a suite at one of the best hotels in London.

‘You’re making a splash in the media,’ Wendy said as she sat in a chair that almost swallowed her, such was its plushness. Behind her, a view over the River Thames, the London Eye off to one side, the tourists with their iPhones snapping happy shots, oblivious to a heavy mist rolling up the river.

‘It’s a show,’ Maddox said. ‘You must know that.’

A yawn from the other room, a bleary-eyed Romeo staggering out.

‘Realistic,’ Wendy said, a smirk on her face.

‘It’s not what it seems.’

‘I suggest you get rid of lover boy, and you and I can have a serious chat, woman to woman, or else Challis Street, bright lights and not those from a photographer. What’s it to be?’

‘Make yourself scarce,’ Maddox said, kissing her lover on the cheek, securing the towel that was slipping from around his waist.

‘Whatever,’ the response.

Five minutes went by, time enough for Wendy to look around, to see the designer luggage, the underwear casually strewn, to smell the air.

‘Smoking pot?’ Wendy said. ‘We have been a naughty girl, haven’t we?’

‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘We’ll see about that. It’s offensive, not able to control yourself for more than a couple of weeks before you find another man.’

It wasn’t the standard interviewing technique, Wendy knew. She felt it appropriate under the circumstances.

In the other room, the sound of a shower running, Romeo singing out loud.

‘If he’s not out of here in two minutes,’ Wendy said, ‘he’ll be out on the landing with no clothes on, you as well. Miss Timberley, your credibility is in the garbage. You’re now a hostile witness, and the next time we meet, you’ll be in a prison cell, not living it up here.’

‘You can’t talk to me, not like that. My manager—’

‘Your manager will do nothing, and as for him who’s got one minute…’

‘You said two.’

‘I lied, no different from you. Proud of yourself?’

The police station was the best place for the interrogation. Still, Maddox Timberley, her taste in lovers questionable, hadn’t committed any serious crime, although knowingly telling untruths to the police wasn’t going in her favour.

Wendy knew why she was so hard; she had liked the woman, recognised good values, underlying decency beneath the pretty exterior. She was disappointed, and she was letting it show.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Romeo asked, his eyes bloodshot. He was barefoot, dressed in a pair of jeans, a white tee-shirt from the Caribbean, an image of a glass with a straw and a decorative umbrella.

‘Anywhere, just don’t be long,’ Maddox said.

‘Make it long,’ Wendy said. ‘Call in one hour. What’s your name?’

‘Why?’

‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Homicide, that’s why.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Who said you had? I asked for your name.’

‘Brett, Brett Valentine.’

‘Not your professional name, not the name when you’re prancing around, flexing your muscles, screwing Maddox.’

‘John Saunders. You want an address?’

‘Somewhere we can find you, in case you do a runner.’

‘She’s got it,’ Romeo said, looking over at Maddox.

‘I can give it to you, a phone number as well,’ Maddox said.

‘Criminal record?’ Wendy asked.

‘You’ve no right to ask.’

‘Which means you do. What for?’

‘Possession of drugs, dealing, time in jail, a couple of years, out early on appeal.’

‘And this is the sort of trash you go around with?’ Wendy said, looking over at Maddox. ‘Angus Simmons, a man of substance, of achievement, and you’d rather screw this piece of garbage?’

‘Angus? Substance, achievement? The man couldn’t get it up, not unless he was half-drunk, dosed up with Viagra.’

‘I thought you were decent, but you’re not, just garbage crawled up from the same primordial slime as Brett Valentine Saunders over there.’

‘It’s Brett Valentine. I don’t use the other name, not good for my image.’

‘You’ve got no image. Now, get out and don’t come back until I say so. Is that clear?’

‘You—’

‘I can, and the drugs in here? What if I got a sniffer dog in? What will it find?’

‘Nothing. I’m not dealing