The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14)

by Phillip Strang

‘Was it?’

  ‘He failed to mention that he had a mistress in there, Spanish, from Madrid, taught dancing in the area, whirled him around the bedroom of a night. Otway found out about his monkeying around, a bit on the side, asked him the question one night over a glass of wine.’

  ‘Why wine? Why at night?’

  ‘The man’s sharp, aware that Otway was on to him, thought that wine and a late-night seduction were one way out. He was a powerful man, still is, and Otway’s ambitious. The man had the ear of the prime minister, could ensure that she got the first question when he was willing to answer questions, not that he is that often.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Bridget replied.

  Bridget’s accomplishments with computers and hacking were legendary, not only in Homicide but also throughout the Challis Street Police Station, even in Scotland Yard. Careful how she went about it, only revealing what was needed for an investigation, Isaac knew that one thing she wouldn’t do was reveal names or addresses unless relevant.

  ‘As you were saying,’ Isaac said.

  ‘This minister thought Otway would be a fine addition to his stable, unable to believe that she wasn’t having any of it. He couldn’t deny that he had a mistress, Otway already having spoken to the woman in a supermarket close to the love nest. The next day, after she rejected the minister, he made a few phone calls, and Otway’s given an ultimatum: entertainments or get on your bike.’

  ‘The verbal or literal bicycle?’

  ‘Verbal. If she applied anywhere else, doors would be locked. This unnamed man wasn’t the only one cheating the system, and men of influence, newspaper owners, television station proprietors and others are all into one thing or another. The minister’s vice was women, still is.’

  ‘The Spanish mistress?’

  ‘Still dancing the Flamenco with the minister, another love nest, a different address, but the expenses scandal continues.’

  ‘And if she continues to pursue Jaden?’

  ‘Jaden’s not got the political clout, hardly likely to stop her pursuing a cause.’

  ‘She’s meant to be bringing light and frivolity to the newspaper, not investigative journalism,’ Larry said.

  ‘What she’s doing is not important,’ Isaac said. ‘What she knows, or suspects, is. Talk to her, find out if she’ll talk, or if she’s determined to keep it to herself.’

  ‘She’ll want a scoop from us if she agrees,’ Larry said.

  ‘Give her first bite of the cherry, assuming it’s not prejudicial to the investigation. Run anything she writes past me first, let Chief Superintendent Goddard know, let our legal department peruse it.’

  ‘Seems a lot to check.’

  ‘If Otway’s willing to take on a government minister, she’s no pushover. Kid gloves with her until we’re comfortable.’

  ‘It would be best if you meet with her,’ Wendy said. ‘She’s educated, more than DI Hill and me.’

  ‘Wendy’s right,’ Larry said. ‘She’s all yours. Practise your dance steps.’

  In Homicide, occasional humour never went amiss, always an excellent way to defuse the tension, the morbidness of dealing with death. Isaac took it in his stride, felt no offence, no need to tell his inspector off for his impertinence.

  ‘I can barely put one foot in front of the other,’ Isaac said. ‘It might be best if you and Wendy meet with Breslaw as soon as possible. Now that Otway’s mentioned him, she’s sure to meet with him, and Jaden’s not going to be far behind.’

  ***

  ‘If you’re here to ask stupid questions, to look for an angle, you’re wasting your time. I’m beyond all that, enjoying my retirement.’

  Neither Larry nor Wendy was prepared for Jim Breslaw’s outburst. After all, he had been cordial when he opened the door of his modest semi-detached house in North London and had welcomed them in, ensuring that Wendy had the best seat in the room and that Larry was comfortable.

  Jim Breslaw was slim, with drooping shoulders, a weather-beaten look, a full head of hair. Wendy could tell that he had used a hair dye, although she couldn’t see the point. Her husband had gone through the getting old stage, the need to exercise daily, comb his hair forward and let it grow longer. She had told him off for the folly, that with age comes wisdom, and a distinguished older man is more attractive than someone who can’t accept the inevitable.

  Wendy’s husband had had her; Jim Breslaw had no one, his wife having passed away at forty-six, a brain embolism.

  ‘Retirement suit you?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I thought I was good for another five years, but Jerome had other ideas. Something to do with a new team, dynamic, fresh ideas, innovative this and that, whatever twaddle he could come up with.’

  ‘Your opinion of Jerome Jaden?’

  ‘After what he did to me?’

  ‘Before would be more appropriate,’ Larry said, shifting on his seat to let a cat find its place alongside him.

  ‘Jerome’s a bastard, in the nicest possible way.’

  ‘I’ve never met a nice bastard,’ Wendy said.

  ‘You’ve led a sheltered life. Jerome Jaden would sell his mother if there were an advantage,’ Breslaw said.

  ‘Selling your mother?’

  ‘Figuratively, that’s what I mean. He was a shoot from the hip man, made decisions on the fly, thought about them afterwards, rescinded them later if there was a better option.’

  ‘He wasn’t a details man?’

  ‘Instinctive, a good judge of what the people wanted, who was best suited to work for him, their job description.’

  ‘You admired him?’

  ‘Greatly, still do, even after he showed me the way out.’

  ‘Instinctive or stupid?’

  ‘Jerome knew what was going to happen after Angus pulled that stunt.’

  ‘You mean after someone shot him.’

  Larry got up from his seat, the cat exercising its right to more room on the chair, sticking its claws into his leg.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Breslaw said. ‘They think they own the place.’

  ‘Are you fond of cats, Mr Breslaw?’ Wendy asked. She was comfortable, and no cat was going to oust her from where she was seated.

  ‘I can’t stand the damn things, but they were the wife’s. The last thing she said to me before she died was for me to promise to look after her pets. She knew I would have found homes for them. Seven years this November since she passed on, and to be honest, the cats have been company.’

  ‘You and your wife, close?’

  ‘As close as any married couple could be after twenty-five years together. I was upset for a while, but she hadn’t been a well woman, even before the embolism, too much weight, a dicky heart.’

  ‘Did work become your obsession afterwards?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. What did Jaden say?’

  ‘That you went back to the halcyon days when advertising revenue and viewers were easy to attract. That it was a lot easier back then, words to that effect.’

  ‘He’s right. I’ll not dispute that, although he might not have told you that television isn’t going to last, not indefinitely. Oh, sure, they can streamline the company, get rid of the old warhorses, the dinosaurs as Tom Taylor would say, smart-arsed little brat, but there’s only so far you can go.’

  ‘You’re not a fan of Tom Taylor?’

  Breslaw moved from where he had been standing and moved closer to the window. ‘I have a passion for gardening,’ he said.

  Larry looked over at Wendy, lifted his eyebrows, a sign that he didn’t know what Breslaw was talking about or why he had changed the subject.

  ‘Tom Taylor?’ Wendy repeated.

  ‘The weather’s not been that good lately, too dry for the vegetables, better for growing flowers, not that I’m much bothered with them, although I’ve got a rose bush that’s doing well. Rosemary, she used to like flowers, not that she was a gardener, preferred to be indoors most of the tim
e. A great knitter, always a jumper at Christmas, and then, she had the cats, not that they’re all still alive. I don’t replace them. I let them fade away, the same as me.’

  ‘Mr Breslaw,’ Wendy shouted, ‘you’re digressing.’

  ‘We were talking about Tom Taylor, and now you’re going on about the garden and your wife,’ Larry said.

  ‘Maudlin, that’s all. I’d still prefer to be at the station, keeping myself busy. I feel as though I’ve been thrown on the scrapheap,’ Breslaw said. ‘The modern generation think they know better than their elders, disrespectful too.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘He was after my job, always sucking up to Jaden, sweet-talking with Karen Majors, kissing and canoodling with Alison.’

  ‘I thought they were discreet in the office,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Maybe they were, but she’s related to Jerome, favourite niece, something like that.’

  To Wendy, who had experienced her husband’s illness and demise, Jim Breslaw showed early-stage senility, which seemed illogical, given that until two weeks before, he had been Jaden’s head of programming. A person doesn’t degenerate that quickly.

  ‘Take us back to the day you left the station,’ Larry said.

  Breslaw’s strange behaviour confused them, but it wasn’t why they were there.

  ‘Two days after Simmons fell, Jerome calls me into his office. Karen Majors and Babbage are there, both looking contrite, not that Babbage would be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Bob Babbage, hard-nosed, a rationalist. If, as we now know, I was about to get the ceremonial kick out of the door, he wouldn’t have been sorry.’

  ‘No emotion?’

  ‘Babbage is what he is. I was a pain in the rear end, always wanting more money for programming. It’s a tight market, and most of the programmes we purchase, especially if they’re good, are expensive. Basic economics and he knew it, but the margins are not there.’

  ‘Jerome Jaden, known in the industry as a man who could drive a deal.’

  ‘Jerome came up through the good years, the same as I did. It was a lot easier back then, but now, I struggled, so did Jerome. Neither of us could come up with an angle to maintain ratings, and Karen Majors, she’s not on top of her game.’

  ‘We’ve not heard any comments about her,’ Wendy said.

  ‘And you won’t, not yet. The industry is in flux, and Karen’s as good as any other, but she can’t do much about it.’

  ‘Tom Taylor?’

  ‘Not sure, and that’s an honest answer. He’s temporary, looks the part, the fresh new look, catering to a younger audience. I didn’t go much for him, not personally, but who knows, he may pull a rabbit out of a hat.’

  ‘He’ll survive?’

  ‘Young, attractive, a charmer, he will, one way or the other.’

  ‘Alison Glassop, any part in all of this?’

  ‘Apart from her being Jerome’s niece or is it grand-niece, I’m not sure which, not that it matters much. She was keen on Tom, not that she can be blamed for that, but whether she’s a conniving little bitch or a sweet young thing, I’d not know. She didn’t bother me, and she did pretty the place up.’

  ‘That sounds sexist,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It wasn’t meant that way. You asked me for an honest opinion; I gave it.’

  ‘The climb? Did you approve it?’ Larry asked.

  Focus lost, Breslaw was once again looking out of the window. ‘Looks like rain,’ he said. ‘Saves me watering it later on.’

  ‘Mr Breslaw, the flowers can wait; we can’t,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, don’t know what came over me.’

  Senility or a nervous breakdown, the trauma of the last weeks affecting Breslaw’s mental state, Wendy couldn’t be sure.

  ‘The climb?’ Larry said once more.

  ‘I’m meant to take the blame.’

  ‘Who asked you to take the blame?’

  ‘It was in my severance package, not that it’s written down. They want me to be the scapegoat, but I won’t be.’

  ‘Who would have wanted Simmons dead? Who at the station?’

  ‘Tricia Warburton, she wanted him out, but taking a shot at him, not her.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Jerome liked her, keen to keep her on, but the others wanted Simmons.’

  ‘Jerome Jaden gets what he wants?’

  ‘Once, he might have, but times have changed.’

  ‘He’s the owner,’ Wendy said.

  ‘The majority shareholder, answerable to the executive, to other shareholders. He has a lot of power, but it isn’t absolute.’

  ‘Who did you prefer to stay on, to host the programme?’

  ‘Simmons. A remarkable man.’

  ‘But not a pretty face.’

  ‘He never was, but still remarkable. I wanted the programme to be more focussed on outstanding sporting and cultural achievements.’

  ‘Jaden?’

  ‘He wanted scantily-clad bimbos, frivolous happenings around the world.’

  ‘Which format would have best served the station?’

  ‘Sporting and cultural achievements, more credibility, significant, more reputable.’

  ‘Financially?’

  ‘Celebrities up to mischief.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t have agreed?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have resigned. It’s academic, though. I was shown the door. Do you know, they even changed the lock on my office door?’

  ‘Who gave Angus Simmons permission?’

  ‘Nobody, probably. Simmons, if he had decided, nobody would have stopped him.’

  ‘Did you know before he climbed?’

  ‘I only needed to know when they would have a programme for me to schedule in.’

  ‘And if you’d seen him climbing?’

  ‘If he had reached the top, I would have shown it.’

  ‘Even if it was illegal?’

  ‘Even.’

  ‘It was irresponsible, dangerous, gives young people crazy ideas.’

  Jim Breslaw was back at the window. ‘There’s a break in the clouds. I might need to water the garden after all,’ he said.

  ‘A wasted trip,’ Larry said on the drive back to the office.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Who knows. Time will tell.’

  ***

  ‘Enemies in high places, it seems you’re good at that, Ashley,’ Isaac said.

  ‘No more than you. I’m told that the Met’s Commissioner Davies doesn’t think much of you.’

  ‘Touché. Anyway, it’s good to see you. How long has it been?’

  ‘Since you stood me up? Eight years, give or take a few months.’

  Isaac hadn’t mentioned in the office that before Wendy had come into Homicide, before Larry, before Isaac had married, he and Ashley Otway had been out together a couple of times.

  Isaac wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told the team. It had been during his first murder investigation, back then inspector, not chief inspector, and Ashley had been a police reporter for another newspaper.

  Since then, the two had drifted apart, nothing unusual, as both were ambitious, neither looking for undying love, only a good time.

  Back then, Isaac was a few pounds slimmer, jogging regularly. Ashley had been cute with a pert nose and blue eyes, and as he studied her now, the light streaming into the room from behind her, he saw that time had aged her slightly and that she bore an uncanny resemblance to Jenny.

  A waterfront restaurant at Camden Lock, a glass of wine each, a menu to peruse; it was almost like old times, the two of them, even if it hadn’t lasted long, enjoying each other’s company. And then, Isaac remembering, she had gone overseas, a promotion to a political reporter, following a trade delegation led by Gabriel Doveton, the minister of trade, a junket out to the Middle East, a chance for those on the trip to get drunk, strike a few deals and declare it a success. The only fly in the ointment was the diligent Ashley, revealing that bribes had be
en paid at the highest level in one country, an eighty-million-pound contract awarded on the back of them.

  Hushed up, as they often are, a copy of the Official Secrets Act thrust under Ashley’s nose and a retraction by the newspaper.

  ‘No one believes retractions,’ the newspaper’s editor had told her in the confidence of his office. ‘In future,’ he’d added, ‘run it past me, check with our legal beavers. Don’t want to get on the wrong side of those in power, even if they’re on the fiddle, do we?’

  Ashley continued to follow the rules, to expose when there was something to reveal, running it past her masters, modifying the story, an inflexion here, another word there. If the name was likely to cause trouble, an anonymous source quoted, to bin the story if the legal team said so.

  With a degree in journalism and left-wing beliefs, Ashley, young and idealistic, had seethed on more than one occasion. Still, with time, the rough edges smoothed, the extreme ideology tempered, she adopted a change in tactics.

  Still determined, still believing that journalism was about truth and justice, she carefully acquired her moles: people who would, out of idealism or a need for money, slip her news of happenings behind the scenes in the Palace of Westminster, the Houses of Parliament.

  She came to know about those who were fiddling their expenses, incompetent, and others only in it for the money and prestige. And the most heinous was rewarded with a peerage, kicked up to the House of Lords if they kept their mouths shut.

  Eventually, sickened by the hypocrisy and in a fit of despair, she had written the article about the minister and his Spanish mistress; the editor and the legal team, no longer as diligent as before, not checking all the copy that she submitted.

  It had caused a political storm, the opposition shouting at the prime minister to remove his minister, to set an example. Ashley Otway was moved to entertainments, more out of political expediency than for what she had written.

  The editor congratulated her, and the minister resigned – to concentrate on serving his electorate, to spend more time with his family. And then, nine months later, after the storm had blown over, he was back on the front bench, a more senior ministry to run.

  The newspaper continued to publish articles on government corruption. But without their best investigative reporter, now confined to interviewing boy bands and ill-mannered movie stars, they weren’t as incisive as before.