The Hero's Fall (DCI Cook Thriller Series Book 14) by Phillip Strang (classic books for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

‘Who knows what goes on in the twisted mind.’

The interview concluded. Those present went to their respective corners: Kate Hampton to a hotel in Hammersmith, Wendy to visit Deborah Hampton, Isaac to his office, another report to prepare.

***

Maddox Timberley had encountered Hampton’s sister at Hampton’s house. Her opinion had been unfavourable, like Kate Hampton’s.

Wendy and Larry drove the one hundred and twenty miles to Dorset, to visit Hampton’s sister. Motorway conditions for most of the way, but eventually ending up on a narrow country lane which petered out into a muddy track, their car slipping and sliding. Finally, they drew up at a rustic farmhouse.

Larry had never had a craving for country life; he was a city boy, born and bred in London, the smell of diesel and cigarettes more enticing than manure and wet grass.

Wendy took a deep breath, sampled the smells and the animals in the field, a gaggle of geese announcing their arrival, a dog sitting on the porch, not willing to move, wagging its tail.

‘Don’t worry about Buster; he won’t hurt,’ a woman who had come out of the house said.

‘I grew up in Yorkshire, a place just like this,’ Wendy said. ‘It takes me back.’

‘You’re the police?’

‘We are. Inspector Larry Hill, Sergeant Wendy Gladstone.’

‘I’m Deb. You’d better come in, get the weight off your feet. I’ll make us all a cup of tea, coffee if you prefer.’

‘Tea will be fine,’ Larry said.

The two officers looked at the woman who had just turned her back on them and walked into the farmhouse.

‘Not what we expected,’ Wendy said.

‘The description’s accurate.’

A voice from inside. ‘Come on, haven’t got all day.’

Inside the house, the smell of burning wood from the fire and bacon from the kitchen.

‘Long drive? Bacon and eggs okay for you? Sausages, home-grown, or their provider was. Sent the animal to the slaughterhouse last week.’

Deborah Hampton had grown up in the north, the child of a successful businessman and his lay preacher wife, as far removed from a farm as could be imagined. Wendy, who had grown up on a farm, was used to eating the livestock, willing to slaughter when needed.

‘That’ll be great,’ Larry said.

‘Likewise,’ Wendy said.

‘You’re here about Angus?’

‘We need to speak with you. So far, we’ve been drawing blanks. No motive.’

‘You’ve spoken to Kate?’

‘We have.’

‘Angus’s piece of skirt?’ Deb said.

‘She said you were impolite to her.’

Buster wandered in and sat in front of the fire. He looked old.

‘I’ve had the dog for close to ten years, inherited him from the previous owners. He’s meant to be outside doing what sheepdogs do, but he’s earned his rest. A good dog in his day, but the back legs are going, not sure how much longer he’s got.’

‘He still looks good,’ Wendy said, although she said it more out of politeness than truth. The dog was indeed old, greying around the muzzle, its breathing laboured.

‘Buster will join us for breakfast,’ Deb Hampton said. ‘Loves bacon.’

‘Why country life?’ Larry asked.

‘No doubt you’ve got a few more questions for me. Such as, how come a demure city girl, the product of northern affluence, is covered in tattoos, a shaven head, wearing men’s clothing.’

‘We do,’ Wendy said.

‘Formal or informal?’ Deb said.

‘Breakfast?’

‘Stay where you are. I’ll bring it over. No, I meant the interview. No doubt Kate’s told you what a bitch I am, not too bright.’

‘Words to that effect.’

‘She puts it about, does Kate. Not that I was a slouch in my day, but then who wasn’t?’

Saddled with a large plate each, both Wendy and Larry curtailed their questioning, instead focussing on their breakfast.

‘We’ll go in the other room when you’re finished,’ Deb said. ‘Buster’s manners are not so good after a good feed; the air tends to get a bit whiffy with him.’

Silence reigned for a while. To Larry, condemned to eating muesli and yoghurt for breakfast seven days a week, Deb Hampton’s country fare was a breath of heaven.

‘I’ve not eaten so well since I lived in the country, up north,’ Wendy said.

Buster took his position by the fire, spread himself out, yawned and promptly fell asleep. Larry, who had driven on the way down, could have joined the dog. The tired eyes from driving, cooked breakfast and a warm fire – seductive and inviting.

Wendy nudged Larry, his eyes drooping. ‘Inspector, we’ve got a job to do.’

Larry sat on a chair in the other room, more of an alcove, not as solid a structure as the main house, and distinctly colder.

‘We’d like to record the interview if that’s acceptable,’ Wendy said.

‘Fine by me, no secrets to hide,’ Deb said.

‘Deb, are you close to your brother?’

‘I am.’

‘Yet, the two of you are opposites.’

‘You’re judging me by my appearance, by Mike’s current situation.’

‘I’m not trying to, but it’s hard not to form conclusions that others might.’

‘Others don’t concern me.’

‘Before we start, maybe you could give us a brief encapsulation of your and your brother’s lives,’ Larry said, the coldness and the breeze coming through a gap in the timberwork keeping him awake.

‘We grew up in the north, a small town not far from Newcastle. Our father was a successful businessman, fingers in many pies, nothing illegal. Our mother, a farmer’s daughter, had met our father at a church function. Our mother was religious; our father wasn’t, just that church gatherings were a good place to meet with the opposite sex. More innocent times back then, no social media, no online dating sites, meet up, make love and then move on.’

‘A generous term for what they are,’ Wendy said.

‘Very well, I would have said screwing, but I wasn’t sure if I should. My language isn’t that