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

‘Taylor’s doing that.’

‘Sending a boy to do a man’s job doesn’t work, and you know it. Why are you hanging onto him, not willing to talk to Breslaw, to make him an offer?’

‘Because, regardless of what everyone thinks of him around here, I can’t trust him,’ Jaden said. He had Breslaw in his pocket, but so far, he hadn’t used him, knowing that the former head of programming, regardless of what he said, would interfere.

‘Trust, a two-edged sword. Does he trust you?’

‘He’s sitting in that house of his, fretting over his garden, slowly going mad with frustration and boredom. He lays the blame at my feet for how we got rid of him.’

‘He was treated with respect,’ Karen said. She was sitting down, her heart beating more than it should. She was tired; gardening sounded good to her. Her boss, a man she had respected, looked no better, and the twinkle in his eye, the enthusiasm that was always there, was gone, never to return.

‘It was his life, as it is ours. Take a person away from their family, their home away from home, and see what it does to them.’

‘What would it do to you? What would you do to stay on top?’ Karen Majors said. ‘Jerome, it’s now or never, and you know it.’

Chapter 17

Ashley Otway’s junior, now the newspaper’s new entertainments reporter, was delighted that her first assignment had been to interview Chas Longley, an American rapper, one of the latest in a long string of warblers that Ashley didn’t appreciate. However, Chloe, fresh out of university, did.

‘He was great, so friendly. Did you know he broke up with his girlfriend?’ she had oozed on her return from interviewing the man.

Ashley did because she had read the media briefing about how he had made his first record at the age of eighteen, growing up in a crime-ridden ghetto in Detroit. And from then on, a meteoric rise, a chart-topper, Midas wealthy.

Ashley, not wanting to hear any more, cut the woman off. ‘Must go,’ she said. ‘Write it up.’

Outside the building, Ashley Otway climbed into a car’s passenger seat; a balaclava hid the driver’s face.

‘How much is it worth?’ the driver asked.

‘How good is it?’ Ashley, frightened yet excited at the same time, asked. Aware that she should have told her office where she was going, aware that others would have stopped her, she had drafted an email, set it to transmit in two hours, explaining what she had agreed to, where she thought she was going. Her smartphone was on; the details included how to track it.

‘It’s gold.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m not here for my health.’ The voice was gruff, a nondescript accent.

Ashley judged the man to be above average height, carrying more weight than he should, more from a lack of exercise than an excess of food. He was dressed in light-coloured jeans, an open-necked blue shirt, and was wearing a sports jacket.

‘Why the secrecy? How did you get my number?’

‘I prefer to stay in the shadows.’

‘Driving around London in disguise is hardly inconspicuous.’

The man drove too fast, weaving in and out of traffic, although he seemed more than competent. She thought he might be a racing driver, maybe a courier, or drove a taxi, as he seemed to know his way with ease.

‘I saw you challenge Jerome Jaden, not that you got anywhere.’

‘I didn’t expect to, but I wasn’t going to let him off that easy.’

‘What if I told you he was broke?’

‘That piece of information is worth a couple of pounds. It’s common knowledge, and it’s not only his station. You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Your driving?’

‘Do you get a thrill out of getting in cars with mystery men; think you’re playing at espionage, letter drops, invisible ink, sultry sirens baiting honey traps.’

‘Whoever you are, you’ve got a twisted sense of humour, if this is what this is,’ Ashley said.

‘It’s not humour; it’s terror. I need to know if you’re worthy.’

‘Worthy of what? Of you? Slow down.’

The car slowed; the man removed his balaclava. ‘Sorry about that. You could have informed the police, had them follow us. I had to be sure.’

‘I haven’t, and why don’t you go to them?’

‘The name’s McAlister, Otto McAlister. A German mother explains the first name. I’ve not gone to the police, not that I couldn’t, as I can prove this, but because times are tough, and you’ll pay me a king’s ransom for information. I’d be lucky to get the taxi fare home from them.’

‘And if I give it to the police?’

‘Then do so, mention my name if you must. I’ll have your money, and you’ll have an exclusive. Deal?’

‘It depends on what you’re trading and how much you want,’ Ashley said. Calmer now and in the company of an earthy, ruggedly handsome man.

‘I was in Patagonia when Hampton fell. I was there; I saw it happen.’

McAlister drew the car over to the side of the road and parked. He leant over to the passenger side glove box, causing the woman to flinch.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got something, a sample, to show you.’

The man withdrew an envelope. ‘Take a look at what’s inside,’ he said.

After she had looked at the five photos, four of them fuzzy, one clear, Ashley Otway handed them back to McAlister. ‘What am I looking at?’

‘Squint your eyes, look at this one,’ he said as he handed over the clearest of the five. ‘You can see two men, one in blue, the other in dark grey.’

‘The outlines of two men, neither recognisable.’

‘Those two men are Angus Simmons and Mike Hampton. Anyone who knows mountaineering and those two would recognise them instantly.’