Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  ‘We need to catch this bastard,’ he said.

  Laura nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, I know, and we will.’

  As he turned away, Laura saw the other detectives glaring at her. She knew their problem: her inspector liked her, but she hadn’t put in the hours crawling up his arse.

  She smiled at them, wondering when they would ever work out the connection.

  She was about to walk away, get some space to think, when she saw a uniform heading towards her. As he got up to her, he said, ‘There’s been a call from an estate agent. Two of their staff were meeting a client here, and they haven’t been heard from since. They’ve missed two viewings.’

  ‘What was the address?’

  The uniform looked around and pointed. ‘In that building there.’

  As Laura followed his finger to the flats above the shops, she saw a window open just at the bottom. She turned around and followed the line of sight, saw how it looked straight down to where Dumas had been shot.

  ‘At least we might have solved that part of it,’ she said, and then shouted to her inspector.

  I could see the media camp, kept back by crime-scene tape. They were further than I was from the scene, kept right back on Charing Cross Road, a tangle of cameras, tripods and boom microphones. With so much media around it was going to be a tough day for the freelancer. I could see the glare of spotlights as the television people filmed their updates, but there’d be little to report until the police were finished.

  So, if there’s nothing going on, report the press watching nothing happening. I framed the collection of cameras and frustrated reporters against the luminous jackets of the police manning the tape. I ran off ten shots and then looked towards the crime scene. I wondered about the shooting, as if the answer might be pasted on a hoarding somewhere. I wondered about a crazed fan. I remembered queuing for an age in a February snowstorm a couple of years earlier for a signed autobiography of some England player I had once admired. An age in the snow for a ghost-written collection of anecdotes, a shake of the hand, and a rushed scrawl on the inside cover. How far was it from that to this?

  I shut my eyes for a second and let the sounds drift in. I could hear sirens and car horns, movement from the streets nearby, the cordon choking up traffic for a mile all around, but nearer to me I sensed just anticipation, a poised stillness. It seemed strange to have that calm enveloping me. It didn’t seem like the city.

  I needed a break. I looked around again. The tale of Henri Dumas would dominate the papers for the next week. There’d be no space for my hard-luck tales from the gutters of old London town.

  I was about to sit down when I noticed that there were more police officers than before. I zoomed in on a group of people around a table, their hands on their hips, talking intently. I zoomed in more, just to make sure. When I had confirmed it to myself, I smiled. I didn’t need to stay up to get the story. It had just come to me.

  FOUR

  David Watts walked into his flat and paused to look in the mirror. He felt tired, still torn up by the Henri Dumas shooting. His eyes looked red.

  He turned away and walked into the kitchen, going to the fridge to pull out a beer. The cap snapped off with a pop. At least he was alive.

  He looked out of his window, his apartment on the top floor of a complex overlooking Chelsea Bridge, a glass and cedar block sandwiched between two bridges, with wooden boards lining a chrome balcony and sunshine streaming inside through large glass panels. The lucky ones get the Thames, the light. The others get Battersea Power Station.

  David Watts, midfielder, the biggest football star in England. He had been on the other side of the city, at the training ground, when the news broke about Henri Dumas. The changing room was in shock when he left, queuing for the television cameras to make their feelings public. David hadn’t done that. He couldn’t find words for himself, so he wasn’t going to try for the cameras.

  As he looked away from the river, he saw billboards, his own face gleaming back at him, the face of a new razor campaign. His trademark stubble was shaved on one half of his face, pink and clean, the other side dark and rough. On the hoarding next to him was Dumas, advertising sportswear with moody looks into the camera. He felt his stomach turn. He had met Dumas countless times, at award ceremonies, photo shoots, charity events. They had even gone drinking together after a game. Henri Dumas had been a good man.

  He turned on the television, flicking through to Sky News, to footage of an armed police unit storming a building, shot from the news helicopter. Things were happening.

  David turned round when he heard footsteps. He saw Emma standing there, dressed in one of his shirts, running a towel over her long hair.

  ‘I didn’t know you were around today,’ he said. He should have been pleased to see her, but the news about Dumas had left him feeling empty.

  Emma smiled, her eyes full of regret. She walked over to him and put her arms around his chest. Her wet hair made a dark patch on his clothes. ‘I thought I had some time off and I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She sighed. ‘One of the girls has called in sick, so I can’t stay.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m on the overnight to JFK, so I need to be back at Heathrow for six. I should get a quick turnaround though, so maybe I’ll only be gone for a couple of days.’

  He kissed the top of her head. ‘Too long.’

  She squeezed him and then pulled away.

  David turned back round to the window, looking out over the river. Everything looked so perfect. He could see the trees of Battersea Park. The Thames slid past, moving slowly, catching sparkles of sunshine as it went.

  Emma, the air stewardess. They’d met a few months earlier. She’d walked into a bar in her uniform, pulling a small black case behind her, cool and distant, that airline arrogance, smart and made-up, with a long, athletic body and trailing blonde hair. Most of all, she seemed unimpressed by his fame. That had been the attraction. He was young, good-looking and famous, and so he had done the easy sex circuit. But Emma had reminded him of how much he enjoyed the chase. He was a winner, and to win there has to be a contest.

  ‘I suppose you heard,’ said David.

  Emma stopped drying her hair and put down her towel. ‘I heard.’

  He exhaled and roughed-up his hair. ‘He was a decent bloke, you know, a good player.’ He bent down to put his beer on a table and then leant against the window.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Emma.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a minute’s silence on Saturday. They can’t cancel games; the season’s just started.’

  ‘Do you think you should play?’

  ‘No reason why not.’

  ‘Is it worth getting shot over?’

  David bristled at that. He knew what the ‘it’ was. It was football. Just a game. David is paid for playing a game. He had heard that before, too many times.

  ‘It’s not about what’s worth getting shot over,’ David responded, his irritation showing. ‘It’s about me doing my job well. And that job gets me all of this.’ He waved his hand around the apartment, every room filled with designer furniture, every window looking out on one of the most expensive views in the city.

  ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You got that right.’ He sighed, not wanting to argue. ‘Look, Emma, it’s a business, not a game.’

  ‘Should it be?’

  David turned back to the window and picked up his beer, looking back down to the river. ‘No, maybe not.’

  He sounded rueful. He remembered his childhood, when football wasn’t about money. It was about muddy shirts and the feel of the grass beneath your boots. Messing around with your friends, Saturday morning kickabouts, swapping cards.

  ‘If they cancel the games, come to my parents. They would love to meet you. My dad’s got a new boat and he’ll want to show it off.’

  David nodded. ‘Maybe it’s time to say hello.’r />
  He stayed by the window for a while, and then he turned around as Emma began to get ready, watching her shrug off his shirt so that she was naked. He turned back to the window. That’s what he’d miss when she was gone for a couple of days.

  But then she’d be back and he’d get on a bus to the next away game, maybe a plane to Europe. That was their life. He played football. Emma flew around the world. When they connected, they made sparks, but most of the time it felt like they’d hardly met.

  Most of all, he liked her because she was so unlike all the other players’ wives and girlfriends, who were greedy and predatory, all with a hunger in their eyes that frightened him. And it used to be just about money. Now it was a route to their own fame.

  He looked out of the window and drank his beer. Emma was different. She avoided publicity. Didn’t ask for money. Hadn’t done a magazine shoot.

  Maybe that’s why he liked her.

  Laura was one of the first into the flat, Tom just behind her. When she saw the bodies, she stopped. She didn’t need to get any nearer to know that they were dead.

  She stepped back out of the flat and blocked the way in. ‘We’re too late. Save it for crime scenes.’

  Tom sighed and turned around, pushing police officers away, asking for someone to get the photographer. When he turned back into the flat, he said, ‘We can presume this is the place, can’t we?’

  Laura nodded. ‘If we can’t, it’s been a busy day in Soho.’

  There were two people, a male and a female, both smart in suits. Except that one had a pool of blood around his head, gravity doing the job that the heart had stopped doing, and the other hadn’t moved for some time, despite the open eyes.

  ‘Is it some kind of suicide thing?’ he said, looking back into the room. ‘He shoots Dumas, strangles the girl, and then turns the gun on himself?’

  Laura peered into the gloom, tried to see the detail of the scene at the other end of the room. ‘Unless he could do it with his hands tied behind his back, I doubt it.’

  Tom looked back into the room and then looked down.

  ‘Shit. Three murders in one afternoon. Looks like we better cancel everyone’s leave for a few weeks.’

  Laura sighed to herself. Her parents’ goodwill was stretched already by her childcare needs, her ex-husband regarding that as her job to arrange. ‘Have we spoken to the estate agency yet?’ she asked.

  Tom looked up. ‘Someone’s on the way there now. Appointment made in the name of Paxman, but nothing else. Done over the phone. That’s why there were two here, just in case.’

  ‘Do you get a bad feeling about today?’

  He nodded. ‘Very.’

  Laura was about to say something else when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. It was a text, a simple message, two words: ‘call me’. It was from Jack Garrett. She stopped the smile which started when she saw his name. She hadn’t heard from him in months. He would have to wait.

  She checked her watch and realised how late the day was going to get. She caught Tom looking and she cursed to herself.

  ‘Kids?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Police life. They understand.’

  He nodded. ‘If you need to go, Laura, you need to go. Maybe you’re the one who’s got it right.’

  Laura said nothing; just cursed some more and then snapped open her phone. She knew straight away what he was getting at. This will be a long haul. If you don’t have the time, step aside.

  But then she thought of something.

  ‘There is one body of people who might know all about Dumas,’ she said.

  Tom nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The press. They’ll have all his secrets,’ and as Tom began to smile, she pressed the call button.

  I smiled when my phone rang. I knew Laura would call. She always did.

  I tried hard to hide the skip in my voice.

  ‘Hello, detective. Fancy hearing from you today.’

  ‘Jack, you know I’m busy.’

  ‘Detective McGanity, why on earth do you think I’m calling?’

  ‘Look, Jack, I can’t talk right now. There’s too much going on.’

  ‘When?’

  I heard her sigh.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In my apartment, a few doors down from where you are.’ I lowered my voice. ‘What’s in that building? Quite a crowd went in there a few minutes ago.’

  ‘I can’t disclose any secrets, Jack, you know that.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘We could meet up. I haven’t seen you for a while. It’ll be good to catch up.’

  I was suspicious. It looked hectic out there, and Laura wanted to pass the time.

  But then I thought about Laura, and I remembered how I felt whenever we met up, and I knew I would go. And what could I have that she needed?

  I had a quick look round my flat. There were dishes to be washed on the drainer and too many magazines to pick up if she came to me.

  ‘Do you know The Pearlie Queen?’ It was a cockney theme pub, almost like satire, with a piano in the corner and a dark wooden snug. More importantly, it would be just behind the media lines. ‘I can meet you there. How soon?’

  ‘Ten minutes. I’m due for a break.’

  I felt myself grin. ‘Okay, ten minutes. I look forward to seeing you.’

  And then I hung up.

  I was surprised she had agreed to meet me so quickly, but I found myself unable to say no. I felt that creeping flutter in my stomach whenever I thought of her.

  I checked my hair. I needed to get there first.

  FIVE

  I had been at the bar for nearly an hour before Laura walked in, tucked into an alcove, trying to write the story I hoped would squeeze in somewhere between the shock and the tributes.

  I had been struggling, though. I hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, not recovered from the night shift, so the words just floated around in front of me, not getting onto the screen. I had to close my eyes for a few minutes and let the bar fade away. The breeze blowing in through the open door kept the scene drifting in, until all I could sense were the images and sounds from nearby Soho. Then I had remembered the young family, shaking with shock. I remembered something the mother had said. It was a good starting quote. I began to type.

  ‘“A daytrip to town isn’t supposed to happen like that.”

  ‘That was the voice of a frightened mother, her two young children resting against her leg.’

  It was high-school prose, but it was a start. As I tapped away, the words began to tumble out, and by the time Laura arrived I had written a first draft.

  I was the only person who looked up when Laura came in. I saw her look around. The smoking ban had taken away some of the atmosphere, but the flock wallpaper and etched windows kept it dark inside. It drew in the tourists, sold the spirit of the blitz back to German students, who didn’t realise that it used to be a disco bar before a renovation turned the clock back. Retro-style televisions were tuned to the news channel, the subtitles bringing the updates over the noise of the bar, the talk all about the shooting.

  She looked fabulous, she always did. I felt myself take a breath. She was tall and slim, with deep green eyes that sparkled when she blinked and a smile that spread slowly, so that her face lit up like a slow yawn until dimples flickered in both cheeks. Her hair fell down over her face, a sunset brunette, that reddish darkness the Irish have.

  As she came in, she said, ‘I don’t get to hear much country music in London.’

  I looked over at the jukebox. It was Johnny Cash playing, Orange Blossom Special, that railroad rhythm.

  ‘It’s my dirty secret,’ I said. I looked around the bar. ‘Sorry about this place, but they’ve got music I understand. Is beer okay on duty?’

  ‘One won’t matter, in the circumstances,’ she said.

  Once she had a drink, I nodded towards the speakers. ‘He always takes me home.’

  ‘Johnny Cash?’

  ‘My father spent nearly every s
pare minute he had listening to Johnny. I’m not sure I got it then, as a child, but now I just seem to have him playing all the time.’

  ‘Where is home? You’ve never said.’

  ‘Turners Fold, in Lancashire.’

  ‘That explains the accent,’ she said. ‘Don’t know it.’

  ‘Not many people do.’

  ‘Ever think about going back?’

  ‘Why do you think I live in Soho?’ I said. ‘It’s just about as far from home as I can get.’

  ‘That bad?’

  I tugged at my lip.

  I’d started as a journalist back home, but it had been all small-town news, lost-dog stories and job gloom. I’d come to London to get away from all that, taking a job as a staff writer with the London Star.

  It had been fun at first, chasing around the city, my days filled with new sights and sounds, but it was hard work. The paper owned me. That was the deal, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If the paper wanted me to do something, I did it. And the paper wanted a lot, so I felt like I was always running, always trying to increase my by-lines, doing what I could to keep my stories elbowing themselves into the paper.

  I lasted two years, but six months ago I’d given it up and turned freelance. The money was less certain, but it was my money, earned by my work, my sweat.

  I shook my head. ‘No, it’s okay up there. But I like the city too much.’

  ‘A lonely place sometimes.’

  ‘Very lonely,’ I agreed. ‘You know, it seemed like when I stood still in Lancashire, people stopped to talk, asked me how I was. In London, they just push me out of the way.’

  ‘And steal your wallet at the same time.’

  I laughed. ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Grew up in Pinner. So this is all I’ve known.’

  ‘You ever been up north?’

  ‘A week in the Lakes once, and a hen night in Blackpool.’

  ‘The best and the worst in two visits. You’ve done well.’

  She laughed, her eyes twinkling. ‘How about you? You seem to have settled okay.’