Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  David whirled round in fury. ‘You bastard.’

  The American nodded. ‘You got it. So add those pictures to the video from the club, and we’ve got a half-million-pound story. You double it to a full million and I’ll do the job. Say no, and I sell the story.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Your choice, Mr Watts.’

  David Watts said nothing. He just stood there, his jaw clenched, his face pale with emotion.

  The American smiled. ‘Good. I’ve enjoyed it, Mr Watts. Have a good day.’

  He held out his hand to shake. When David snapped ‘Fuck you’ at him, he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small mobile phone, still wrapped in cellophane. ‘Take the phone, Mr Watts, and give me back the wrapper.’

  David did as he was told.

  ‘I’ll contact you on this. Pay-as-you-go, with plenty of credit. My number is keyed into it. I’ll call you on this phone, and this phone alone. You need this doing quickly, so I’ll go pack now. I’ll be in Turners Fold this evening. I’ll keep you updated. If you get any more calls that give you clues as to where she might be, call me straight away.’

  David nodded, staring at the phone. He began to wonder what he had started. He could have gone to the police and handed over the answer machine. This would be harder if it went wrong. He had a sick feeling in his stomach; the surge of confidence brought on by the coke was slipping. He couldn’t afford to lose that.

  He looked up when he heard the man get to his feet. He was turning to walk away, so David asked him, ‘If you do this, how do I get the money to you?’

  The man stopped, his cowboy boots scuffing on the wooden floor. He turned around. ‘You’ve given me your word. When the job is done, I’ll come and collect.’ There was a glint in his eye. ‘And I will collect.’

  David felt a flicker of panic. ‘What do I call you?’

  The man thought for a moment. ‘Mr Christ,’ he said eventually, ‘Mr Jesus Christ.’ He smiled. ‘I’m your saviour,’ he said, then laughed to himself and walked away.

  When he was gone, David felt alone. As he looked around the bar it seemed like everyone had stopped talking and was turning to look at him, pointing, eyes wide.

  David got up quickly and ran out of the bar.

  NINETEEN

  Bob Garrett woke with a groan, the hammering on the door downstairs interrupting his sleep. Great! He’d been up all night.

  He scrambled out of bed, went downstairs, and flung open the door. It was Detective Inspector Glen Ross.

  Bob was surprised, alert now, helped by the sunshine glaring bright outside. Glen Ross had only visited him at home once before, over ten years ago. Back then they had both been going places. Only Glen had got there.

  Bob nodded politely. ‘Sir?’ He didn’t move away from the door.

  Glen Ross looked past him and into the house. ‘Can we talk, Bob?’

  Bob paused, then turned and went back into the house, Ross following him. Bob stopped and folded his arms, gestured towards the chairs and offered a seat. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘It’s not a social call.’

  Bob was intrigued. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ As always, Bob emphasised the word ‘sir’. He watched Glen Ross carefully, sensing that he was being weighed up, as if Ross was unsure what to say. His opening gambit surprised him.

  ‘Do you remember Annie Paxman?’ he asked.

  Bob’s eyes widened. He’d thought about her now and again over the last ten years, but initially less and less, as if it had stopped mattering as much. In the last couple of years, as everyone else had got older, she’d come back into his thoughts. ‘Clear as day,’ he responded. He eyed Ross suspiciously. ‘Do you?’ he added, the question flecked with sarcasm.

  Ross licked his lips nervously and jammed his hands into his pockets. ‘Annie Paxman has come back.’

  Bob blinked.

  Ross waited for a reaction, but he got nothing. The silence of the house became something neither of them wanted to break, until Bob said, smiling slowly, ‘That’s quite a trick.’

  Ross glared at him. ‘Don’t be an arsehole, Bob.’ He paused to calm down, and then continued, ‘Someone is blackmailing David Watts.’

  Bob raised his eyebrows and whistled. ‘Truth has a way of haunting people. Doesn’t it, Inspector?’

  Ross stepped away and tried to stay calm. He needed Bob, maybe more than Bob needed him. ‘She wants David Watts to go on television,’ he said, ‘and confess to Annie Paxman’s murder.’

  Bob laughed aloud.

  ‘This is not funny.’

  ‘No,’ said Bob, nodding, ‘it isn’t. It never was.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘How much will it cost him?’

  Ross shook his head and licked his lips again. ‘He doesn’t know yet.’ Ross knew there was a strange truth to that answer.

  ‘He’ll never confess.’

  ‘No, he won’t, but if this starts to pick up some speed, people might want to look closer at it. And if they do, they might look at you.’

  Bob scowled. ‘Don’t threaten me, Glen. If you’ve come here to tell me to keep quiet, not to cause problems, I did just that ten years ago. It will be hard to do anything new now. And it is just me, now that James Radley has gone. That was one convenient fire for you.’

  Ross said nothing.

  ‘Yeah, keep quiet,’ Bob continued, ‘it’s your right. But remember that what happened wasn’t right. That girl was killed by David Watts, and you covered it up.’

  ‘That’s crap,’ snapped Ross. ‘David Watts had nothing to do with it. There was no proof then. There’s no proof now. For fuck’s sake, Colin Wood is in prison for this. His DNA was inside her. What else do you want?’

  Bob laughed. ‘You’re even starting to believe it now.’

  ‘Yes, I do, because it’s the way it is. It was a long time ago. It’s gone, forgotten. I just want you to know in case it all blows up again.’

  ‘That’s all you want, is it?’

  Ross nodded.

  Bob stepped closer to him. ‘I don’t believe you. If he’s so innocent, why doesn’t he just ignore her? Why do you come here, waking me up, running scared? It was over ten years ago, and suddenly Annie Paxman rises from the dead? Something isn’t right here. Are you sure there’s nothing else here I don’t know?’

  Ross flinched when Bob said it. He felt like he was sinking, like things were sliding away from him. ‘No, Bob, there’s nothing. I thought you ought to know, that’s all.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bob stepped back, calming down. ‘If I find out you’re bullshitting me, Annie Paxman’s memory might get itself an ally.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  Bob tilted his head. ‘Try me.’

  ‘I can see you’re angry about this. All I’m asking is that when this is all sorted, Annie Paxman returns to the grave and rests in peace. Let David Watts sort it out.’

  ‘Yeah, like last time.’ The answer was thick with contempt.

  Ross looked at Bob and nodded. ‘Yeah, just like last time.’

  Glen Ross knew he was in front now. He had Bob where he wanted him; the reason for the visit had paid off. He could tell by Bob’s anger that he would keep quiet. That’s why he was angry. And once Bob knew of the connection between the shootings and Annie Paxman, he would have to keep quiet. He would have known about the blackmail for too long, and no one would believe he hadn’t known all along. Let Bob swim in his own conscience for a while, and then one day he’d know that he’d drown if he tried to struggle out of it.

  Then the front door opened.

  There was a car on the drive I didn’t recognise when I went back to the house with Alice. When I went in through the door, I was surprised to see Glen Ross stood there. There was little love lost between him and my dad and this certainly couldn’t be a social visit.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Ross,’ I said, trying to ignore Alice’s elbows knocking into me. Her arms were full of notes and clippings, and I heard her giggle quietly, the effect of
going over our morning’s work in a pub. I hushed her quiet, but it was hard not to smile. She was pushing into my back; I could feel her elbows wishing me on, the faint aroma of beer drifting over my shoulder.

  Ross turned and nodded at me, not at all cordial. Then I noticed that my father didn’t look too happy to see me. He was dressed in his pyjamas, glaring at me. I guessed it wasn’t me he was angry about, but whatever had upset him, I didn’t want to hang around.

  ‘Are you okay, Dad?’

  His glare softened, and I thought I saw him loosen up. ‘Yes, Jack. DI Ross just came round to ask me how last night’s shift went, but he’s going now.’

  The comment was loaded enough for me to know that it wasn’t about last night. I shrugged. Not my sleep ruined. Not my battle. ‘Okay. We’re just going to my room to throw this feature together. Are you staying up now?’

  He looked at me, not really listening to what I was saying. ‘Uh, yeah, I suppose so.’

  Once we got into my room, I put my laptop on the desk by the window, the desk I’d used when I was at school. It seemed ridiculously small now and I could still see the doodles I’d scratched into the wood: some rock bands and a football team I used to support. I saw Megan’s name on there, Alice’s sister, etched into a love heart. I smiled to myself and slid my laptop over it.

  I sat down on the bed. ‘What do you make of Glen Ross being here?’

  Alice looked towards the stairs. ‘It means something is happening.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because the only time I ever see him is when he wants to be in the paper. He briefs us so that we have his quotes ready for when things happen.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s just a big sleaze.’

  We were silent for a while when we heard the front door slam, and then a car started. I guessed Glen Ross had just left.

  Then I heard my father come upstairs. He sounded like he was rummaging in drawers. When I heard him go back downstairs, his footfalls sounded different, as if he had put shoes on. There was a short pause, and then the front door slammed again. I looked at Alice.

  ‘Maybe he’s run out of beer,’ she said, hinting that I should ignore it.

  I nodded, smiling, and then tried to think about my feature. I could see Alice watching me, her eyes glinting, biting her lip.

  ‘Let’s work,’ I said, grinning now.

  Bob Garrett crunched along the shale path running along the school field.

  As the football pitch came into view, he saw a game taking place. He walked round the edge and sat down to watch.

  It was a high-school game, young kids, early teens, all legs and eagerness, playing for nothing more than school pride and for fun.

  Bob found himself smiling as he watched. It took him back to his own teenage years, spent kicking footballs in a suburb of Liverpool, full of dreams of pulling on the Everton blue. He had been the best player in his team by a long way, but his talent had still only taken him as far as the lower divisions. He had just been good. When he had first seen David Watts play on this field, he’d known he was looking at someone great.

  He had loved football then. His playing days hadn’t ended long before, so he would come down to the high-school field just because it was the nearest place to hear the sound of a boot on a ball. And then he saw David Watts, tall and majestic, grace and power, all wrapped up in a skinny teenager. He watched David a lot, so that by the time David was leaving town to join up with his club, Bob knew everything about him – from the way he jogged off the field to the way he punched his leg forward when he let one fly, the final flick of his body as the energy rippled up from the base of his spine and into his shoulders.

  He shook his head. Being something big somewhere so small can be a bad thing sometimes, because you can end up feeling like you own the town, because the town wants to own a bit of you.

  Bob made himself comfortable as he watched. He liked the way they mimicked their heroes most of all. It gave it a playground quality. He could see the images of glory in their heads, could sense the imaginary crowd. He smiled. It was the innocence of the game. The game wasn’t about players, it never had been. It was about the game itself.

  He settled back to enjoy the match. He wanted to wash away some of the dead air that had been hanging around him all afternoon.

  TWENTY

  She was in the lobby of the Atlantic Tower, looking out of the front doors onto a narrow Liverpool street, the grey spread of the Mersey not far away, trying not to give anyone chance to memorise her face. Her hair was coloured with a reddish tinge. It made her look younger, too young to be doing what she was doing. A picture had been released from Manchester, from the security camera in the apartment building, and she was worried she might be recognised. She was ready to be caught, but not yet.

  She got through check-in okay. A business conference had booked in while she waited, so the reception staff paid her little attention when she approached the desk on her own. She’d booked her room some time ago, using someone else’s credit-card details as security. When she arrived, she paid in cash. There were no suspicious looks when her room number came up on the computer. The request to be looking towards the river didn’t seem unusual when she’d booked it. It was one of the hotel’s selling features, with the building shaped like the bow of a ship, and her request had passed into history. Tomorrow, it would attract suspicion.

  She went to her room and looked out. It was perfect. She was looking down towards the river, the mythical Mersey, with the Liver Building to her left, a northern beauty, a concrete masterpiece. She could see the Liver birds topping the two small towers, cast in copper, strapped down to stop them flying away. Liverpool would be no more if they flew away, so the legend had it. She thought she knew how they felt.

  Her gaze moved right. She wasn’t there for the Liver Building. She was there for the Crowne Plaza, a five-star hotel just across the road from the Atlantic Tower, where the Tottenham players were staying that night, ready for the game at Everton the following day. There was speculation on the news that the weekend’s games might be cancelled, but for now they were still on.

  She moved away from the window. She thought she heard her door open. She whirled round in fright. There was no one there. She felt a cold breeze wrap around her and she shivered. The room darkened and she felt alone.

  She grabbed the remote control and turned on the television, filling the room with noise and dancing colours. She found the news channel and then rushed to the bathroom, locking the door. She would stay in there until it was time. No one could get her in there. The television boomed through the door, so she ran a bath to drown it out with noise. Another hour, she said to herself, another hour and she could start again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I was downstairs with Alice when my father returned.

  It was nearly seven o’clock and we were winding up the day. I’d tried calling David Watts again but got the answer machine. His agent wasn’t answering her phone either. I was moulding the feature without his input, and it had a form, but it needed bulking up, needed more source work. Most of all, it needed some style. When I looked at my dad, he seemed breathless, eager, excited, as if he’d rushed back with some news. He stalled when he saw Alice, as if he’d forgotten that she might be there.

  ‘Things okay, Dad?’

  He looked at me and nodded, then glanced towards Alice and I felt he had just wished her out of the house.

  Alice must have seen it too, because she glanced at her watch and said, ‘I really should be going now.’ She walked towards the door, and then turned back to me and said, ‘I’ll call you, Jack, if that’s okay. We’ll go out for a drink.’

  I waved and nodded, confused. ‘Yeah, fine. Give me a couple of hours.’

  Then she was gone and I felt the house go quiet again.

  I watched my father. He had an itchiness, like he couldn’t sit down but didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just chewed on his bottom lip and sta
red at me. I stayed with him because I could sense he had something to say. I raised my eyebrows at him. He was normally calmer than this, and so I knew it was important.

  He stared for a bit longer, and then eventually he spoke.

  ‘You journalists protect your sources, right?’

  I nodded. ‘First rule of writing. If you don’t protect your sources, you stop getting them. Why?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this article you’re writing. About David Watts. Hometown feature.’

  I nodded and folded my arms. Time to let him speak.

  ‘I’ve been down at the school fields since Glen Ross left,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  He exhaled. ‘Just to remind myself of something.’ He looked at me. ‘Answer me this, Jack: What do you think I miss most about not playing football any more?’

  My mind went blank. That wasn’t the question I’d been expecting, and he didn’t talk about his football days too much. I had my own memories of him, as a lower-division hatchet man, sliding across boggy pitches with long hair and a moustache. He hadn’t been the quickest of defenders, but he had made wingers nervous, his studs always high.

  ‘The travel?’ I answered glibly. ‘The glamour? The girls?’

  He laughed. ‘Spend a few hours on a bus with pissed-up footballers and you’ll know why I don’t miss that. And as for the girls? Forget it. There weren’t that many groupies around in the lower divisions.’

  He stopped laughing and looked more distant. I didn’t see him get nostalgic much. He normally thought forwards, not back. As he sat there, taking himself back to his playing days, some of the years fell away that had been hanging around his face since my mother died.

  ‘It’s the sense of tradition I miss,’ he continued, not really looking at me. ‘I was playing our game, England’s pastime, and I was getting paid for it. I felt special. Every time I stepped onto that field, I found it hard to believe that I was being allowed to do it. Every kick of the ball. Every shout of the crowd. It was only the bottom rung, but I loved it.’