Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  ‘No one settles in London. It moves too fast.’

  ‘So you started bugging off-duty police officers?’

  I smiled at that, just about stopped a blush.

  That’s how I had met Laura, trying to build up police sources, drinking in the pubs where the police hung out. I’d spotted Laura on the edge of a group of detectives. When it was her turn to buy the drinks, I got talking.

  I’d tried the flirt at first, we were around the same age, but I got nowhere. She had a husband and a child, and she wasn’t going to risk any of that. So I gave it to her straight. If she wanted her cases to make the news, if she wanted to have some control over how they were told, she ought to use me.

  And she did. I snapped her arrests, got the inside track on her cases. She told me that she used me to get her cases in the headlines. I told her that I was doing the same thing.

  Laura looked around and I watched her eyes dance. I felt that spark of interest again. I watched her fingers wipe at the condensation on her glass, a gentle stroke. But then I felt a jolt when I looked down at her hand. Her wedding ring had gone.

  When she looked back towards me, she pointed towards my laptop. ‘How’s the story?’

  ‘Slow. I might not file it,’ I said, but I was distracted, wondering what had happened to her marriage.

  ‘Can I read it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  Laura looked at the screen for a while and then turned back to me. ‘You write well. Why do you just work the crime stories?’

  ‘It’s a good life. No one owns me.’

  ‘Don’t you fancy the salary, nice and regular?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve been there.’ I lifted my bottle towards her. ‘You’re looking good. Family life looking after you?’

  Laura’s toughness, that cop façade, was swept away by a blush.

  ‘Same as always,’ she replied. ‘Too much time at work, and then too much time hating my ex-husband.’

  ‘How long has he been an ex?’ I tried to sound innocent, a friendly enquiry, but it stumbled out all clumsy. I felt my pulse quicken as I asked.

  ‘Since I caught him with a probationer, except that she wasn’t wearing much of the uniform.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘Never marry a copper.’

  I didn’t reply at first, but then we both started to say something and then stopped, grinning, like new lovers banging noses.

  ‘No, go on,’ I said.

  She looked bashful for a few seconds, and then said, ‘I need your help, Jack, with information.’

  That surprised me. Our relationship had a pattern. I reported crime. Laura told me about crime. It didn’t go the other way.

  I nodded, curious. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We need to know about Dumas. We want to know about his lifestyle, his secrets, anything that could lead to a blackmail, or a murder.’

  ‘We all know everything there is to know about Dumas,’ I said. ‘You can’t open a paper without seeing him or his fiancée doing something newsworthy, like walking or talking.’

  ‘I don’t mean that rubbish. I mean the real stories, the ones that don’t get into the paper.’

  I knew what Laura meant. The papers often held on to scandals when they got them, on the promise from worried agents that they’d get the best access to whichever celebrity it was. If a rival got hold of it, the story was run just to strike a blow at the competition.

  ‘I can make some calls, try and find something out, but this is quid pro quo.’

  She held out her hands. ‘Name it.’

  ‘What did you find at the house?’

  Laura stalled at that.

  ‘C’mon, Laura, the television had police swarming into a house just a few doors from mine.’

  She looked at me guardedly. ‘This is off the record?’

  I shrugged.

  She sighed. ‘Estate agents, there for an appointment, both dead, with a sniper’s view of where Dumas queued for his last latte.’

  I exhaled. ‘So you found where the shots came from?’

  She nodded. ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘So you can trace who had the appointment?’

  ‘That’s the theory.’

  ‘How did they die?’

  ‘He died from a gunshot, point blank. The woman was strangled.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Unusual?’

  It was Laura’s turn to shrug. In her career, she’d seen things I couldn’t even imagine.

  ‘So the shooter’s killing off the witnesses?’ I asked. ‘Why are you keeping it quiet?’

  ‘We’re not. We’re going public soon, but we wanted to do the forensic sweep first.’

  I sat back. It sounded interesting, but I wasn’t sure it fitted my story.

  ‘What was Dumas doing there?’

  ‘That’, she replied, ‘is what we are trying to find out.’

  ‘Do you think it might have been just chance? You know, Dumas in the wrong place?’

  ‘Not sure. The bodies in the flat made it seem professional, planned, which is a lot of trouble for a random shooting. The shooter would just shoot, if it was random.’

  ‘So if it was a set-up, you should be able to find that out.’

  Laura smiled. ‘Hey, you’re sharp!’

  My eyes twinkled at her. I was just thinking about what else to ask, really just to keep her there, when she asked, ‘How quickly can you find anything out?’

  When I looked uncertain, she said, ‘This is the golden hour, the time when any evidence has to be captured. We might get a lead in a few days, but any forensic evidence from the scene will be long gone by then.’

  ‘No pressure then.’

  She smiled, and any resistance I had melted.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  And as I picked up my phone, she slid out of her seat. I was about to start dialling when she leant forward and I felt a soft peck on my cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. It’s good to see you again. Call me as soon as you find something.’

  I smiled, had to stop myself from putting my hand where the kiss had been.

  ‘You’ve got my number,’ I said. ‘Not just for work. Anything.’

  It was her turn to blush, but I saw a glimmer of a smile as I watched her walk out.

  David Watts was at the front of his apartment building, facing cameras and reporters. They had been outside there for a few hours, hungry for a quote.

  ‘I just want to say that I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good player. No, a great player – but above all of that, he was a good man, and football will miss him. I’ll miss him. I would like to express my condolences to his family, and I’m sure the footballing world is in deep mourning right now.’

  And at that, he went back into his building. He didn’t feel good. His words sounded irrelevant when he thought about Dumas; just a token footnote. Dumas was dead. Who cared about his condolences?

  When he got back to his apartment, he saw the parental look of his agent. She watched the press disappear from the window, and then turned back to the room.

  ‘That will get you good billing on the news, remind everyone that you’re the statesman of English football.’

  He shook his head at her. Karen Klavan. She was a good agent, but she was one cold-hearted bitch. She looked like a pin-up, blonde hair and breasts like weapons, but he guessed that when she fucked, she did it with a motive, not a passion.

  ‘Someone died today, Karen. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

  ‘It means you get a chance to raise your profile.’ When she saw the look of disgust, she said, ‘You worry about Dumas, and I’ll worry about making you money.’

  He would have smiled normally. Her directness gave her an edge in negotiations, but he wasn’t in the mood. And as he looked over to the billboards again, as he thought about the gossip magazines for sale in the shop just down the road, as he imagined all the children wandering around the country with his name on the back of their shirts, he reckoned his profile was pretty high
already. He didn’t want to use Dumas’s death to raise it higher. The thought of it sickened him.

  ‘I think we should look respectful, take some time out,’ he said, his anger snapping the words out.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, that too, but look, I’ve got you a slot on breakfast television, to talk about Dumas. Is that okay? It won’t clash with your training.’

  He shook his head. She made him money, but she made him mad as well.

  ‘I’ll end up tired at training.’

  ‘The country will forgive you if you’re jaded. In fact, they might be furious with you if you look bright and bubbly when you play.’

  ‘I take it Dumas wasn’t one of your clients.’

  ‘Can you hear me sobbing? No, he was with that prick Newcombe.’

  And then she laughed.

  Laughs didn’t come naturally to her, so when they came, they came loud and shrill.

  ‘He’ll be crying into his vodka tonight,’ she said, ignoring David’s look. When he didn’t respond, she said, ‘You’ll be picked up at five. Be up and ready, dressed soberly.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Oh, out and about. I’ve some new clients to see, so I’ll be away for a couple of days. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘If you leave it a bit longer, you’ll be able to dance on Dumas’s grave.’

  She winked at him and then picked up her bag, not bothering with goodbye. She could tell he was angry. Worse than that, though, was the thought that she didn’t care. He was just an asset, and she had him tied into an agency agreement. He was twenty-eight, so he didn’t have too long left at the top. In a few years’ time, when some younger star started to grab the headlines and his hamstrings were ripped to hell, she’d shunt him off her books as quick as one of his crosses.

  When the door clicked shut David turned back to the window, hoping that the view would make him forget about Karen Klavan. He knew she didn’t care about him. He wasn’t sure she cared about anybody.

  SIX

  Any warmth Laura had when she left the bar disappeared as she went through the swinging double doors of the autopsy room. Thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Warm enough to work, cool enough to stop bad things from multiplying. The room was a purpose-built unit, a step above the dusty hospital wings used by most police forces, with specially designed ventilation and plumbing, designed to keep the smells inside while letting the carcinogenics and acids out.

  The room was already full. She saw Tom near the autopsy table, down by the feet, two green-faced detectives behind him, trying not to give in. The task force had been assembled quickly, and it was mainly those who were available rather than those who were the best for it. The two detectives on Tom’s shoulder were young and ambitious, one dressed like a fashion victim, with big collars and bleached tips, his face pink from a bad shave, all except for the little triangle he left deliberately, just under his lip. The other was old-style bully boy, dressed in a black leather coat, his hands thrust in pockets, his stance aggressive. His hair was crew-cut short and his stare hostile. They were trying to crack jokes to distract themselves, but nothing they said was particularly funny. She nodded at Tom and he gave her a small smile back.

  Laura stayed near the head. It was closer to the action, but those at the feet got the smell, that mix of warm meat and chemicals, carried there by the ventilation. Tom had been in the job too long to be bothered by the smell, but the other detectives had been too keen to stand by him.

  Tom lifted a small bottle of wintergreen oil, used by many to mask the smell of the dead. She shook her head. Laura wanted to smell the dead, just so that she could feel the pain. It would make her work all the harder.

  Laura didn’t say anything, just let the pathologists wander round the body, speaking notes into the overhead microphone. There were two there, checking that nothing was missed, knowing that this would be a high-profile case. The one looking closely at the body was fifty and dignified, with a gentle face looking from behind half-moon glasses. The other was younger, a bookish-looking woman, with pulled-back dark hair and a pointed nose.

  Laura looked over to the wall and saw evidence bags stacked up. She could see the woman’s clothes along with her body bag, bagged and tagged, part of the continuity. Important pieces of evidence can come off the body in transportation, nestling in the bottom of the body bag.

  The woman was naked on the aluminium table, young and pale. Laura checked that the men weren’t looking too hard. She noticed a half-finished tattoo on the woman’s shoulder blade. The outline was done, two lovebirds intertwined, but the colours had yet to be added. It was details like that which always made Laura sad. They were part of a life in transit, so many things still to do, but something went wrong which left her naked on that table.

  Laura saw the male detectives look away with a grimace when the pathologist picked up a syringe. They knew what was coming next. So did Laura, but she steeled herself.

  The needle was plunged into the girl’s right eye and a sample of fluid was drawn out. Laura knew why it was being done, to test the potassium levels in the eye to get a more accurate time of death, and she had a strong stomach, but it always made her shudder.

  The cause of death was easy to determine. She could see the brown mark around the neck where something had been pulled tight. She knew what the eyes would show: burst blood vessels, tiny red pin-pricks, the telltale signs of strangulation.

  Tom indicated with his head that they should talk outside. As he stepped away, Laura saw the two detectives nearby instinctively step with him, but they were told to stay put and keep an eye on the proceedings.

  Outside the swing doors, Tom asked, ‘How did you get on with your reporter friend?’

  Laura felt herself blush slightly.

  ‘He didn’t know anything about Dumas, but he says he will make some discreet enquiries.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  Laura nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s okay.’

  They both turned around quickly when the doors burst open. It was Fashion Victim.

  ‘Sir, he’s found something.’ He looked breathless, excited.

  Laura and Tom exchanged glances, and then headed for the doors. Tom got to them first, and as Laura passed the detective he whispered to her, ‘It’s past your bedtime, McGanity. Shouldn’t you be tucking in your little boy?’

  Laura felt her chest heave, a burst of emotion, felt her eyes fill up, more from anger than anything else. She knew she attracted jealousy. She was young for a detective, still in her late twenties, a university degree her background rather than years in the force, and she expected some comments. But that had hit a weak spot.

  Didn’t he think that she thought that every time she left the house, every time her little boy waved her goodbye when she left him with her mother? But she had fought hard to be a detective, against every jibe she had suffered about being a university girl, against every macho man who thought it was man’s work, the sort who watch reruns of The Sweeney and spend their spare time wondering why their wife has just left.

  She pushed past him, her cheeks flushed, and went back into the autopsy room. Fashion Victim was still smiling.

  When she got alongside Tom, she saw him looking at something the pathologist was holding up. It twirled and twinkled under the spotlight over the table.

  It was a gold chain with thick links, with some kind of a medallion hanging from it, maybe an inch across. Laura peered closer, trying to refocus on the investigation. As she looked, she thought there was something familiar about it. The chain was thick, but it was a Celtic weave, not gangsta links. Then she realised why she recognised the medallion. She’d had one very similar as a child.

  The medallion was a Celtic symbol, three curls meeting in the centre, embossed deeply into a disc.

  ‘It’s called a triskele,’ said Laura. She was addressing Tom, but she was looking at Fashion Victim. His mouth twitched. ‘The benefit of being Irish,’ she said, and shrugged.

  ‘What does it mean?’
asked Tom. The other two detectives glared at her.

  ‘A whole host of things. The three elements of the planet: earth, water and sky. Some say it’s to do with the sun, afterlife and reincarnation, or the three symbols of the Mother Goddess: maiden, mother and crone.’

  ‘So it basically means fuck all.’ It was Bully Boy.

  ‘You know more now than you did thirty seconds ago,’ she snapped back, making Tom smirk.

  ‘I would prefer it if you chaps played with your cocks elsewhere.’ It was the pathologist, looking at Fashion Victim and Bully Boy with disdain. ‘This might mean something.’

  He was still holding the chain over the naked body.

  ‘There’s an inscription on the back,’ he continued. He peered closer, trying to make out the words. ‘Looks like, hang on, they’re not words I recognise. And then he spelled them out. ‘Rath Dé Ort EW.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ asked Tom.

  The pathologist shrugged. ‘I found it, that’s all.’

  ‘It means one thing,’ said Laura. ‘Messages only ever come from people who want to be caught.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a message?’ Tom looked confused.

  Laura gestured towards the body. ‘She’s been naked for as long as I’ve been here, and I suppose there are only so many places a girl can hide a chain. That tells me that she wasn’t wearing it when she left home this morning.’

  Tom flashed a look at the pathologist. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In her throat, right at the back.’

  ‘Pushed in, rather than swallowed?’

  He nodded. ‘There are some grazes on the roof of the mouth.’

  Laura and Tom exchanged glances. At least they now had a lead.

  SEVEN

  The answer machine was blinking at me when I walked in. Two messages.

  The first one was from Laura. I had stayed at the bar longer than I intended, just one more drink turning into three.

  ‘Hi Jack, it’s just me. Just ringing to let you know that you can ring me any time about this. We need all the help we can get.’ Then there was a pause. ‘And I just thought,’ and then another pause, before, ‘Oh, no, forget it, it doesn’t matter. Sorry. We’ll talk again. Bye.’