Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  As I heard her voice, I felt flutters, like dances in my stomach. I remembered how I felt the first time I met her, and then the same feeling every time after that. It was like a need, a tightness in the chest.

  But she had been married, and I don’t go out with married women. They bring trouble I don’t need.

  Now she wasn’t married any more, and I could feel all those yearnings coming back. And I had felt her get close earlier. Just a brush, warm lips, maybe just friendly, but it reopened whatever I felt when our paths crossed.

  I sighed and laughed to myself. It must be the beer talking, all this teenage mush.

  I reached into the fridge for another beer, popped off the cap, but stopped when the next message started.

  ‘Hello Jack, it’s Dad. I heard about Henri Dumas, and it looked like it happened near you. I just thought I would ring to see how you’re doing. I haven’t spoken to you for a while. Give me a ring.’

  And then it clicked off.

  I sighed. I felt the skip I’d had before fade. I glanced at the picture I had of him on the wall, from when he was still a footballer, trying to dribble past a sliding tackle. He looked young, full of promise. I looked away. He wasn’t that man any more. I see a man a little lost, and maybe a lot lonely.

  I thought about calling, but, as always, I didn’t act on it. I tried to ignore the nagging guilt, and instead began to think about the article I hadn’t quite finished, and about the calls I still had to make for Laura.

  But my thoughts turned back to my father. It had always been the same with him. He calls to say hello, but we don’t get much beyond that. He doesn’t know much about my life, and there’s not too much to talk about with his. He goes to work, sometimes goes to the pub. Any time he has left, he spends it messing around with his car, a 1973 Triumph Stag. He bought it when he was still a footballer, it was the car he had when he met my mother, and he had kept hold of it, some kind of nostalgia thing. He has other cars, routine runarounds, but it is the Stag that sees him with a rag in his hand, cleaning and mending and waxing.

  It had been like that with my father since my mother died a few years earlier. She was where I got my darkness from, with her long brunette curls and chocolate eyes. She had been funny and vivacious and loving. She had provided the emotion, my dad the steel. A cancer had killed her, sneaked up on her and then danced all over her body, reduced her to bones, pain-killed to a stupor.

  It was a relief for me when she died. I couldn’t watch her suffer any more, and I saw what it was doing to my dad. He’d stopped talking, stopped smiling. I was able to move on when she died, still with my own life ahead, but I think my dad thought that the best bits of his life were behind him, and he didn’t seem keen on facing the rest on his own. By the time he came around, we’d become strangers in the same house. He didn’t know my friends, didn’t know where I went. We still talked, like if we needed milk, or the rubbish needed putting out, the routine stuff, but not much else. I moved to London and he stayed in Turners Fold.

  I turned away from the answer machine, ignoring the knot of guilt I had in my stomach. He was all the family I had left. But we could talk another time.

  The only sound Bob Garrett could hear was the sound of his tyres humming over the cobbles as he went through the town triangle.

  Turners Fold seemed quiet. He saw the lights flick off in Jake’s, the end of another endless day for him, competing with the all-night garage and the new late shop at the end of the street. He would return once Jake had locked up. Jake was having problems with youths using the side of his shop to meet and get drunk.

  It wasn’t just the noise that bothered Jake. It was the sheer waste of it all. All hooded up in black, indistinguishable, tracksuit bottoms tucked into their socks, they sat around the town at night, drinking cheap cider. Mostly, they’d just get noisy, but when it got warm they’d look for trouble.

  Bob knew their parents. They were decent people. The kids would be, given the chance. Bob just didn’t see many chances coming their way.

  Bob looked back at Jake’s and waved. He didn’t know if Jake could see him, but the gesture felt good.

  He looked down the road, towards where the town drifted into darkness, the lights of houses the only spots of life. He saw the house where James Radley used to live, his old police friend, until the house burnt down, James and his wife choked by the smoke, burnt to death by the flames. It was all new now, the black grit-blasted away.

  He sighed at the thought of the night ahead. He had some bail checks to do, making sure people were obeying their curfew, and a couple of statements to take.

  He cocked his ear at the radio. A drunken husband was banging on his door, making threats. Same again. She’d had him back three times in the last month, despite the beatings. She needed the police when they argued, but wouldn’t take the help when he was prosecuted, always attending court to beg for his return.

  Time to go. He didn’t want her murder to take place on his tour.

  I had filed the article before I called Laura. She sounded sleepy when I called, and I tried to be brief when I realised she had her young son asleep with her.

  ‘I didn’t wake him, did I?’

  I heard the smile in her voice, wrapped up in a yawn.

  ‘No, just me. Have you got anything?’

  ‘Not much, but I’ve called a few contacts. Seems like the celebrity engagement isn’t what it seems. There are rumours that neither party to the couple treasured their fidelity too highly, although nothing the papers would dare to print. Rumours of one-night stands for him, secret liaisons with a dancer for her, but nothing else.’

  ‘Can you get any details?’

  ‘I’m going to see someone in the morning for you. He might open up to me.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack.’ There was a pause, Laura thinking how far she could go, and then, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Just what’s happening? Anything unusual about the post mortems.’

  She sighed, and I sensed her waking up. ‘Just one thing, but this is still off the record. Don’t write it up unless you have our approval.’

  ‘That’s understood.’

  I sensed the pause, the uncertainty, and I knew something was coming. And I sensed the trust. If I used what she was to tell me without approval, I could forget about any help from the police.

  ‘In the woman’s throat, we found a Celtic medallion with some engraving on the back.’

  I was surprised. None of that had come out in the news conference.

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Is this truly between us?’

  ‘Trust me, Laura. But why are you keeping it quiet?’

  ‘We can use it to filter out the crank calls.’

  That seemed reasonable.

  ‘So if it was in her throat,’ I said, ‘you’re thinking it’s some kind of message?’

  ‘Can it be anything else?’

  And then she told me what the medallion had engraved on it. ‘Rath Dé Ort EW.’ She said it like ‘rah-jay-urt’.

  ‘It means “the grace of God be with you” in Irish Gaelic,’ she said. ‘Not sure about the EW though. It doesn’t match her name, or his.’

  ‘It could belong to the shooter. You know, bitten off in the struggle.’

  ‘No, we don’t think so.’

  There was a pause then, each of us unsure how to fill it.

  ‘Knowing how the press work,’ I said, trying to plug the silence, ‘you’ll get about five days before they publish anything on his private life. They won’t touch it before his funeral. Then they’ll get the weekend tributes out of the way, those before the games. But one of the Sunday red-tops might run something, so I might get something before it goes public.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. I owe you one. Give me a call when you get something.’

  And then we said our goodbyes. I was left looking out of my window, my flat feeling a little emptier than it had done before.

  EIGHT

  Laura rushed int
o the dawn meeting late. A few looked over when she clattered through the doors, but most acted like they hadn’t noticed her.

  She was breathing heavily, angry, another bad start to what would be a long day.

  She hadn’t had long at home, just a brief sleep, and then it was up at five to take her son to her ex-husband’s new bachelor pad, a rented new-build just a few hundred yards from the matrimonial home, little Bobby wrapped up in a duvet, still dozing.

  It was her ex-husband’s rest day, but still he didn’t look pleased when he found out he had his son for the day. Laura knew plenty of divorced fathers, and most of them loved their children, hated being separated from them. It seemed like her ex was the other type, the type who love their kids, but only every other weekend, and provided that they don’t have to pay too much for them. Laura’s ex preferred the alternate Saturday treat day, when Bobby could have six hours of fun and treats before he was returned, the duty done.

  She was the one who was up in the middle of the night when the sickness bugs kicked in.

  There had been another car on his drive, a Nissan Micra, with a pine air-freshener hanging from the mirror and a felt pig on the parcel shelf.

  She didn’t suppose it mattered any more, but that didn’t stop her stomach from taking a kick when she saw it.

  She tried to shake the memory away and concentrated instead on the room. She could smell the coffee and bacon sandwiches, everyone’s favourite kick-start.

  It seemed like the murder squad had grown. There weren’t many faces she recognised, and she guessed that detectives had been drafted in from further afield than yesterday. She sensed some satisfaction when she saw Bully Boy and Fashion Victim towards the back of the room.

  It was a mix she might have expected. There was the genuine talent in there, the shrewd, the sharp, and they were padded out by the grafters and the keen. There were a few of the old school, and too many of the climbers, but it looked a good mix.

  Tom Clemens was at the front, leading the parade. The two detectives flanking him looked organised and efficient, one a middle-aged bottle-brunette and the other a shaven-headed blue suit. Behind them were pictures of the three victims. Dumas was the main picture, but the estate agents were given a good billing as well. The deaths weren’t just about Dumas.

  Laura listened as those in the room gave their updates.

  Crank calls had been the biggest problem. Most of those had come after closing time, but they would all be chased. Laura knew that football would go into mourning, and Saturday would see men crying for someone they’d soon forget, their scarves hoisted over their heads, but it didn’t stop rival fans from gloating when the beer took hold.

  Tom told everyone that Dumas’s fiancée would have to be investigated, but he didn’t think there was much progress that way. She was on the first part of a European tour and would be flying back later that day. Laura guessed not before she had carefully chosen her mourning clothes. Then Tom warned everyone that the press would be all over this story, and all over Dumas’s private life. Any leak could harm the investigation, and if anyone was caught giving unauthorised leaks, they would be disciplined. Any information from ‘inside sources’ was to be carefully managed.

  Laura looked down quickly when Tom mentioned leaks, but then she became aware that Tom was addressing her, asking for a media update.

  ‘Nothing yet, sir,’ she said, her voice quiet in the room. ‘There’s talk of both of them sleeping around, but I’ll be calling my contact soon. He’s promised to ask around.’

  She became aware of the rest of the squad turning away. She had arrived late and added little. She had expected some surprise about Dumas’s private life, even though little had been said. Tom looked like he already knew.

  Then she saw Tom take a deep breath. He looked nervous, pensive, gazing around the room. He seemed to be weighing up his audience before making his announcement. After a few seconds of him flexing his jaw, his lips twitching, he said, ‘There’s one thing no one knows yet, and I only received confirmation of it shortly before I came in.’

  He had an edge to his voice, and Laura sensed the squad take notice.

  ‘The two estate agents were bound with silver duct tape,’ he continued. ‘We all know that. The male had dark hair. The female had mousy hair.’ He looked around again. ‘Stuck in the duct tape which bound the girl’s wrists were three blonde hairs.’

  Laura sensed the meeting tense up. And she knew why. If the hairs had been snagged in the adhesive, they would have been yanked out. And if they had been yanked out, some skin would have been attached to the hair root. And if there was skin, there was something else. DNA. As far as evidence that can be used in court, it’s the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  Tom raised his eyebrows, waiting for the muttering in the room to subside. ‘As you might have guessed, we think they are from the shooter.’ He began to pace. ‘We didn’t find any other hairs, and we didn’t find any other fingerprints or anything else linking another person to the murder of those two estate agents.’ He stopped pacing. ‘As far as we can tell, there were only ever three people in that room. And two of them are dead.’

  The muttering in the group rose to a chatter, cops in clusters whispering asides.

  Tom held up his hand.

  ‘That isn’t the news, though,’ he said. ‘At least not all of it.’

  The room fell silent again. Everyone was waiting for the next instalment. Laura sensed it was important, from a look she had never seen in Tom’s eyes before. It was excitement, surprise, uncertainty, a mix of all that, along with some emotions Laura couldn’t decipher.

  ‘The lab coats have been looking at the hairs,’ he continued, his voice deliberate. ‘It’s too early for a DNA analysis, although they have promised to prioritise it. However, they have had the chance to examine the hairs, and they have made some findings.’

  The rest of the squad looked expectant.

  Tom looked around, almost as if going for the drama, before he continued.

  ‘The analysis carried out suggests one thing.’ He paused, sighed, and then raised his eyebrows.

  He said it simply, but it made it no less surprising. He looked around the room, into the eyes of everyone, and then said, ‘The shooter is a woman.’

  When David Watts stepped away from the lurid sofas of breakfast television, away from the glare of the lights and into the grubby darkness behind the line of cameras, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He winced when he saw the caller ID.

  He thought about not answering, but then just like he always did, he clicked the answer button.

  ‘Morning, Karen.’

  ‘David, you were wonderful. Just the right amount of remorse. Not too gushy. You don’t want to be embarrassed by this in a year’s time.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he answered, although he didn’t sound grateful.

  ‘Exposure, exposure. You can never get enough.’

  He took the phone away from his ear, not wanting to hear her obsession with his earning power. She had told him too often that she wanted to earn enough so that she could retire at thirty. She was only a year away from that, but David couldn’t see her retiring. She loved the power games too much. And from what he had heard, she loved the footballer parties too much as well.

  When he was far enough from the studio microphones, he put the phone back to his ear and said, ‘Someone died, Karen. You’re coming across like a vulture. And if you do, I might come across the same.’

  ‘Bullshit. You’re the face of football for the next few days. I’ve spoken to the major news networks, and I’ve promised them you’ll be interviewed whenever they request, just to give the players’ perspective.’

  ‘Why me, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘Because you’re one of the few footballers who can string a proper sentence together. And because you’re the most senior English footballer living in the capital. They can have a camera round at your apartment in no time, and you can m
ake it into the studio.’

  He sighed. He felt like he was being dragged under by the current.

  ‘You’ve got some sponsorships coming up for renewal at the end of this season. You’ll be twenty-nine by then, maybe only a couple of seasons left in an England shirt, and companies will shy away from a long investment. It’ll do you no harm if you’re an English saint by the end of the season.’

  ‘I thought you were going away for a few days,’ he said, sounding irritated.

  She laughed. He pulled the phone away from his ear, grimacing. Then he heard her say, ‘I am, but I’ll stay in touch. And by the time I return, you’ll be a fucking hero.’

  And you’ll be getting richer, he thought, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned off his phone and wondered whether this was what he had dreamed about when he was a child, when he was sticking his Panini stickers in the albums or shouting at the hand of God as it sent England out of the World Cup. It was supposed to be about football, that’s all.

  Laura was as surprised as anyone. A woman? Women don’t kill like that. If women kill violently, they do it out of passion, like a woman who catches her partner in bed with someone else. Laura remembered that sickening rage herself. If women kill cold-bloodedly, they do it quietly, non-violently. Women kill out of passion or greed. Like nurses who overdose their patients, or the scheming old widows who poison every new rich man they meet. Passion or greed, but not a cold-blooded assassination.

  ‘Are they sure?’ Laura heard herself ask, and felt the eyes of the room on her.

  Tom looked at her. Thankfully, he smiled.

  ‘The answer is no, they cannot be sure, not yet. The lab should know by tomorrow, but the early indicators are that it is a woman. It is long, blonde, but treated. It’s been straightened recently. It has all the characteristics of a female hair, but they have still got some more tests to run on it.’

  Laura thought she knew what they would be. The DNA would confirm it, but they would also do a sex chromatin test, as the results would be cheaper to obtain, and quicker.