Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  ‘Woman scorned?’ someone shouted from the side of the room. Some people laughed, but Laura noticed that Tom didn’t.

  ‘We might have to consider that.’

  ‘But what about the gay angle?’ came another shout. The meeting was turning into what Tom wanted, an exchange of ideas. ‘Dumas was in a pretty gay part of town. Is that something to do with it?’

  Tom considered how to answer that, and he did it by walking over to a television and turning it on.

  ‘We’ve got the evidence from Dumas’s phone,’ he said. ‘There are some texts.’ He went back to where he had left his papers. He shuffled through them until he found what he was looking for. ‘They make interesting reading, and for now we want the press off them.’

  He looked down at the piece of paper he was holding, and then began to read from them. There were some giggles, some chuckles. They were intimate, sexual. And it was immediately apparent that Dumas was having affairs with a number of women around the country.

  The worst part was the names given by Dumas in his phone address book. It wasn’t by name, but by location, as if he had ready company wherever he played. Liverpool. Manchester. Newcastle. And the texts these women sent made it clear that he had slept with them. Sometimes they weren’t alone. Laura felt that she was learning more than she needed to know about the sex life of a footballer.

  ‘How do we know these people are women?’ said a voice. As Laura looked, she saw it was the same person as before, pursuing the gay angle.

  Tom gave a small smile. ‘My eyes are getting old, but there’s no mistaking some of these.’

  And then he pressed play on a machine below the television.

  ‘These are all the pictures and video files from his phone.’

  The room went silent as the screen lit up with images. Then Laura could hear nervous shuffling as Tom scrolled through them.

  ‘This is Manchester.’ And onto the screen came a young brunette, shapely and naked. She was smiling, and it would have looked almost innocent had she not been naked and with her legs open for the camera.

  ‘And this is Newcastle,’ and it was much more of the same, except that there were pictures of her with a man, presumably Dumas. ‘There’s some moving footage of her,’ and then Tom flicked onto some grainy footage of a blonde rolling around on a bed, giggling and laughing, enjoying the party.

  Then Tom grew serious. ‘We have pictures and some movies for every contact in his address book, and we can see the face of every one, and we have a number for every one.’ Tom flicked forward to a picture of a naked girl. ‘Except for this girl.’

  As everyone looked at the image, Laura could sense the tension in the room.

  The image was of a naked woman, explicit and sexual, the image just from the shoulders down, her legs open, a sex toy in her hand. Laura guessed she was older than a teenager; her body was well-formed, with good shoulders and strong legs, but she didn’t have the spread of a woman in her thirties. The skin was still young and taut; it was obvious that she looked after herself.

  ‘We think these are more of the same woman,’ and more images flashed onto the screen. They were all similar, except that sometimes the sex toy was being used, sometimes it wasn’t.

  Laura thought there was something mechanical about the pictures, compared to the others. The other pictures were of young women having a good time, either posing for the camera or taking part with Dumas. It was a little black book, in digital, and it seemed that Dumas never went lonely. But the headless girl stopped anyone from telling whether she was enjoying it or not, and her poses looked stiff, formal.

  ‘There’s some video footage as well,’ and Tom forwarded to some more grainy footage.

  There were three sets, and it was obvious that this woman did not know she was being filmed. Laura guessed that she wouldn’t have said yes to it if Dumas had asked, and that made her different from the rest on the phone.

  The first was footage looking down Dumas’s body, at the top of a blonde head, and it was obvious what she was doing, her head moving backwards and forwards in rhythm. It looked like Dumas had grabbed the chance for a memento while her eyes were engaged elsewhere.

  The second was another shot down Dumas’s body, except this time the woman was facing away from him, on all fours, the rock of her body making it plain to everyone that they were having sex.

  The third was less sexual, and it lasted the longest.

  It was a shot into a bathroom, and Tom said that it was Dumas’s bathroom. It showed a shower cubicle, steam misting up the glass, and inside the shower was a woman. There was just over a minute of a woman standing under the showerhead, washing her hair or rinsing Dumas away.

  The steam probably stopped her seeing Dumas with his phone in his hand, but it also stopped everyone else from seeing what she looked like. All Laura could tell was that she was tall, with long hair, light in colour.

  Tom switched off the television.

  ‘We think that woman has something to do with Dumas’s murder.’ He started to pace, sensing how quiet the room had become. ‘The posed photographs were sent from a withheld number, the only ones on the phone that were. The movie files taken by Dumas have been given the file names London 1, London 2, and London 3, so we know she’s local, but it seems like she has tried to keep her identity secret.’

  ‘Maybe she was shy?’ someone said, and everyone laughed, breaking the tension. She didn’t seem that shy.

  Tom shook his head. ‘There’s something else.’ He picked up his piece of paper again. ‘We don’t know if they’re from the same person, but Dumas received a number of texts in the last few days, all from a withheld number.’ Tom looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘And one of them, sent four days ago, told him to meet her yesterday outside Cafe Boheme on Old Compton Street.’

  A murmur spread around the room.

  ‘Does it say why?’ asked Laura.

  ‘The nearest hint we get is when he says no at first, and she answers back that either he goes public or she does.’

  ‘With what?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘If we knew that, we’d be knocking on doors right now. But she says that if he meets her, they might be able to sort it out.’

  Laura sighed. Blackmail, she thought. All of this for something as grubby as that.

  Tom flicked the television back on. The picture of the naked woman flashed back onto the screen. ‘We need to find this woman urgently,’ and then he sighed, scratching his head. ‘Releasing her picture to the press is going to be tricky, though.’

  Laughter rippled around the room.

  Tom looked at Laura. ‘Your press contact could be crucial. Keep on him, find out what you can.’ He looked around. ‘Everyone else knows what they have to do.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And as for me, I’ve got a fiancée to visit.’

  NINE

  I headed for Canary Wharf. The Docklands Light Railway twisted between the flyovers like a fairground ride, but I was able to avoid it, knowing that what I wanted wouldn’t be there.

  I’d had a bad night’s sleep. My father’s phone call kept on waking me up.

  No, that wasn’t true. It was the thought that I was avoiding him that had kept me awake; keeping a distance left me feeling empty. I remembered how long it had been. In the cold light of morning I wanted to see him. He was all the family I had left. And I thought I had found a way of doing it.

  I walked along the Poplar High Street, bright and deserted. There were green spaces, tree-lined pavements, small parks, and quaint English pubs with window boxes and murky interiors.

  But it didn’t feel quaint. It felt inner-city, with the street filled with local teenagers heading for the Tower Hamlets College, bouncing down an empty street. They were mainly black and Asian, all working hard for a better life. But it was the England flags I saw, hanging over balconies of crumbling flats like a last stand, scared, defiant, seeing a threat that wasn’t there, fighting the wrong fight. As I walked along, al
l the time I could see the towers of Canary Wharf, a glass island, the real threat, the real fight, swamping the skyline.

  I was looking for Harry English, newsdesk editor of my old paper, the London Star. Even though his paper was based in Canary Wharf, I knew Harry hated it, from the shopping malls underneath the towers to the buzz of suits and smugness. Harry hated seeing neighbourhoods replaced by workplaces, saw it as a modernist scam, Metropolis with added latté.

  I knew what he meant. It didn’t peter out, like most centres of commerce. It stopped abruptly as soon as it crossed into West India Quay, like it was scared of going into the real East End.

  I turned quickly into a small back street just off the Poplar High Street and went into the Poplar Diner, a formica cafe serving full English all day, grease and fat at no extra cost. Dirty windows and a faded sign kept tourists away, although not many ventured into Tower Hamlets anyway.

  As soon as I walked in, I saw Harry English. He was hard to miss. Six feet tall and twenty stone, the cafe slipped into darkness for a second whenever he came in through the door. He had been in London all his life, and I could see the pace and the fumes etched into his sallow skin. He ate in the Poplar Diner to avoid the chrome tables near his office. The Poplar Diner kept him in touch, or so he thought, and to edit the London Star he had to stay in touch.

  I sat down next to him. There were newspapers spread all over the table, Harry checking how the previous day had gone. Every paper led with the Dumas shooting. Before I could say anything, he said, ‘We’ve got a full paper this week, so it will have to be good.’

  I ordered a coffee to let him know I was there for a while. I only got one choice: milk or no milk.

  ‘How are you, Harry?’ I looked at his plate. Full English. I could guess the answer. ‘Didn’t fancy a croissant and Americano?’

  He looked at me. His eyes were yellow, nicotine and dark clubs reflected back. ‘You’re not here for my health.’

  I thought I heard a cough. I looked around Harry and groaned. It was Dan Jones, a small man with a big attitude from the sports desk. I hoped he heard the groan. I smiled at him, but it wasn’t meant to reach the eyes.

  ‘Still writing nil–nil every Saturday, Dan?’

  Dan looked shocked so Harry stepped into the pause.

  ‘What do you want, Jack?’ he said tersely. I knew what it meant: he liked me but don’t annoy his staff.

  ‘I fancy a slow down for a few days,’ I said, nonplussed, ‘and so I wondered whether you’d want a feature from me.’

  Harry wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘An angle on the Dumas shooting.’

  Harry coughed. ‘Everyone’s got an angle. Have you seen today’s paper? There isn’t a page left for regular news. One shooting, and the people want it, bullet by bullet.’

  ‘And you give it to them, Harry. C’mon, it’s a big story, the biggest human drama since Jill Dando.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. I’ve had all the C-listers on the phone, trying to get their remorse onto the pages.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s not just another shooting.’ It was Dan, his voice back. ‘I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good man.’

  ‘Yeah, you knew him,’ I interrupted, ‘but I’ll put ten quid on the table now that you won’t get a funeral invite.’

  Harry tried not to smile, the corners of his mouth taking a small flick upwards. ‘What’s the feature, Jack?’ he asked.

  I turned to Harry and said, ‘I just got to thinking last night how this shooting might be playing on a few players’ minds, you know, like it could have been them. It has made them vulnerable. Fame is an exposed and lonely place.’

  Harry nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Which sports star in England sells the most magazines?’ ‘You know who it is: David Watts.’

  I nodded. ‘Just like I thought. And a feature in your Sunday magazine about David Watts and the shooting will shift some units. The private effect on a public man. It will humanise the shooting and the footballers, make it more of a personal tragedy than a shock story.’

  I heard Dan laugh. ‘What makes you think you can get under David’s skin?’ he said. ‘I’ve met him a few times. You’ve got to get to know him first.’

  ‘So the feature is worth a shot?’

  Dan stopped laughing.

  Harry lit a cigarette and then said, ‘Dan’s got a point. You don’t know him.’

  ‘I know him better than you might think,’ I said. ‘David Watts, the private man, I mean.’

  ‘How so?’

  I took a breath. This was it. The final pitch.

  ‘We’re from the same small town in Lancashire,’ I said, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know David Watts, but I know people who knew him really well. And these are real people, not football groupies.’ My eyes glanced at Dan when I said it.

  ‘What, Turners Fold?’ said Dan dismissively. ‘A dead-end mill town full of cousin-fuckers.’

  ‘Turners Fold, Lancashire,’ I continued, ignoring Dan. ‘He was the local football star who went to a World Cup. He’s a local hero. Anything he does makes the local front pages. I don’t know David Watts, I’ll admit that. We’re no blood brothers or secret cousins or anything. But his family are well-known around town, and he’s only a few years younger than me. We learnt to smoke in the same places, rode across the same fields, went to school discos in the same school hall. Even played football in the same school strip. If you want the real David Watts, you’ll need to go to Turners Fold.’

  Harry let smoke trickle over his lip. ‘Do you think you can get enough on him in the next couple of days to go into an interview with him?’

  I nodded, trying not to smile.

  ‘Exclusive?’

  I nodded again. ‘If you’ll run it, it’s all yours.’

  Harry smoked some more. ‘Okay, Jack. Get under his skin. Let’s have the hometown David Watts. Let him know where you’re coming from and see if he’ll open up.’ He turned to Dan. ‘And you lend Jack your biographies and contact numbers.’

  I looked at Dan. I thought he was going to hit me. His kiss-ass breakfast was blown away. He wiped his mouth, threw his napkin onto the counter, and headed off to the toilet. I wrote my email address on it.

  I watched him go, and as soon as the door closed, I leant into Harry.

  ‘There’s something else, Harry, now that your monkey’s gone.’

  He looked at me, his curiosity piqued, his fork going down for the first time.

  ‘I’ve got a good contact in the murder squad for Dumas,’ I said. ‘She’s willing to feed me with information provided that I do the same for her.’

  ‘What have you got for her?’

  ‘That depends on you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The police need to know about Dumas’s private life, and not the shit you print. The real private life. Does he have any dark secrets?’

  Harry laughed. ‘They all have dark secrets. Most are just thick kids with good feet when they first start out. We would have won the World Cup five times over if they could learn to stay in a bit more.’

  ‘But what about Dumas?’

  ‘What’s in it for the Star?’

  ‘I’ll feed you what I get, if you can find things out for me. Just don’t tell little Dan, because he’ll worry about Dumas’s memory being tainted.’

  ‘Leave that little prick to me.’ He paused, and then thought about the little things he had heard. ‘There was one thing. He was a randy little bastard, and she was about the same. It just seemed like it was never with each other. And that’s the trouble with these footballers. Have you ever met a footballer’s wife or girlfriend?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘The most ruthless set of bitches you’ll ever meet. They target their man, and they get him, and then every pound that goes with him. They talk dirty, act dirty, promise dirty, and they look as good as any young man could want.’ He shook his head. ‘The poor bastards never stand a chance.’

/>   ‘But it was different for Dumas,’ I said. ‘His fiancée was already famous when they got engaged.’

  ‘And a hell of a lot more famous afterwards. I reckon she locked onto his career value, and he couldn’t find a way out of it.’

  ‘Anything else about him? Any darker secrets?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’ll ask around and let you know if I hear anything.’

  I thanked him and stood up to go. I had what I’d gone there for.

  Harry’s voice stopped me. ‘One more thing, Jack.’

  I turned around and I saw Harry had a slight smile just creasing his cheeks.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You speak to whoever you think will give you the best story, but keep in mind that we want it quick. We’ll be back to tits and bingo after the weekend.’

  I nodded gravely, thanking Harry, and then left the Poplar Diner, stepping back into London. Yesterday, the city had lost one of its sons. Now I was going back to Lancashire. More than that, I was going home.

  Then I remembered Laura, and I remembered the thrill of her from the night before. It seemed flatter now, a good sleep and then the morning casting a different light over how I felt. My father had taken the shine out of that. And I realised now how little I could help her. I had made contact with the people I could trust to help me, but all I could do was wait. I looked at my phone. Three missed calls.

  I would give her a call when I got home, just to let her know that I would get in touch if I heard anything. I would keep plugging, just for her, but I wondered whether my moment had slipped by. There wasn’t much to tell her, and now I was writing a different story.

  TEN

  She was strumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she entered Manchester, drumrolling to the thoughts racing through her head, the images of Dumas as he died, of the two people in the flat. She had stayed in a motel, some chain place just off the motorway, but her sleep had been broken, angry, woken by jolts whenever she fell asleep. She had asked to view the flat alone. They had insisted.