Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  The door creaked open and into the bar walked a stranger. His head was razored bald, and his black shirt was tight against his muscles. He was tall and walked slowly, with a purpose, as if he expected the room to divide for him, as if all eyes were on him. They weren’t. The drunks glanced over, but when they saw it wasn’t a regular they returned to their beers and glances at the television. Bob Garrett didn’t look up at all.

  The stranger asked for beer. ‘This place seems a nice little town.’

  The barman looked up. ‘Fuck me, it’s Clint Eastwood.’

  The drunks sniggered.

  ‘What are you doing in Turners Fold?’ asked the landlord. ‘We don’t get many tourists around here.’

  The American gave half a smile. ‘No, I’m sure you don’t.’ He took a drink, the creamy bitter tinting his moustache. ‘I’m just passing through. Seemed like a quaint place to stop.’

  ‘So what brings you to Lancashire?’

  That half-smile again. ‘Like I say, I’m just passing through.’

  Bob glanced along the bar as the television broadcast news of the shooting in Liverpool, his attention grabbed by a gasp and a shout of ‘fuck me’ from the landlord. He didn’t see the American stealing glances at him.

  The landlord turned to the American and asked, ‘What do you think of the football shootings? I thought your country had all the psychos.’

  The American took a slug of beer and then shook his head. ‘You’ve had a few.’ He looked over at the television, taking another gulp. ‘This is soccer, right?’

  ‘No, it’s football. Played with your feet.’

  The American shrugged. ‘Yeah, sorry, I forgot how good you English are with games. Cricket? That’s the game you play with a paddle, right?’

  The American ignored the landlord’s glare and turned to look again at Bob. He saw the black trousers, the stiff white shirt, the black boots. The tie was off, but he still recognised the uniform.

  Bob wasn’t listening. He was looking at the television screen. It was showing a picture, coloured but grainy. It was of a blonde woman, mid-twenties, tall and trim, but the features were vague, indistinct. It was from the security camera in the Manchester apartment building. The video continued, and then suddenly Bob sat upright, jolted. He thought he knew her, but where from? Why would he know her? He was just from some small deadbeat town in the Pennines, famous only for …

  And then his mouth went dry. He felt himself shoot back ten years. The drunks’ chatter faded to nothing, his head filled with memories racing back at him. David Watts. A female blackmailer. A female shooter.

  He dropped his glass.

  The landlord turned round to look at him, but Bob didn’t see him. The thoughts streamed in too fast to catch, a prickle of realisation. It was like he was running through dense woods, clawing at branches, knowing the way out was close and that he was about to burst into sunlight. But everything had tilted off-balance.

  He turned and walked out of the bar, leaving just a broken glass and the intense stare of the American.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Glen Ross looked up when the visitor was ushered into the room.

  The first thing he noticed was his height. Six feet four, maybe more. He stood up to greet him, just to match him, stare him down. He puffed up, couldn’t help himself, and held out his hand to shake. The handshake was firm, strong, and Glen Ross was met with a look he couldn’t hold.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ross,’ he said, meeker than he intended. He dropped his hand and gestured towards a chair. ‘Take a seat … uhm?’ he asked, waiting for a name.

  The visitor nodded and sat down. He stayed silent.

  Glen Ross put his hands together and rested them on his desk. He smiled, the genial host, and asked, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m here on behalf of David Watts.’

  Glen Ross nodded. ‘I know. I called him while you were waiting. Do you have a name? I’ve got to call you something.’

  The stranger shook his head. ‘No you don’t.’

  Glen Ross started to speak, then stopped. He took stock of his visitor: not a young man, maybe forty, but he had a fitness, a physical presence, that most people lose in their thirties. He could see a wide strong chest, no hint of a stomach. Ex-army, he thought. Then he realised there was an accent.

  ‘American?’

  The stranger nodded.

  Glen Ross sat back and arched his fingers, putting space between them both. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to the States,’ he said, trying to draw something out. ‘Which part are you from?’

  The American shook his head slowly, smiling tightly. ‘No details. That’s the deal.’

  ‘I haven’t got a deal with you. I’m just helping out an old friend.’

  The American smiled again. ‘I think the phrase you guys have stolen from us is “the loop”.’

  Glen Ross’s grin faltered. ‘What do you mean?’

  The American leant forward in his chair. ‘If you’re not in the loop at the start, you’re never in it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just think about this: it isn’t the fault of David Watts that this shooter hasn’t been caught. He did his civic duty and told you the shooter had called him. Have you passed the information on?’ The American paused for an answer, but when he didn’t get one, he smiled. ‘Didn’t think so.’ He sat back and looked around. ‘There’s been another shooting, in Liverpool this time. How will you explain that?’

  Glen Ross was silent, the simple truth of what the American was saying creeping up on him. That you are either in the game, or you’re not, and it was his choice. ‘You bastard,’ he said quietly.

  The American nodded in agreement. ‘You got it.’

  Glen Ross sat and thought for a minute or so, trying to avoid the stranger’s gaze, which was too direct, too hard, too focused. He had to regain control, so he softened his tone and got his head nearer to the desk as if conspiring. ‘Okay. If you’re working for David, you can work for me, if that’s the way you want it.’

  The American smiled at that, but it was as if he was enjoying something else. He shook his head. ‘I work for David Watts. You can do what you want.’

  Glen Ross felt a chill and began to shift about in his seat. He was wondering what to say when the American asked, ‘Who knows about David and the girl?’

  Ross straightened his tie. ‘Hardly anyone. Most people realised pretty quickly that there was nothing in it. A couple of officers didn’t believe that, but they didn’t say anything. Not publicly, anyway.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘There’s only one left. Bob Garrett. The other officer died a few years ago.’

  ‘Bob Garrett?’

  ‘One of my officers. He’s got it in his head that David did it.’

  ‘And you know different?’ The American had spotted the ‘my’.

  ‘Of course I know different. I was there.’

  The American smiled and crossed his legs. ‘Does anyone know about the link with the football shootings?’

  Glen Ross exhaled and wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘No one knows, don’t worry.’

  ‘I never worry.’

  Glen Ross began to fidget in his seat.

  ‘What about this Bob Garrett? Does he know?’

  Glen Ross shook his head. ‘No, not yet, and when he does, he’ll have known for too long to do anything about it.’

  ‘Like you.’

  Glen Ross faltered again.

  The American smirked. ‘I went for a drink in a bar on the way here,’ he said. ‘Dark and smoky place, but the beer was okay.’ He paused. ‘There was a cop in there.’

  Glen Ross shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Go to a pub, you’ll always find a policeman in it.’

  ‘This one ran out when the television started talking about the shootings.’

  Glen Ross chewed his lip. He could feel his chest tighten, his breaths coming faster. ‘What did he look like?’ he asked.
/>
  ‘Tall, strong, fifty-odd. Crew cut, thinning on top, fair complexion.’ He grinned and examined his fingernails. ‘Bob Garrett, I presume.’

  Glen Ross looked down at the desk and took a deep breath. He stayed that way for a few moments, and then asked quietly, ‘What do you need to know?’

  The American smiled. ‘That’s better.’ He looked around and spotted the photographs dotting the walls behind the desk. ‘You’re an important guy.’

  Glen Ross started to smile, relax slightly, but then he realised he was being mocked. He felt his shirt collar dampen.

  The American pointed at a framed photograph on the desk. ‘Wife and children?’

  Glen Ross nodded, felt his stomach lurch.

  ‘They must be proud,’ the American said with menace, and then waved it away, looking back at Glen Ross. ‘Tell me about her. The girl who died. About the same age as your daughter?’

  Glen Ross paused for a few seconds, trying to gather his recollections, and then began to recount the events of that night over ten years earlier.

  He got as far as saying how David Watts was nowhere near when she died, when the American put up his hand to intervene.

  ‘I don’t want your version of what happened. I don’t care what happened. I just want to know about her. Where she lived. Her family. Her friends.’

  ‘I was starting to tell you.’

  He shook his head. ‘No you weren’t. You were trying to convince me that you did the right thing.’ He stared. ‘I don’t care about that.’

  Glen Ross nodded nervously. He knew he’d lost control of the conversation.

  ‘She was called Annie Paxman,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Are her family still around?’

  He swallowed. ‘They moved.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Right after her death. Probably couldn’t live with it.’

  ‘And you can?’

  Glen Ross didn’t answer.

  ‘Okay, where did they move to?’

  ‘Somewhere in the Ribble Valley.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you know?’

  Glen Ross nodded again, more slowly this time.

  ‘Has she got any relatives in the town?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘There are a lot of negatives in your story, chief.’

  ‘I had no need to know.’

  ‘Well, you do now.’

  Glen Ross reached down and undid the top button on his shirt, loosened his tie. ‘Do you think it might be one of her family?’

  He shrugged. ‘The girl doing the shootings is a white woman. Annie Paxman was black, right?’

  Glen Ross nodded.

  ‘But whoever did it made Bob Garrett drop his drink, like he’d seen a ghost.’

  Glen Ross rubbed his forehead.

  ‘No one has ever asked for the murder investigation to be reopened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s never been any local pressure about it?’

  ‘No. We got the murderer, some local drunk called Colin Wood He’s still in prison. The last thing people in Turners Fold want to do is reopen it all. It’s a quiet place, a safe place.’ His tone was unconvincing.

  ‘A drunk?’ The American looked amused and sceptical. ‘Does he have relatives in town?’

  Glen Ross nodded. ‘His mother, but she’s been quiet since Colin was convicted.’

  ‘Too ashamed, or too bitter?’

  Ross looked down.

  The American was about to ask another question when he saw Glen Ross look up quickly, his eyes wide, a shocked look on his face. There was a bang on the door and it burst open, carrying Bob Garrett into the room. He looked angry, his face flushed and red, his eyes wild. He pointed at Glen Ross. ‘You knew, you bastard.’

  Glen Ross stayed silent. He didn’t know what to say. He looked at the American, and then back at Bob Garrett. His mouth went dry.

  The American intervened.

  ‘PC Garrett, I believe,’ he said, and stood up. He held out his hand to shake.

  Bob Garrett whirled round. He stopped when he saw the visitor.

  ‘You were in the pub?’

  He nodded. ‘It was on the way here. I’d had a long drive.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  The American smiled. ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Bollocks. Enlighten me.’

  The American looked at Glen Ross, then back at Bob Garrett, and then reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a wallet and flashed a warrant card. Police.

  ‘We got a call from David Watts,’ he said. ‘Someone’s called him claiming to be the shooter. I’ve come up here to check it out.’

  ‘Just you?’

  He smiled. ‘This is a major investigation, and this is one lead of many.’ He gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘You can imagine we’re a bit stretched at this time.’ He paused for effect, glancing at Glen Ross. ‘And above all else, he claims that the person who called him has been dead for ten years.’

  Bob’s gears were slipping into place, the haze clearing. ‘Annie Paxman?’

  The American smiled in response. ‘You can guess that it’s not our strongest lead.’

  Bob started to calm down, his hands on his hips, his breathing heavy. He began pacing, his fingers scratching his chin as he thought. ‘What’s this person saying?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘That if David Watts admits he killed Annie Paxman, she’ll stop shooting football players.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Bob exclaimed. He stopped pacing and turned to Glen Ross. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’

  ‘I asked him not to,’ the American intervened, stepping in before Glen Ross could utter some crass remark. ‘We’re trying to keep all our leads quiet, so the press don’t get wind of it. You remember the Beltway Sniper, John Muhammad, back in my country? They were giving things away so fast that he would have escaped if he had been watching television.’

  Bob nodded and held a hand up in apology. He began to pace, starting to accept what he was being told, his temper dissipating. Then something occurred to him. He whirled round and pointed. ‘But I saw the shooter on the television.’ He looked at a loss of what to say, his face pained, then blurted out, ‘I knew her. I fucking knew her.’

  Glen Ross and the American exchanged glances.

  ‘Who was she?’ asked Ross, nervous, looking down. He wished Garrett would shut up, but if Garrett knew who it was, he needed to know.

  Bob exhaled and then shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I felt like I could almost put a name to her, but I can’t quite get there. The pictures are too blurred.’

  ‘I mean, we know that it isn’t Annie Paxman. She’s dead,’ Ross continued.

  ‘I know. I found her.’ Bob flashed a bitter glare at Glen Ross and then ran his hands over his hair, a perplexed look on his face. He went to a chair in the corner and sat down. ‘So is David Watts going to do this?’

  ‘That doesn’t concern me. I’m only concerned about stopping the shootings.’

  Bob shot Glen Ross a look which said that David could stop it all in an instant if he told the truth, but the American intervened, asking, ‘Could you show me where Annie was found?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll take you there now.’

  The American shook his head. ‘No, better not. We’ll go down separately. I’m trying to keep my stay in Turners Fold quiet. Keep the press out.’

  Bob shrugged. ‘As you want. Ready to go now? I don’t start for a couple of hours, but this is important.’

  He nodded. ‘Just give me a minute with the inspector. I’ll see you down there in a half-hour. The inspector will tell me where to go.’

  Bob nodded, glanced at Glen Ross, and then left the room.

  As the door closed, Glen Ross looked at his visitor. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘Research.’

  ‘Where did you get the police warrant card?’

  He smiled. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Glen Ross
slumped into his seat.

  ‘I want a full family history in a couple of hours. And I want to know where the family is now. Every damn branch. Can you do that?’

  ‘But the shooter was blonde. Annie Paxman was black. They can’t be related.’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Glen Ross nodded again.

  ‘I’ll call you in the morning to arrange a meet.’

  Glen Ross looked up but said nothing.

  The American smiled. ‘It’s been a pleasure, Inspector.’ Then he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  As the door closed, Glen Ross looked at the family photograph on his desk and closed his eyes.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I walked through Turners Fold, heading for Tony’s house.

  I’d acquired the walking habit in London. In Turners Fold, it seemed like everything worth seeing was in a different town, so I’d always driven. In London, I strolled, the traffic all stutter and snarl. It felt good to be walking to Tony’s house, the soft pat of my feet on the pavement the only sound.

  I turned onto Tony’s street and saw the lights on in his house.

  He lived just a few streets from the town square. It was one of the oldest houses in town, a double-fronted Victorian charmer, Accrington brick, with ivy on the corners and a small sheltered doorway at the front. It was framed against swirls of deep purple and grey, the build-up of heat from the previous few days brewing up a storm. The sky matched my thoughts, as the story around Annie Paxman’s death clattered about my head. A glitter of stars shone through the occasional gap in the clouds, a sight I realised I’d missed in the light pollution of London. I needed to speak to Tony to find my own gap in the clouds, some confirmation that my gut feeling was right about what I should do. I was enough of a journalist to know that it was a good story, but was I prepared to risk my father to write it? Tony had been a journalist longer than I’d been alive, so he knew his way around. I guessed what his advice would be, but I needed to hear him say it.

  I saw Tony through the window. He was in a chair, reading by a red-fringed standard lamp in a room awash with books, walls covered in paintings, Victorian landscapes, and photographs of his children, all grown up now and living elsewhere. Eileen, his combatant of thirty years, was sitting at a table reading a newspaper. They looked like they fitted each other, one right foot, one left. They made me think of how happy my parents had been when my mother was still alive. Did my father feel angry, somehow cheated? Or did he just miss her? It made me think of Laura, hundreds of miles away, and I wondered whether she was thinking of me.