Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  I walked up to the front door and stood under the light. The heat was getting oppressive. I sensed the rain before I felt it. As I rang the bell, a coin-sized raindrop splattered onto my shoulder.

  It was a while before anyone came, perhaps thinking it was too late for visitors. By the time the door opened, with Tony looking wary, the rain had increased to a steady tap-dance. When he saw it was me, he relaxed and flung open the door to beckon me inside.

  We exchanged our greetings, smiles and handshakes, and I followed him in. As we walked down the hall, he barked towards the room he’d just been in, ‘Eileen, it’s Jack Garrett. You want to say hello, you’re going to have to make it quick, because we’re going outside.’ He rolled his eyes at me and started walking towards the other end of the hall. ‘I’ll get us some beers,’ he whispered.

  I turned round when I heard Eileen come into the hall. I hadn’t seen her for a few years, and I was surprised at how she looked. Age had crept up and dragged her neck and pulled at her face, so that it was kept in place by the criss-cross of lines around the eyes.

  ‘Jack,’ she said softly, hugging me. ‘Tony told me you were back. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, Eileen,’ I said, smiling warmly. ‘How are you? You look well.’

  She smiled and wrinkled her eyes at me. ‘Don’t lie. That fool over there has made me old.’

  I laughed, while at the other end of the hall, a voice said, ‘Don’t you listen to her.’

  They’d been that way for as long as I’d known them. Like mirrors, bouncing each other back.

  Tony opened the door to the back garden. He had a covered deck, and the rain on the roof had increased to a drum-roll, the noise disturbing the hush of the hallway. Tony stepped outside with two bottles of beer in his hand, their beads of coldness disappearing into the evening heat like smoke-trails.

  Eileen looked over and then patted my arm, winked and gave a hint that she knew she wasn’t wanted. ‘I’ll see you before you go back to London,’ she whispered.

  I smiled and watched her go, and then headed down the hall to join Tony.

  When I got outside, he passed me a beer and sat down on an old chair. I leant against the wall of the house, looking into the darkness of Tony’s garden. The rain was coming down hard and water began to run off the roof, dropping in streams just inches from my shoulder.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jack?’ Tony asked.

  I looked back. ‘How do you know anything’s the matter?’

  Tony laughed. ‘Because you’ve come here at night, when you could have just called into the office tomorrow. It’s nearly nine o’clock.’ He smiled and took a gulp of beer. ‘Call it a hack’s hunch.’

  ‘I’ve a dilemma, Tony, and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘That’s the thing with dilemmas,’ he replied, chuckling. ‘What’s your problem?’

  I stepped away from the wall and began to pace, scuffing my feet on the decking.

  ‘What do you do, Tony, when a story lands in your lap that is good, potentially very good, but writing it might hurt someone close?’

  Tony looked at me, watched my face, and then I wasn’t sure that he was seeing me at all, like he was casting back through some old memories.

  Tony put his beer on the floor. ‘Is this about David Watts?’ he asked.

  I looked at him but didn’t answer.

  ‘What have you got?’ he asked quietly.

  I stood still for a moment. I thought about telling him, but then I shook my head.

  ‘I can’t say,’ I replied. ‘It’s such a good piece, I’m sure of it, but the more I think about it, the more I know it will hurt people, and I can’t get anything from anyone else to use.’

  Tony sighed.

  ‘That’s your answer,’ he said. ‘Like it or not, you don’t have free will. You have a promise of a feature. Grab it. You can hunt for exclusives or go on crusades if you want, but you’re paid to write commuter fodder. You’re being paid to write a sentimental biography of David Watts. If you do that and nothing else, you’ll have done your job.’

  I looked back out into the garden.

  ‘Should it just be about doing my job?’ I asked. ‘I always thought there might be more to writing than paying the rent.’

  Tony smiled. He didn’t need to say it. I knew he was thinking back to his greener, more naïve days.

  ‘Ask yourself this question,’ he said. ‘What if you write your new story and forget about your feature?’

  I turned round. He was leaning forward, his eyebrows arched.

  ‘That’s the only other choice you’ve got,’ he continued. ‘The London Star has got a space for a feature. It’s getting bigger everyday. You’ve heard about Liverpool, haven’t you?’

  I shook my head. I had been drinking with Alice instead of watching the news, but I guessed the story.

  ‘Another shooting,’ he said, ‘so if you don’t write the feature, someone else will get the slot, and they’ll never commission you again.’ He shook his head. ‘No editor is going to forgive you just because you thought you had stumbled upon a goldmine. He’s going to want to know why his feature hasn’t been written.’

  I sighed, understanding the truth of what I was being told.

  ‘If you want to change the world, or break exclusives,’ Tony said, ‘get off the crime beat. Write a book. But for as long as you get your money from sidebars and fillers, you’ll write what the papers want.’

  ‘You’re right, Tony, I know that. Maybe I just needed someone to point it out.’

  Tony smiled and took another drink of beer. He watched me swirl the amber liquid around, trying to read what I was thinking.

  ‘Back to work?’

  I nodded, and then went to walk past him. I patted him on the shoulder and was walking back into the house to make small talk with Eileen when he asked, ‘Is it about Annie Paxman?’

  I stopped dead. It was as if he’d just thrown a sucker punch as I was walking back to my corner. I looked down at him, stunned, wondering why I felt like I’d been slapped.

  ‘You knew?’

  He nodded slowly, uncertain.

  ‘For how long?’

  Tony sat back and sighed. He ran his hand across his forehead as he tried to think of a way of sanitising the answer. There wasn’t one.

  ‘All along, I suppose,’ he said eventually, looking ashamed.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You know what it’s like, Jack. You hear rumours, drunk talk.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What do you think? I pitched the story.’

  ‘What did the paper say?’

  ‘I was told to bury it. The police had no proof, so neither did we, and anyway, they’d got someone for it. DNA evidence. Foolproof, so they said.’

  ‘But that’s inhuman.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘No, Jack, you’re confusing rumour with fact. What was there to report? We weren’t concealing a murderer. He was in a cell, waiting for his trial, and if we had printed it before the trial, it would have wrecked it. The killer would have got away with it because of a quick glimpse in the darkness. That wasn’t enough to get Watts, and it would just let the other guy off the hook.’

  ‘But what about you, Tony? Weren’t you tempted to run it?’

  He looked at me hard and direct. ‘I hadn’t been around for long. I’d just moved back to Turners Fold and I needed the job. I did what I was told.’ He pointed at me. ‘I had the same dilemma you did, and I reached the same decision you are going to reach.’

  ‘How do you know I’ll come to the same decision?’ I snarled.

  He sat back now. ‘Are you going to go out on a limb on this one? David Watts has influence in this town, as does his family. You know that his father is in line to be mayor next year? And that his two brothers run the David Watts Trust?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t know.

  ‘They do a lot for this town. The Trust takes a lot of the poorer kids away on adventure hol
idays, and helps pay for a few of the local youth football teams. If you get it wrong, you’d upset a lot of people, and it would make it very hard for anyone close to you left behind here. And what about his spending power? He can afford the best lawyers in town. Do you really want to take them on? Put that good life in London in jeopardy?’

  I shook my head slowly, resigned to the inevitable.

  ‘There you have it,’ he said, and then he looked at me. ‘Remember, Jack, that however much this might hurt, your father could be wrong. It was dark; it was from a long way away.’

  ‘He seemed pretty sure,’ I replied.

  ‘That doesn’t make him right.’ Tony put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Your father is a good man, but no one is perfect.’

  I turned away, feeling hurt. I had looked up to Tony when I was first starting out, always thought that he was different to the rest, prepared to say what had to be said. But I felt angry as well, because I knew Tony was right.

  ‘What if I could prove that David Watts was guilty?’ I said.

  Tony widened his eyes. ‘If you can do that, we’ll both go freelance.’

  That made me laugh. I held my hands up in defeat. ‘Okay, okay, back to work. I’ll write my feature.’

  Tony stood up and patted me on the back. ‘See me before you go. But remember, Jack, he just might be innocent.’

  *

  Bob Garrett was sitting in his patrol car by Victoria Park. The rain was deafening, a constant rattle on the roof. He was smoking, but it made the windows steam up, so he had to keep wiping the side windows to see out.

  He had been there for around ten minutes, but already he was getting edgy. It was an isolated spot on any night, not overlooked, up on a hill, the last thing between Turners Fold and the rolling countryside. In the driving rain it seemed utterly desolate.

  But it wasn’t just the location that made him nervous. Something about the meeting made him uneasy.

  He checked his watch. He thought he might have time to call Jack. He had told him all about David Watts, but if it was connected with the footballer shootings, he had to stop Jack from writing the story. It could get him into trouble if he revealed the investigation.

  Bob took a long pull on his cigarette and made more mist on the windscreen as he exhaled. He smiled to himself. It was good to see Jack again, to hear his voice around the house. Whatever distance had grown between them over the last few years, Jack was still Jack, his precious son. He reached into his pocket for his phone. He needed to speak to him, to tell him to lay off the David Watts story, at least for now. Afterwards, he’d take him fishing, just the two of them, a quiet riverbank, and a cool-bag full of beer.

  He was about to dial Jack’s number when he saw a shadow through the windscreen. Once he had cleared it with his hands, he saw the American walking along the path behind the church.

  He was difficult to make out at first. He was in dark clothes and visibility was bad, but he kept on stepping into shards of light still making it through from the street on the other side of the church. He had an umbrella, which had the effect of shielding his face, but Bob recognised him instantly. It was that air of nonchalance, like a relaxed menace. Even from this distance, even from that earlier brief encounter, his casual manner was easily recognisable.

  Bob’s unease deepened. He wasn’t sure what it was. Something just wasn’t right. After many years of policing, Bob knew to beware the quiet man. You never knew when or what was coming from him.

  Bob stepped out of his car and pulled up his collar. His hat kept out most of the rain, but his neck soon got wet. As the American got closer, Bob could feel water beginning to seep down the back of his shirt. He grimaced. There was a long night ahead, and he didn’t want to spend it in wet clothes.

  As he got closer, Bob held up his hand. ‘Hello again?’

  The American nodded and smiled in response. ‘How you doing?’ he asked. Then he looked up. ‘Wet, I guess,’ he continued, and then nodded up the hill. ‘So this is where it happened.’

  Bob looked over and sighed. ‘I was just about here,’ he said. ‘I was looking out for vandals. There was nothing happening, and as I swung round to leave, I caught her in my headlights.’

  ‘Grim sight.’

  Bob shivered. ‘Yes, it was.’ He looked up at the sky and pulled his jacket together. ‘What do you need to know? It’s a pretty shitty night.’

  The American looked up towards the aviary. ‘Just a flavour really.’ He began to walk away, heading across the park, leather soles squeaking on the wet grass. ‘Why do you think David Watts was involved?’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Bob sighed, and then stepped onto the wet grass to follow him. He trotted to catch up, and, once there, answered, ‘Because I saw him running that way,’ and he pointed over towards the field sloping upwards and away from town.

  ‘That’s quite a distance in the dark.’

  Bob shrugged. ‘It’s what I saw. It was Watts. I’d watched him play for a couple of years. He was big news around town. I knew how he walked, how he ran. It was David Watts. No doubt. I knew it was him even before I knew that he was the last person to be with her.’

  The American stopped by a flowerbed and looked away, out over the fields. He seemed focused, so Bob let him concentrate, and took another pull on his cigarette, the end shining bright as he sheltered it from the rain with his hand.

  He was just finishing his cigarette, stopping to flick the glowing filter into the grass, when the American spoke up again.

  ‘If you’re so sure, why have you kept it quiet?’ he asked, still looking away. ‘It’s been over ten years.’

  Bob thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at the ground, his shoulders hunched to keep out the rain.

  ‘Because I was a lone voice. What could I do?’

  ‘Go to the press?’

  Bob sighed. ‘That would have cost me my job. I had a young family. I hadn’t been a police officer that long so I went with the flow. And let’s face it, my suspicions counted for nothing.’

  The American turned round and nodded, seeming to understand. He carried on walking, Bob trying to keep up, until they ended up on the stone floor of the pavilion.

  ‘What about the girl’s family?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen or heard from them since they left town not long after.’

  ‘Do you know where they were headed?’

  Bob shook his head but said nothing.

  The American stepped forward, getting close to Bob. He smiled. ‘If you know, say so. This is a major investigation. If this turns out to be relevant and you’ve held it back, you’ll be in shit up to your knees.’

  Bob glared at him. ‘I do not know where they went. I didn’t need to know, so I didn’t bother to find out.’ He snorted. ‘Maybe I just had a little trouble looking them in the eye. So pack it in with the threats, arsehole.’

  The American leant forward so that their noses were almost touching. ‘Who was she?’

  Bob swallowed. Even in the darkness, he could sense the menace. ‘She?’

  ‘The girl on the television, the one who made you run out of the bar.’

  ‘I told you before. I thought I knew her, but now I’m not so sure.’

  The American stayed close to him for a few seconds, wondering if anything else was going to be said, and then he stepped away. He smiled.

  ‘DI Ross tells me your son is in town.’

  Bob stiffened. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m told he’s a reporter. What’s he writing about?’

  Bob’s jaw set firm. ‘Maybe he just came back to see his old man,’ he hissed.

  ‘So he is back?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s back. So what?’

  ‘So what is he writing about?’

  Bob didn’t answer straight away, but he could feel himself getting angry. The American was asking about his son, and as far as Bob was concerned, that was off-limits.

  The American let Bob’s anger fizzle in the r
ain, and then asked, ‘Is he writing about David Watts?’

  ‘You ask him,’ Bob snarled, his finger pointing. ‘And then see how far you get, hotshot. If you expect me to talk about my son, you can go fuck yourself.’

  And with that, Bob turned round to walk away.

  ‘PC Garrett. You are obstructing a murder investigation.’

  Bob stopped and turned around slowly.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he answered softly, trading menaces. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  The American stepped over to him.

  ‘Not everything.’

  Bob said nothing. He stared the American in the eyes. His stare was met coldly.

  ‘Have you spoken to him about it?’ the American asked quietly. ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘About Annie Paxman?’ Bob asked, a sneer making it through, but then he shifted his gaze at the last moment, one quick blink, and scuffed at the stone floor with his foot. Not much, just a press with his toes, almost invisible, but it was spotted.

  ‘Course not,’ said Bob. ‘It’s confidential, right.’

  The American nodded.

  ‘Thank you, officer,’ he replied.

  Bob stepped away and pulled another cigarette out of his packet and lit it, cupping it in his hand to keep out the rain. The smoke drifted away, quickly broken up by the strips of water still coming down hard. He was waiting for the next question.

  The American put down his umbrella, checking it as if there was a problem with it. Bob looked at the ground and took another drag on his cigarette.

  Bob didn’t hear him pull the gun. He was looking out over the town, at the lines of orange streetlights. He just heard a rustle as the umbrella dropped, and then looked over to see it on the floor, rocking lightly. He didn’t know what was happening at first, but his eyes carried on moving, everything slowing down to fractions of time.