Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  ‘What are you talking about, you fucking murderer?’

  ‘Is that what you said to David Watts when he killed that poor girl?’

  ‘David Watts didn’t kill anyone.’

  ‘Well, he’s sure panicking a lot for an innocent man. Anyway, wasn’t I with you when I set up the meeting with Bob Garrett? Come to think of it, aren’t we in a conspiracy?’

  Glen Ross’s complexion peaked into a pale grey, his breathing heavy.

  ‘Are you okay, Inspector? You don’t look so good. Maybe it’s all that simple food catching up on you?’ The American shook his head dismissively. ‘No, Inspector, I think a profile is good.’ Then he slipped in a glacier-sharp look behind the smile. ‘I could have just sneaked into town, done what needed to be done and then sneaked out again. But now, I’ve been seen around. If people talk about an American as a suspect, they will say, ‘Hey, he was in Inspector Ross’s office. And didn’t PC Garrett also arrive? And didn’t Inspector Ross dine with him when PC Garrett’s corpse was still cooling?’ He paused to let the simplicity of it sink in. ‘You see, Inspector, our fortunes are now inextricably entwined,’ and then he laughed, making sure that everyone in the cafe turned round again.

  ‘I could arrest you,’ snarled Ross, his voice low. ‘You’ve confessed to a murder.’

  ‘But you won’t. I know that. You know that. So stop shitting me with empty threats.’ He took another drink of coffee and watched Glen Ross through the steam. Then he put the cup down and continued, ‘I can offer you two ways out of this mess. Easy or hard.’

  Glen Ross said nothing for a while, instead just thinking about what he should do. He realised pretty quickly that there was nothing he could do.

  The American took the silence as a come-on.

  ‘Good to have your ear, Inspector.’ He put his fingers together and rested his nose on their tips, looking thoughtful. ‘Tell me this: was Bob Garrett on his own that night, the night the young girl died?’

  Glen Ross looked puzzled. ‘No, not as I remember. He was with James Radley. But he’s dead now.’

  The American smiled. ‘Good. So the easy way out is this. Bob Garrett unburdened himself yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘Did he?’

  The American nodded. ‘That’s right. He came into your office and confessed to feeling responsible for the death of that young girl. He saw her, walking on her own, and thought about giving her a ride home. But he did nothing. And he saw the murderer lurking and did nothing.’

  Glen Ross paused for a moment. Then what was being said slowly dawned on him.

  ‘That’s disrespectful. He has only been dead a few hours and you want to use him as a scapegoat.’

  The American leant forward, trying to catch Glen Ross’s eye, and with a voice packed full of menace, said, ‘Let’s not pretend you have ever cared for that poor girl, so cut the bullshit.’

  Glen Ross said nothing.

  ‘That’s right, Inspector, you look away, and you keep your eyes dancing, because you’re going to have to watch your back every day for the rest of your life if you don’t go along with me.’ He paused, then continued, ‘You are going to give a press conference in an hour’s time, and you are going to tell the good people of Lancashire that PC Garrett was a depressed man. You are going to tell them how PC Robert Garrett, recently deceased, came into your office yesterday and confessed to seeing Annie Paxman walking on her own, and that he had seen the guy who killed her, the one locked up in jail, walking behind her, but he did nothing. Garrett did nothing because he thought he was just a harmless old drunk. But he could have been stopped. And Garrett didn’t tell anybody, because everyone would know that he could have stopped it. He told you all this, and then went up to that park and blew his own brains out.’

  Glen Ross shook his head but said nothing.

  ‘Don’t fuck me about, Inspector, and let me give it you straight: I don’t like you, and I would hurt you with a smile on my face. So don’t give me the pleasure. You are going to give that press conference, and you are going to take the heat off David Watts. Then, if the shooter gets caught and tries to blame Watts, no one will believe her.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t get caught?’

  The American shrugged. ‘I’m going to kill her, but it means no more heat on you if the shootings stop. But I’ll catch up with her, and when I do, she will die.’

  Glen Ross looked out of the window. It looked like he might have been fighting back tears, but it could just have been the reflection from the sun beaming into the cafe.

  ‘What if I say no?’

  He shrugged. ‘There’s the “hard” way I mentioned.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I kill you.’

  The simplicity of the response halted Ross for a moment, but then he said, ‘I’m arresting you for Bob Garrett’s murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if …’

  The American shook his head. ‘No, you’re not arresting me, because you’re a coward. People like you always are. You want to wear the badge and walk the big man’s walk, but when it comes down to it you only care about yourself, and your interests are not best-served by turning me in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Inspector Ross, it’s like having breakfast with a child. Pay attention please. You turn me in; I talk. I have one rule in life: never go down, but on the day that you do, take as many as you can with you. If you lock me up, I will tell everybody everything, and everything includes you.’ Then he winked. ‘And what if I say that you told me to kill Bob Garrett when I spoke to you yesterday? Conspiracy. Remember that word.’

  Ross rubbed his chest with his hand, grimacing at sharp pains jabbing him there. ‘And what if I just ignore you?’ he said, sounding uncomfortable.

  The American shook his head.

  ‘You can’t. I’ll come and kill you. Either way, you lose. So go public. One hour. You might want to call your officers together first. You want them with you for this one.’

  Glen Ross looked down at the table. ‘I can’t sacrifice one of my officers.’

  ‘You didn’t mind sacrificing that poor girl for the sake of a football career, or should I say your career and the chance to get close to David Watts.’ The American checked his watch. ‘And don’t forget: I need details about the girl’s family. I’m going after the shooter soon. I can’t wait any longer.’

  And then he dismissed Glen Ross with a flick of his hand. He pulled out a newspaper and spread it on the table.

  Glen Ross slid out from behind the table and walked slowly towards the door. He looked at the floor as he went, now oblivious to his surroundings. He didn’t notice everyone watching him as he walked out.

  The American made a play of reading the newspaper, but he watched the inspector’s car pull away from the cafe. Once he had gone, he slid out of the booth himself and headed back into town. He had the feeling that today wasn’t a day to stay still.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Glen Ross was behind his desk, sitting back and staring into space.

  He glanced over to the photograph of his wife and children. He reached forward and touched the picture, enjoying his wife’s smiling face, looking proudly at the camera, his three girls wrapped around her, all in their teens. They were splashed by innocence, not aware of the compromises they would have to make as they went through life. Life wasn’t just about parties and clothes and boys. It was about choices. He’d had to make some tough ones. He had a family. He had a position. Most importantly, he had a responsibility to the town he served.

  He ran his hands over his face. He felt tired. He thought about the American and his insides churned.

  He had four choices.

  He could go along with what the American said: tell the whole world that Bob Garrett had let Annie Paxman walk to her death, shatter his memory forever. But where would that get him? Just demand after demand, always putting himself at greater risk.

  He could ignore him.

  That t
hought made him nauseous. He didn’t doubt the stranger had the ability to kill him. He only had to think of how he’d felt when he’d looked down at Bob Garrett’s body. One shot to the head. Gun pressed up against the skin, starfish wound, scorch marks. Cold blood. The thought of it made him feel sick. One of his officers, killed on duty. He knew he couldn’t ignore him.

  He could call the police in London and tell them everything he knew. That might save some lives.

  He looked at the photograph of his wife and children again. He thought about his house just on the edge of town. A detached box, new-build, with a mock-Tudor front and stripes in his lawn. He had worked hard for that, and for the gleaming décor inside, and the new car on the drive. And what about the respect of his neighbours, people who looked up to him? He would lose everything. He stared at the floor. He knew he couldn’t involve the authorities.

  Or he could kill the American. Then he could tell David Watts that he would sort it out his way.

  That was the best option. It put him back in charge, something he hadn’t felt since he’d received that call from David Watts a couple of days before.

  He put his head back and covered his eyes with his hands. He felt like screaming. He didn’t know how to resolve it, that was the problem. How could he put himself back in charge of a situation he didn’t know how to control?

  There was a fifth option, another way out – a coward’s way out, but he saw again the photograph of his wife and children. He should spare them the shame. He owed them that much at least.

  He looked to the room outside and saw a buzz of activity, the resources of the station running at capacity following Bob Garrett’s death.

  He guessed it was time to call them together and tell them about Bob Garrett’s confession.

  I walked all the way to Tony’s house with my head down. I felt dazed, like I was dreaming, and that I would wake up at any time in my flat in London. But I knew that it wasn’t true. I knew it from the eyes I could feel staring at me as I walked, as if every passing car, every curious shopkeeper, was watching me, too uncomfortable to say anything.

  I only looked up when the door opened and I heard Tony’s voice.

  The house felt inviting as I went in, and as I passed him I felt Tony’s hand on my shoulder, strong and supportive. Then I felt lighter arms, a softer hold. I squeezed into Eileen and put my head on her shoulder briefly, but then I stood up straight and took a deep breath.

  ‘No need to be strong with us, Jack,’ said Eileen. ‘You’re with friends.’

  I smiled weakly and patted her arm. ‘Thank you, Eileen. I appreciate that.’

  Tony smiled. I asked if I could speak to him. He nodded agreement and then led the way to his study. I felt Eileen’s eyes following me.

  ‘I’ve come to ask a favour,’ I said.

  ‘If you want somewhere to stay, that’s okay. Stay here as long as you want.’

  I was taken aback; it wasn’t something I had considered. I knew how hard it was going to be in the house, that I would hear my father’s voice, my mother’s laughter, coming at me from every room, just my memories to keep me company. But I wanted that, to hear it, to feel it. I never wanted to forget it.

  ‘Thanks, Tony, but it’s not that.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Okay. What can I do for you?’

  I looked down at my hands and saw that small streaks of blood decorated my middle finger, that I had picked the skin from around my fingernail until it bled.

  ‘I just want to do one last thing for my dad,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘Your paper will be full of what happened to him,’ I continued. ‘I know that. There’ll be a piece about how he died, and there’ll be a piece about his career.’ I took a deep breath. This was harder than I’d thought it would be. ‘I think that maybe there’ll be less about my dad as a person than there ought to be. I was just hoping that you’d do a decent tribute. Maybe front- page. Make people remember his life, not his death. Make him more than just a dead policeman.’

  Tony nodded, but he looked away.

  ‘Tony?’

  He looked back at me. ‘It’s about your father, Jack.’

  I felt myself take another deep breath, my insides turning over again, not sure how much more I could take.

  ‘Go on,’ I said nervously, even though I was far from ready.

  Tony bit his lip. ‘I’ve had a call from my boss. Glen Ross has just made an announcement that your father made a confession before he died last night.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘Keep going,’ I whispered.

  ‘He says that he confessed to seeing Annie Paxman before she died.’

  I hung my head.

  ‘He says that your father saw her walking on her own, and saw her killer, Colin Wood, walking not far behind her. He did nothing, and then Annie Paxman was killed.

  ‘Glen Ross said that he made this confession last night, and then in the middle of the night he was found at the aviary. He’d shot himself.’

  I looked at Tony in confusion. ‘He was killed at the aviary?’

  Tony nodded.

  I felt the world swim around me again, twirling me with uncertainties. Was all my father had told me lies?

  ‘No one told me that,’ was all I could say.

  Tony stayed silent.

  I put my head back in my hands and moaned. The last cherished thing I’d had of my father was my memory of him. Had that vanished too?

  I sat down, defeated. Everything had seemed so normal a couple of days ago. How could a story have led to this, my father dead, and now his good name killed off by Glen Ross?

  ‘Are you all right, Jack?’

  ‘You believed my dad, Tony. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  Tony looked down. ‘I don’t think he told lies.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘I think your father believed what he saw.’

  ‘But either he lied to me, or Glen Ross is lying?’

  Tony shrugged. ‘But why would he go public? What has he got to gain?’

  I sighed. ‘Because my dad was trying to talk me into writing about the Annie Paxman murder. He told me that Glen Ross had covered it up.’

  Tony sat down on a chair opposite me.

  ‘But you hadn’t begun to write the story; you said you wouldn’t,’ he said softly.

  ‘Well, maybe I’ll change my mind now.’

  ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tony held out his hands. ‘For the same reason we had all those years ago. A man is in prison, caught on good evidence.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Jack, I liked your father. I didn’t know whether he was right back then, and now I just don’t know any more. People say things to protect themselves. Maybe he was trying to protect himself all these years.’

  I sat back, angry. ‘Jesus Christ, I thought you were my friend, Tony.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘So maybe Glen Ross is lying to protect himself.’

  Tony shrugged. ‘Maybe, but why go public, now that your father is, well…’

  ‘Dead?’

  He held out his hands in apology and nodded.

  I felt a tear tingle my eye. ‘Because my dad was going to get some evidence so that I could run the story. Maybe he confronted Ross?’ I took a deep breath. ‘Nothing I write now will have any credibility anyway, because I have a vested interest in clearing my dad’s name.’

  Tony said nothing for a while, and then asked, ‘What proof did your father have?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said, my voice filled with sadness. ‘Just what you already know. When my dad found Annie, she was dead, and David Watts was running over the fields.’

  Tony rubbed his cheeks and looked tired, like he was setting himself up for a fight he didn’t have the energy for. He exhaled. ‘One thing bothers me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If Glen Ross has made this public statement and it’s not true, t
hen your father’s death must be linked to whatever he said to Glen Ross last night.’

  I thought about telling Tony about the links with the football shootings, the inscribed neck-chain, but then I wondered about his motives now. He was asking too many questions. I wondered whether I could trust anyone in this town and decided to keep some things to myself.

  Tony shook his head, answering his own theory. ‘But that can’t be right, because the only conclusion from that must be that Glen Ross had your father killed to keep him quiet.’

  ‘So why can’t that be right?’

  Tony looked doubtful, and then said, ‘Glen Ross isn’t a nice man and I don’t like him. But’, and he smiled ruefully, ‘he’s no killer. He hasn’t got the balls.’

  ‘So maybe he’s telling the truth?’

  Tony nodded. ‘Maybe. And maybe Neil Armstrong didn’t really walk on the moon? Maybe he just roamed around a TV set in a spacesuit, with starched flags and fake moondust? Life is full of maybes, but more often than not they are unlikely maybes. Think about it. Your father challenges Ross about Annie Paxman. A few hours later, he’s dead from a single gunshot wound, and then his confession comes out before you’ve even had chance to buy him a coffin. They seemed linked, but I don’t believe Glen Ross is a killer. Coward, yes. Killer? No.’

  ‘What about James Radley?’ I asked.

  Tony looked confused. ‘James Radley? What’s he got to do with it?’

  ‘He knew. And a few years back, he died in a fire, still in his bed. Maybe he was going to talk? Maybe that is what happens to people who try to talk?’

  Tony shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s a coincidence, but I don’t buy Glen Ross as a killer. And neither will anyone else.’

  ‘And they’d believe my father was a liar?’ I asked bitterly.