Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I took it out to glance at the caller ID. It was Laura. I clicked off the phone and glanced over at Rose. She was still wrist-deep in the drawer.

  ‘Here it is,’ she said and she walked over with a scrap of paper. It had an address scribbled on it and a phone number. It just said Liza underneath it.

  I looked at the paper, and I wondered if it was the key to the mystery. I could see my hand trembling as I held it.

  ‘Talk with her,’ said Rose. ‘Ask her how she’s keeping. She always seemed a little bit lost.’

  I nodded. ‘I will.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The American was thinking of a drive around the neighbourhood to allay suspicion when his phone rang. He pressed the answer button and barked a sharp, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get out of town!’ It was Glen Ross.

  He pulled the phone away from his ear, surprised. Then he heard the distant squeak of Glen Ross saying, ‘Answer me, you bastard.’

  ‘Calm down, Detective. You sound tense?’ He smiled. He thought he could hear Glen Ross breathing hard and fast, wasn’t sure if the rustle was interference on the line or Ross’s hands grabbing at his own shirt. ‘Mr Ross?’

  ‘New Scotland Yard have just called me.’ His words were spat out, his heaving breaths throwing them like bullets. ‘They’re coming to Turners Fold.’

  The American pursed his lips and looked towards the house. If he had to walk away from a million, he would take a few people out as revenge.

  His deliberations didn’t take long. One million was more money than he would get in ten years from Marky. It was early retirement. Or he could keep doing the work for the fun of it. Job satisfaction was a wonderful thing.

  ‘What do they know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Glen Ross screamed. ‘I just got a call from a friend in headquarters. They’re coming up here.’

  ‘Just do as you’re told and everything will be fine.’

  There was more heavy breathing, and then it started to slow down.

  ‘Now listen to me,’ the American said. ‘Just tell them about the girl’s murder and then act dumb. Spin all that self-justifying bullshit about why you didn’t haul in David Watts, and then tell them what you told me, that you didn’t know where the family went. Let them do the rest. Can you do that?’

  More deep breaths, then, ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘Good. Co-operate with them. If they don’t suspect you, they won’t grill you. I’ll deal with David. I’m hoping I’ll have it sorted out soon.’ He looked towards the house. ‘Very soon.’

  He hung up on Glen Ross and dialled David Watts.

  ‘Yeah,’ came the answer.

  ‘Mr Watts, get out of the apartment. The police down there are asking questions about your situation.’

  ‘You fucking prick. I’m paying you to end it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will, but you need to get out and

  keep your phone with you. I’ll give you instructions later.’

  And then the American clicked off the phone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of his own. It was time to get serious. He thought about the people in the house. And the woman he had seen talking on the phone back in Turners Fold. The job was getting harder, more targets by the day, but one million was one million.

  The face at the next-door window turned away and walked slowly over to the television. He flicked it on to find something to watch. There wasn’t much. He looked towards the back of the house. His wife was doing needlecraft through a large reading glass.

  ‘He’s come out now,’ he shouted over.

  His wife didn’t look up. ‘Who?’ she asked, only half-listening.

  ‘Bob Garrett’s lad.’

  ‘You’re an old gossip,’ she said, still looking at her needlecraft. ‘Get a hobby.’ She looked up. ‘Are you sure it was him?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. I worked with his father for ten years, so I know his lad. Poor sod.’

  His wife sat back in her chair and ignored him. Policemen were all the same. They never retired. They just worked from home.

  David Watts was driving too fast. He knew it, tried to stop himself, worried it would draw attention, but he couldn’t slow down.

  He was heading north, onto the M1, something telling him to head to the seat of the trouble, not away from it. He’d taken some cocaine, enough to get him through the next hour, and there was enough in the glove compartment to keep him up and running for a few weeks. He’d taken another batch from Marky before he left the city.

  He was racing past cars, one eye always on the hard shoulder, looking out for police. He had a pocketful of cocaine and he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going. Service stations and small southern towns rushed past the windows, mixing with the blur of trees and grass embankments. Cars and lorries were left as he went, each one a shrinking spot in his mirrors, his engine starting to climb, the wheels straining hard to keep tight on the tarmac.

  He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone. He glanced at the keypad and began to key in Emma’s number. He felt the rumble of road paint and heard the blast of a horn. He looked up to see himself drifting towards the right and gave the wheel a hard turn to get it back in line. He felt the tyres grip and the swing of the car threw him about for a second. He took some deep breaths to calm his nerves before he carried on punching in the number, taking longer now, constant glances up to check the road ahead.

  He held the phone to his ear, but all he could hear was the ring, playing out to no one.

  He gripped the phone and felt his foot press down harder on the accelerator. The countryside he was now travelling through began to rush at him.

  ‘Answer the phone!’

  There was still no response.

  He pressed harder on the pedal. The needle was touching past a hundred. He was shooting past cars, swerving to overtake on the inside when they came into his lane.

  He clicked the off button and then jabbed his finger at the redial button. Same response. He pressed it again. Same result.

  He looked up and saw the rear of a car coming up fast. He stamped on the brake pedal and felt the rear begin to slide, the noise from the tyres taking over from the engine. He steered into his slide and slowed down just enough to let it pull away. He sat back into his seat and breathed out long and hard. He could feel the flush of his cheeks, the slickness of his palms.

  He pulled over into the slower lane and began to drive at a legal speed. His heart and pulse were the only things racing now.

  He picked up his phone again and went into its memory. He clicked the key to connect with the American’s phone. It only rang once before he heard the voice he now wished he’d never heard.

  ‘Hi, Mr Watts. Have you done as I asked?’

  David nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve left London.’ He mopped his forehead with his hand. ‘Where shall I go?’

  ‘Just out of sight and wait for my call. Avoid hotels. You need to be invisible.’

  ‘Won’t it make me look guilty?’

  ‘Looking guilty isn’t enough.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He rubbed his forehead again. The air-conditioning filled the car with cool air, but it wasn’t getting rid of the dampness on his face. ‘I got a call. She said she was going to get Emma. And I can’t get hold of her.’

  ‘Who is Emma?’

  David took a deep breath. He thought about the last few months with her. The promises, the hopes. Then he thought about the person he was speaking with, some mysterious American with a bent for murder. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut out what he was about to do, but he had to watch the road, the oncoming scenery going out of focus.

  ‘Just a girl,’ he replied.

  He pulled the phone away from his ear so he could wipe his eye with the back of his hand. He felt a lump in his throat and his eyes became moist again. He thought about her smile, about how she looked when she was asleep in the morning.

  ‘Does she know?’

 
David couldn’t answer. His voice was thick with emotion, his cheeks now wet with tears. He knew the answer. If Emma had been taken, she would know now.

  He clicked off the phone, unable to speak. He tried to make out the road ahead, but it was difficult. It was made harder because he didn’t know where he was going, but it all blurred behind tears now.

  He’d just killed Emma.

  The American put down his phone and stepped out of the car. He looked around. He couldn’t see anyone watching him, so he felt for his knife. He knew he couldn’t use the gun. If he started pumping bullets in there, there’d be a witness in every window for the first mile of his escape route.

  He walked quickly up the street and then onto the drive. He rapped on the door, and Rose answered within a few seconds.

  She smiled and looked at him. ‘Can I help you?’

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He flicked open a flap, showed the police warrant card.

  ‘Good evening, ma’am. Was that a reporter I just saw here?’

  Rose nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  He smiled sympathetically, like he knew how easy it was to be taken in.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but he is not what he appeared to be.’

  Rose looked shocked.

  He nodded. ‘Can I come in, please? I’ll need to take some details.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Rose, and moved away from the door to let him follow her in.

  He closed the door with a soft click and smiled to himself. He followed Rose into the house. As she walked, he saw the long hair, watched its movement as it danced in time with her walk.

  Rose turned around, oblivious, polite. ‘What has he been doing?’ she asked, her face creased by worry. ‘He seemed like a nice man.’

  He smiled. It came easy, the charm relaxed and warm. ‘That’s what worries us. He’s so convincing.’ He reached out and held her hand for a moment. ‘It’s not your fault. Others have been taken in.’ When Rose put her hand to her mouth, he nodded towards the couch and said, ‘You ought to sit down.’

  Rose’s mind was racing, wondering what was going on, but his calmness, his authoritative air made her obey.

  He sat down next to her. He leant forward so that he appeared concerned, not relaxed. ‘What did he want from you?’

  ‘Just wanted to know about my son, Colin,’ she said.

  He feigned concern. ‘I’m sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but I believe that the nice young man is out to harm someone. I raced up here when I heard he was in the neighbourhood. Did he say what he wanted?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he said he wanted to help me with my son’s case. Then we talked about Liza Radley, a girl who used to live round here.’

  The American blinked but gave nothing away.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Not really. We were just talking.’

  He stood up and walked to the window. He looked out over the street, trying to see faces behind glass, or people tending their lawns, maybe with too much time on their hands, so that they spent it plotting the coming and goings of people in the street. He could see nothing unusual.

  ‘Funny, though,’ Rose continued, ‘he seemed as bothered about Liza Radley as he did about Colin.’

  The American’s thoughts started to slot into place. He tried to force down the crinkles of a smile around the corners of his mouth. He turned round slowly, feigning mild curiosity, but his eyes were burning with determination.

  ‘You knew this Liza?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘Yes. She used to visit me a few years ago.’

  He thought back to the security footage of the shooter. The dead cop ran out when he saw the security pictures.

  He faked a worried look. ‘Did you tell him where Liza lived?’

  ‘I did,’ Rose replied. ‘I gave him her address.’

  He turned back towards the window and stroked his cheek with his hand. His eyes narrowed. He might be on his way there now. Or he might be on his way to the police. Glen Ross won’t be able to bluff his way out if the reporter could link all this with a local girl, one who matched the security pictures. And the quick route back to David Watts was obvious. He scratched his cheek and his mind listed the options. Had that cop told his son about David Watts? Had he told his son about the phone calls to David Watts by the shooter? There had been an hour or so between their meeting at the station and their meeting in Victoria Park. He started to get angry. He was having to factor in the unexpected, and the unexpected might cost him a million.

  He started to do some calculations. The cop’s son had to be taken out of the picture, no doubt, and the woman who was with him in the bar before. And there was the old guy from the paper. Those three taken care of would slow down the connection to David Watts. He didn’t need to stop the connection. He just needed to slow it down enough to let him get his million pounds. Then he had to take out the shooter. That would stop the shootings and no one would ever know.

  He realised it had to be that night.

  He turned back to Rose, whirling lightly on his heels as he turned away from the window. ‘Do you still have Liza’s address?’

  ‘Yes.’ And she went to the table by the window. She walked back to him and handed it over. ‘He copied it off this.’

  The American looked down at the address. It meant nothing to him, but he knew he would be able to find it.

  ‘Who lives there with her?’

  Rose shook her head sadly. ‘I don’t know, but she didn’t seem the marrying type.’

  He smiled. Just the answer he wanted. He could just make her go missing. No one would even know she was dead. Not if he did it right.

  He looked at Rose and smiled warmly. ‘Thank you so much. You’ve been a real help.’

  She looked grateful, almost bashful.

  He nodded towards the door. ‘I’m going to have to go, ma’am. There’s a lot of work to do.’

  She understood and stepped aside so he could walk past her.

  ‘No, after you, ma’am.’

  She smiled, blushing slightly.

  She walked in front of him towards the door. Her hair swished gently as she walked. He watched it like a hypnotist’s prop, side to side, brushing against her back, old grey strands catching in the static of her shirt. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. The hair looked brittle and old, but she didn’t look heavy.

  He lunged forward, his movement quick, his arm outstretched. He gripped her hair. He felt his hand take the tension as the ponytail stretched tight. She gave a yelp of surprise. He yanked her ponytail upwards and forwards fast, so that she was on tiptoes, trying to keep her balance. She tried to pull away but his grip remained strong, his arm locked in front of him. Every struggle brought out hair and made her cry out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she yelled, her pitch now more of a scream, half-panic, half-pain. She had tears in her eyes. Her arms were flicking upwards, trying to get free, but the loss of balance caused too much pain. He began to twirl her around. Her feet skipped on the floor as she tried to keep her balance. The nerve endings in her scalp stretched and tore, like tiny fires, the pain making her catch her breath.

  He flicked his leg up to put the knife holster in reach. He reached down with his spare hand and pulled it out, the blade gleaming in the sunset streaking in from the front window. He held the knife in front of her, and yanked a little harder on her hair.

  Her eyes widened, her mouth opened in pain. He thought he saw piss on the floor. She took a deep breath to scream so he thrust forward with the knife. He pushed the knife in hard, getting her just below the ear, at the end of the jawbone. It sank in up to its handle, her eyes wide with shock. He gave it a quick twist and then pulled it out. The blood supply was cut to her brain and it shot out of the gaping wound instead, following the blade and soaking his hand. It was like cutting off an engine’s fuel supply. She shook, quick spasms, and then grew heavy in his grasp. Within ten seconds she had gone limp, her
eyes lifeless and cold, her feet now trailing on their toes, her body spinning lightly in his grip.

  He threw Rose’s body towards the corner. It landed with a thump, a scattering of blood on the carpet showing its path, the wound face down. Gravity did the rest, a slow leak from her neck.

  As he went, the neighbourhood was still and quiet. No sirens in the distance. No neighbours coming out of their front doors. No one saw him leave.

  THIRTY-NINE

  As Turners Fold came into view, it looked isolated. Nightfall had come around during my visit, and the journey back brought me into the valley from the north, so I was looking at the town from a side I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. My route from London had brought me in from the south, where the urban clutter of Manchester petered away until the town just appeared. The northern side of town was different, as it just disappeared into the hills, so at night it was smothered by darkness. As I drove back, I could see Turners Fold as just a collection of houses and streetlights surrounded by nothing. In London, nightfall just made the noise echo more, the sunlight replaced by headlights and shop-fronts. In Turners Fold, nightfall brought on a shutdown. The streets were empty as I drove into town, and when I got back to my house it was in darkness. It looked a lonely place, living off memories.

  I kept on driving. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I drove to Tony’s house instead.

  Tony was on the back patio, drinking a beer. He was staring into his dark and quiet back garden. He didn’t look round when I joined him; he just reached into a bucket of ice and held a beer in the air. I had the cap off before I noticed Alice sitting further along the porch.

  She looked up at me, her eyes deep and moist. ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Jack.’

  I nodded a thanks, feeling suddenly choked, when I became aware of someone behind me. As I looked round, I saw it was Laura.

  ‘Has Tony been looking after you?’