Читать книгу FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White - Страница 10

FIVE

I had been at the bar for nearly an hour before Laura walked in, tucked into an alcove, trying to write the story I hoped would squeeze in somewhere between the shock and the tributes.

I had been struggling, though. I hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours, not recovered from the night shift, so the words just floated around in front of me, not getting onto the screen. I had to close my eyes for a few minutes and let the bar fade away. The breeze blowing in through the open door kept the scene drifting in, until all I could sense were the images and sounds from nearby Soho. Then I had remembered the young family, shaking with shock. I remembered something the mother had said. It was a good starting quote. I began to type.

‘“A daytrip to town isn’t supposed to happen like that.”

‘That was the voice of a frightened mother, her two young children resting against her leg.’

It was high-school prose, but it was a start. As I tapped away, the words began to tumble out, and by the time Laura arrived I had written a first draft.

I was the only person who looked up when Laura came in. I saw her look around. The smoking ban had taken away some of the atmosphere, but the flock wallpaper and etched windows kept it dark inside. It drew in the tourists, sold the spirit of the blitz back to German students, who didn’t realise that it used to be a disco bar before a renovation turned the clock back. Retro-style televisions were tuned to the news channel, the subtitles bringing the updates over the noise of the bar, the talk all about the shooting.

She looked fabulous, she always did. I felt myself take a breath. She was tall and slim, with deep green eyes that sparkled when she blinked and a smile that spread slowly, so that her face lit up like a slow yawn until dimples flickered in both cheeks. Her hair fell down over her face, a sunset brunette, that reddish darkness the Irish have.

As she came in, she said, ‘I don’t get to hear much country music in London.’

I looked over at the jukebox. It was Johnny Cash playing, Orange Blossom Special, that railroad rhythm.

‘It’s my dirty secret,’ I said. I looked around the bar. ‘Sorry about this place, but they’ve got music I understand. Is beer okay on duty?’

‘One won’t matter, in the circumstances,’ she said.

Once she had a drink, I nodded towards the speakers. ‘He always takes me home.’

‘Johnny Cash?’

‘My father spent nearly every spare minute he had listening to Johnny. I’m not sure I got it then, as a child, but now I just seem to have him playing all the time.’

‘Where is home? You’ve never said.’

‘Turners Fold, in Lancashire.’

‘That explains the accent,’ she said. ‘Don’t know it.’

‘Not many people do.’

‘Ever think about going back?’

‘Why do you think I live in Soho?’ I said. ‘It’s just about as far from home as I can get.’

‘That bad?’

I tugged at my lip.

I’d started as a journalist back home, but it had been all small-town news, lost-dog stories and job gloom. I’d come to London to get away from all that, taking a job as a staff writer with the London Star.

It had been fun at first, chasing around the city, my days filled with new sights and sounds, but it was hard work. The paper owned me. That was the deal, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If the paper wanted me to do something, I did it. And the paper wanted a lot, so I felt like I was always running, always trying to increase my by-lines, doing what I could to keep my stories elbowing themselves into the paper.

I lasted two years, but six months ago I’d given it up and turned freelance. The money was less certain, but it was my money, earned by my work, my sweat.

I shook my head. ‘No, it’s okay up there. But I like the city too much.’

‘A lonely place sometimes.’

‘Very lonely,’ I agreed. ‘You know, it seemed like when I stood still in Lancashire, people stopped to talk, asked me how I was. In London, they just push me out of the way.’

‘And steal your wallet at the same time.’

I laughed. ‘And what about you?’

‘Grew up in Pinner. So this is all I’ve known.’

‘You ever been up north?’

‘A week in the Lakes once, and a hen night in Blackpool.’

‘The best and the worst in two visits. You’ve done well.’

She laughed, her eyes twinkling. ‘How about you? You seem to have settled okay.’

‘No one settles in London. It moves too fast.’

‘So you started bugging off-duty police officers?’

I smiled at that, just about stopped a blush.

That’s how I had met Laura, trying to build up police sources, drinking in the pubs where the police hung out. I’d spotted Laura on the edge of a group of detectives. When it was her turn to buy the drinks, I got talking.

I’d tried the flirt at first, we were around the same age, but I got nowhere. She had a husband and a child, and she wasn’t going to risk any of that. So I gave it to her straight. If she wanted her cases to make the news, if she wanted to have some control over how they were told, she ought to use me.

And she did. I snapped her arrests, got the inside track on her cases. She told me that she used me to get her cases in the headlines. I told her that I was doing the same thing.

Laura looked around and I watched her eyes dance. I felt that spark of interest again. I watched her fingers wipe at the condensation on her glass, a gentle stroke. But then I felt a jolt when I looked down at her hand. Her wedding ring had gone.

When she looked back towards me, she pointed towards my laptop. ‘How’s the story?’

‘Slow. I might not file it,’ I said, but I was distracted, wondering what had happened to her marriage.

‘Can I read it?’

I shrugged. ‘Why not?’

Laura looked at the screen for a while and then turned back to me. ‘You write well. Why do you just work the crime stories?’

‘It’s a good life. No one owns me.’

‘Don’t you fancy the salary, nice and regular?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve been there.’ I lifted my bottle towards her. ‘You’re looking good. Family life looking after you?’

Laura’s toughness, that cop façade, was swept away by a blush.

‘Same as always,’ she replied. ‘Too much time at work, and then too much time hating my ex-husband.’

‘How long has he been an ex?’ I tried to sound innocent, a friendly enquiry, but it stumbled out all clumsy. I felt my pulse quicken as I asked.

‘Since I caught him with a probationer, except that she wasn’t wearing much of the uniform.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘Never marry a copper.’

I didn’t reply at first, but then we both started to say something and then stopped, grinning, like new lovers banging noses.

‘No, go on,’ I said.

She looked bashful for a few seconds, and then said, ‘I need your help, Jack, with information.’

That surprised me. Our relationship had a pattern. I reported crime. Laura told me about crime. It didn’t go the other way.

I nodded, curious. ‘Go on.’

‘We need to know about Dumas. We want to know about his lifestyle, his secrets, anything that could lead to a blackmail, or a murder.’

‘We all know everything there is to know about Dumas,’ I said. ‘You can’t open a paper without seeing him or his fiancée doing something newsworthy, like walking or talking.’

‘I don’t mean that rubbish. I mean the real stories, the ones that don’t get into the paper.’

I knew what Laura meant. The papers often held on to scandals when they got them, on the promise from worried agents that they’d get the best access to whichever celebrity it was. If a rival got hold of it, the story was run just to strike a blow at the competition.

‘I can make some calls, try and find something out, but this is quid pro quo.’

She held out her hands. ‘Name it.’

‘What did you find at the house?’

Laura stalled at that.

‘C’mon, Laura, the television had police swarming into a house just a few doors from mine.’

She looked at me guardedly. ‘This is off the record?’

I shrugged.

She sighed. ‘Estate agents, there for an appointment, both dead, with a sniper’s view of where Dumas queued for his last latte.’

I exhaled. ‘So you found where the shots came from?’

She nodded. ‘Looks that way.’

‘So you can trace who had the appointment?’

‘That’s the theory.’

‘How did they die?’

‘He died from a gunshot, point blank. The woman was strangled.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Unusual?’

It was Laura’s turn to shrug. In her career, she’d seen things I couldn’t even imagine.

‘So the shooter’s killing off the witnesses?’ I asked. ‘Why are you keeping it quiet?’

‘We’re not. We’re going public soon, but we wanted to do the forensic sweep first.’

I sat back. It sounded interesting, but I wasn’t sure it fitted my story.

‘What was Dumas doing there?’

‘That’, she replied, ‘is what we are trying to find out.’

‘Do you think it might have been just chance? You know, Dumas in the wrong place?’

‘Not sure. The bodies in the flat made it seem professional, planned, which is a lot of trouble for a random shooting. The shooter would just shoot, if it was random.’

‘So if it was a set-up, you should be able to find that out.’

Laura smiled. ‘Hey, you’re sharp!’

My eyes twinkled at her. I was just thinking about what else to ask, really just to keep her there, when she asked, ‘How quickly can you find anything out?’

When I looked uncertain, she said, ‘This is the golden hour, the time when any evidence has to be captured. We might get a lead in a few days, but any forensic evidence from the scene will be long gone by then.’

‘No pressure then.’

She smiled, and any resistance I had melted.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

And as I picked up my phone, she slid out of her seat. I was about to start dialling when she leant forward and I felt a soft peck on my cheek.

‘Thanks, Jack. It’s good to see you again. Call me as soon as you find something.’

I smiled, had to stop myself from putting my hand where the kiss had been.

‘You’ve got my number,’ I said. ‘Not just for work. Anything.’

It was her turn to blush, but I saw a glimmer of a smile as I watched her walk out.

David Watts was at the front of his apartment building, facing cameras and reporters. They had been outside there for a few hours, hungry for a quote.

‘I just want to say that I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good player. No, a great player – but above all of that, he was a good man, and football will miss him. I’ll miss him. I would like to express my condolences to his family, and I’m sure the footballing world is in deep mourning right now.’

And at that, he went back into his building. He didn’t feel good. His words sounded irrelevant when he thought about Dumas; just a token footnote. Dumas was dead. Who cared about his condolences?

When he got back to his apartment, he saw the parental look of his agent. She watched the press disappear from the window, and then turned back to the room.

‘That will get you good billing on the news, remind everyone that you’re the statesman of English football.’

He shook his head at her. Karen Klavan. She was a good agent, but she was one cold-hearted bitch. She looked like a pin-up, blonde hair and breasts like weapons, but he guessed that when she fucked, she did it with a motive, not a passion.

‘Someone died today, Karen. Doesn’t that mean anything?’

‘It means you get a chance to raise your profile.’ When she saw the look of disgust, she said, ‘You worry about Dumas, and I’ll worry about making you money.’

He would have smiled normally. Her directness gave her an edge in negotiations, but he wasn’t in the mood. And as he looked over to the billboards again, as he thought about the gossip magazines for sale in the shop just down the road, as he imagined all the children wandering around the country with his name on the back of their shirts, he reckoned his profile was pretty high already. He didn’t want to use Dumas’s death to raise it higher. The thought of it sickened him.

‘I think we should look respectful, take some time out,’ he said, his anger snapping the words out.

‘Yeah, yeah, that too, but look, I’ve got you a slot on breakfast television, to talk about Dumas. Is that okay? It won’t clash with your training.’

He shook his head. She made him money, but she made him mad as well.

‘I’ll end up tired at training.’

‘The country will forgive you if you’re jaded. In fact, they might be furious with you if you look bright and bubbly when you play.’

‘I take it Dumas wasn’t one of your clients.’

‘Can you hear me sobbing? No, he was with that prick Newcombe.’

And then she laughed.

Laughs didn’t come naturally to her, so when they came, they came loud and shrill.

‘He’ll be crying into his vodka tonight,’ she said, ignoring David’s look. When he didn’t respond, she said, ‘You’ll be picked up at five. Be up and ready, dressed soberly.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Oh, out and about. I’ve some new clients to see, so I’ll be away for a couple of days. I’ll keep in touch.’

‘If you leave it a bit longer, you’ll be able to dance on Dumas’s grave.’

She winked at him and then picked up her bag, not bothering with goodbye. She could tell he was angry. Worse than that, though, was the thought that she didn’t care. He was just an asset, and she had him tied into an agency agreement. He was twenty-eight, so he didn’t have too long left at the top. In a few years’ time, when some younger star started to grab the headlines and his hamstrings were ripped to hell, she’d shunt him off her books as quick as one of his crosses.

When the door clicked shut David turned back to the window, hoping that the view would make him forget about Karen Klavan. He knew she didn’t care about him. He wasn’t sure she cared about anybody.