Читать книгу FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White - Страница 18

THIRTEEN

I kept on walking, away from the triangle to the buildings just behind, to the Valley Post premises. It had been stone-built for the Wesleyan Society but then taken over by the Weavers Union, with church windows and steps that ran to the first floor, so that the ground floor seemed more like a basement. Wooden beams ran along the ceiling, and the ground floor still had the original York stone flags, thick and grey. It used to be in most of the houses, but if it wasn’t ripped out to modernise in the sixties, it was stolen by thieves whenever a house stood empty. The windows had their blinds down on one side. I remembered how the sun caused reflections on the computer screens as it came over to the west in late afternoon.

As I walked into the building, a buzzer went off, set to alert them that someone wanted to place an advert or buy a photograph. After a few seconds, a woman in her early thirties came to the small hatch, and it took a couple of seconds for my face to register.

‘Hey, Jack Garrett,’ she said eventually, ‘what you doing here? Come to pinch our big stories?’

She was joking, but I sensed it held barbed traces, maybe that I thought I was too big for the Fold. Maybe I did.

‘Hi Traci.’ She spelled it with an ‘i’. ‘How’s life treating you?’

She tilted her head in a flirt. ‘Oh, you know, same as ever. Come to work. Pay for childcare.’ She leant forward. ‘There’s been nothing nice to look at since you left.’

‘Maybe you scared them off. Is Tony around?’

She smiled and lifted up the gate on the corner. ‘Yeah, where he always is. Come through.’

I went through into the office and had another look at where my career had started. It was open plan, with clusters of desks splitting a big team into lots of smaller ones, the space broken only by large black iron pillars. I glanced over towards my old desk. It didn’t look like it had changed much. A few photographs had appeared on the desk, a young child and a dog, but other than that it was as if I had never left. I looked at the desk behind it, and I saw my old mentor, Tony Davies, tapping away on his keyboard. I recognised his head, huddled as it always was in front of the screen, the light from the monitor reflecting back off his baldness.

I nodded Traci away and then walked over to him. He was intent on finishing whatever he was doing, not looking up. It was only when I began to say hello to people as I went, and someone shouted, ‘Hey, big shot,’ that he looked up. As soon as he saw me, he grinned, that strange lopsided grin, a rugby match costing him his two front teeth many years ago, replaced with false ones, but his smile always looked like he still felt the impact.

He stood up and walked around his desk. I thought he was going to hug me, but he didn’t. He just stuck his hand out towards me, and when I shook he squeezed hard until my knuckles crackled.

‘Jack Garrett, good to see you.’ His deep voice sounded rich in the newsroom, as warm as ever.

I grinned back. ‘How you doing, Tony?’ I looked down at his jumper. Reindeers in spring. ‘Your dress sense hasn’t improved.’

He let go of my hand and tugged at his jumper. Maybe he was too old now to care, but he had worn bad jumpers for as long as I’d known him. ‘Hey, I like it. And how the hell are you? Sit down.’ He gestured towards my old desk.

I sat down in the old swivel chair, the smell and feel all too familiar, taking away my time in London as if I’d never left.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Working. I’m doing a feature on David Watts, because of these football shootings, trying to get the hometown angle. You know, simple northern lad in the big bad city.’

Tony nodded, whistling. ‘I can see the angle, but a feature. You must be doing something right.’

I shook my head. ‘I just liked the idea of coming home.’

‘Well, forget about coming back here because your job’s gone.’

‘It’s been over two years. Even I know that broken hearts mend. Who have they got?’

Tony looked past me and towards the other side of the room.

I looked round and saw someone coming towards me carrying two cups of coffee, a woman, I would guess in her early twenties, eyes concentrating downwards, making sure the coffee didn’t spill. Her hair was long and dark, falling in straight lines like a waterfall, running over her shoulders and down her back. Her skin was tanned, and even from a few feet away I could see eyelashes that curled upwards in long black flicks. When she got near the desk, she looked up and saw me, and I saw deep brown eyes twinkle with surprise.

‘Sorry, I’m in your seat,’ I said, getting up to give her the seat back.

‘Alice, this is Jack Garrett. He worked here before you started.’

Alice placed the cups down and smiled. ‘I know.’

That made me curious. I moved out of the way to let her take her seat, and I noticed how tall she was. I’m six feet tall, but Alice wasn’t much underneath that.

She must have seen me looking quizzical, so she said, ‘You went out with my sister.’

I shrugged. ‘That narrows it down, but not enough.’

‘I’m Alice McDermid.’

My eyes flashed wide and surprised. ‘You’re Megan’s sister?’

Alice grinned now, nodding. I looked her up and down, disbelieving. The last time I’d seen Alice, she was a gangly, clumsy girl not yet in her teens, and I was going out with her older sister.

‘It’s the Funfest again next month,’ she said quietly, her eyes dancing with mischief.

I blushed. I could feel it, my cheeks getting hot.

My first time was with Megan. We’d spent weeks talking about how special it was going to be, but in the end it had happened as an uncomfortable rush in the long grass at the Funfest, the annual Turners Fold fair. The day always ended with a folk festival, and while the town was dancing nearby, we slipped away into the grass at the edge, just where the lights from the stalls and rides wilted into darkness.

‘Fiddles and waltzers aren’t my thing any more,’ I stammered, trying to dismiss her. ‘How is Megan?’

‘She’s got two kids,’ she said, nodding at the photograph on the desk, ‘and a husband who works in insurance. Other than that, she hasn’t changed.’ She looked amused again. ‘And neither have you.’

I laughed. ‘You have. You were all, well…’

‘All legs and hair?’ Alice finished off.

‘Yeah, kind of. You’ve blossomed.’

At that, it was Alice’s turn to blush.

I heard Tony cough. It was intentional, an attempt to stop the conversation. I looked round and saw Tony’s eyebrows arched, amusement lighting his eyes.

‘Anything else I can do for you, Jack? Once you’ve put Alice down, that is.’

I looked back at Alice, then back at Tony. Then I remembered why I was back in Turners Fold.

‘There is something else.’

Tony raised his eyebrows.

‘I need to plunder the archives. I haven’t got long to submit this, so I just need the quick stuff, you know, the school football results, any articles from around that time, that kind of thing.’

Tony watched me for a while, and then asked, ‘How long are you in town for?’

‘A couple of days. Deadline is Friday at noon as it’s a feature. I’ll be trying for an interview with David on Thursday.’

‘So who else are you going to speak to?’

I scratched my nose and thought about it, realising that I wasn’t really sure. ‘I thought I’d start with his football coach, and then go on from there.’

Tony shook his head. ‘He died last year. Heart attack. David came back for the funeral.’

I exhaled.

‘If you want the stats, get on the internet,’ he continued. ‘Most of the high school stuff ends up on the web these days, and it will save you some time.’

‘And if I want more of the man than the player?’ I asked.

‘Get round the pubs,’ Tony suggested. ‘It’s the best place to interview people because they’re already loosened up. Fame is a seductive drug, so everyone will have some story that’s personal to them about David Watts.’

‘But what about your archives?’

Tony smiled. ‘You can for me, but you know how funny the boss is about the archives. We know where most of his stories are, because other papers call us from time to time wanting an old picture or article.’

I held my hands up in surrender. I remembered my old boss. He was good to work for, but he was very protective of the archived newspapers. They were a history of the town, and he wasn’t going to let just anyone spoil them.

I saw Tony snatch a glance at his watch. I spotted the time and I realised that the Post’s deadline was approaching. I knew Tony wasn’t being rude. The paper had to get out, and that was all that mattered.

‘I’ll move on,’ I said, giving a wave to Tony, nodding and smiling at Alice. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, to go through some back issues.’

Tony smiled. ‘Work late and put yourself about tonight. You might come in tomorrow knowing what you want.’

And with that, I left the Post building.

I made it around the triangle and back to my car. I knew I had to go to the old house. At least if I got it out of the way, I could get on with writing my article.

I got in the car and started it up, easing out into the street, no traffic to avoid, and slowly pointed it home.

David Watts was still at home when Johnny Nixon was shot, tuned into BBC News 24, waiting for the latest from the Dumas shooting. The apartment seemed quiet with Emma on the other side of the Atlantic somewhere. The traffic from Chelsea Bridge crept in through the open balcony door, mixed in with the sounds of the river cruises, but it didn’t disturb the calm.

He’d been for a run earlier in the day, but it had been a different kind of run. He usually ran in a cap, the visor pulled down, just enough to keep the recognition at bay until after he had passed. There had been no need today. He had noticed people staring, maybe wondering what he was thinking, but there had been no shouts or catcalls.

He had returned to the apartment, hoping it would be a respite, but he had become fidgety. The newsflash about Johnny Nixon stopped the fidgeting with a slam. Now he was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, the apartment shielded from the rest of the world by drawn blinds, watching the television news for updates.

Not much was coming through. He’d sat through repeated shots of the scene, now just crime-scene tape and litter.

David got up to pace around the room.

He knew there was no connection between Henri Dumas and Johnny Nixon. Dumas had been a clean-cut guy from Paris, urban and sophisticated. Nixon had been from Leeds, and even the transfer to Manchester hadn’t knocked the inner city out of him. He had played like he had spent all his life, fighting, and David had left games with him bruised and blue more than once. Nixon and Dumas hadn’t played together as far as he knew, and were unlikely friends. That made David nervous, because it could only mean one thing: that there was no connection. And that put him at risk. Any footballer who went out in public was at risk of getting his head shot at. And then there could be copycat shootings.

He turned round when he heard a sense of urgency in the broadcaster’s voice.

‘… and it does seem a breakthrough in the case.’

He stepped away from the window and sat down.

‘Thank you, John. And there you have it: the surprising news that the murderer of Henri Dumas might not be a madman after all, but a madwoman.’

David whistled.

‘In the sniper’s nest where two bodies were found, both bound, one shot at point-blank range through the head, the other strangled, hairs have been recovered from the tape that bound them. Those hairs are female hairs.’

David took a drink of beer. There were two men on the television. One was tanned and dark, the hair too dark to be natural for a man in his forties, looking warm in a grey suit, whereas the other one was much younger, blonde and relaxed in just a shirt, standing at the scene of the Dumas shooting, mostly back to normal, full of shoppers and ghouls, the cafe the only business still closed, the grey shutters bright with flowers from people Dumas had never met.

‘Well, this is turning into quite a story.’

David snapped off the television and walked towards the window. Is that what it was: just a story?

He tried to call his agent but all he got was the answering service. Where was she?

He watched the city beneath him for a few minutes and then turned back into the room. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. He had always won, no matter what the contest. High-school hero to Premiership superstar. However, all he could do with this one was sit it out, and he hated the sidelines.