Fallen Idols

NEIL WHITE

To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 2007

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollinsPublishers 2007

Copyright © Neil White 2007

Neil White asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

Extract from The Painter Man © Neil White 2007. This is taken from uncorrected material and does not necessarily reflect the final version.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

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Source ISBN: 978184756007

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007278923

Version: 2018-05-18

Contents

Cover Title Page Copyright Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Chapter Fifty-Eight Chapter Fifty-Nine Chapter One Chapter Two Acknowledgements About the Author About the Publisher

ONE

Sunny afternoons in London shouldn’t happen this way.

I was in Molly Moggs at the end of Old Compton Street, an intimate bar in theatreland, with rich burgundy walls and theatre bills on the ceiling. It was best when it was quiet, near enough to Soho for the buzz, far enough away from the noise.

But it wasn’t quiet. Theatre-luvvies mixed with the gay parade of Old Compton Street, packed into a small room, blowing smoke to keep out the fumes from the buses on Charing Cross Road, the noise of the engines mixing with the soft mutter of street life. The people crammed themselves in to get out of the heat. They just made it hotter.

I rubbed at my eyes. I could go home. I lived just a few grubby doors away, in a small flat that cost the same as a suburban house. But I liked it, the movement, the colour, part porno, part gangland. I glanced outside and saw tourists slide by, young European kids with rucksacks hunting in packs. A homeless woman, big coat, too many layers, walked up and down, shouting at passers-by. She looked sixty, was probably thirty-five.

My name is Jack Garrett and I’m a freelance reporter. I work the crime beat, so I spend the small hours listening to police scanners and chasing tip-offs. I hang around police bars and pick up the gossip, the rumours. Sometimes I get enough to write something big, maybe bring down a name or two, backed up by leaked documents and unnamed police sources. Most nights, though, I chase drug raids and hit and runs. Dawn over the rooftops is my rush hour, blue and clean, as I condense a night of grime into short columns, each one sent to the big London dailies. Some of the stories might make the second edition, but most make the next day’s paper, so I spend the mornings chasing updates. It’s grunt work, but it pays the rent.

I didn’t mind the night shift. I chased excitement, always one good tip from a front-page by-line. But the working week was like the city, fast and relentless, and it took the snap out of my skin and the shine from my eyes. I caught my reflection in a mirror and screwed up my nose. I could feel the night hanging around me like old smoke. My hair looked bad and my complexion was pale and drawn. My clothes looked how I felt, crumpled and worn.

I closed my eyes and let the sound of the bar wash over me. I needed a quiet day.

Sophie watched as Ben paced around the apartment. They were estate agents. It was all about sales and targets, and Ben seemed jittery. He was having a quiet month, but that just made him keener. Maybe the job wasn’t for her. He had a focus she struggled to match.

‘Ten minutes and we’re leaving,’ he said, snatching looks at his watch and then staring out of the window, down into Old Compton Street. ‘We’ve got three more after this.’ He looked round at Sophie, flashed a look up her body. She spotted it.

‘What’s the punter’s name, anyway?’ he asked.

Sophie glanced at her appointment checklist. ‘Paxman, it says here.’

He looked back out of the window. ‘Look at all this,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Did you know it was named after a churchgoer?’

‘What was?’

‘This street. Look at it. Fucking queers, blacks, foreigners. It’s just about sex, nothing more. Men looking for men.’

‘Give it a rest, Ben.’ God, she hated estate agents. Hated having to be one. She liked Ben even less.

She joined him at the window, tried to see his problem. The Three Greyhounds across the road was full of people. The black and white Tudor stripes looked too dark in the sunshine, but the tables were busy, the pavements full of movement, men laughing, smiling, flirting, all nations, all types. People drank coffee and were smoked out by delivery transits, cyclists weaving through. The apartment seemed quiet by comparison, empty of furniture, wooden blinds keeping out the sun.

‘It’s the only place in London where people seem like they’re smiling,’ she said, and turned away. ‘Maybe it’s a no-show.’

Ben turned round. ‘Oh, there’ll be a show. You know what it’s like around here. They’re all busting a gut to get a window over this. Fucking Queer Street.’

Sophie shook her head. He was a fool. Hated people. Maybe saw in them the things about himself he hated. But he could sell homes to people who didn’t like them for prices they couldn’t afford. Maybe it was the hate in him that helped him. And he would collect the pound, pink or not.

She was about to answer when the doorbell chimed.

Ben saluted. ‘Time to earn some money,’ he chirped, before skipping down the stairs to let the customer in.

When he returned, the buyer was on his shoulder, smartly dressed in a black suit, but nervous, twitchy, looking around, walking slowly. A large holdall clunked heavily as it was set down on the floor. The buyer took in the view from the window, the blinds clinking shut as Sophie exchanged shrugs with Ben. They had a weird one.

‘Isn’t it a great view?’ Ben said, with saccharine sincerity. ‘It makes this property a popular one. In fact, you’re the third one today.’

The buyer turned around, smiling. Maybe guessed the lie. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m sorry.’

Ben flashed a look of disappointment as the buyer rummaged in the bag, looking for paper to make some notes, words coming out as a distracted mumble.

But then Sophie sensed something was wrong when she saw Ben’s eyes grow wide. Then she heard him splutter, ‘What the fuck?’

‘Scream and I’ll shoot.’

It was said polite and slow, as if the buyer were making conversation.

Sophie looked. She saw two handguns, one in each hand, long and mean charcoal steel, pointing straight at their heads.

Henri Dumas walked quickly through Soho, baseball cap on his head, hiding behind Gucci sunglasses, dodging between the tight T-shirts, admiring glances, men on the hunt.

As one of the biggest football stars in the Premiership, it was hard to walk around. Autographs, photographs, shaking hands. He preferred his car, with its tinted privacy. He liked Soho even less. Streets came at him from all sides, dog-legged twists of neon and movement; he was always scared of being photographed looking into the wrong shop, the wrong bar.

He sensed the mutter as he walked past pavement cafes, past busy pubs, alleys, sex shops, clubs. Men smiled at him, tilted and flirted as he passed them. If he just kept walking, he could get there. Get away from the glare, the seediness.

He thought about turning back, but he knew he had to get to the meet. He thought about his fiancée, the other half of a new celebrity brand, millions in the making. She sang in a band, he played football, and the press loved them, the new golden couple. They bought their contrived paparazzi snaps, so-called secret pictures set up by his agent and rehearsed until the look was just right, and filled the column inches with every new style or story. The press loved his Gallic verve, his brooding dark eyes, strong jaw, flowing dark hair. Their engagement was great business. On his own, he kicked a football. Together, they dominated the glossies, every word they spoke worth something.

He checked his watch. He was going to be early. He didn’t like that, but he knew how the English liked to be on time. And if he didn’t get there, his life as a tabloid hero would be over. At least, in the way he’d known it.

He stepped up the pace.

Back at the apartment, Ben was facedown on the floor, his hands behind his back, his nose pressed against the cherry wood. His eyes were wide, his breaths hot and heavy. Sophie was astride his legs, binding his wrists with silver duct tape, tight and strong, her tears falling onto his back, hot and wet. There was a gun pressed hard into the back of her neck, the other one aimed at the back of Ben’s head.

Once she’d finished his bindings, Sophie looked round. She saw the muzzle of the gun and shrank back.

‘Get on the floor, face down.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ wailed Sophie, tears streaming down her face. She was scared, the sounds coming in fast, her instincts running faster.

The gun was pressed harder into Ben’s neck.

‘Sophie!’ he yelled, his voice quivering.

Sophie dropped her head, the tears now a stream.

The buyer put the other gun softly under Sophie’s chin and lifted it, her streaked face coming back into view. Sophie opened her eyes slowly, the sparkle gone.

‘Do as you are told or I’ll kill him.’

It was said calmly, almost gently.

Sophie nodded, understanding, and she felt leaden inside. She lay down on her stomach, felt the buyer sit astride her, and then her wrists were strapped together by the duct tape. She was pulled onto her knees, then Ben as well, the buyer panting, straining.

Sophie watched as the buyer picked up the duct tape once more and walked over to them. She knew what was coming, and so she dipped her head to her chest, vainly trying to get her mouth out of the way.

She shot a look as she heard Ben gasp, coughing in pain. The gun was pushed into his throat, lifting up his head slowly. Ben was gulping back tears, the buyer over him.

Sophie closed her eyes as Ben closed his, and then she heard the rip of the duct tape, heard Ben’s grunts as it was stretched over his face.

Sophie opened her eyes when she sensed the buyer standing over her. She glanced at Ben. He was red in the face, breathing hard, trying to get his lungs to catch up through his nose, his chest heaving, tears running over the silver tape. Sophie stared up at the buyer and then put her head back. The duct tape went over her mouth as well, but Sophie’s eyes stared hard, trying to show she was strong.

Sophie watched as the buyer wandered over to the window and checked the time. The light breeze fluttered around the apartment for a while, before the buyer stepped back from the window and removed a tripod from the bag, opening the legs out on the floor before pulling out a collection of rags which clunked heavily. As the rags were unfolded, Sophie saw the pieces of a rifle.

She closed her eyes and prayed as she listened to the rifle being assembled, the soft clicks joined by Ben’s deep breaths and the chatter and movement of Old Compton Street, the soundtrack to a glorious afternoon in Soho.

Henri Dumas looked around and checked his watch, a TAG Heuer. Five more minutes and then he was gone.

He saw people looking at him. He shuffled nervously. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Some kids across the road were staring at him, pushing each other, egging on one of their number to speak to him.

He checked his watch again. The kids started walking over the road, one of them being pushed to the front, camera in hand.

Shit. Not what he needed. He pulled out his phone.

The crowds didn’t hear the crack of the rifle. Neither did Dumas. He just felt the hot slice of the bullet and then went to his knees as it crashed through him. His breath caught, his hand went to his chest, the view of the street slammed into a blur, the neon and movement changed into rainbows, just streaks of colour as he turned. The crowd rushed back into his head, a loud murmur of concern as he bent over, trying to work out what the splash of red had been. It was by his feet, a tail of splashes that tracked his spin as he sank to his knees.

He took a breath but it didn’t come. A waiter started to come towards him. The kids had stopped in the road. Dumas looked up, confused. Why was he gasping? Why was he burning inside?

The waiter didn’t get there in time. The rumble of the crowd made way for the sound of the second shot, a loud crack, and then the people around him began to scream when his head shot back, away from the cafe, a spurt of blood spraying an arc in the air as he crumpled onto his back, coughing blood onto his cheeks.

Henri Dumas was dead before anyone reached him, his Penck phone tumbling from his hand, soiled silver against the grey of the pavement.

Sophie could hear feet banging on the floor, shuffling, scared, then she realised they were her own. She could hear the screams from outside, the sound of panic spreading, people trying to get off the street. She put her head back, began to moan. She glanced over at Ben. His eyes were wild, his breaths trying hard to keep up, the gag making his face go red. Her ears still rang from the shots. The first shot had bounced around the room until it seemed to come back at itself. Then the second shot had filled her head, and she knew from the way the buyer relaxed that what had needed doing was done.

Sophie began to sob, could feel herself shaking, her head back. All she could see now was the ceiling, brilliant white, flashes of blue getting brighter as the noise of sirens came in through the open window. She could hear footsteps, people running, some away from the shooting, some towards it.

Her breathing stopped as she felt the tip of the gun under her chin, turning her face towards Ben. A tear ran down her face until it rested on the dark muzzle. Sophie looked at Ben and saw terror in his eyes.

Ben was shuffling backwards to the wall. His shoulders were shaking as he sobbed. The buyer stepped over to him, then lifted his chin with the gun so that it was in front of Ben’s face.

‘Tears for you, or tears for her?’

The buyer stared down at him and then pulled at the tape around his mouth. Ben’s legs kicked in a silent scream of pain, the tape pulling hard on hairs, stretching his lips and taking soft flesh with it, flicking tiny drops of blood onto his chin. He looked down and grunted with pain, but it was cut short when the buyer thrust the gun into his mouth.

Ben didn’t have chance to even look up before the buyer pulled the trigger, Ben’s hair just blowing lightly where the bullet cut through on the way out of his head and into the wall behind. He slithered to the floor as blood began to gather around him.

Sophie tried to scream, tried to make the sound loud through the tape. It came out muffled, desperate. She felt the buyer grab at her shirt, her body jolted as the shirt was pulled open, the buttons scattered across the smooth wooden floor, spinning like dropped pennies. Her chest felt damp with sweat. She felt the muzzle run up and down her chest, cold and hard, and then nothing. When Sophie opened her eyes, she saw the gun, twitching in the buyer’s hand, inches from her. She looked up, into the eyes of her captor, saw cold blue, and then looked back to the gun.

Sophie sniffed back a tear, looked at Ben on the floor, saw the pool of blood gathering around his head, and then slowly lowered her head to the muzzle of the gun.

The buyer stepped back, surprised. Sophie looked up and then sat back. She closed her eyes and began to sob. She thought of her parents, wondered what they would do when they found out.

Her thoughts were cut short when she felt something go tight around her neck. It felt soft, silky, but it was pulled taut.

She gasped, her eyes wet with tears. Her chest choked for air, tried to gulp it down, but the airway was blocked by the tape, cut off by the silk. Her arms pulled at the tape on her wrists, tried to get free, tried to get to her neck, her survival instinct engaged, but the tape held firm.

Panic set in, made her thrash, but there was no escape. Her chest strained, she could feel her face burning red. She fought against it, but the room started to speckle monochrome as she tried to force air into her body. Her chest tried to burst; sound amplified, distorted, and then it began to fade, the room turning white.

The last sound she heard was her feet scuffling on the floor, louder than the sirens, louder than the screams outside.

Then she felt peace.

TWO

I was just finishing a beer when I heard the sound of footsteps outside, running, the sound of crying.

I looked round to the barman. He hadn’t seen anything, was too busy wiping glasses. I went to the door. People were running, looking shocked, hands over their mouths. I’d seen this once before, in 2005, on that awful July day, when Al Qaeda sent young men to the capital to blow themselves up and kill innocent people.

I grabbed someone’s arm, a young woman, chain-store clothes, her eyes scared and upset.

‘What’s happened?’

She stopped, bent double, panting. ‘Someone’s firing into the street.’

I looked back up the road. ‘Is anyone hurt?’

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

‘I saw a man on the floor, blood on his face.’

I turned away. I had all I needed. I didn’t wait to say goodbye, and when I looked back around, she had gone.

I thought I heard sirens. The Armed Response Team was on permanent standby in London and I wasn’t far from major terrorist targets. They would be here in no time and this would be as near as I would get. I saw it was getting busier ahead, the streets full of people getting away from the shooting. If there was anything in the story, the news agencies would get the official releases, the CCTV footage. I would have to feed on the scraps I could pick up here, something different. As I saw the crowd, the running, the panic, I knew I had the angle: the reaction of the people who had been there, the human story.

I pulled out my camera and set it to telephoto, squashing the spread of heads. As I took pictures, the tide kept on coming, some running, some walking. I saw a young family, a couple of children just under ten with an anxious young mother. She was panting, shaking, clutching her children tight. I got some pictures of the children. The first rule of journalism: always get the children.

All the time, their mother was talking. ‘We were just shopping, you know, just walking around. People around us ducked, like out of instinct, then there was a second shot.’ She waved her hand in the air, breaths short and panicky. ‘Then people started running.’ The woman straightened herself as if to emphasise her point. ‘Someone was shooting into the street.’

I tried to concentrate on the children, but all the time I was making mental notes of what she was saying. She had tears in her eyes when she said, ‘… and what about my children? A daytrip to town isn’t supposed to happen like that.’

I blinked. There was my line. I thanked her and set off again.

I didn’t get far before I realised how close I was to it. I could see the bob of police helmets, silver glints reflecting sunlight. They were pushing people back, away from the scene. The crowd was getting thicker, but as I pushed I was able to get to the door of my apartment building, not much more than a door squeezed between two shops. I ducked inside and rushed upstairs.

As soon as I got in, I went to the window. I could see a crowd of police around a man on his back. There was a dark patch on the pavement next to him, spreading into the cracks. He had his arms by his side, a funeral pose. He was in front of the Cafe Boheme, green awnings keeping the inside in shade, but I could see frightened faces looking out. Soho had always been a brave place, always done its own thing. This was the outside coming in, and people looked scared.

I lined up the body in my viewfinder, ready to start clicking, when I paused. There was something about the face which was familiar. I zoomed in, and when I did, I felt my hands go slick. I had something big.

I zoomed in close on his shattered head, his face blood-red, his cheeks sinking, hollow. I pulled back to put it into context, the deserted pavement littered with a body, napkins blowing against his ankles. I saw the faces in the Cafe Boheme looking at me, half of them hating me, the rest looking for an answer. I didn’t have one.

I heard a shout from the street below my window. I recognised it straight away. It was the police. My dad was a policeman, up in the frozen north. One thing he always told me was that if a policeman shouts at you to stop, you make sure you stop, because he’ll only ask once. And I knew I couldn’t get busy with my hands. I didn’t know if the armed unit had arrived yet, but they were only human. They would only get a pinprick of time to decide if the shine in my hands was a gun. If they decided wrong, I’d be dead.

I relaxed and looked down, nice and slow, my camera now slack in my hand.

‘Jack Garrett,’ I shouted. ‘I’m a reporter, freelance. I live here.’

As I held out the camera, I saw the policeman relax.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How long have you been taking pictures?’

‘Not long enough to help. How is it over there?’

He didn’t say much, and I could tell he was unsure. Was I the shooter? He didn’t know. He was young, maybe younger than my own thirty-two. ‘Quiet,’ was all he said.

‘Have you got the shooter hemmed in?’

He smiled warily. ‘This is turning into an interview.’

I smiled back, wider, more teeth. ‘Oh, come on, officer. It’s all going to come out.’

He looked like he was going to start talking, like he was fighting an urge to help, to tell a story, but the conversation was broken up by the chop-chop of a news helicopter buzzing the scene for footage. We both looked up, but when I looked down again he had straightened himself, set his pose.

‘Vultures, aren’t they,’ he said, flicking his eyes to the sky.

I shrugged. ‘Freedom of speech,’ I said, giving it one last try. ‘It’s a human right.’

‘And so is the right to silence,’ he replied, and then turned away.

I said nothing. I just wanted to keep my camera, not have it seized as evidence. I knew what was on there was valuable. The encounter with the policeman was already part of the story.

I looked at the pictures I had taken, I knew I was right. There it was, a small splash of colour on the back screen of my camera, the biggest story of the week. I zoomed in, just to make sure, but I knew. I had recognised the body as soon as I had seen it. Henri Dumas, the Premiership’s top scorer, last seen wearing the big money blue.

I was stunned, too surprised to do anything at first. I took a deep breath and rubbed my eyes, weighing up the need for sleep against the need for the big story. I was freelance. I could go to bed, or have another beer. Let the big guys have their day.

I smiled to myself. Maybe it was my turn for the big time.

Turners Fold, Lancashire, is a small slate town on the edge of the Pennines, an industrial template, surrounded by scrap grass hills and the shadow of Pendle Hill, green at the base, bracken brown at the top, barren, always dark with cloud.

Turners Fold, ‘the Fold’ to the locals, is typically northern: tough, proud, and hard-working. The colour is dark. The grass around it grows short and clings to the hills like stubble, broken only by grey stone walls. The towns and villages are all close by, but the hills intervene, and at night they sit like shadows, topped by the orange glow from the next town.

Like most mill towns, there was nothing before cotton. It breathed life into the town, built its buildings, shaped its people.

But it made the people tough, smothered the town in smoke and scarred the green hills in strips of terraced housing, lined up like computer memory, gutters zigzagging like saw-teeth, doors and windows right onto the streets, dots and bumps in the smooth lines. Cotton owned the town and owned the people, gave them a living, a bond.

The mills have gone now, the land left behind filled with prefab community centres and self-assembly superstores. Some tall chimneys are left, redbrick, out of keeping with the blackened millstone grit that makes up most of the town, reminders of what had once been. A canal runs through the centre, low metal bridges connecting the two sides of the town, weekend barges now the visitors. A hundred years ago the children went to work, their nimble hands good for the machines. Now, they hang around in packs, their faces hidden, living off cheap lager and stolen diazepam.

Just as cotton built the houses, the cotton kings sought a legacy in the civic buildings in the small triangular centre of town, large and impressive against the strips of Victorian shopfronts, dusty and dark, faded glory fighting against the superstores in the next town. Banks, pubs and estate agents cluster around the triangle, spilling onto nearby streets, spreading out like the points on a compass. In the middle of it all is the Horrocks clock, black and white face on a tall stone monument, hemmed in by the town hall and the old Post Office, just by the cobbled town triangle.

The Swan Inn was humming nicely nearby. The name didn’t fit. It had neither grace nor beauty, it was just somewhere for the daytime crowd of never-worked and laid-off to swap stories and hide away. The whole place smelled of old smoke and spilled ale, the varnish on the small round tables cracked like veins and covered in white rings. A large screen hung from the ceiling at one end and there was a pool table at the other.

Two men were sitting on stools by the bar. They were just passing time, swapping tales over warm beer, watching the landlord prop up the bar in the other room, the snug, kept away from them by the wooden partition with stained-glass edges.

One of the men was Bob Garrett, the best policeman in Turners Fold never to be promoted. Middle-aged, his back not quite as straight as maybe it once was, the hair not quite as full either and scattered with grey. But there was a sharpness about him, like he could sense what was going on around him, a stern calm, the eyes brooding and mean. His jaw was set firm, no slack-jawed gum-chew.

He’d looked after the townspeople for twenty years, joined up after walking away from a lower-division football career to spend more time with his young wife and even younger son. He made new drinkers twitchy, drinking on the way home in his black trousers and white shirt, the creases and stiff collar marking him out, but when he was off-duty he was done with judging.

He looked up when he heard a shout.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

It was the landlord.

‘Somebody’s shot Dumas! Look, look! Henri Dumas, he’s fucking dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

The landlord pointed excitedly at the television, permanently tuned to a sports channel, his stomach quivering with excitement, the sign of too long in the job. The drinkers in the bar shuffled towards the screen, the intermittent barks of conversation hushed into silence.

‘Look at the news. Someone’s shot Dumas.’

‘What? Henri Dumas?’ asked an old man, looking up from his copy of the Valley Post.

‘Is there another? Someone has killed him.’ The landlord reached for the remote to turn up the volume and then grabbed a glass without looking to pour himself a beer, the bitter all tumbling froth.

There was the sound of glasses being put down and then a respectful silence as the latest news from London echoed around the bar. Bob Garrett stared in disbelief.

The landlord walked away, his beer settling in the glass, shouting his opinion as he went. Foreign players. Bring nothing but trouble. Someone shouted that maybe he took a dive. The bulletin soon gave way for a Gillette commercial and everyone drifted back to their space. Bob Garrett watched them all go and then turned back to the television, wondering what sort of world lets people shrug off someone being killed in cold blood.

It didn’t take him long to realise that he didn’t have the answer, so he turned back to his drink. He looked around as he lifted the glass. The news had been a break in the day, nothing more.

THREE

It was quiet when Laura McGanity walked towards the corner of Old Compton Street and Greek Street. She could see the small huddle of people around a cafe table: a police photographer, the owner, a mini-flock of detectives, all looking at the floor. They were all grim-faced and quiet, and she knew what they were thinking: that they had met their idol, close enough to touch, but that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, stood in a flak jacket and protective helmet in a stone-cold empty street, blood at their feet.

There were a few detectives walking with her, the extra hands drafted in to help out. Laura was moving slowly, looking around her, trying to get a feel for where the shots might have come from.

‘What do you think? Evidence collection or a vigil?’

Laura looked towards the voice. It was a young officer she had never met. She looked back to the scene ahead. She could see the photographer getting busy around the bloodstains, a compass on the floor, with a ruler setting the scene for scale. The long-range shots had already been taken, the tourist snaps, a collection of views along a trendy London street. Now he was down to the money shots, the stained pavement under a green awning.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Both, I suppose.’

They ducked under the crime-scene tape. The detectives exchanged smiles and nods, businesslike.

‘Detective Constable McGanity. Glad you could join us.’ It was one of the detectives, a young star on the rise. He glanced at his inspector as he spoke, looking for points.

Laura smiled. It wasn’t how she felt, but the only defence she had was to look unbeaten. She knew what the other detectives thought of her. Token woman. Keep the politicos happy. A drain. Too wrapped up in childcare to do her job properly.

‘Sorry, John, but I got held up finishing the jobs you couldn’t manage.’

‘Not today.’ It was her inspector, Tom Clemens, a grizzly detective, known for his growls. He said it quietly, but everyone around him knew that he meant it. He was getting older, his stomach growing over his waistband, and what hair he had left was now grey and whisker-short. But every young detective wanted to end up like him.

Laura pulled at her shirt collar, throwing a warm breeze down the front of her flak jacket. Hot days in London just hang there, the heat swirled by traffic, disappearing only at night. She always thought that body armour must have been tested in December, because it wasn’t made for days like this one.

She kept looking down as the detectives were briefed, and then they set off in their pairs, intent and thoughtful, leaving her behind.

She looked up when her inspector addressed her.

‘What are they saying on the news?’ he asked.

Laura shook her head. ‘I don’t know. We’ve maybe got a few hours of shock before we get grilled.’ She looked around. ‘So what have we got?’

‘Not much,’ he answered. ‘We’re going door-to-door, trying to find where the shots came from. But it’s a slow job. If the shooter is still out there, he’s going to be waiting a long time for the knock on the door.’

‘He’s gone,’ said Laura simply. ‘Joined the crowds, headed back into town.’

‘I know that, but I’m not going to risk being wrong.’ Tom looked down at the bloodstains, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what Dumas did to deserve this, but he’s upset someone.’

‘Where do you think the shots came from?’

He nodded away from the Cafe Boheme, towards Charing Cross Road, past the bars and cafes, Ed’s Diner, neon Americana squeezed into a corner plot. ‘The guess is somewhere over there. The people sitting outside looked instinctively one way when they heard the first shot.’ He looked back down at the floor. ‘It gets him in the right side of his chest as he’s standing. When he took the second shot, the one to the head, he had spun around, clenched up, looking into the cafe. His head snapped backwards like he’d taken the blow from the front, from inside the cafe. The people nearest to him ducked and looked that way, and that’s when the scramble around the tables started. But I think that was just instinct, going from what they saw, and no one has reported seeing the gunman in the cafe. If he’d been nearby, somebody would have seen him, without any doubt.’

‘No grassy knoll.’

He nodded. ‘One gun, two shots.’

Laura smiled. She guessed there’d be a conspiracy website online within twenty-four hours, but Laura was aware that a bullet does strange things to a head. The bullet pushes the blood out, so it can force the blood and brains out of the exit wound like a jet spray. And Laura knew that a pressure hose kicked backwards, not forwards.

Tom raised his eyes upwards. ‘We just need to know where they came from.’

Laura looked around, chewing her lip. There were five exit routes for the shooter and apartments above most of the shops and bars. Laura noticed For Sale signs, meaning empty properties. The best place to start.

‘What theories are we working on?’ she asked.

He sighed. ‘Right now, we don’t have one. Likely some crackpot did this, just for the attention. But we’re going to look into Dumas, see if he has any secrets. We’ll look at drugs, women, money, gambling, but I’m not convinced.’

‘Why not? Drugs and gambling follow fame like a best friend. You get drugs and gambling, you get bad people chasing debts.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Too much chance. This involved planning. How did anyone know Dumas would be here? My guess is that it was a gay thing, you know, like targeting anyone down here. Just seems that Dumas was in the wrong place.’

Laura looked at her inspector. She could see his forehead glistening with sweat. It was a simple shooting but she detected a fear, like he knew that whatever happened from now on would be crawled over by every hack in the land, breakfast news for the masses.

‘Maybe the gay thing was about Dumas,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m only guessing, but maybe it was some kind of violent outing. You read the papers. A few thousand men play football for money in this country, and maybe one, possibly two, have come out. There must be more gay footballers out there. Why not Dumas?’

‘Have you seen his fiancée?’ Tom said, knowing nearly everyone had seen virtually all of his fiancée, glamour shots and daily updates keeping the tabloids in business.

‘Of course I’ve seen his fiancée,’ she said. ‘I’m just saying keep an open mind.’

‘If you’re going to kill a football star,’ he said, ‘you do it properly. He’s got the money to get security, so you make it one hit, one shot, guaranteed no cock-ups.’ He wiped his forehead. ‘It will be some nutter. It always is.’

‘I made some calls before I came out,’ said Laura. ‘To Drugs, Vice. No one’s threatened Dumas and he isn’t known to us.’ When there was no answer, she asked, ‘What next? Just try and work out where the shooter was first, to see what’s there?’

‘We’ve got people going round all the businesses, seizing any CCTV footage. Got any better ideas?’

Laura looked at the floor again. She guessed not.

‘We need to catch this bastard,’ he said.

Laura nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, I know, and we will.’

As he turned away, Laura saw the other detectives glaring at her. She knew their problem: her inspector liked her, but she hadn’t put in the hours crawling up his arse.

She smiled at them, wondering when they would ever work out the connection.

She was about to walk away, get some space to think, when she saw a uniform heading towards her. As he got up to her, he said, ‘There’s been a call from an estate agent. Two of their staff were meeting a client here, and they haven’t been heard from since. They’ve missed two viewings.’

‘What was the address?’

The uniform looked around and pointed. ‘In that building there.’

As Laura followed his finger to the flats above the shops, she saw a window open just at the bottom. She turned around and followed the line of sight, saw how it looked straight down to where Dumas had been shot.

‘At least we might have solved that part of it,’ she said, and then shouted to her inspector.

I could see the media camp, kept back by crime-scene tape. They were further than I was from the scene, kept right back on Charing Cross Road, a tangle of cameras, tripods and boom microphones. With so much media around it was going to be a tough day for the freelancer. I could see the glare of spotlights as the television people filmed their updates, but there’d be little to report until the police were finished.

So, if there’s nothing going on, report the press watching nothing happening. I framed the collection of cameras and frustrated reporters against the luminous jackets of the police manning the tape. I ran off ten shots and then looked towards the crime scene. I wondered about the shooting, as if the answer might be pasted on a hoarding somewhere. I wondered about a crazed fan. I remembered queuing for an age in a February snowstorm a couple of years earlier for a signed autobiography of some England player I had once admired. An age in the snow for a ghost-written collection of anecdotes, a shake of the hand, and a rushed scrawl on the inside cover. How far was it from that to this?

I shut my eyes for a second and let the sounds drift in. I could hear sirens and car horns, movement from the streets nearby, the cordon choking up traffic for a mile all around, but nearer to me I sensed just anticipation, a poised stillness. It seemed strange to have that calm enveloping me. It didn’t seem like the city.

I needed a break. I looked around again. The tale of Henri Dumas would dominate the papers for the next week. There’d be no space for my hard-luck tales from the gutters of old London town.

I was about to sit down when I noticed that there were more police officers than before. I zoomed in on a group of people around a table, their hands on their hips, talking intently. I zoomed in more, just to make sure. When I had confirmed it to myself, I smiled. I didn’t need to stay up to get the story. It had just come to me.

FOUR

David Watts walked into his flat and paused to look in the mirror. He felt tired, still torn up by the Henri Dumas shooting. His eyes looked red.

He turned away and walked into the kitchen, going to the fridge to pull out a beer. The cap snapped off with a pop. At least he was alive.

He looked out of his window, his apartment on the top floor of a complex overlooking Chelsea Bridge, a glass and cedar block sandwiched between two bridges, with wooden boards lining a chrome balcony and sunshine streaming inside through large glass panels. The lucky ones get the Thames, the light. The others get Battersea Power Station.

David Watts, midfielder, the biggest football star in England. He had been on the other side of the city, at the training ground, when the news broke about Henri Dumas. The changing room was in shock when he left, queuing for the television cameras to make their feelings public. David hadn’t done that. He couldn’t find words for himself, so he wasn’t going to try for the cameras.

As he looked away from the river, he saw billboards, his own face gleaming back at him, the face of a new razor campaign. His trademark stubble was shaved on one half of his face, pink and clean, the other side dark and rough. On the hoarding next to him was Dumas, advertising sportswear with moody looks into the camera. He felt his stomach turn. He had met Dumas countless times, at award ceremonies, photo shoots, charity events. They had even gone drinking together after a game. Henri Dumas had been a good man.

He turned on the television, flicking through to Sky News, to footage of an armed police unit storming a building, shot from the news helicopter. Things were happening.

David turned round when he heard footsteps. He saw Emma standing there, dressed in one of his shirts, running a towel over her long hair.

‘I didn’t know you were around today,’ he said. He should have been pleased to see her, but the news about Dumas had left him feeling empty.

Emma smiled, her eyes full of regret. She walked over to him and put her arms around his chest. Her wet hair made a dark patch on his clothes. ‘I thought I had some time off and I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘I don’t.’

She sighed. ‘One of the girls has called in sick, so I can’t stay.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m on the overnight to JFK, so I need to be back at Heathrow for six. I should get a quick turnaround though, so maybe I’ll only be gone for a couple of days.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘Too long.’

She squeezed him and then pulled away.

David turned back round to the window, looking out over the river. Everything looked so perfect. He could see the trees of Battersea Park. The Thames slid past, moving slowly, catching sparkles of sunshine as it went.

Emma, the air stewardess. They’d met a few months earlier. She’d walked into a bar in her uniform, pulling a small black case behind her, cool and distant, that airline arrogance, smart and made-up, with a long, athletic body and trailing blonde hair. Most of all, she seemed unimpressed by his fame. That had been the attraction. He was young, good-looking and famous, and so he had done the easy sex circuit. But Emma had reminded him of how much he enjoyed the chase. He was a winner, and to win there has to be a contest.

‘I suppose you heard,’ said David.

Emma stopped drying her hair and put down her towel. ‘I heard.’

He exhaled and roughed-up his hair. ‘He was a decent bloke, you know, a good player.’ He bent down to put his beer on a table and then leant against the window.

‘What happens now?’ asked Emma.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a minute’s silence on Saturday. They can’t cancel games; the season’s just started.’

‘Do you think you should play?’

‘No reason why not.’

‘Is it worth getting shot over?’

David bristled at that. He knew what the ‘it’ was. It was football. Just a game. David is paid for playing a game. He had heard that before, too many times.

‘It’s not about what’s worth getting shot over,’ David responded, his irritation showing. ‘It’s about me doing my job well. And that job gets me all of this.’ He waved his hand around the apartment, every room filled with designer furniture, every window looking out on one of the most expensive views in the city.

‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’

‘You got that right.’ He sighed, not wanting to argue. ‘Look, Emma, it’s a business, not a game.’

‘Should it be?’

David turned back to the window and picked up his beer, looking back down to the river. ‘No, maybe not.’

He sounded rueful. He remembered his childhood, when football wasn’t about money. It was about muddy shirts and the feel of the grass beneath your boots. Messing around with your friends, Saturday morning kickabouts, swapping cards.

‘If they cancel the games, come to my parents. They would love to meet you. My dad’s got a new boat and he’ll want to show it off.’

David nodded. ‘Maybe it’s time to say hello.’

He stayed by the window for a while, and then he turned around as Emma began to get ready, watching her shrug off his shirt so that she was naked. He turned back to the window. That’s what he’d miss when she was gone for a couple of days.

But then she’d be back and he’d get on a bus to the next away game, maybe a plane to Europe. That was their life. He played football. Emma flew around the world. When they connected, they made sparks, but most of the time it felt like they’d hardly met.

Most of all, he liked her because she was so unlike all the other players’ wives and girlfriends, who were greedy and predatory, all with a hunger in their eyes that frightened him. And it used to be just about money. Now it was a route to their own fame.

He looked out of the window and drank his beer. Emma was different. She avoided publicity. Didn’t ask for money. Hadn’t done a magazine shoot.

Maybe that’s why he liked her.

Laura was one of the first into the flat, Tom just behind her. When she saw the bodies, she stopped. She didn’t need to get any nearer to know that they were dead.

She stepped back out of the flat and blocked the way in. ‘We’re too late. Save it for crime scenes.’

Tom sighed and turned around, pushing police officers away, asking for someone to get the photographer. When he turned back into the flat, he said, ‘We can presume this is the place, can’t we?’

Laura nodded. ‘If we can’t, it’s been a busy day in Soho.’

There were two people, a male and a female, both smart in suits. Except that one had a pool of blood around his head, gravity doing the job that the heart had stopped doing, and the other hadn’t moved for some time, despite the open eyes.

‘Is it some kind of suicide thing?’ he said, looking back into the room. ‘He shoots Dumas, strangles the girl, and then turns the gun on himself?’

Laura peered into the gloom, tried to see the detail of the scene at the other end of the room. ‘Unless he could do it with his hands tied behind his back, I doubt it.’

Tom looked back into the room and then looked down.

‘Shit. Three murders in one afternoon. Looks like we better cancel everyone’s leave for a few weeks.’

Laura sighed to herself. Her parents’ goodwill was stretched already by her childcare needs, her ex-husband regarding that as her job to arrange. ‘Have we spoken to the estate agency yet?’ she asked.

Tom looked up. ‘Someone’s on the way there now. Appointment made in the name of Paxman, but nothing else. Done over the phone. That’s why there were two here, just in case.’

‘Do you get a bad feeling about today?’

He nodded. ‘Very.’

Laura was about to say something else when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. It was a text, a simple message, two words: ‘call me’. It was from Jack Garrett. She stopped the smile which started when she saw his name. She hadn’t heard from him in months. He would have to wait.

She checked her watch and realised how late the day was going to get. She caught Tom looking and she cursed to herself.

‘Kids?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘Police life. They understand.’

He nodded. ‘If you need to go, Laura, you need to go. Maybe you’re the one who’s got it right.’

Laura said nothing; just cursed some more and then snapped open her phone. She knew straight away what he was getting at. This will be a long haul. If you don’t have the time, step aside.

But then she thought of something.

‘There is one body of people who might know all about Dumas,’ she said.

Tom nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘The press. They’ll have all his secrets,’ and as Tom began to smile, she pressed the call button.

I smiled when my phone rang. I knew Laura would call. She always did.

I tried hard to hide the skip in my voice.

‘Hello, detective. Fancy hearing from you today.’

‘Jack, you know I’m busy.’

‘Detective McGanity, why on earth do you think I’m calling?’

‘Look, Jack, I can’t talk right now. There’s too much going on.’

‘When?’

I heard her sigh.

‘Where are you?’

‘In my apartment, a few doors down from where you are.’ I lowered my voice. ‘What’s in that building? Quite a crowd went in there a few minutes ago.’

‘I can’t disclose any secrets, Jack, you know that.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘We could meet up. I haven’t seen you for a while. It’ll be good to catch up.’

I was suspicious. It looked hectic out there, and Laura wanted to pass the time.

But then I thought about Laura, and I remembered how I felt whenever we met up, and I knew I would go. And what could I have that she needed?

I had a quick look round my flat. There were dishes to be washed on the drainer and too many magazines to pick up if she came to me.

‘Do you know The Pearlie Queen?’ It was a cockney theme pub, almost like satire, with a piano in the corner and a dark wooden snug. More importantly, it would be just behind the media lines. ‘I can meet you there. How soon?’

‘Ten minutes. I’m due for a break.’

I felt myself grin. ‘Okay, ten minutes. I look forward to seeing you.’

And then I hung up.

I was surprised she had agreed to meet me so quickly, but I found myself unable to say no. I felt that creeping flutter in my stomach whenever I thought of her.

I checked my hair. I needed to get there first.

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.

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