Neil White - FALLEN IDOLS

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.