Neil White - FALLEN IDOLS

NEIL WHITE

To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph

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 HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 2007

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Publishers 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

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Source ISBN: 978184756007

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007278923

Version: 2018-05-18

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.