Kitabı oku: «FALLEN IDOLS»
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
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.
