FALLEN IDOLS

It was a shot into a bathroom, and Tom said that it was Dumas’s bathroom. It showed a shower cubicle, steam misting up the glass, and inside the shower was a woman. There was just over a minute of a woman standing under the showerhead, washing her hair or rinsing Dumas away.

The steam probably stopped her seeing Dumas with his phone in his hand, but it also stopped everyone else from seeing what she looked like. All Laura could tell was that she was tall, with long hair, light in colour.

Tom switched off the television.

‘We think that woman has something to do with Dumas’s murder.’ He started to pace, sensing how quiet the room had become. ‘The posed photographs were sent from a withheld number, the only ones on the phone that were. The movie files taken by Dumas have been given the file names London 1, London 2, and London3, so we know she’s local, but it seems like she has tried to keep her identity secret.’

‘Maybe she was shy?’ someone said, and everyone laughed, breaking the tension. She didn’t seem that shy.

Tom shook his head. ‘There’s something else.’ He picked up his piece of paper again. ‘We don’t know if they’re from the same person, but Dumas received a number of texts in the last few days, all from a withheld number.’ Tom looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘And one of them, sent four days ago, told him to meet her yesterday outside Cafe Boheme on Old Compton Street.’

A murmur spread around the room.

‘Does it say why?’ asked Laura.

‘The nearest hint we get is when he says no at first, and she answers back that either he goes public or she does.’

‘With what?’

Tom shrugged. ‘If we knew that, we’d be knocking on doors right now. But she says that if he meets her, they might be able to sort it out.’

Laura sighed. Blackmail, she thought. All of this for something as grubby as that.

Tom flicked the television back on. The picture of the naked woman flashed back onto the screen. ‘We need to find this woman urgently,’ and then he sighed, scratching his head. ‘Releasing her picture to the press is going to be tricky, though.’

Laughter rippled around the room.

Tom looked at Laura. ‘Your press contact could be crucial. Keep on him, find out what you can.’ He looked around. ‘Everyone else knows what they have to do.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And as for me, I’ve got a fiancée to visit.’

NINE (#u1d220fda-349c-55ef-a6a0-695b99a8a5f9)

I headed for Canary Wharf. The Docklands Light Railway twisted between the flyovers like a fairground ride, but I was able to avoid it, knowing that what I wanted wouldn’t be there.

I’d had a bad night’s sleep. My father’s phone call kept on waking me up.

No, that wasn’t true. It was the thought that I was avoiding him that had kept me awake; keeping a distance left me feeling empty. I remembered how long it had been. In the cold light of morning I wanted to see him. He was all the family I had left. And I thought I had found a way of doing it.

I walked along the Poplar High Street, bright and deserted. There were green spaces, tree-lined pavements, small parks, and quaint English pubs with window boxes and murky interiors.

But it didn’t feel quaint. It felt inner-city, with the street filled with local teenagers heading for the Tower Hamlets College, bouncing down an empty street. They were mainly black and Asian, all working hard for a better life. But it was the England flags I saw, hanging over balconies of crumbling flats like a last stand, scared, defiant, seeing a threat that wasn’t there, fighting the wrong fight. As I walked along, all the time I could see the towers of Canary Wharf, a glass island, the real threat, the real fight, swamping the skyline.

I was looking for Harry English, newsdesk editor of my old paper, the London Star. Even though his paper was based in Canary Wharf, I knew Harry hated it, from the shopping malls underneath the towers to the buzz of suits and smugness. Harry hated seeing neighbourhoods replaced by workplaces, saw it as a modernist scam, Metropolis with added latté.

I knew what he meant. It didn’t peter out, like most centres of commerce. It stopped abruptly as soon as it crossed into West India Quay, like it was scared of going into the real East End.

I turned quickly into a small back street just off the Poplar High Street and went into the Poplar Diner, a formica cafe serving full English all day, grease and fat at no extra cost. Dirty windows and a faded sign kept tourists away, although not many ventured into Tower Hamlets anyway.

As soon as I walked in, I saw Harry English. He was hard to miss. Six feet tall and twenty stone, the cafe slipped into darkness for a second whenever he came in through the door. He had been in London all his life, and I could see the pace and the fumes etched into his sallow skin. He ate in the Poplar Diner to avoid the chrome tables near his office. The Poplar Diner kept him in touch, or so he thought, and to edit the LondonStar he had to stay in touch.

I sat down next to him. There were newspapers spread all over the table, Harry checking how the previous day had gone. Every paper led with the Dumas shooting. Before I could say anything, he said, ‘We’ve got a full paper this week, so it will have to be good.’

I ordered a coffee to let him know I was there for a while. I only got one choice: milk or no milk.

‘How are you, Harry?’ I looked at his plate. Full English. I could guess the answer. ‘Didn’t fancy a croissant and Americano?’

He looked at me. His eyes were yellow, nicotine and dark clubs reflected back. ‘You’re not here for my health.’

I thought I heard a cough. I looked around Harry and groaned. It was Dan Jones, a small man with a big attitude from the sports desk. I hoped he heard the groan. I smiled at him, but it wasn’t meant to reach the eyes.

‘Still writing nil–nil every Saturday, Dan?’

Dan looked shocked so Harry stepped into the pause.

‘What do you want, Jack?’ he said tersely. I knew what it meant: he liked me but don’t annoy his staff.

‘I fancy a slow down for a few days,’ I said, nonplussed, ‘and so I wondered whether you’d want a feature from me.’

Harry wiped his mouth on a napkin. ‘What have you got?’

‘An angle on the Dumas shooting.’

Harry coughed. ‘Everyone’s got an angle. Have you seen today’s paper? There isn’t a page left for regular news. One shooting, and the people want it, bullet by bullet.’

‘And you give it to them, Harry. C’mon, it’s a big story, the biggest human drama since Jill Dando.’

‘Don’t I know it. I’ve had all the C-listers on the phone, trying to get their remorse onto the pages.’

‘Yeah, but it’s not just another shooting.’ It was Dan, his voice back. ‘I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good man.’

‘Yeah, you knew him,’ I interrupted, ‘but I’ll put ten quid on the table now that you won’t get a funeral invite.’

Harry tried not to smile, the corners of his mouth taking a small flick upwards. ‘What’s the feature, Jack?’ he asked.

I turned to Harry and said, ‘I just got to thinking last night how this shooting might be playing on a few players’ minds, you know, like it could have been them. It has made them vulnerable. Fame is an exposed and lonely place.’

Harry nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Which sports star in England sells the most magazines?’ ‘You know who it is: David Watts.’

I nodded. ‘Just like I thought. And a feature in your Sunday magazine about David Watts and the shooting will shift some units. The private effect on a public man. It will humanise the shooting and the footballers, make it more of a personal tragedy than a shock story.’

I heard Dan laugh. ‘What makes you think you can get under David’s skin?’ he said. ‘I’ve met him a few times. You’ve got to get to know him first.’

‘So the feature is worth a shot?’

Dan stopped laughing.

Harry lit a cigarette and then said, ‘Dan’s got a point. You don’t know him.’