FALLEN IDOLS

‘I know him better than you might think,’ I said. ‘David Watts, the private man, I mean.’

‘How so?’

I took a breath. This was it. The final pitch.

‘We’re from the same small town in Lancashire,’ I said, and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know David Watts, but I know people who knew him really well. And these are real people, not football groupies.’ My eyes glanced at Dan when I said it.

‘What, Turners Fold?’ said Dan dismissively. ‘A dead-end mill town full of cousin-fuckers.’

‘Turners Fold, Lancashire,’ I continued, ignoring Dan. ‘He was the local football star who went to a World Cup. He’s a local hero. Anything he does makes the local front pages. I don’t know David Watts, I’ll admit that. We’re no blood brothers or secret cousins or anything. But his family are well-known around town, and he’s only a few years younger than me. We learnt to smoke in the same places, rode across the same fields, went to school discos in the same school hall. Even played football in the same school strip. If you want the real David Watts, you’ll need to go to Turners Fold.’

Harry let smoke trickle over his lip. ‘Do you think you can get enough on him in the next couple of days to go into an interview with him?’

I nodded, trying not to smile.

‘Exclusive?’

I nodded again. ‘If you’ll run it, it’s all yours.’

Harry smoked some more. ‘Okay, Jack. Get under his skin. Let’s have the hometown David Watts. Let him know where you’re coming from and see if he’ll open up.’ He turned to Dan. ‘And you lend Jack your biographies and contact numbers.’

I looked at Dan. I thought he was going to hit me. His kiss-ass breakfast was blown away. He wiped his mouth, threw his napkin onto the counter, and headed off to the toilet. I wrote my email address on it.

I watched him go, and as soon as the door closed, I leant into Harry.

‘There’s something else, Harry, now that your monkey’s gone.’

He looked at me, his curiosity piqued, his fork going down for the first time.

‘I’ve got a good contact in the murder squad for Dumas,’ I said. ‘She’s willing to feed me with information provided that I do the same for her.’

‘What have you got for her?’

‘That depends on you.’

‘Go on.’

‘The police need to know about Dumas’s private life, and not the shit you print. The real private life. Does he have any dark secrets?’

Harry laughed. ‘They all have dark secrets. Most are just thick kids with good feet when they first start out. We would have won the World Cup five times over if they could learn to stay in a bit more.’

‘But what about Dumas?’

‘What’s in it for the Star?’

‘I’ll feed you what I get, if you can find things out for me. Just don’t tell little Dan, because he’ll worry about Dumas’s memory being tainted.’

‘Leave that little prick to me.’ He paused, and then thought about the little things he had heard. ‘There was one thing. He was a randy little bastard, and she was about the same. It just seemed like it was never with each other. And that’s the trouble with these footballers. Have you ever met a footballer’s wife or girlfriend?’

I shook my head.

‘The most ruthless set of bitches you’ll ever meet. They target their man, and they get him, and then every pound that goes with him. They talk dirty, act dirty, promise dirty, and they look as good as any young man could want.’ He shook his head. ‘The poor bastards never stand a chance.’

‘But it was different for Dumas,’ I said. ‘His fiancée was already famous when they got engaged.’

‘And a hell of a lot more famous afterwards. I reckon she locked onto his career value, and he couldn’t find a way out of it.’

‘Anything else about him? Any darker secrets?’

Harry shook his head. ‘I’ll ask around and let you know if I hear anything.’

I thanked him and stood up to go. I had what I’d gone there for.

Harry’s voice stopped me. ‘One more thing, Jack.’

I turned around and I saw Harry had a slight smile just creasing his cheeks.

‘Yeah?’

‘You speak to whoever you think will give you the best story, but keep in mind that we want it quick. We’ll be back to tits and bingo after the weekend.’

I nodded gravely, thanking Harry, and then left the Poplar Diner, stepping back into London. Yesterday, the city had lost one of its sons. Now I was going back to Lancashire. More than that, I was going home.

Then I remembered Laura, and I remembered the thrill of her from the night before. It seemed flatter now, a good sleep and then the morning casting a different light over how I felt. My father had taken the shine out of that. And I realised now how little I could help her. I had made contact with the people I could trust to help me, but all I could do was wait. I looked at my phone. Three missed calls.

I would give her a call when I got home, just to let her know that I would get in touch if I heard anything. I would keep plugging, just for her, but I wondered whether my moment had slipped by. There wasn’t much to tell her, and now I was writing a different story.

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

She was strumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she entered Manchester, drumrolling to the thoughts racing through her head, the images of Dumas as he died, of the two people in the flat. She had stayed in a motel, some chain place just off the motorway, but her sleep had been broken, angry, woken by jolts whenever she fell asleep. She had asked to view the flat alone. They had insisted.

She closed her eyes for a moment, tried to focus, muttered to herself, took some deep breaths and tried to calm herself down. She talked to herself some more, and when she spoke, she felt the panic retreat.

She leant back in the car seat, stuck at a red light by the Manchester Arena, the railway bridge coming out of Victoria the shadow on her horizon, red and gold, the Victorian north. She could see the shadows of Deansgate gathering in front of her, cars bunching, getting busier, with the new steel and glass of Manchester ahead, the rebuilding after the bomb, modern and dynamic, sharp angles shining light behind the dark stone of the cathedral. In her mirror, she could see Strangeways, the Manchester prison.

She moved on when she got the green and then the sun disappeared as she drove between the tight buildings of Deansgate. It went out altogether as she pulled into a car park below an apartment building. The wind was no longer in her ears, no more of the city sounds. Now it was dark and full of echoes, with the sound of her warm tyres screeching on the dry concrete.

She pulled into a parking bay, her stomach taking a roll when she saw the Porsche, his mid-life crisis. She thought she heard someone laugh. She gritted her teeth, knew not to look behind.

She did a slow count to ten, then stepped out of the car, her bag swinging, playing the part, and took the lift into the lobby.

As she stepped out, the security guard gave her a nod, a look of recognition.

She made it to the lift that led to the apartments, not wanting to talk, the silence almost crushing her, her breaths bouncing around the walls. Ten floors up, almost as high as she could go, she stepped out and paused outside his door. She took another deep breath and screwed up her eyes to keep the voices away.

She went into the apartment slowly, using the spare key she’d coaxed out of him, peering round, working out where he was. She could hear the shower running.

She saw The Times on a chair. She turned away. She’d read all she could about the shooting. No one had mentioned the chain yet. Not even on the television. Maybe she had pushed it too far in? Maybe they didn’t understand it? She would have to do something about that.