FALLEN IDOLS

‘If you’re going to kill a football star,’ he said, ‘you do it properly. He’s got the money to get security, so you make it one hit, one shot, guaranteed no cock-ups.’ He wiped his forehead. ‘It will be some nutter. It always is.’

‘I made some calls before I came out,’ said Laura. ‘To Drugs, Vice. No one’s threatened Dumas and he isn’t known to us.’ When there was no answer, she asked, ‘What next? Just try and work out where the shooter was first, to see what’s there?’

‘We’ve got people going round all the businesses, seizing any CCTV footage. Got any better ideas?’

Laura looked at the floor again. She guessed not.

‘We need to catch this bastard,’ he said.

Laura nodded sadly. ‘Yeah, I know, and we will.’

As he turned away, Laura saw the other detectives glaring at her. She knew their problem: her inspector liked her, but she hadn’t put in the hours crawling up his arse.

She smiled at them, wondering when they would ever work out the connection.

She was about to walk away, get some space to think, when she saw a uniform heading towards her. As he got up to her, he said, ‘There’s been a call from an estate agent. Two of their staff were meeting a client here, and they haven’t been heard from since. They’ve missed two viewings.’

‘What was the address?’

The uniform looked around and pointed. ‘In that building there.’

As Laura followed his finger to the flats above the shops, she saw a window open just at the bottom. She turned around and followed the line of sight, saw how it looked straight down to where Dumas had been shot.

‘At least we might have solved that part of it,’ she said, and then shouted to her inspector.

I could see the media camp, kept back by crime-scene tape. They were further than I was from the scene, kept right back on Charing Cross Road, a tangle of cameras, tripods and boom microphones. With so much media around it was going to be a tough day for the freelancer. I could see the glare of spotlights as the television people filmed their updates, but there’d be little to report until the police were finished.

So, if there’s nothing going on, report the press watching nothing happening. I framed the collection of cameras and frustrated reporters against the luminous jackets of the police manning the tape. I ran off ten shots and then looked towards the crime scene. I wondered about the shooting, as if the answer might be pasted on a hoarding somewhere. I wondered about a crazed fan. I remembered queuing for an age in a February snowstorm a couple of years earlier for a signed autobiography of some England player I had once admired. An age in the snow for a ghost-written collection of anecdotes, a shake of the hand, and a rushed scrawl on the inside cover. How far was it from that to this?

I shut my eyes for a second and let the sounds drift in. I could hear sirens and car horns, movement from the streets nearby, the cordon choking up traffic for a mile all around, but nearer to me I sensed just anticipation, a poised stillness. It seemed strange to have that calm enveloping me. It didn’t seem like the city.

I needed a break. I looked around again. The tale of Henri Dumas would dominate the papers for the next week. There’d be no space for my hard-luck tales from the gutters of old London town.

I was about to sit down when I noticed that there were more police officers than before. I zoomed in on a group of people around a table, their hands on their hips, talking intently. I zoomed in more, just to make sure. When I had confirmed it to myself, I smiled. I didn’t need to stay up to get the story. It had just come to me.

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

David Watts walked into his flat and paused to look in the mirror. He felt tired, still torn up by the Henri Dumas shooting. His eyes looked red.

He turned away and walked into the kitchen, going to the fridge to pull out a beer. The cap snapped off with a pop. At least he was alive.

He looked out of his window, his apartment on the top floor of a complex overlooking Chelsea Bridge, a glass and cedar block sandwiched between two bridges, with wooden boards lining a chrome balcony and sunshine streaming inside through large glass panels. The lucky ones get the Thames, the light. The others get Battersea Power Station.

David Watts, midfielder, the biggest football star in England. He had been on the other side of the city, at the training ground, when the news broke about Henri Dumas. The changing room was in shock when he left, queuing for the television cameras to make their feelings public. David hadn’t done that. He couldn’t find words for himself, so he wasn’t going to try for the cameras.

As he looked away from the river, he saw billboards, his own face gleaming back at him, the face of a new razor campaign. His trademark stubble was shaved on one half of his face, pink and clean, the other side dark and rough. On the hoarding next to him was Dumas, advertising sportswear with moody looks into the camera. He felt his stomach turn. He had met Dumas countless times, at award ceremonies, photo shoots, charity events. They had even gone drinking together after a game. Henri Dumas had been a good man.

He turned on the television, flicking through to Sky News, to footage of an armed police unit storming a building, shot from the news helicopter. Things were happening.

David turned round when he heard footsteps. He saw Emma standing there, dressed in one of his shirts, running a towel over her long hair.

‘I didn’t know you were around today,’ he said. He should have been pleased to see her, but the news about Dumas had left him feeling empty.

Emma smiled, her eyes full of regret. She walked over to him and put her arms around his chest. Her wet hair made a dark patch on his clothes. ‘I thought I had some time off and I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘I don’t.’

She sighed. ‘One of the girls has called in sick, so I can’t stay.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m on the overnight to JFK, so I need to be back at Heathrow for six. I should get a quick turnaround though, so maybe I’ll only be gone for a couple of days.’

He kissed the top of her head. ‘Too long.’

She squeezed him and then pulled away.

David turned back round to the window, looking out over the river. Everything looked so perfect. He could see the trees of Battersea Park. The Thames slid past, moving slowly, catching sparkles of sunshine as it went.

Emma, the air stewardess. They’d met a few months earlier. She’d walked into a bar in her uniform, pulling a small black case behind her, cool and distant, that airline arrogance, smart and made-up, with a long, athletic body and trailing blonde hair. Most of all, she seemed unimpressed by his fame. That had been the attraction. He was young, good-looking and famous, and so he had done the easy sex circuit. But Emma had reminded him of how much he enjoyed the chase. He was a winner, and to win there has to be a contest.

‘I suppose you heard,’ said David.

Emma stopped drying her hair and put down her towel. ‘I heard.’

He exhaled and roughed-up his hair. ‘He was a decent bloke, you know, a good player.’ He bent down to put his beer on a table and then leant against the window.

‘What happens now?’ asked Emma.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a minute’s silence on Saturday. They can’t cancel games; the season’s just started.’

‘Do you think you should play?’

‘No reason why not.’

‘Is it worth getting shot over?’

David bristled at that. He knew what the ‘it’ was. It was football. Just a game. David is paid for playing a game. He had heard that before, too many times.

‘It’s not about what’s worth getting shot over,’ David responded, his irritation showing. ‘It’s about me doing my job well. And that job gets me all of this.’ He waved his hand around the apartment, every room filled with designer furniture, every window looking out on one of the most expensive views in the city.

‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’

‘You got that right.’ He sighed, not wanting to argue. ‘Look, Emma, it’s a business, not a game.’

‘Should it be?’

David turned back to the window and picked up his beer, looking back down to the river. ‘No, maybe not.’