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 authors 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
www.harpercollins.co.uk
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
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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 shouldnt 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 wasnt 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 Im 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 days paper, so I spend the mornings chasing updates. Its grunt work, but it pays the rent.
I didnt 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 wasnt for her. He had a focus she struggled to match.
Ten minutes and were leaving, he said, snatching looks at his watch and then staring out of the window, down into Old Compton Street. Weve got three more after this. He looked round at Sophie, flashed a look up her body. She spotted it.
Whats the punters 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. Its 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.
Its the only place in London where people seem like theyre smiling, she said, and turned away. Maybe its a no-show.
Ben turned round. Oh, therell be a show. You know what its like around here. Theyre 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 didnt like them for prices they couldnt 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.
Isnt it a great view? Ben said, with saccharine sincerity. It makes this property a popular one. In fact, youre the third one today.
The buyer turned around, smiling. Maybe guessed the lie. Yeah, I suppose so. Im 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 Bens eyes grow wide. Then she heard him splutter, What the fuck?
Scream and Ill 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 didnt like that, but he knew how the English liked to be on time. And if he didnt get there, his life as a tabloid hero would be over. At least, in the way hed 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 Bens head.
Once shed finished his bindings, Sophie looked round. She saw the muzzle of the gun and shrank back.