Fallen Idols Read online

  Then I heard the sound of someone running. It was my father, his voice ragged. ‘Comms, do you copy?’

  ‘I copy.’

  ‘We’ve got David Watts leaving the scene. Did you get that? I’ve got him about a hundred yards from me, heading towards Pendle Wood.’

  I looked at Laura. She was transfixed, listening to something playing out that had lain hidden all these years. I felt anger instead. I knew that whatever was playing out on that tape had ended in my father’s death. He was still alive on the tape. He was out of breath, but he sounded measured and calm.

  And he hadn’t lied to me.

  ‘Did you say David Watts?’

  ‘Yes, David Watts. Eighteen years of age. Resident of Turners Fold.’

  Laura was tugging at her lip.

  Then there was silence for a few seconds. Laura still couldn’t take her eyes off the tape.

  ‘Do we have an ID on the body?’

  ‘Young black female, maybe eighteen or twenty. Can’t see any identification, but I recognise her. She’s local.’ Then a pause. ‘Hang on, there’s something in her hand. Some kind of a chain, might be gold.’

  I watched Laura’s face. Her eyes seemed keener now, more intent. She looked like she was holding her breath. She looked back at me and then held her hand out. As I took hold of her fingers, she squeezed.

  Then I heard another voice.

  ‘David Watts heading towards the school. Running that way.’ I recognised the voice as James Radley, and then more static.

  ‘Any identifying marks on the chain?’ the radio voice asked.

  I looked at Laura. She stared at me. I felt her hand squeeze tighter.

  ‘Yeah, there’s something on it, but hard to make it out. Will spell it. Romeo-alpha-tango-hotel. Delta-echo. Oscar-romeo-tango. Echo-whisky.’

  I watched Laura’s mouth drop open as she converted the symbols into words. Rath Dé Ort EW.

  ‘Jack, you knew.’ Her words snapped out, and she dropped my hand. She was angry.

  I shook my head. ‘Only since yesterday.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I sighed, ran my fingers through my hair.

  ‘I don’t know. Something stopped me. Maybe I was just protecting my father.’

  When Laura didn’t answer, I reached for the other tape. ‘Let’s try this one.’

  We listened to the same succession of bleeps and static at the start of the recording, and then there was the noise of radio traffic, snatches of jargon and isolated conversations. Then I heard my father’s voice again.

  ‘2199 Garrett calling in for an update on the suspect?’

  ‘Copy, officer. Suspect ruled out.’

  There were a few seconds of silence.

  ‘Could you repeat that?’

  There was a pause, then the voice of the operator again. ‘Named suspect no longer a suspect, 2199 Garrett.’

  I sensed my father’s frustration, because when his voice came back on he was speaking slowly, like he did when he was controlling his anger.

  ‘I saw him. Repeat, David Watts was running from the scene.’

  ‘Copy, officer, but I repeat, named suspect ruled out.’

  Then the tape descended back into static. I clicked off the machine.

  ‘Who else knows about the neck-chain?’ she asked. ‘Your father knew. That other policeman knew. Anyone else?’

  ‘It seems like half the town knew something about David Watts’ involvement.’

  ‘And they did nothing?’

  ‘Seems that way.’

  Then I remembered something my father said.

  ‘Her parents knew, Annie’s parents,’ I said. ‘My father went to see them a few weeks later. He might have said something. And it would give them a motive.’

  ‘So where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Laura exhaled loudly. ‘I need to call this in. Shit, Jack! We are trawling the whole country trying to find a reason for the shootings, and the reason is here, in this room, on that tape. I need to know where it came from.’

  That made me go quiet for a moment. I looked at Laura and knew how much I wanted to help her, but there was an even stronger feeling taking over, the feeling that I was going to make it right my way.

  ‘These tapes are mine,’ I said. ‘It came from my source, and I won’t reveal a source. If you want them, get a warrant.’

  ‘Like hell!’ Laura exclaimed. ‘I saw you go after her. Sweet little old lady. I’ll go speak to her myself.’

  ‘Who was she then?’

  Laura didn’t answer.

  ‘There you go. You’ve got a lead, not a suspect.’

  ‘I’ve still got to call it in.’ Laura turned away from me and pulled on her lip, thinking hard. ‘So what are you proposing to do?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘It’s simple,’ I replied. ‘I’m going to find whoever has been shooting these footballers, and then I’m going to write about it.’ When Laura looked uncertain, I added, ‘My father died because of this, and now his old boss is trying to kill his good name as well. I owe it to my father to write the story.’

  Laura sighed. ‘I can see that, Jack, but there is one thing that bothers me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That David Watts might be innocent.’

  I shook my head, but Laura persisted.

  ‘You’ve got a sighting at a distance, at night, from behind. Imagine what a defence lawyer would make of that.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before, and I know my father had. And what about the neck-chain?’

  ‘Maybe David gave it to her? What about EW?’

  ‘Eugene David Watts. He’s dropped the Eugene.’

  Laura went quiet again.

  ‘Where do we start?’ I asked.

  ‘We?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve done better than the police so far, so maybe you ought to stay with me.’

  She shrugged, and then said, ‘Annie Paxman is the start, I suppose.’

  ‘We know what happened,’ I said. ‘She was found dead at the top of the town.’

  ‘Yes, but the story doesn’t start there. She had a life before that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s simple. I know about the murder. I know about David Watts. But what do we know about Annie Paxman?’

  ‘She’s dead. We know that much.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Laura answered, ‘so we know that Annie Paxman isn’t the one making calls to David Watts.’

  I exhaled and ran my fingers through my hair. I felt tired, but my mind kept flashing back to my father. He was everywhere I looked. It was those little things, like the spare set of keys I could see on a hook by the door, or the cigarette lighter on a shelf in the kitchen. Yesterday’s newspaper was by the side of my chair. I saw a half-completed crossword.

  I saw Laura lift something out of the file.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s the crime-scene photographs.’ Laura was peering hard at one, and then she pointed. ‘There’s some bruising on her palms, like her skin had torn on something.’ ‘What, like a chain being pulled off someone’s neck?’

  Laura nodded, and then she began to smile like we had discovered buried treasure.

  Suddenly something occurred to me. I had an idea. But I wasn’t going to tell Laura, no matter how much I wanted to.

  ‘I need to make some calls,’ I said, turning away.

  ‘So do I.’

  I took out my phone and went upstairs. I had to call Tony. And then I had to speak to a lawyer.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I stood outside Duncan McAllister’s office, wondering how to play it.

  Duncan McAllister was well-known in town. He had been the main local solicitor for the good and the bad of Turners Fold for as long as I could remember. He had a hand in most crimes and divorces in the town, and if anyone knew every grubby secret in town, he did.

  But I also knew that he was as cold and ruthless as anyon
e you could meet in a courtroom, not scared to bring anyone down. I didn’t know how he would treat me.

  When I walked in, a young receptionist looked at me with disinterest. This wasn’t doctor’s surgery coldness. This was just low-pay boredom.

  She flicked the corners of her mouth into a half-smile. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I need to speak to Mr McAllister.’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘It’s about a murder.’

  She started to speak again, but then stopped, unsure how to answer.

  I knew what she was thinking. That maybe I was a madman – most of those end up in a lawyer’s office at some point – or maybe I was the key to a few thousand pounds.

  She placed a call and asked me to wait.

  I sat down on a soft couch, surrounded by plastic palms and Pennine watercolours on the walls. I knew it was pretence. Every solicitor’s office I have ever been in starts elegantly in the reception and then descends to wood-chip and scuffed desks once you get behind the scenes.

  When he came in, he looked exactly as I remembered. Marbella bronze, dyed chestnut hair, with a navy suit and polished loafers. He knew he looked bad, but it was more important that he looked like he had spent money getting that way.

  He looked me up and down, and then asked me for my name. When I gave it, his eyes flickered, computed it and realised my link with a dead man found the previous night.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Garrett, but I’m on my way out. Let’s walk and talk.’

  I knew I had to sell myself quickly. I was walking behind him as we left his office.

  ‘You represented Colin Wood, over ten years ago,’ I said to his shoulder. ‘Allegation of murder.’

  He nodded. ‘I remember it. We don’t get many murders in Turners Fold.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out if someone else could have done it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s important.’

  He sighed and rummaged for his car keys. When he looked up again, his patience had clearly run out.

  ‘I’m going to court now. If you want to make an appointment, speak to my receptionist. She’ll tell you my hourly rate.’

  And with that, he opened his car, a blood-red Jaguar.

  ‘Did you know that a police officer saw someone else at the scene, running away? Named him.’

  He paused and looked back at me. He considered me carefully, and then asked, ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because I’ve heard the radio transmissions.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a reporter. And my father was the person who made those radio calls.’

  McAllister looked towards the hills that surrounded the town, and then up towards Victoria Park. I did my best not to follow his gaze.

  ‘Bob Garrett?’

  I nodded.

  He leant back on his car. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Just your ear, and your help.’

  ‘Neither is free.’

  My frustration must have been plain on my face, because he said, ‘Look, son, murders can be more trouble than they’re worth. They’re the cases that keep you awake, but they don’t bill so well. Think about it: they’re just assault cases with one less witness. But this was a lost cause.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Colin Wood spent so much of his time drunk that he couldn’t remember which day it was, let alone where he had been. He couldn’t tell me anything, and once he realised what he had done, he didn’t say a word to me.’

  ‘So you think he did it?’

  ‘The DNA says he did.’

  ‘Is it infallible?’

  He shrugged. ‘Seems that way. If the police can pin someone’s DNA at the scene, and then put that person in the same town at the right time, no court will let him go.’

  ‘How do they prove it’s a person’s DNA?’

  ‘Simple. If he is on the DNA database, they will take another sample just to make sure, like a cotton bud on the inside of the cheek.’

  ‘And if they’re not on the database?’

  ‘They take two swabs, and send one off for comparison.’

  ‘Who does it?’

  ‘A police officer.’

  ‘Who took Colin Wood’s DNA swab?’

  ‘It was over ten years ago. How the hell would I know?’

  ‘Was DI Ross there?’

  He smiled. ‘Oh yes, he was there, keeping a close eye on everything.’

  ‘Was Colin Wood on the DNA database?’

  McAllister stalled for a moment, and then said, ‘No, I don’t think so. A drunk? Yes. A criminal? No.’

  ‘Did you have his DNA compared to the sample held by the police?’

  He stepped towards me. ‘If you’ve come here to tell me I did a bad job, you’d better be going.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr McAllister. Do you think Colin Wood is guilty?’

  ‘At least be original, Mr Garrett. I am asked a version of that question at every dinner party I go to. And the answer is always that I don’t think about it. There aren’t many crusading lawyers out there, and there are even fewer innocent clients. My job is to represent people, because someone has to. If that means setting rapists free to rape again, well yeah, that’s my job. And after a while you stop caring. Justice ran its course and I moved on.’

  I saw him soften.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’ He climbed into his car. ‘Despite what you might think, most defence lawyers get on well with the police,’ he said out of his window. ‘At least the ones we trust. And I trusted your father.’

  ‘And what about Glen Ross?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve heard too many things from too many clients. They can’t all be lying.’

  ‘What if I could get you evidence you hadn’t seen before, evidence that had been withheld?’

  ‘I wouldn’t get excited. I would just do my job and try and get him out.’

  ‘Whether he was innocent or not?’

  ‘Whether he was guilty or not, I would do it just the same.’ He started his engine. ‘Goodbye, Mr Garrett.’

  As he was about to pull away, I tossed two tapes onto his seat.

  I walked away, knowing that I could say no more to him. As I did so I heard the static on the tape. He was already listening.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The landlord of the Swan looked surprised when I walked in.

  Laura and I arrived at the pub later than I’d expected, and it was now creeping into late afternoon. I had copied the radio logs onto a few tapes, and I was carrying them in my hand as we approached the bar. I nodded at the landlord and asked for two lagers.

  He looked awkward, but, after a brief pause, he reached for two glasses. When he put them on the bar, I asked, ‘My dad was in here last night, right?’

  The landlord tried to give nothing away, but his discomfort shone over the polished wood of the bar. ‘Look, Jack, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well don’t say it then.’ I took a drink of beer. ‘Just give it a couple of days before you come to any conclusions.’

  He looked uncertain, then nodded and walked away and began to wipe the bar top. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ he said over his shoulder, almost to himself.

  I put my beer down and asked again, ‘So was my dad in here last night?’

  He turned and nodded. ‘Yes, but he was quiet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just that. He wasn’t the noisiest bloke who comes in here, but last night he might as well have stayed at home. He just sat on that stool,’ and he nodded to the stool I was stood next to, ‘and stared into space.’ I felt my hand go to the stool and grip its back. ‘Until the news came on about Liverpool, you know, the shooting there.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘What happened then?’

  The landlord leant against the bar and shook his head, his face full of sadness.

  ‘He was just looking towards the TV, and
then when they started to report the Liverpool shooting, he sat up and paid attention. I suppose most people did. Then when they showed those pictures of the bitch who has been doing these shootings, well,’ and he waved his hand, ‘he dropped his beer and left like someone had set fire to his fucking arse.’

  That stopped me dead for a moment. Who could he have seen? Then I asked, ‘What, you think he knew her?’

  He shrugged. ‘What the fuck do I know, but it was when they showed those pictures that he ran out.’

  ‘Who else was in here last night?’ asked Laura.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When Jack’s father was here?’

  I stayed silent. It was a canny way to ask the question. Martha’s mention of the American had put me on edge, but if he was an important part of it, I didn’t want the landlord to know.

  He stepped back from the bar and thought hard. Then he stepped forward again and said, ‘Your father was just there,’ and he indicated again at the stool I was now leaning against, ‘and there were some regulars just down the bar. There were some others by the door, but on the whole it was a quiet night.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ I tried to hide my impatience.

  He paused for a moment, and then said, ‘There was some fucking Yank, but he didn’t stay too long.’

  ‘American?’ said Laura, with feigned surprise.

  ‘What was he doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t say. On the whole, he didn’t have a fucking lot to say for himself.’ The landlord looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘I didn’t take to him. Something not fucking right. Too measured, too controlled.’

  I glanced at Laura and caught her eye.

  ‘Did he say where he was staying?’ asked Laura.

  He shook his head, his expression showing that he was getting a sense of where the conversation was going. ‘He didn’t say anything much, so no, I don’t know where he’s staying. He hasn’t been in here since.’ A pause. ‘Why? Is he important?’

  I shrugged. ‘Probably not, but thanks anyway.’