FALLEN IDOLS - Neil White

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understood.’

      I sensed the pause, the uncertainty, and I knew something was coming. And I sensed the trust. If I used what she was to tell me without approval, I could forget about any help from the police.

      ‘In the woman’s throat, we found a Celtic medallion with some engraving on the back.’

      I was surprised. None of that had come out in the news conference.

      ‘What did it say?’

      ‘Is this truly between us?’

      ‘Trust me, Laura. But why are you keeping it quiet?’

      ‘We can use it to filter out the crank calls.’

      That seemed reasonable.

      ‘So if it was in her throat,’ I said, ‘you’re thinking it’s some kind of message?’

      ‘Can it be anything else?’

      And then she told me what the medallion had engraved on it. ‘Rath Dé Ort EW.’ She said it like ‘rah-jay-urt’.

      ‘It means “the grace of God be with you” in Irish Gaelic,’ she said. ‘Not sure about the EW though. It doesn’t match her name, or his.’

      ‘It could belong to the shooter. You know, bitten off in the struggle.’

      ‘No, we don’t think so.’

      There was a pause then, each of us unsure how to fill it.

      ‘Knowing how the press work,’ I said, trying to plug the silence, ‘you’ll get about five days before they publish anything on his private life. They won’t touch it before his funeral. Then they’ll get the weekend tributes out of the way, those before the games. But one of the Sunday red-tops might run something, so I might get something before it goes public.’

      ‘Thanks, Jack. I owe you one. Give me a call when you get something.’

      And then we said our goodbyes. I was left looking out of my window, my flat feeling a little emptier than it had done before.

       EIGHT

      Laura rushed into the dawn meeting late. A few looked over when she clattered through the doors, but most acted like they hadn’t noticed her.

      She was breathing heavily, angry, another bad start to what would be a long day.

      She hadn’t had long at home, just a brief sleep, and then it was up at five to take her son to her ex-husband’s new bachelor pad, a rented new-build just a few hundred yards from the matrimonial home, little Bobby wrapped up in a duvet, still dozing.

      It was her ex-husband’s rest day, but still he didn’t look pleased when he found out he had his son for the day. Laura knew plenty of divorced fathers, and most of them loved their children, hated being separated from them. It seemed like her ex was the other type, the type who love their kids, but only every other weekend, and provided that they don’t have to pay too much for them. Laura’s ex preferred the alternate Saturday treat day, when Bobby could have six hours of fun and treats before he was returned, the duty done.

      She was the one who was up in the middle of the night when the sickness bugs kicked in.

      There had been another car on his drive, a Nissan Micra, with a pine air-freshener hanging from the mirror and a felt pig on the parcel shelf.

      She didn’t suppose it mattered any more, but that didn’t stop her stomach from taking a kick when she saw it.

      She tried to shake the memory away and concentrated instead on the room. She could smell the coffee and bacon sandwiches, everyone’s favourite kick-start.

      It seemed like the murder squad had grown. There weren’t many faces she recognised, and she guessed that detectives had been drafted in from further afield than yesterday. She sensed some satisfaction when she saw Bully Boy and Fashion Victim towards the back of the room.

      It was a mix she might have expected. There was the genuine talent in there, the shrewd, the sharp, and they were padded out by the grafters and the keen. There were a few of the old school, and too many of the climbers, but it looked a good mix.

      Tom Clemens was at the front, leading the parade. The two detectives flanking him looked organised and efficient, one a middle-aged bottle-brunette and the other a shaven-headed blue suit. Behind them were pictures of the three victims. Dumas was the main picture, but the estate agents were given a good billing as well. The deaths weren’t just about Dumas.

      Laura listened as those in the room gave their updates.

      Crank calls had been the biggest problem. Most of those had come after closing time, but they would all be chased. Laura knew that football would go into mourning, and Saturday would see men crying for someone they’d soon forget, their scarves hoisted over their heads, but it didn’t stop rival fans from gloating when the beer took hold.

      Tom told everyone that Dumas’s fiancée would have to be investigated, but he didn’t think there was much progress that way. She was on the first part of a European tour and would be flying back later that day. Laura guessed not before she had carefully chosen her mourning clothes. Then Tom warned everyone that the press would be all over this story, and all over Dumas’s private life. Any leak could harm the investigation, and if anyone was caught giving unauthorised leaks, they would be disciplined. Any information from ‘inside sources’ was to be carefully managed.

      Laura looked down quickly when Tom mentioned leaks, but then she became aware that Tom was addressing her, asking for a media update.

      ‘Nothing yet, sir,’ she said, her voice quiet in the room. ‘There’s talk of both of them sleeping around, but I’ll be calling my contact soon. He’s promised to ask around.’

      She became aware of the rest of the squad turning away. She had arrived late and added little. She had expected some surprise about Dumas’s private life, even though little had been said. Tom looked like he already knew.

      Then she saw Tom take a deep breath. He looked nervous, pensive, gazing around the room. He seemed to be weighing up his audience before making his announcement. After a few seconds of him flexing his jaw, his lips twitching, he said, ‘There’s one thing no one knows yet, and I only received confirmation of it shortly before I came in.’

      He had an edge to his voice, and Laura sensed the squad take notice.

      ‘The two estate agents were bound with silver duct tape,’ he continued. ‘We all know that. The male had dark hair. The female had mousy hair.’ He looked around again. ‘Stuck in the duct tape which bound the girl’s wrists were three blonde hairs.’

      Laura sensed the meeting tense up. And she knew why. If the hairs had been snagged in the adhesive, they would have been yanked out. And if they had been yanked out, some skin would have been attached to the hair root. And if there was skin, there was something else. DNA. As far as evidence that can be used in court, it’s the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

      Tom raised his eyebrows, waiting for the muttering in the room to subside. ‘As you might have guessed, we think they are from the shooter.’ He began to pace. ‘We didn’t find any other hairs, and we didn’t find any other fingerprints or anything else linking another person to the murder of those two estate agents.’ He stopped pacing. ‘As far as we can tell, there were only ever three people in that room. And two of them are dead.’

      The muttering in the group rose to a chatter, cops in clusters whispering asides.

      Tom held up his hand.

      ‘That isn’t the news, though,’ he said. ‘At least not all of it.’

      The room fell silent again. Everyone was waiting for the next instalment. Laura sensed it was important, from a look she had never seen in Tom’s eyes before. It was excitement, surprise, uncertainty,

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