giving a wave to Tony, nodding and smiling at Alice. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, to go through some back issues.’
Tony smiled. ‘Work late and put yourself about tonight. You might come in tomorrow knowing what you want.’
And with that, I left the Post building.
I made it around the triangle and back to my car. I knew I had to go to the old house. At least if I got it out of the way, I could get on with writing my article.
I got in the car and started it up, easing out into the street, no traffic to avoid, and slowly pointed it home.
David Watts was still at home when Johnny Nixon was shot, tuned into BBC News 24, waiting for the latest from the Dumas shooting. The apartment seemed quiet with Emma on the other side of the Atlantic somewhere. The traffic from Chelsea Bridge crept in through the open balcony door, mixed in with the sounds of the river cruises, but it didn’t disturb the calm.
He’d been for a run earlier in the day, but it had been a different kind of run. He usually ran in a cap, the visor pulled down, just enough to keep the recognition at bay until after he had passed. There had been no need today. He had noticed people staring, maybe wondering what he was thinking, but there had been no shouts or catcalls.
He had returned to the apartment, hoping it would be a respite, but he had become fidgety. The newsflash about Johnny Nixon stopped the fidgeting with a slam. Now he was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, the apartment shielded from the rest of the world by drawn blinds, watching the television news for updates.
Not much was coming through. He’d sat through repeated shots of the scene, now just crime-scene tape and litter.
David got up to pace around the room.
He knew there was no connection between Henri Dumas and Johnny Nixon. Dumas had been a clean-cut guy from Paris, urban and sophisticated. Nixon had been from Leeds, and even the transfer to Manchester hadn’t knocked the inner city out of him. He had played like he had spent all his life, fighting, and David had left games with him bruised and blue more than once. Nixon and Dumas hadn’t played together as far as he knew, and were unlikely friends. That made David nervous, because it could only mean one thing: that there was no connection. And that put him at risk. Any footballer who went out in public was at risk of getting his head shot at. And then there could be copycat shootings.
He turned round when he heard a sense of urgency in the broadcaster’s voice.
‘… and it does seem a breakthrough in the case.’
He stepped away from the window and sat down.
‘Thank you, John. And there you have it: the surprising news that the murderer of Henri Dumas might not be a madman after all, but a madwoman.’
David whistled.
‘In the sniper’s nest where two bodies were found, both bound, one shot at point-blank range through the head, the other strangled, hairs have been recovered from the tape that bound them. Those hairs are female hairs.’
David took a drink of beer. There were two men on the television. One was tanned and dark, the hair too dark to be natural for a man in his forties, looking warm in a grey suit, whereas the other one was much younger, blonde and relaxed in just a shirt, standing at the scene of the Dumas shooting, mostly back to normal, full of shoppers and ghouls, the cafe the only business still closed, the grey shutters bright with flowers from people Dumas had never met.
‘Well, this is turning into quite a story.’
David snapped off the television and walked towards the window. Is that what it was: just a story?
He tried to call his agent but all he got was the answering service. Where was she?
He watched the city beneath him for a few minutes and then turned back into the room. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. He had always won, no matter what the contest. High-school hero to Premiership superstar. However, all he could do with this one was sit it out, and he hated the sidelines.
I sat in the car for a few minutes outside my father’s house.
It used to be the family home, when the sash bay-windows were painted pastel-clean and the lawn borders overflowed with colour. The house looked colder now, darker, the paintwork old and listless, flaking in places, the windows dusty and full of shadows.
I hadn’t spoken much with my father since I’d been back at Christmas and for a week last summer. He was working mostly, so I just slowed down for a while and then headed back south.
As I sat there, my childhood came rushing back at me. I could sense that freshness of early-morning spring mists that I never got in the city, or the bite of a November wind when it blew into the valley from the north. I saw myself cycling down here, a skinny kid with legs whirring over the pedals, or running and skipping along, kicking autumn leaves. Teenage screams and screeching tyres, the clunk of car doors on a Sunday morning as people went to church, a catholic town. I’d grown from boy to man along this road, and as I sat there it was as if nothing had changed.
But it was changing. People weren’t moving in any more. The young families wanted either the bright new boxes or original features. Those who had made their old house move with the times got lost as trends turned back full circle. The neighbours were still the same as before, but were wearing out like the houses. I had passed Bob Coleman outside his front door, watering plants. I remembered him as a large solid man, strong and powerful, callused and blackened hands from hard work. Now he was starting to bend a little, some of his bulk gone, and he moved with more shuffle than before.
I climbed out of my car and felt nervous, like I was expecting a fight. I don’t know why. My father and I hadn’t parted on bad terms. We’d just parted on no terms, and as I stood there, looking up at the house, I wondered whether he blamed me.
I didn’t go to the door. I went to the garage instead. I pulled up the door and smiled as I saw the sunlight blink back off the Calypso Red bonnet of the Triumph Stag, my dad’s pride and joy. When I was younger, I would polish it once a month for extra pocket money, and if the weather was good we would go for a drive, the windows down, the radio playing.
But that was a long time ago.
I looked up when I heard a door open into the garage. I saw my father standing there. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me like I was a stranger. Then he nodded.
‘Jack.’ That’s all he said, but his accent sounded strong, blunt, flat.
‘Dad.’
‘You all right?’
I nodded. ‘Not bad.’
He turned to go into the house. I took that as a sign to follow.
As I walked in, I crinkled my nose at the musty smell. It was like all the bad habits of a man living alone were hanging in the air. I wandered through into the living room, a light and spacious area at the front of the house, south facing, so that the incoming shards of light caught the dust as I moved around the room. I sat down and looked around. Nothing had moved. It was as if I’d only ever gone into town, a short car trip or something, not moved to London. It was tidier than I remembered, but it lacked feminine warmth, those fragrant touches here and there. Johnny Cash album covers were strewn around the corner of the room, my father’s special place.
‘Do you want a beer?’
I looked round and saw him heading for the fridge. ‘Always.’
As he handed me mine, I pointed the bottle towards his clothes. He was in his dressing gown, just shorts and a vest underneath.
‘Working nights?’
He looked down. ‘You could have been a detective.’
I