‘How long has he been an ex?’ I tried to sound innocent, a friendly enquiry, but it stumbled out all clumsy. I felt my pulse quicken as I asked.
‘Since I caught him with a probationer, except that she wasn’t wearing much of the uniform.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘Never marry a copper.’
I didn’t reply at first, but then we both started to say something and then stopped, grinning, like new lovers banging noses.
‘No, go on,’ I said.
She looked bashful for a few seconds, and then said, ‘I need your help, Jack, with information.’
That surprised me. Our relationship had a pattern. I reported crime. Laura told me about crime. It didn’t go the other way.
I nodded, curious. ‘Go on.’
‘We need to know about Dumas. We want to know about his lifestyle, his secrets, anything that could lead to a blackmail, or a murder.’
‘We all know everything there is to know about Dumas,’ I said. ‘You can’t open a paper without seeing him or his fiancée doing something newsworthy, like walking or talking.’
‘I don’t mean that rubbish. I mean the real stories, the ones that don’t get into the paper.’
I knew what Laura meant. The papers often held on to scandals when they got them, on the promise from worried agents that they’d get the best access to whichever celebrity it was. If a rival got hold of it, the story was run just to strike a blow at the competition.
‘I can make some calls, try and find something out, but this is quid pro quo.’
She held out her hands. ‘Name it.’
‘What did you find at the house?’
Laura stalled at that.
‘C’mon, Laura, the television had police swarming into a house just a few doors from mine.’
She looked at me guardedly. ‘This is off the record?’
I shrugged.
She sighed. ‘Estate agents, there for an appointment, both dead, with a sniper’s view of where Dumas queued for his last latte.’
I exhaled. ‘So you found where the shots came from?’
She nodded. ‘Looks that way.’
‘So you can trace who had the appointment?’
‘That’s the theory.’
‘How did they die?’
‘He died from a gunshot, point blank. The woman was strangled.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Unusual?’
It was Laura’s turn to shrug. In her career, she’d seen things I couldn’t even imagine.
‘So the shooter’s killing off the witnesses?’ I asked. ‘Why are you keeping it quiet?’
‘We’re not. We’re going public soon, but we wanted to do the forensic sweep first.’
I sat back. It sounded interesting, but I wasn’t sure it fitted my story.
‘What was Dumas doing there?’
‘That’, she replied, ‘is what we are trying to find out.’
‘Do you think it might have been just chance? You know, Dumas in the wrong place?’
‘Not sure. The bodies in the flat made it seem professional, planned, which is a lot of trouble for a random shooting. The shooter would just shoot, if it was random.’
‘So if it was a set-up, you should be able to find that out.’
Laura smiled. ‘Hey, you’re sharp!’
My eyes twinkled at her. I was just thinking about what else to ask, really just to keep her there, when she asked, ‘How quickly can you find anything out?’
When I looked uncertain, she said, ‘This is the golden hour, the time when any evidence has to be captured. We might get a lead in a few days, but any forensic evidence from the scene will be long gone by then.’
‘No pressure then.’
She smiled, and any resistance I had melted.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
And as I picked up my phone, she slid out of her seat. I was about to start dialling when she leant forward and I felt a soft peck on my cheek.
‘Thanks, Jack. It’s good to see you again. Call me as soon as you find something.’
I smiled, had to stop myself from putting my hand where the kiss had been.
‘You’ve got my number,’ I said. ‘Not just for work. Anything.’
It was her turn to blush, but I saw a glimmer of a smile as I watched her walk out.
David Watts was at the front of his apartment building, facing cameras and reporters. They had been outside there for a few hours, hungry for a quote.
‘I just want to say that I knew Henri Dumas. He was a good player. No, a great player – but above all of that, he was a good man, and football will miss him. I’ll miss him. I would like to express my condolences to his family, and I’m sure the footballing world is in deep mourning right now.’
And at that, he went back into his building. He didn’t feel good. His words sounded irrelevant when he thought about Dumas; just a token footnote. Dumas was dead. Who cared about his condolences?
When he got back to his apartment, he saw the parental look of his agent. She watched the press disappear from the window, and then turned back to the room.
‘That will get you good billing on the news, remind everyone that you’re the statesman of English football.’
He shook his head at her. Karen Klavan. She was a good agent, but she was one cold-hearted bitch. She looked like a pin-up, blonde hair and breasts like weapons, but he guessed that when she fucked, she did it with a motive, not a passion.
‘Someone died today, Karen. Doesn’t that mean anything?’
‘It means you get a chance to raise your profile.’ When she saw the look of disgust, she said, ‘You worry about Dumas, and I’ll worry about making you money.’
He would have smiled normally. Her directness gave her an edge in negotiations, but he wasn’t in the mood. And as he looked over to the billboards again, as he thought about the gossip magazines for sale in the shop just down the road, as he imagined all the children wandering around the country with his name on the back of their shirts, he reckoned his profile was pretty high already. He didn’t want to use Dumas’s death to raise it higher. The thought of it sickened him.
‘I think we should look respectful, take some time out,’ he said, his anger snapping the words out.
‘Yeah, yeah, that too, but look, I’ve got you a slot on breakfast television, to talk about Dumas. Is that okay? It won’t clash with your training.’
He shook his head. She made him money, but she made him mad as well.
‘I’ll end up tired at training.’
‘The country will forgive you if you’re jaded. In fact, they might be furious with you if you look bright and bubbly when you play.’
‘I take it Dumas wasn’t one of your clients.’
‘Can you hear me sobbing? No, he was with that prick Newcombe.’
And then she laughed.
Laughs didn’t come naturally to her, so when they came, they came loud and shrill.
‘He’ll