Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ said Ivo.

  Martin hesitated. ‘Russell was saying that his wife’s boyfriend had fitted up his arrest, was trying to get him sacked. Then he clammed up, wouldn’t say any more about it.’

  ‘What was your reaction?’

  ‘I suggested he talk to Citizens Advice. My sister-in-law volunteers there. They’re pretty clued up.’

  ‘Very sensible. I don’t suppose you know if he took it up?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘About ten days ago. I’ve been wondering whether I ought to go to the police, but then I don’t want to waste their time. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’ Ivo paused long enough for Martin to notice his hesitation. ‘But Mark Kirkby did win a police medal, climbed Kilimanjaro for charity. There’ll be officers on the inquiry who knew him.’

  ‘I know. That’s what I was thinking. And I don’t want to go stirring up trouble, speaking ill of the dead. But it doesn’t square with what Russell said about Kirkby being so gratuitously mean and nasty. I liked Russell. You couldn’t meet a less aggressive or violent man. I simply can’t see him ever contemplating such an act unless . . .’

  Martin broke off again, shaking his head in perplexity at it all. Ivo thought about the ammunition Russell had used, the kind you’d choose if you were out for revenge, to make a point, to leave absolutely no doubt about your intentions. Either Russell was one really sick fuck or Mark Kirkby was no hero.

  He wondered what kind of response he’d get if he called Bobbi Reynolds at the Police Federation for a comment: a pretty dusty answer, he imagined. None of his usual police cronies would want to play Secret Santa on this one either. Fair enough. Couldn’t blame them for sticking together. A fellow hack was probably the last person Ivo would ever rat on.

  ‘I only wish I’d done more,’ said Martin, giving him a look that was almost beseeching. ‘Maybe, if I had, then none of this would have happened. I hoped, when you rang, that maybe you’d know the best thing to do.’

  ‘Let me dig around a bit,’ said Ivo, already enthusiastically blocking out a front page in his head. ‘See what the general opinion of Mark Kirkby is. I mean, even if he was a bit of a bully, he still didn’t deserve to die, did he?’

  ‘I was thinking of young Davey,’ said Martin with quiet dignity. ‘He deserves an explanation, if there is one. The truth.’

  Bingo! thought Ivo. That’s my angle! The victim no one else will be thinking about because no one ever fucking thinks about the kids. While every other newspaper and international media outlet would be busy demonizing the boy’s father, Ivo and the Courier would fearlessly champion his innocent children!

  10

  Grace didn’t need to go looking for Curtis Mullins; he found her, presenting himself at the opening to her cubicle around three o’clock that afternoon. He was in civvies and must have come in specially, since he was clearly not on duty. He was tall with golden hair and very blue eyes, almost Nordic-looking, and she recognized him as a familiar face about the station. He introduced himself respectfully and seemed genuine enough when he said that he hoped she wouldn’t object to keeping him updated on anything that might help Mark Kirkby’s family come to terms with their loss.

  ‘Of course I understand how desperate they must all be for answers,’ she assured him. ‘It’s impossible to comprehend such a tragedy. Which is why, actually, I’m really pleased to see you. Do sit down.’

  Curtis sat, his back straight, feet apart and planted firmly on the floor, a posture that signalled tactful respect for her rank.

  ‘I’m preparing our submission to the inquest and wanted to clarify the circumstances of Russell Fewell’s arrest for drink-driving.’

  ‘Why?’ Curtis’s interruption was sharply spoken.

  ‘I’m looking into his state of mind.’ Surprised at his immediate defensiveness, she spoke as mildly as she could. ‘It was you who pulled him over. Can you talk me briefly through the arrest?’

  ‘He had a broken rear light. When I spoke to him, I could smell alcohol. He admitted that he had been drinking but refused to be breathalysed, so I arrested him in order to test him at the station.’

  ‘Did you have any other reason to believe he was over the limit?’

  ‘I didn’t require any other evidence.’

  ‘But had he been driving erratically? Slurring his words or unsteady on his feet?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘How did Fewell react to being stopped and then arrested?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t happy. Who would be?’

  ‘Was he cooperative, belligerent, abusive?’

  ‘He was all right to begin with. Claimed he hadn’t realized the light was broken.’ Curtis’s voice rose slightly and his mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘He could’ve just consented to the breath test.’

  ‘You didn’t consider letting him off with a warning?’

  ‘Are you questioning my judgement, ma’am?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘He admitted he’d been drinking. I’d’ve thought you’d be happy to see a dangerous driver taken off the road?’

  There was a glint in his eye, and Grace wondered if Curtis was one of those officers who was calm and friendly enough when they were in charge but who quickly became injured and resentful when their authority was questioned. Especially by a woman of senior rank. She decided to change tack.

  ‘You may not be aware that the nearest thing to a suicide note was Fewell’s court summons on this charge.’ She spoke as neutrally as possible. ‘So the coroner may well regard Fewell’s own perception of the circumstances of his arrest as directly relevant to his state of mind.’

  Curtis looked shocked. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean, a suicide note?’

  ‘Fewell’s flat was spotless. The only thing left out on display, where it was certain to be found, was his summons.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’

  Curtis had gone quite pale, making Grace curious about the intensity of his reaction.

  ‘No one is saying this is your fault,’ she told him. ‘You were quite correct in doing your duty. But if Fewell had lost his driving licence, he’d have been unemployed. And he’d have found it difficult to pay a big fine. He was already under a lot of pressure. This seems to have been the final straw.’

  Curtis nodded. His blue eyes looked at her with concern and also, she was sure, a certain amount of calculation. What was he thinking? she wondered. What was he not saying?

  He sighed and got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry not to be of more help, ma’am. It was a routine stop. I’m surprised I even remembered the name, to be honest.’

  ‘OK. Well, thanks.’ Grace too got to her feet. ‘And you have my condolences. I understand you and Mark Kirkby were good friends?’

  He nodded miserably. ‘Since school. A long time.’

  ‘That must be hard. I’m sorry.’

  He stopped on the threshold of her cubicle and turned back. ‘Is it likely that I’ll have to give evidence at the inquest?’

  ‘That’ll be up to the coroner.’

  He nodded again, his eyes troubled, then said goodbye and walked across the MIT office to the door. She watched him go, experiencing that itchy feeling that meant she’d missed something. Maybe she should have asked him outright about Fewell’s paranoia; after all Donna had seemed to suggest it was common knowledge. Why hadn’t she? Was she starting to believe it wasn’t simple paranoia, that Mark Kirkby had asked a mate to follow Fewell and pull him over? She was almost relieved to be distracted from her suspicions by Duncan bringing her a sheet of paper.

  ‘Preliminary ballistics report, boss.’

  ‘Anything I need to know?’

  ‘Maybe. The spent bullet casings recovered in Dunholt have military head stamps.’

  Grace frowned. ‘The army’s not going to be using hollow-point ammo.’


  ‘Precisely. Which means that someone reused the brass casings.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Quite a few sportsmen make their own ammunition,’ he said. ‘It’s a popular hobby. Home-loading, it’s called. The precise way the cartridge is loaded with the primer, powder and bullet affects the accuracy of a shot. Plus, if you’re going to make your own, it’s a lot cheaper to pick up spent brass cases.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it!’

  Duncan smiled. ‘A little. The Police Federation organizes the occasional day’s duck shooting with a club out on the marshes. It’s good fun. Just shotguns, but some of the guys there also go after deer up around Thetford. They’ll be using rifles, and I’ve heard them talking about home-loading.’

  ‘So it’s possible that an enthusiast who makes his own bullets passed some along to Russell Fewell?’

  ‘Yes. Except rifle ammo is very strictly controlled, including home-loaded. Especially hollow-point bullets. They should all be accounted for on the firearms certificate of the person who takes possession of them. It’s against the law to supply rounds to anyone who doesn’t hold a certificate with the appropriate conditions.’

  ‘So it’s not going to be that one of Fewell’s mates simply gave him a handful, no questions asked?’

  ‘Not if the mate is legit, no.’

  ‘OK, that’s a big help, thanks,’ said Grace. ‘Can you inform the firearms liaison officer? And maybe do a bit of asking around yourself. See if the military head stamps on the brass casings ring any bells.’

  ‘I can get a list of the registered firearms dealers within striking distance of Dunholt,’ said Duncan, ‘Talk to those who keep a good ear to the ground. And to some of the guys from the wildfowling club. But I doubt I’ll find many sportsmen at home on Boxing Day. It’s traditionally a big shoot day.’

  ‘Well, I guess it can wait until tomorrow.’ As Duncan turned to go, Grace was reminded of her earlier visitor. ‘Tell me, do you know Curtis Mullins at all? A uniform PC.’

  ‘Not well. Only by sight really. Why?’

  ‘John Kirkby wants him kept in the loop. I need to know if he’s discreet, that’s all.’

  Duncan shrugged. ‘Never heard anything against him.’

  ‘OK, that’s good. Thanks.’

  Grace decided not to waste any more time worrying about Curtis Mullins. Fewell’s arrest had been a fair cop – his subsequent breath test had proved he was over the limit – and on a quiet winter’s night you might very well pull someone over for a broken light merely to break up the monotony. She might not want to be best pals with John Kirkby, but she knew nothing about his son to suggest such a daft conspiracy.

  An hour or so later she was taken aback to hear the reason Colin had summoned her to his office. ‘I told you not to upset John Kirkby!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘Then why have I had a call from him, complaining that you are harassing PC Mullins over the circumstances of Fewell’s arrest?’

  ‘Harassing? That’s nonsense!’

  ‘So you did question him?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly water-boarding! I just asked him about Fewell’s reaction to the arrest. It goes to his state of mind.’

  Colin waved aside the air in front of him. ‘Well, there’s no reason for Mullins to be on the witness list for the inquest. It’s irrelevant who arrested Fewell. All that matters is that Fewell went postal over it. That in itself says all we need to know about his state of mind, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So leave PC Mullins alone.’

  ‘I didn’t chase after him, sir. He came to see me. John Kirkby’s messenger boy.’

  Colin softened. ‘OK. Fair enough. But I don’t want John Kirkby throwing his toys out of the pram again. Or not in my direction. It may not be very politically correct to say so, but between you and me he’s a pain in the arse.’ Colin grinned boyishly. ‘Look, I’m already getting an earful from the missus about working over Christmas. What I don’t need is a former branch chair of the Police Federation belly-aching in my other ear about the insensitivity of my senior officers.’

  ‘Understood.’ Grace made herself smile, though she didn’t much like the waspish sting in the tail of his fake appeal to camaraderie.

  ‘Why don’t you go on home?’ said Colin. ‘I am.’ He got to his feet, sighing and shaking his head. ‘It’s not surprising this is getting to everyone.’ He looked at her ruefully. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken about John Kirkby like that. Not even to you. Poor man. Can you imagine what he’s going through? I was right out of order.’

  ‘We’re all upset,’ Grace echoed dutifully.

  ‘I’ll be glad to get it all wrapped up and off our desks. Start the new year with something a bit less emotionally challenging.’

  ‘It’s hard on everyone,’ agreed Grace, following him out of his office. ‘You go on. I need to gather some stuff together first.’

  As Colin left, she realized that she was the last person in the office. At least until the cleaners came. They had to work Christmas too. She suddenly realized how exhausted she was. Colin was right: all murders were tragic, but Fewell’s actions – so extreme, so pointless – had been particularly affecting. So many grieving families tonight, so many old friends and colleagues wondering how such a thing could happen to the ordinary, harmless, unassuming people they knew. Donna and her children too: it was important not to forget they were victims as well.

  She almost wished that Lance’s background checks would show that Fewell was the only one who could in any way be held responsible for this bloodbath, so that it was irrelevant what kind of man Mark Kirkby had or hadn’t been, or what kind of friends he had. People needed Fewell to be an evil monster so they could put what he had done into a box of incomprehensible aberrations and move on. The last thing anybody wanted was moral ambiguity, and Grace knew she’d never be popular for even so much as raising the notion that the truth might not be as clear-cut as the tragedy demanded. Especially when all she had to go on were the delusions of a mass murderer.

  As she closed down her computer and gathered up her bag and coat, she asked herself if she had been insensitive towards Curtis Mullins. A police force was a strong community, and she understood the impulse to look after one’s own, yet she just wasn’t sure that Colin was correct in deciding that the best thing to do was bag it all up and get it off their desks. And whose cause did John Kirkby imagine he was serving, calling up a detective superintendent and expecting his concerns to carry such weight? She might be very tired and very naive, but it didn’t feel right to her. She wished, not for the first time, that she had a boss she could trust.

  11

  Trying to get hold of the Ice Maiden had all been a bit Deep Throat, but the subterfuge was necessary: Grace Fisher would be badly compromised if her phone records ever revealed contact with a tabloid crime reporter, however unsolicited. Ivo hadn’t been at all certain that she would agree to meet. He hadn’t seen her since all the chaotic coming and going around the final discovery of a body last summer, and, although they hadn’t spoken about it then or later, he liked to think they’d shared a moment of silent understanding, and that perhaps afterwards she’d regard him as an ally, as someone in whom it would be safe to place her trust. Jesus, he should listen to himself! Anyone would think he had a schoolboy crush on the woman. And they’d probably be right.

  He’d been asleep when Martin Leyburn had called late the previous night. He’d had to struggle awake, up out of a nightmare in which he stood in the study of his prep school housemaster and had to account for his dismal results in a maths test. Ivo had dealt with late-night calls like this many times before. They went with the intimacy he forced upon the relatives, witnesses and other survivors of the tragedies about which he wrote. The calls came from people in pain and shock, for whom the ground beneath their feet had, apparently without effort, opened up to reveal the true horror of the emptiness belo
w. Often those most troubled were at the periphery of events, as Martin Leyburn was, but their sudden comprehension of the precariousness of their beliefs, of their very existence, was no less real or intense.

  Sure enough, since Ivo’s visit to Gable End Cottage, Martin had been crucifying himself over why he had failed to recognize the depth of Russell Fewell’s distress, over whether he could and should have done something different to divert the unseen but impending catastrophe. He’d wanted to talk about all the things he now imagined he ought to have done, and Ivo had let him talk. He’d learned over the years that the quickest way to get back to sleep was to let people get everything off their chests. His job, after all, was to coax and cajole people into talking to him, so who was he to shut them up when that’s what they actually longed to do?

  It had taken Martin twenty-odd minutes to work his way through the familiar tropes: disbelief, regret, horror, vulnerability, loss of innocence and back to disbelief. I can’t get my head around it. I just can’t. How many times had Ivo heard that? And, frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really got his own head around some of the stories he’d reported. He thought of the notorious murder trials he’d sat through, watching the jurors’ faces as they passed around the scene-of-crime or post-mortem photos it was their duty to look at. It was real but couldn’t be real. How could it be real? In their town, or the next street, or their children’s playgroup? That’s what every citizen of Dunholt would be thinking for the next few years if not for ever. Young Davey Fewell and his kid sister most of all.

  Martin had tired eventually, thanked Ivo and hung up. Ivo had known there was little chance of going back to sleep and had waited for the cravings to kick in. What he wouldn’t give for a bottle of brandy! But this too would pass. Booze was about oblivion, and the trick, he’d learned at these moments, was to face head on all those ugly, leering, shameful thoughts that he’d prefer to forget. So he had, though it hadn’t been much fun. And now here he was on a Sunday morning in the horrible cafe of a ring-road superstore, surrounded by desperate-looking couples in quest of bargain white goods in the pre-January sales, waiting for DI Grace Fisher to join him for an undrinkable cup of coffee. Not that he was any great gourmet, but never had he seen a place less conducive to the joys of breaking bread with a friend.