Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  Having listened to Ivo, she refused any longer to believe it had been merely bad luck or coincidence that it had been Mark’s best friend who had arrested Fewell on his birthday, a date Mark could easily have picked up from Davey and Ella if they’d drawn their dad a card or phoned him during the day to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. She even speculated about the broken light: it wouldn’t be at all difficult to smash a rear light in the darkness of a pub car park.

  She’d tried hard to reason with herself – was she being as paranoid as Fewell himself? – until she recalled Davey’s swiftly suppressed reaction when Donna had talked about how Russell had blamed her new partner for all his misfortunes and had accused Mark of getting his mates to follow him and pull him over. Had Davey’s glance been a signal that maybe he’d believed his father? If so, how did the boy feel now, when no one had listened to his dad when they had the chance? She hoped that maybe, without his mother present, Davey might open up to her, if only to lay this whole thread of supposition to rest.

  ‘Donna would like me to be there too,’ Ruth now explained quietly in the narrow hall. ‘She’s OK with it unless Davey gets really upset. Then I’m to fetch her immediately.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Grace. ‘And thanks. Donna must trust you. That’s good. God knows, she needs someone she can trust right now.’

  Ruth nodded, her expression serious, as if this assignment was too tough to allow compliments. ‘Davey’s upstairs. I’ll let Donna know we’re going up.’

  Grace waited for Ruth to come back out of the lounge and followed her upstairs. The FLO tapped on the bedroom door. ‘Davey? Detective Inspector Grace Fisher is here. You met her the other day. She’d like to talk to you.’

  Grace approved of the way that Ruth spoke to Davey as she would an adult. From what she’d seen the other evening, he was a sharp kid, not one who’d appreciate baby talk. The door opened and for a moment Grace was taken aback that she had to look down from the point between the door and the jamb where she’d been expecting to see Davey’s face. He was, after all, barely ten and slight for his age, taking after his father, who had not been particularly tall – just a child, looking back up at her with big serious eyes.

  Instinctively Grace crouched down on her heels to bring her head slightly lower than his. He faced her squarely, still holding on to the door.

  ‘I’m sorry that I can’t leave you all in peace,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to know a bit more about your dad and what he was like. Ruth is going to be here with you. Where would you like to talk? Here or downstairs?’

  Davey thought for a moment and then opened his door wide. Turning away from her, he went to sit on his bed, knees up and his back against the wall. Grace sat on the end of the bed and Ruth remained standing by the door. The duvet cover was printed with blue and red Spider-Man figures, and there was a scatter of dinosaur toys on a low table under the window mixed in with Lego pieces and a couple of plastic dragons. A big poster of a scary Tyrannosaurus rex was Blu-tacked to the wall. The paintwork was scuffed and chipped, and the windows dripped with condensation, but it seemed like a warm, safe little room.

  ‘So you like dinosaurs?’

  Davey nodded.

  ‘Was your dad into that kind of thing too?’

  The boy nodded again, and Grace decided she’d have to be direct. ‘How often did you see your dad, Davey?’

  ‘Weekends. Used to, anyway. He’d take me fishing and stuff.’

  ‘When you say you used to see him at weekends . . .?’ Grace left the rest of the question unspoken.

  ‘We started doing stuff with Mark instead.’

  ‘And was that fun? Did you like that?’

  Davey shrugged. Grace didn’t sense much enthusiasm.

  ‘You heard your mum talk about how she and your dad were taking a little break from one another,’ she said. ‘Did your dad talk about that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘If you could have chosen, would you rather have spent more time with your dad?’

  Davey looked down, gave a tiny nod but said nothing.

  ‘Can you remember if your dad was upset about anything in particular – about how things were with Mark?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘Well, it does to you and your sister. To understand what made your dad so unhappy.’

  But Davey looked down, twisting his hands, making shapes with his fingers, saying nothing.

  ‘You missed your dad when you didn’t see him at weekends?’ Grace asked.

  He nodded, still not looking at her. ‘He had to spend them all by himself.’

  ‘And was he upset about that?’

  Another nod. ‘He wanted to see us. I didn’t like him being on his own.’

  ‘And when you were together, what kind of things did you do, besides fishing?’

  Davey shrugged again. ‘Just telly and stuff.’ He thought for a moment. ‘He liked making things.’ Grace heard the pride in his voice as, for the first time, he looked at her directly. ‘We built a go-kart once.’

  ‘That’s a good memory,’ she said, smiling at him.

  ‘He was really upset,’ said Davey abruptly, ‘because of what I said.’

  ‘What did you say, Davey?’ she asked gently.

  ‘I told him about the gun.’

  Grace hoped she hadn’t betrayed her surprise and didn’t dare glance at Ruth, who remained preternaturally still. ‘The gun?’ she echoed softly.

  ‘About Mark showing it to me.’

  ‘Mark had a gun?’

  ‘It was Mark who liked guns, not Dad.’ His answer was unequivocal, and he stared at her fiercely.

  ‘He liked to shoot?’ Grace asked as casually as she could. ‘I know a lot of people around here shoot duck or go clay-pigeon shooting.’

  But the boy hugged his knees tightly and looked away, evidently feeling he had said too much. Grace racked her brain to try and remember if anyone had checked to see whether Mark Kirkby had a firearms certificate. She didn’t think anyone had. Why would they?

  ‘You know, Davey, a lot of police officers are trained to use firearms.’ He looked at her anxiously, and she smiled a friendly smile that she hoped wasn’t too obviously encouraging. ‘A lot of police officers learn to be familiar with different guns. Is that what you mean about Mark?’

  Davey nodded warily. ‘Maybe. He showed me once. It was big and really hard and heavy. I didn’t like holding it. Mark told me not to tell anyone, but I told Dad and then Dad got upset.’

  ‘What did your dad say?’

  ‘He was going to speak to Mark about it.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Davey shook his head. ‘I asked him not to. Mark said it had to be a secret. Just us, or I’d get into trouble. That Mum and Ella weren’t to know. Besides . . .’

  ‘What, Davey?’

  ‘There only would’ve been another row.’ He hung his head. ‘So I told Dad I made it up,’ he mumbled, lowering his head onto his clasped knees. ‘That he’d make me look stupid if he said anything.’

  ‘Can you describe the gun you held?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You said it was big and heavy.’

  ‘I don’t remember. Maybe I did just make it up.’

  Grace wished she’d paid closer attention to her young nephews as they charged around her sister’s house, shooting one another. ‘Was it a handgun?’ she asked. ‘Like a water pistol? Or longer, like a droid blaster? A shotgun or a rifle, maybe?’

  ‘It wasn’t a toy!’ His voice rose as he became upset, and Ruth took a step forward.

  ‘No, it was real, I know,’ said Grace, moving to make way for Ruth to sit beside the boy. ‘I’m only trying to think of ways to describe it, that’s all.’

  ‘It wasn’t real,’ he said angrily. ‘I just imagined it.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be frightened of,’ said Grace. ‘No one’s cross with you. You’re not letting anyone down.’

  ‘I don’t remember!’


  ‘It’s all right, Davey,’ said Ruth. ‘You don’t have to think about it any more now. You’ve been fantastic. Do you want to go downstairs and find your mum?’

  Davey nodded and, straightening his legs, slipped off the bed. He stood for a second, hesitating, then looked directly at Grace.

  ‘He’s still my dad.’ The note of defiance quavered slightly.

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Grace, moved by his courage. ‘And I really don’t believe, deep down, that he was a bad person.’

  ‘Can you tell people that?’ he begged. ‘Please?’

  Grace nodded. ‘I will. I’ll do my best, I promise.’

  The boy held her gaze for a moment longer, then took Ruth’s proffered hand and went out of the room with her.

  Grace remained where she was. Taking out her mobile, she called Lance, who picked up almost immediately. ‘You in the office?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you check something for me? Whether Mark Kirkby had a firearms certificate or ever received firearms training.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Lance. ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Can’t speak now,’ she said. ‘Are you still gathering background on Fewell?’

  ‘Yes. Want me to change tack?’

  ‘No, you’re fine as you are. Talk to you later.’

  She hung up. Whatever Davey tried to claim about making it up, she believed that Mark Kirkby had shown him a gun and that Davey had told his father about it. The obvious explanation was that the gun was legally held and fully accounted for, and, childless himself, Mark had naively imagined that a bit of mystery and drama would be fun for the boy. But all Grace’s instincts screamed that this wasn’t what had happened.

  Hearing the doorbell ring, she went quietly out onto the landing. She saw Ruth Woods come out of the lounge and go to open the front door, but was unable see who was there. Hearing a deep male voice, she was taken aback to realize it was John Kirkby, come to offer his condolences to his son’s girlfriend and her children, and to enquire whether they needed anything, if he could help them in any way. Grace ducked back out of sight as Ruth led the visitor into the lounge. John Kirkby was the last person she wanted to see with these dark new perceptions fresh in her mind. She sent Ruth a short explanatory text and then, as soon as she heard the lounge door close safely behind them, slipped downstairs and out of the front door.

  14

  Grace sat with her back to her desk, looking out of the window, considering how she was going to handle Davey’s revelation. First, she wanted to be certain that Lance had discovered nothing about Russell Fewell that would lead her to question Davey’s faith in his dad – like, for instance, if Fewell’s computer browsing history turned out to be full of searches for violent far-right groups or armed militia fantasies. She knew that wasn’t likely to happen, but she was anxious to have someone she could safely discuss this with and was pleased when Lance finally came and tapped on the cubicle partition.

  ‘Shift those files and sit yourself down,’ she told him. ‘Bring me up to speed, and then I want to run something past you.’

  Lance drew the chair up to the side of her desk. ‘The good thing about the Sunday after Christmas is that nearly everyone’s at home,’ he said. ‘So I’ve been able to track people down and look under every possible stone I can think of. But there’s nothing on Fewell to predict what happened except his growing obsession with his ex-wife’s new partner.’

  It was as she had expected, although a tiny part of her was nonetheless disappointed. ‘Do you know when that started?’ she asked.

  ‘Donna Fewell and Mark Kirkby had been seeing each other for about eight months. The relationship only began after the divorce had gone through, and there’s no reason to doubt what she says – that the divorce had been amicable, with no one else involved. All the people that have been spoken to – work colleagues, friends – said Fewell barely mentioned Mark Kirkby until about three or four months ago. But around that time he became increasingly bitter and paranoid about him.’

  ‘He may have been right to be paranoid. Curtis Mullins was the arresting officer on the drink-drive charge. He and Mark had been friends since school.’

  ‘Bit of a coincidence,’ remarked Lance drily.

  ‘Yes. And, two hours after I asked Curtis some absolutely routine questions about the arrest, Superintendent Pitman gets a call from John Kirkby complaining of insensitivity and harassment.’

  ‘That’s not mincing his words, is it?’ Lance frowned. ‘Peter and I ran into Curtis in a bar just before Christmas.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Only through work. We were waiting for some friends at the Blue Bar when he came in with a group of guys, and, well, Peter reckoned we were likely to get hassle from them. One of them kept looking over in our direction, kind of aggressive, you know? You develop a sixth sense about that kind of stuff, so we just had a quick drink and went on home.’

  Grace shook her head at the pointlessness of such aggro. ‘Still,’ she said, ‘if you and Peter are serious—’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Then your sexuality is going to become common knowledge around here eventually. Surely the sooner people know – and are happy for you – the better?’

  Lance laughed without much humour. ‘And when I get pulled over for a broken rear light?’

  ‘Curtis wouldn’t dare do that to a fellow officer.’

  ‘Really?’

  Grace was about to argue, but then thought better of it. ‘There’s more to tell you.’ She spoke in a low voice, so Lance had to lean forward to hear her clearly. ‘I just spoke to Fewell’s son, Davey. He said Mark showed him a gun. A big, heavy one. Told him not to tell anyone.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Lance. ‘So that’s why you asked me to check whether Mark Kirkby had a firearms certificate?’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No.’

  Grace was shocked. For a police officer to be in possession of an illegal weapon showed a streak of recklessness – and arrogance – beyond what she’d so far allowed herself to imagine.

  Lance’s voice cut into her thoughts. ‘However, he did receive police firearms training, although he never qualified as an authorized officer.’

  ‘So what the hell did he think was he doing? If he’d been found with it, he was risking a prison sentence.’

  ‘And what was he doing showing off like that to a kid?’ said Lance contemptuously. ‘So, when’s Davey coming in? You’ll want to get him on video.’

  ‘Yes, I know, except I’m not sure it’ll work. I’m scared he’ll clam up completely if we put too much pressure on him. The moment I pushed him to open up a little bit more, he backtracked.’

  ‘What about his mother?’ asked Lance. ‘Why hasn’t she mentioned Mark having a gun?’

  ‘I’m not sure Donna knew,’ said Grace. ‘Davey said he told his dad, who was furious about it. I mean, you would be, wouldn’t you? His son is ten years old. You don’t put a bloody great Heckler & Koch assault rifle in the hands of a ten-year-old and then order him not to tell either of his parents. Especially not if you’re a police officer!’

  ‘But you do believe Davey?’ asked Lance.

  ‘Yes, I do. And so did the FLO, who was there the whole time,’ said Grace. ‘Davey said he was scared there’d be a row between his parents and asked his dad not to say anything.’

  Lance was silent for few moments. Grace waited for him to consider the implications, hoping he’d arrive at the same conclusion as her.

  ‘Do you think it’s possible that Fewell used Kirkby’s own gun to kill him?’ asked Lance.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Grace, relieved. ‘But it is another rather large coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘And, if Fewell had somehow got hold of the weapon, Mark Kirkby could hardly report it stolen, could he?’

  ‘Well, could be that Fewell took it in the hope it would cause trouble for Mark if the gun went missing,’ suggested Grace. ‘And then, when Mark didn’
t report it stolen, there it was, begging to be used.’

  Lance whistled through his teeth. ‘If you’re right, then it’s a lead we have to follow up. But you’d be opening up a box of snakes.’

  Grace glanced towards the closed door of Colin Pitman’s office and lowered her voice. ‘What do I do, Lance?’

  Lance too spoke more quietly. ‘You’ve not brought the boss in on this yet, then?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I’m waiting until I’ve spoken to Donna.’

  ‘Don’t wait too long.’ There was a clear note of warning in Lance’s voice.

  ‘I won’t. But John Kirkby turned up just as I was leaving, so I haven’t had a chance yet. And I wanted to speak to you first. I mean, all I’ve got so far is the word of a traumatized ten-year-old. And it’s Davey I want to protect. Believe me, I know how hard it is to speak up when no one wants to hear you. Unless we can get some kind of evidence to support him, it’ll be his word against some pretty formidable adults.’

  ‘I guess we could get a search warrant for Mark Kirkby’s house and car,’ Lance suggested dubiously.

  ‘Can you imagine how that would go down? Besmirching the good name of a fellow officer who’s been viciously gunned down on his own doorstep on Christmas Day? Davey wouldn’t stand a chance.’