Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  Lance thought for a few moments. ‘OK, so even if Mark Kirkby wasn’t shot with his own gun, where did he get hold of an illicit weapon and, presumably, ammunition?’

  ‘And why?’ asked Grace. ‘If he’d wanted a firearms certificate to join a shooting club or whatever, he’d have got one, no trouble. Why on earth take such a risk? What did he want an illegal gun for?’

  ‘Ballistics haven’t come up with anything on Fewell’s rifle?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve been given priority, but we’re still waiting for the full report. And Duncan is asking around about the ammunition. He thinks we might get a lead on that. So can we just keep this between us for now?’

  She knew this was asking a lot, and she wouldn’t have blamed Lance for backing away. But he nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘After all, it’s not like we’re looking to take any dangerous villains off the street.’

  ‘True. And, whatever we find, it’s not going to bring any of Fewell’s victims back, either.’ As Lance got up to go, Grace recognized the depth of her relief that he hadn’t rejected her conjectures as outlandish. ‘Thanks, Lance. Really.’

  Lance returned her smile before heading off to his own desk. Grace sat back, realizing how comforted she was by his support. Lance’s ready acceptance of what Davey had said reassured her that her innate dislike of John Kirkby and his dead son hadn’t led her to totally unreasonable and unfair conclusions. Lance would probably never realize just how much that meant to her.

  15

  It was the following morning before Donna Fewell could be approached. After some discussion with Ruth Woods, Grace had decided it would be better if the family liaison officer sounded her out first, and they had agreed that Ruth would ask Donna whether Mark had ever shown any interest in guns. The response was disappointing: Donna had said no, and Ruth was sure that her lack of reaction was genuine. Which meant that, if Davey had told his dad, as he said, then Russell Fewell had not brought the issue up with his ex-wife.

  Ruth had also warned Grace against returning too soon to the house to speak to Davey. Ruth continued to believe that he’d told the truth the previous day, but reported that he was evidently distressed and overnight had become even more withdrawn. Pushing him too hard before he was ready would, she felt, be counterproductive.

  Grace trusted the FLO’s judgement, yet their conversation made it no easier to decide when and what to say to Superintendent Pitman. All morning she’d been in two minds about whether to speak at all, yet she knew she’d have to inform him at some point of what Davey had said, however reluctant he’d be to hear it. If only Keith Stalgood had still been sitting in the black leather executive chair that went with the role, then she would have had no such hesitation. But nostalgia was useless. She had to deal with what was in front of her. Nevertheless, she was happy to be reprieved for a little longer by Duncan, a big smile on his face, bringing her the follow-up to the preliminary ballistics report.

  ‘We have a match,’ he said.

  ‘You mean the rifle has been fired in other incidents?’ she asked, very much surprised at such a development.

  ‘Not the gun,’ said Duncan. ‘But there’s a match on the ammunition. Or, to be absolutely precise, the tool used to load the primers inside the spent casings.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain. That’s way too specialist for me.’

  Duncan grinned. ‘Whoever reloaded the rounds used by Russell Fewell has a repriming tool that left microscopic, slightly off-centre, scratch marks on all the primers recovered from the spent casings. There are identical marks on primers recovered from other incidents, including four murders.’

  ‘You’re talking about rifle rounds?’ asked Grace, confused.

  ‘No, that’s what’s so interesting,’ said Duncan. ‘These other bullets were fired from different types of handgun all using different calibre ammunition, but all reloaded using the same repriming tool.’

  ‘So we have a single armourer making and supplying ammo for criminals right across the UK,’ said Grace. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ Duncan agreed cheerfully. ‘His handiwork is linked to four separate, unrelated murders – a drive-by gang shooting in north London, another gang shooting in Manchester and two armed robberies in Birmingham – plus four other non-fatal incidents across London.’

  ‘Does the National Crime Agency have anything on this?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Not a lot. Usually ammunition is supplied along with an illegal weapon as part of a package. But it can be difficult to obtain extra ammo, and it doesn’t come cheap, so could be that our chap specializes in supplying that market.’

  ‘But he could also be handling firearms as well?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Grace mentally reviewed what she knew about gun crime: well over a thousand shots had been fired last year in London alone, and the vast majority of firearm fatalities were young. She longed to share with Duncan what Davey had said, to ask if he had any idea why on earth a serving police officer would have connections to such a criminal trade. ‘Surely, this armourer could be absolutely anywhere?’ she said. ‘Poland, Russia, Albania. He could be dealing through the dark web, getting paid in Bitcoin.’

  ‘Except that the rounds Fewell used had spent casings with British military head stamps,’ Duncan reminded her.

  Grace frowned. ‘Easy enough to obtain from any war zone where our troops are serving.’

  ‘True,’ said Duncan. ‘But I’ve been speaking to few of the local firearms dealers. There’s a guy called Leonard Ingold who’s always been very cooperative. Tips us off if he’s offered firearms not held lawfully on a certificate, that kind of thing. He suggested that if the home-loader of the rifle rounds used by Fewell was local, then the brass casings would probably have come from STANTA.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Stanford Training Area, just north of Thetford. Leonard says he’s occasionally reused spent casings from there himself. Although the army are pretty thorough at clearing up after themselves, there’s a civilian guy, a range warden, who must be pocketing some of the brass and selling it off for beer money. He shouldn’t be doing it, but there’s a lot of deer in Thetford Forest, so he’ll find plenty of ready customers nearby. Deer-stalkers are really into home-loading; a perfectly balanced bullet makes a big difference.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘And how many thousands of rounds do the army get through? I’m not sure how this helps us.’

  Duncan smiled in obvious delight. ‘Ah, but it does, boss. You just have to be a bit of a geek. The head stamp has the manufacturer’s name and the year of issue. So I checked with STANTA. No reported thefts of military ammunition, but one of the units using the firing range had a batch matching those stamps. It’s not definitive, but it does potentially link to the rounds used by Fewell.’

  ‘You’re saying our armourer could be local?’ Grace was impressed.

  Duncan nodded in satisfaction. ‘Yes. I realize it’s still a needle in a haystack, but I’d like to follow up with the range warden who’s been selling the brass. Get a list of his customers.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Grace worked back through everything Duncan had told her so far. ‘You told me before that hollow-point ammunition had to be listed on a firearms certificate. Are details of the head stamps recorded?’

  ‘No. Sorry, boss. That would make it way too easy.’

  Grace laughed. ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘But it’s still worth a chat with the range warden, don’t you think?’

  ‘I do, yes,’ she said. ‘This is really good work, Duncan. Keep on digging, and let’s see where it takes us.’

  She was happy to watch him return to his desk with a spring in his step. All too often the most intractable cases were solved by dogged legwork and number-crunching, and Duncan was a proper old-style copper used to getting results through sheer hard work. She remembered some quip from a championship golfer that her dad used to quote when she grumbled about fini
shing her homework or wanted to abandon a task that was proving trickier than expected: The harder I practise, the luckier I get.

  The comforting echo of her dad’s voice in her head provided the final push she needed to go and speak to Colin Pitman. Rising from her desk, she reminded herself that, while she might have little respect for Colin’s moral courage, he was nonetheless shrewd and realistic, and had always been adept at cutting through swathes of intelligence so a team could home in on what mattered. Perhaps, after all, he would surprise her?

  ‘Come in,’ he said when she tapped on his door. He smiled wearily. ‘I’m just going over the protocol for Mark Kirkby’s funeral next week. Hilary wants an immaculate police presence. Luckily John Kirkby is only too keen for his son to be buried with full ceremony, and given that the Police Federation is picking up the bill we can really go to town.’

  Grace’s heart sank as she closed the door and came to sit opposite him: he really wasn’t going to want to hear what she had to say.

  Colin must have sensed her misgivings, for he gave her a very direct look. ‘John Kirkby has specifically asked for Curtis Mullins to be one of the bearers,’ he said pointedly. ‘White gloves. Guard of honour. A service drape with the Essex force insignia. You get the picture?’

  ‘I understand perfectly, sir.’

  He pushed the paperwork away from him and sat back. ‘What happened to Colin?’ he asked with a wry smile.

  ‘You’re a superintendent now,’ she said lightly, trying not to clench her teeth and changing the subject as swiftly as she could. ‘I’ve had the follow-up ballistics report. It links Russell Fewell’s ammunition to multiple incidents, four fatal. It suggests a single armourer supplying ammunition and possibly also weapons to criminals right across the country.’

  ‘Right.’ He scanned the copy she handed him, but she could see from his expression that he wasn’t very interested. ‘How do you intend to action this?’

  ‘There’s a possibility that the armourer is local. Duncan Gregg is looking into it.’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  His tone suggested a reprimand, probably because Grace had not kept him informed. But she was a detective inspector now, and wasn’t expected to keep him abreast of every separate line of inquiry.

  ‘It seemed worth putting some effort into tracking down where the gun and ammunition came from,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Well, if it goes somewhere, fine,’ said Colin airily. ‘But I think we’ve got enough for the coroner now, don’t you?’ He tossed the report back onto his desk. ‘Hilary reckons the media will be eager to move on. Her advice is that Dunholt isn’t the kind of horror story people want to hear much more of, not at this time of year.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Grace. ‘That’s only natural. But if, further down the line, we can show that in the wake of this tragedy we’re taking illicit weapons off the street and putting the people who supply them behind bars, that would be a real PR feather in our cap, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Of course. But I don’t want officers tied up on non-urgent investigations when they could be at home with their families. It’s bad for morale. All those who worked on Christmas Day and Boxing Day are getting time off in lieu. That includes you, Grace.’

  ‘The troops will really appreciate that. Thanks.’

  She knew she was allowing herself to be sidetracked, but what she could do about it? There was no way she could tell Colin now that Mark Kirkby, an officer about to be eulogized with full police honours, had been in illegal possession of a firearm and had possible links to a criminal armourer.

  She returned to her desk hoping that maybe Ivo Sweatman’s investigations, whatever they were, would turn something up, although in the light of Davey’s revelation she worried that she should never have given him the lead about Fewell’s drink-drive arrest. It had been madness ever to agree to their meeting in the first place. While she despised the tabloids for their methods and for the glee with which they set out to shame people, deep down she couldn’t help believing that she and Ivo were on the same side. And she liked him. All the same, should she now warn him off investigating Curtis Mullins? If any of this got out before she could prove that Davey was right, it would be a total PR disaster for the police, for which she was unlikely ever to be forgiven. She could cope with that if she had to, but not with the negative emotional impact on the boy, which would be incalculable.

  Davey had told her the truth, his truth, and it was her task to investigate, even if it meant defaming fellow officers. She had done it before and been punished for doing her duty by those she trusted. But if she let that stop her doing her job, she might as well pack up and go home.

  16

  The Cricketers was a large cosy-looking pub about half a mile north of the main Colchester bypass. According to the statement made by Russell Fewell after his arrest it was where he’d met up with a couple of friends to celebrate his birthday last November. Now, early on a Tuesday afternoon between Christmas and New Year, there were only three other cars in the car park. Grace doubted the pub would be busy. Not that she intended to go inside. She parked in a corner of the large tarmacked area at the side of the building and wondered what on earth she thought she was doing here.

  She had just spent several hours – time that should have been spent on far more justifiable tasks – leaning on people to search databases for any record of Russell Fewell’s van that night. An image from a number plate recognition camera close to the turn-off he’d have taken to get here showed that, on his journey to the pub, both his rear lights had been working.

  In his statement Fewell had accepted that a light was broken, but said he hadn’t been aware of it before PC Mullins drew it to his attention. It was, of course, perfectly possible that someone had reversed into his van in the car park and broken the light while he was inside with his mates, but might he not then have noticed the broken glass on the ground when he came out of the pub?

  Grace began by walking the two diagonals across the car park, scanning for any specks of red: nothing. She then skirted the perimeter, still looking across the gritty surface. There were cigarette ends, a couple of discarded chocolate wrappers and an empty cigarette packet. The planters, although the geraniums looked frosted and wilting, were well tended, and she suspected litter was regularly cleared. She stood still, trying not to shiver as the cold seeped through her clothes. I’m Curtis Mullins, she thought. My best friend Mark has told me that Fewell’s going to be here. I know his vehicle registration. I need an excuse to pull him over later. I park in front of the pub, tell my partner I need a leak, slip out the back and, when there’s no one about, smash one of the back lights on his van. Then what? Well, I wouldn’t leave the evidence here on the ground. I’d sweep it out of sight, wouldn’t I?

  At the back of the car park was a thick evergreen hedge, planted to shield the neighbouring houses from the nuisance of slammed car doors and carousing customers late at night. A car drove in and parked as Grace slowly walked the length of the hedge, carefully inspecting the earth around its sturdy stems. The middle-aged couple who got out stared at her in bemusement, so she gave them a friendly smile and carried on with her search. As they walked away she spotted what she was looking for: rough pieces of broken red plastic brushed in among the roots of the hedge. She took out her phone and photographed them, stepping back to take a series of contextual images, and then went to her car for plastic gloves and an evidence bag.

  As she sealed the bag and wrote in the necessary details, she knew she was running too far ahead of herself. The broken pieces could come from any vehicle, and even if forensics matched the pieces to a light from the make of van driven by Russell Fewell, it still meant nothing. How many of those white delivery vans had been in and out of this car park in the past month? What she thought she’d found simply didn’t matter enough in the face of the inevitable and wholly understandable demonization of Russell Fewell. Truth was, no one would want to give a toss what had happened here.

&nb
sp; And yet, and yet . . . the coincidences were starting to mount up, which must be what Fewell had thought too. If he’d been paranoid, then she was equally so.

  Maybe she was just jumping at shadows, building conspiracies, over-identifying with a mass-murderer. Yet what if Curtis Mullins also knew that Mark had an illegal weapon? Was that why he’d seemed so jumpy about having to give evidence at the inquest?

  Grace got into her car and started the engine to generate some warmth. The image of Davey with his toy dinosaurs and Spider-Man duvet came into her mind, and she felt like crying.

  What Russell Fewell had done was appalling, unthinkable, the worst incident she’d ever had to deal with. Each time he pulled that trigger, he had been a monster. And yet Grace had a tiny inkling of how he must have felt. It was how she’d felt back in Maidstone. She’d done nothing wrong but had been victimized and forced out of her job by the very people from whom she expected help and protection. It had nearly driven her mad. And here, in an evidence bag in her lap, was proof that Fewell might have been driven mad too. Evidence enough for Davey Fewell and his sister, anyway.

  She faced an implacable wall. Mark Kirkby. Curtis Mullins. John Kirkby. Colin Pitman. Probably Hilary Burnett too. And even if she persuaded Colin to listen, she had no real evidence, and he’d be right to dismiss everything she had as mere conjecture.

  She thought of the middle-aged couple that had watched her poking around in the scrubby roots of the hedge. They had certainly thought she was crazy. Maybe she was.

  17

  Despite the damp chilly air a large crowd had already gathered outside the fourteenth-century church in Dunholt when the coach transporting those of Angie Turner’s classmates who wanted to attend her funeral arrived from Colchester. A single service was being held for all five victims, and it seemed to Robyn as if the entire population of the little town had come to pay their respects to their neighbours and their families. A cluster of satellite vans was parked around the village green. Keeping the reporters, photographers and television crews in check were two long lines of police officers, all in full dress uniform, presumably a mark of respect for their fallen colleague.