by Jamie Raven
Doug, who was well rewarded for his indiscretion, provided me with some useful off-the-record information.
‘Word is the murder took place between half ten and midnight,’ he said. ‘Megan Fuller suffered a single stab wound to the throat and probably died instantly. There’s no sign of a break-in, but neighbours have reported hearing raised voices around that time.’
‘Is it true the body was discovered by her father?’ I asked.
‘Correct. He called at the house at just after seven this morning.’
‘Have you got his contact details?’
‘I only know that he lives in Lewisham. I’ll have to text you the full address when I have it. But I do know he’s still in Balham.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘He’s at a neighbour’s house. I’ll try to find out which one and text that address to you as well.’
I hung up and looked out of the window, saw that it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. The puddles from last night’s persistent rain were already slowly disappearing, and the sky was an insane shade of blue.
The streets of Peckham were teeming with life. Shops were opening and stalls were being set out. It could have been a scene from John Sullivan’s classic TV sitcom Only Fools and Horses, which was set in Peckham but was actually filmed mostly in Bristol. The series followed lovable rogue Del Boy Trotter and his hapless brother Rodney, and it depicted Peckham as a place filled with harmless villains and wheeler-dealers, while making it appear overwhelmingly white and British.
In reality Peckham was one of London’s most ethnically diverse districts, with a high percentage of the population being black African and Caribbean. Drugs, guns, knives, and street gangs continued to be a problem despite the regeneration. I’d lost count of the number of stories I’d written about crime in Peckham since I started out as a young reporter on the South London Times. Living and working in the community gave me a unique insight, as did the fact that I had experienced first-hand the consequences of endemic crime and violence.
At school I witnessed no fewer than four stabbings, and I once saw a boy of 12 shoot another boy dead in the playground with a gun stolen from his uncle. At the age of 15 I was attacked by three boys when I made the mistake of visiting a friend’s flat on the notorious North Peckham Estate. I suffered a black eye, bruised ribs, and a fractured wrist. I only escaped being raped because someone raised the alarm and my assailants fled.
When I was 14 my stepfather Tony was shot dead while walking along a street in Tulse Hill. My brother Michael was 9 at the time and the loss of his father turned him against the world. He joined a febrile gang known as the Peckham Boys, and my mother and I eventually lost control of him.
After five years of running wild he himself was killed when a rival gang member smashed his skull with a machete in a dispute over drugs.
Some years later – in 2011 – I was in the thick of it again when the London riots spread to Peckham. I won’t ever forget the fear I experienced while reporting from the front line as young men wearing hoods set fire to shops and cars and threatened anyone who got in their way.
The stories I filed during the riots earned me a journalism award and brought me to the attention of the national press. I then worked as a freelance journo for a spell and managed to come up with a string of exclusive stories about the crime scene south of the Thames.
By this time I had a large number of contacts within the police and underworld, and I’d built a reputation as a reliable reporter. This was despite the fact that I often sailed close to the wind by employing unethical methods to get a story. Like a lot of reporters I used to hack mobile phones and use unauthorised electronic surveillance to spy on people. I had also resorted to posing as a police officer to elicit information from those who wouldn’t otherwise have parted with it.
It wasn’t something I was particularly proud of, but then I took the view that the end justified the means.
For me the job wasn’t just about chasing down juicy stories and seeing my name emblazoned beneath the headlines. There was actually more to it than that. Deep down I was motivated by a higher purpose, a compulsion to get at the truth even if it meant occasionally breaching the ethical boundaries. Nothing was more satisfying than exposing wrongdoers and causing criminals like Danny Shapiro to be brought to justice. Working as a crime reporter on The Post allowed me to do just that. The paper approached me after I started selling them stories, and within a couple of months Grant Scott decided to call me The Ferret.
‘I can’t help but admire you, Beth,’ he told me. ‘You unearth more exclusives than the rest of the team put together. And that’s no mean achievement. I’ve never known anyone to be so passionate about their work. For the paper’s sake I hope you never come off the boil.’
I had always considered Balham an upmarket version of Peckham. The streets were cleaner, the shops more varied, and the people seemed a lot friendlier. It also boasted an underground station, which Peckham lacked.
Megan Fuller’s house was in Ramsden Road, one of the area’s longest and smartest streets. The cabbie dropped me close to the scene of activity. A police cordon had been set up across the road and traffic was being diverted.
Four patrol cars were parked beyond the incident tape and two of them were displaying flashing blue lights. There were cops in high-vis jackets everywhere and the air was filled with police radio static.
I stood on the pavement for a few moments to get my bearings and decide how to approach things. The house was behind a high privet hedge. It was near the top end of the road and had an attractive red-brick Victorian façade.
The media scrum was just getting started. I spotted two reporters I recognised from the nationals and there was Billy Prior, the photographer from The Post. The TV crews hadn’t yet arrived but they were no doubt on their way. Soon there’d be a crowd of us jostling for position as we sought to gather the facts.
The paper expected me to file copy as quickly as possible for both print and online editions of the paper. I was already in a position to freshen up the story with what Doug had told me, plus I could throw in colour about the crime scene and get a few quotes from shocked neighbours.
I made a quick note of what was going on. Police were searching gardens and drains. One officer was videoing the scene while another was taking photographs.
I moved right up to the incident tape. Asked a uniformed officer if the detectives in charge were prepared to provide us with an update.
‘Not just yet,’ he said, gesturing towards two figures standing on the path leading up to Megan’s front door. ‘As you can see they’re tied up. But I’ve been told that a statement will be forthcoming within the hour. I know they’re keen to make an appeal for information.’
I had assumed the pair were scene-of-crime officers. One of them was wearing a protective forensic suit and the other was slipping into one.
Now I recognised both of them. The guy already wearing the suit was DCI Jack Redwood. The other man was DI Ethan Cain, my ex, and it looked as though he had only just arrived.
Redwood was doing the talking and Ethan was listening. Both men wore solemn expressions.
When they disappeared into the house I turned my attention to a group of neighbours standing on the pavement across the road. Five minutes later I had elicited a few useful quotes from them. One woman told me she had known Megan Fuller well and had considered her a friend.
‘This is terrible,’ she said with tearful eyes. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened.’
A man in his sixties who lived opposite said he’d seen Megan the previous morning as she’d walked home from a shopping trip to the Waitrose store at the end of the road.
‘She smiled at me and asked how I was,’ he said. ‘She seemed in good spirits. Who the bloody hell could have done such a thing?’
That gave me enough to fire off my first piece of copy. I sent it via my iPad and included the quotes and the facts about how Megan had been stabbed and the estimated
time of the murder.
Grant Scott called me straight back to say well done and to tell me to hang around.
‘Just keep filing updates as and when you get them,’ he said. ‘We’re pulling together a background piece on Megan at this end. I’ve got two people bashing the phones to get reactions. We’ve already got quotes from the BBC and a couple of her showbiz friends.’
‘I read somewhere that she had a boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Took up with him after her divorce from Danny Shapiro.’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘I’m afraid not. See if you can dig it up. It’s odds on the police will want to talk to both him and Shapiro.’
As soon as I hung up a text message came through on my phone. It was from Doug and he’d sent through the address in Lewisham of Megan’s father. A minute later I received a second message. In this one Doug confirmed that Mr Fuller was still in Ramsden Road and he gave me the number of the house where he was being comforted by a neighbour.
5
Beth Chambers
Nigel Fuller was staying at a terraced house about fifty yards from his daughter’s place. It was just outside the police cordon and I was surprised there were no uniforms standing out front.
I fully expected him to decline the opportunity to speak to the press but decided it was worth a try. As any reporter knows you can never be sure how loved ones will react when approached. Some consider it the ultimate intrusion. Others just slam the door in your face, or refuse to even answer it in the first place. But a sizable number do actually open up and perhaps even find it cathartic to talk about how shocked and grief-stricken they are.
I had to play this carefully. Mr Fuller might well still have been here because the detectives wanted to interview him again, in which case they wouldn’t want me anywhere near him. But if I could persuade him to talk to me it would put me way ahead of the pack.
When a woman answered the door I knew it probably meant that there were no police officers inside. That was a result. She was plump and middle-aged. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and her face was a grey, washed-out colour.
Before she could get a word out I flashed my press card and said, ‘My name’s Bethany Chambers and I’m a reporter with The Post. I’ve come to have a word with Mr Fuller.’
Her eyes narrowed and her expression became wary.
‘How did you know he was here?’
‘The police told me,’ I said. ‘They’re keen to put out an appeal for information and they believe a quote from Megan’s father would ensure it has maximum impact.’
Okay, that was stretching it, but it wasn’t actually an outright lie since the cops would soon be using the media to reach out to the public anyway.
‘Of course I’ll understand if he’s not up to it having gone through such a traumatic experience.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘The detective told us not to talk to anyone. He said Nigel should wait here until he came back, and that a family liaison officer was on her way over. That’s who I thought you were.’
‘The thing is the sooner the appeal can go out the better,’ I said. ‘The police are desperate to contact anyone who might have seen or heard something last night.’
The woman bit down on her lower lip and looked back over her shoulder. I could tell she was anxious and confused. And I knew that if I didn’t get over the threshold in the next few seconds I never would.
‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Fuller,’ I prompted. ‘It might be something he wants to do. I promise I’ll only ask a couple of questions.’
She was about to respond when a man appeared in the hallway behind her.
‘Who is it, Martha?’ he said.
The woman turned.
‘It’s a newspaper reporter. She wants—’
‘The name’s Bethany Chambers, sir,’ I cut in. ‘I’m with The Post. Are you Mr Fuller?’
He stepped forward and stood next to his neighbour in the doorway.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘What is it you want?’
I cleared my throat and weighed my words before I spoke.
‘Well, let me begin by saying that I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr Fuller. What has happened to your daughter is truly shocking. We’re now cooperating with the police to get as much publicity as possible. My paper is about to publish an appeal for information and it’s been suggested by the police that you might like to include a few words about Megan.’
I had used the same spiel on numerous occasions before and it had worked about fifty per cent of the time. There was no easy way to approach a grieving relative, and it was always hard not to come across as insensitive, or even callous.
I studied the man as he thought about what to do. He was in his late fifties, and tall enough to look down his nose at me. His grey hair was cropped short, and his eyes were red and puffy.
After a few seconds he gave a stiff nod and said, ‘Very well. You’d better come in.’
I followed him along the hall and Martha closed the door behind us. In the living room he sat on the sofa and gestured for me to sit on an armchair opposite. Martha asked me if I wanted a cup of tea; I declined, but she said she would put the kettle on anyway and left the room.
I took out my notebook and pen and rested them on my knee. Questions stormed into my mind, but I didn’t want to rush things. I was acutely aware of how upset Mr Fuller must be and that he might break down at any moment. Therefore I had to tread carefully.
I pulled in a heavy breath and said, ‘Perhaps you could start by telling me what sort of person Megan was. Most people will only know her as Lisa Fawkes from the TV soap.’
His eyes grew sorrowful and the muscles in his jaw tensed.
‘She was wonderful,’ he said after a beat. ‘She got on with most people and was very thoughtful.’
‘I understand she’d been at a low ebb since losing her job with the BBC.’
‘That’s true. It came as a shock, and this last year in particular was hard for her. She was quite depressed. I think she found it hard to accept that her life had changed so much.’
‘Were you close?’
He nodded. ‘Of course, although I now regret the fact that we didn’t see much of each other in recent years.’
‘What about her mother, your wife?’
‘Trisha passed away six years ago. Cancer. Megan was very much like her mother and we were both so proud of her.’
I felt a lump rise in my throat and had to pause before asking another question.
‘Can you tell me what happened earlier this morning, Mr Fuller, when you arrived at Megan’s house?’
He swallowed hard and looked beyond me at something that wasn’t in the room.
‘She asked me to come over because she wanted to talk to me,’ he said. ‘She knew that Amy and I were planning to visit Amy’s son in Canterbury this afternoon.’
‘Amy?’
‘My fiancée. We’re getting married next year.’
‘I see. So you arrived at Megan’s house about seven. Is that right?’
‘Yes. But there was no answer when I rang the bell so I thought she must have overslept. I don’t have a key so I went around the back to call up to her bedroom window. That’s when I looked into the kitchen and saw her on the floor.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I smashed the door window with a rock from the garden and got inside. I thought she might still be alive even though there was a lot of blood. But when I knelt down beside her and saw the gash in her throat I realised that she wasn’t.’
The tears he’d been holding back began to spill from the corners of his eyes and his face creased up. I could almost feel his pain and a cold flush went over my skin.
I gave him time to recover, then cleared my throat for the second time. ‘When was the last time you spoke to Megan, Mr Fuller?’
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and switched his gaze back to me.
‘Yesterday evening,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘She was
upset. I didn’t realise how upset until I got a text from her much later asking me to come over this morning. She must have sent it just before …’
He couldn’t finish the sentence and my face grew hot as I watched him struggling to hold it together.
I leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘What was Megan upset about, Mr Fuller? Can you tell me that?’
His voice dropped to a hard-edged whisper, and anger suddenly blazed in his eyes.
‘She was upset because of that gobshite Shapiro.’
‘You mean Danny Shapiro, her ex-husband?’
‘That’s right. They’d had words again yesterday, but she said that this time he threatened to kill her because she was planning to include derogatory statements about him in her autobiography.’
I was taken aback by this bombshell revelation. Danny Shapiro had threatened to kill his wife only a short time before she was murdered. It was a dynamite piece of information even though we probably wouldn’t be able to print it at this time for legal reasons.
‘I assume you’ve told the police,’ I said.
Nigel Fuller nodded. ‘Absolutely. But they’re not stupid. They must have guessed that he’s the one who killed her. He hated Megan and he’s been vile to her ever since she left him.’
‘What was their reaction when you told them?’
‘They said they’d talk to him right away. I’m hoping the bastard has already been arrested.’
I was still processing what I had just heard when the doorbell chimed. As Martha went to answer it I put my notebook and pen back in my bag and stood up. Instinct told me it’d be the police at the door and a few moments later I was proved right when one came into the living room.
‘It’s the family liaison officer, Nigel,’ Martha said from behind her.
Her name was Lauren Tomlinson. Sergeant Lauren Tomlinson. The last time we’d met – about six months ago – she’d given me a bollocking for trying to gain access to the wife of a man who’d been shot dead in Greenwich.