by Jamie Raven
‘On my way to the office. We were planning to have a team talk this morning or had you forgotten?’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ Danny said. ‘But I’ll be late. I’ve got something to do first.’
‘No problem. How do you feel about Megan?’
‘I’m gutted. How do you think I feel? I was married to the woman for three years. And regardless of what a nuisance she’s been since she left me, I wouldn’t have wished this on her.’
‘Yeah, I see what you mean.’
Danny wasn’t surprised that Bishop appeared unmoved. The man didn’t give a rat’s arse about anyone. He’d known Megan for as long as Danny had and had been one of the few people who hadn’t disapproved of the marriage. But even back then he wouldn’t have shed a tear if she’d fallen under a bus. In fact he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second if Danny had instructed him to push her under one.
That was the thing about Bishop. He had the perfect mind-set for the job he did. Granted, he was a psycho who relished hurting people. It was how he’d made a name for himself during his days in Southampton. And why the Old Bill there had been so glad to get shot of him. But he was also a fiercely loyal enforcer and committed consigliere. And when you ran an operation that meant you had to deal with the dregs of society he was the kind of person you wanted at your side.
‘I take it you’ve got an alibi for last night, boss,’ Bishop said.
‘Naturally.’
‘That’s good, because you’re gonna feel some heat over this. If there’s anything you need me to do then let me know.’
Danny was tempted to seek his advice but decided it wouldn’t be a good idea. Instead he told Bishop he would catch up with him later.
He replaced the receiver and drew in a breath. The house suddenly felt hot and airless.
He switched on the TV and watched the news again while drinking his coffee. Megan’s murder was still the dominant story and reports were now coming live from the scene. No arrests had been made and it sounded like the police had no leads. That wasn’t good. It meant that the problem wasn’t going to go away anytime soon.
An alibi. He desperately needed one, and fast. But his options were dangerously limited. And he was running out of time.
As he paced the kitchen floor, his heart pounding, he found himself wishing he could just pick up the phone and call his father. Callum would know what to do, just like he always did.
But his dad was banged up because he’d been careless. And since the day of his arrest it had been up to Danny to sort out his own problems.
Danny had always admired his dad. Callum Shapiro had created a thriving business in one of the toughest parts of London.
He had been inspired by his boyhood heroes – Charlie and Eddie Richardson. The Richardson gang had reigned supreme over the south London manor during the Sixties. Their speciality was torture, including cutting off toes with bolt cutters, pulling out teeth with pliers, and nailing victims to the floor with six-inch nails.
The pair invested in scrap metal and fruit machines, businesses they used as fronts for racketeering, drug dealing, extortion, prostitution, stolen goods, and loan sharking.
Danny’s father had met the brothers a couple of times and had employed their torture techniques on more than a few occasions.
Callum became a legend in his own right, and managed to do it without alienating most of the people on his south London patch. To many of them he was a larger-than-life benefactor, giving generous donations to local charities and causes, and protecting some of the most vulnerable against street scum who raped, mugged, and robbed – and in so doing gave all decent criminals a bad name.
Callum had modelled himself on the stereotypical Mafia gangster and had loved being referred to as the Godfather of south London. He would swan around in chauffeur-driven Mercs and wear ridiculously expensive Savile Row suits. Two burly bodyguards were never far behind, drawing attention and bolstering his ego.
Danny was born before his dad rose to prominence, back when Callum was making a name for himself in Peckham. He was married to Danny’s mother Erica then and life was hard but good.
Erica tried to discourage Danny from going the way of his father, but it was a losing battle from the start. Callum used to say that he wanted to build an empire that his son would one day take over and so he started grooming Danny as soon as he reached his teens.
When Danny was mature enough to resist, saying he didn’t want to follow a life of crime, there were ructions. Danny had his mother’s support and would have dug his heels in if not for the fact that she died suddenly from a heart attack when he was 17.
Any thoughts of going to university or pursuing a proper career were put on hold so that he could be there for his father, who was overcome by grief. Callum had loved Erica with all his heart and it took him a long time to recover. He leaned on Danny for support and in the process Danny came to accept that his destiny was to be at his father’s side.
Within a year of his mother’s death, Danny was involved in the business, acting as an assistant manager at one of the clubs. Gradually he was given more responsibility and learned how to take care of himself.
In his private life Danny remained a free agent, enjoying the trappings of success and the steady stream of female companions that his good looks and notoriety attracted.
His dad eventually returned to his old self, thanks partly to an unlikely relationship with one of the prossies who worked in the lap-dance club they ran in Rotherhithe.
Tamara Roth, a striking redhead, was twenty years younger than Callum, and he became so besotted with her that he insisted she came off the game so that he could have her all to himself.
He paid off the mortgage on her house in Vauxhall and spoiled her rotten. When he was sent down she was devastated, and not just because she’d lost her sugar daddy. Danny suspected that she had probably come to love Callum as much as he’d loved her.
Tamara’s face suddenly pushed itself into his thoughts. He hadn’t seen her in months, even though the firm still made regular payments into her bank account as per his father’s instructions.
He knew she was back in business, but working for herself this time, and turning tricks only for a few regular high-end clients. His father didn’t know and she had asked Danny not to tell him.
Danny didn’t blame her. She had a life to lead, after all, and nobody expected her to wait around for a man who was unlikely ever to leave prison.
Thinking about Tamara gave him an idea. She had said to him once that she would do anything for his father, and at the time he’d believed her. He wondered now if she could be persuaded to protect Callum’s only son by lying for him.
He decided to find out because he realised he had nothing to lose. He looked up her number in his contacts book and called it. Thankfully she answered on the fourth ring and sounded surprised to discover it was him on the line.
‘Oh, Danny, it’s wonderful to hear from you. It’s been too long, hon. But look, I’ve just heard about Megan on the news. I’m really sorry. I know you haven’t been together for a while but it must still have come as a shock.’
‘It did,’ he said. ‘I only just heard about it myself.’
‘Well, if there’s anything I can do for you, hon, you have only to ask. I still feel like I’m part of the family.’
‘Actually there is something, Tamara,’ he said. ‘I need an alibi for last night, and I need it before I get stitched up for something I didn’t do.’
8
Beth Chambers
I was now part of a raucous media circus. TV crews with their satellite trucks had turned up and the national press had gathered en masse.
We were being corralled behind a police barrier from where we could see the cops and forensic officers working the scene. Some officers were going door-to-door canvassing neighbours, while others were standing around with their arms folded, their expressions intense and stoic.
This was now the biggest show in town. The
story had everything. A mysterious murder. A celebrity victim. A crime boss ex-husband who was among the suspects. It was the sort of thing that really got my juices flowing. It would also sell newspapers and lead to a boost in The Post’s circulation.
No wonder I could feel the adrenalin searing my senses. I was in my element and hoping – like the other reporters here – that there wouldn’t be a quick resolution. It would be better for us if the story could be dragged out for at least a few days, or even weeks.
That would give us all time to dig up the dirt on Megan Fuller and her ex-husband. Once the police charged someone then reporting restrictions would kick in until the trial.
I’d already phoned over the quotes from Megan’s father, and included a note about Danny Shapiro threatening Megan. The editor would have to talk to the lawyers to decide whether or not we could include it.
I wondered if his arrest was imminent. Or was Shapiro already in custody?
One thing I did know for certain was that I needed to find out as much as I could about the man. I’d written about him in the past but not at any great length. The stories had centred on his marriage to Megan, his father’s imprisonment, and the attempt on his life when a rival Chechen gangster tried to shoot him in Bermondsey.
Since assuming control of the rackets in south London from his father he’d taken steps to lower his profile. He’d become paranoid apparently, fearful of being targeted again or of being entrapped by police surveillance. Megan’s murder had thrust him right back into the limelight, along with his nefarious business activities.
‘How’s it going, Chambers?’
The voice made me turn and I found myself facing the diminutive figure of Steve Welland, The Sun’s chief crime reporter. He was in his fifties, with craggy features and unruly grey hair. He grinned at me and I saw that his nose and cheeks were red with broken capillaries.
Welland was a throwback to the days when it was common for Fleet Street reporters to abuse their expenses on a grand scale and take three-hour liquid lunches.
‘It’s going all right,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
He shrugged. ‘I was in good spirits until just now when I heard that you’d managed to grab an interview with the victim’s father, the man who discovered the body.’
‘I had a stroke of luck,’ I said. ‘Got to him when no one was looking.’
‘So where is he now?’
I grinned back at him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Anyway he’s been told not to speak to anyone else – especially any reporters from The Sun.’
He shook his head. ‘How I long for the days when us lot used to share information.’
‘That was way before my time, Steve.’
It was the usual friendly banter and it helped pass the time while we waited for something to happen. The rivalry between reporters was healthy, and it kept us on our toes. Sometimes I did swap information, but only when I knew I would get a tasty morsel in return. This time as far as I could see Welland had nothing to offer.
He was about to continue the conversation when we were both distracted by a sudden commotion. I looked towards the house and saw why everyone was excited.
Detectives Redwood and Cain had emerged from the house, having removed their forensic overalls. Now they were heading towards the media scrum in order to provide us with the promised update.
The two detectives stood side by side, and DCI Redwood was a good four inches taller than DI Cain.
Redwood was wearing a bespoke blue suit with white shirt and red tie. He looked smart and authoritative. I knew very little about him other than that he was a career copper who was fairly new to the Met. So far our paths had never crossed.
Cain, on the other hand, I knew only too well. He was wearing the beige linen suit he’d bought to take on our honeymoon. I found out later that it was chosen for him by a woman he’d been having an affair with at the time.
It was Redwood who started the ball rolling by making a brief statement during which he ran through the basic facts.
‘Miss Megan Fuller was the victim of a savage knife attack,’ he said. ‘She was murdered last evening between ten thirty and midnight. We believe she was alone. I appeal to anyone who was in Ramsden Road at the time to come forward. It’s possible you have vital information and you don’t realise it.’
He confirmed that the killing had taken place in the kitchen and said it did not appear as though she had been a victim of robbery.
Having read the statement he invited questions and they came thick and fast.
Was Megan sexually assaulted?
Did she let her killer into the house?
Has the murder weapon been recovered?
Sweat beaded on Redwood’s upper lip as he provided the answers, none of which came as a surprise to any of us.
As soon as I got a chance I raised my arm and shouted out, ‘Is it true that Miss Fuller’s ex-husband Danny Shapiro has been questioned?’
Redwood’s head snapped towards me. The question had caught him by surprise.
He bunched his brows and said, ‘We do intend to speak to Mr Shapiro along with a number of other people, but we haven’t yet done so.’
‘Does that mean he’s a suspect?’ I said.
I was close enough to see a nerve flutter at his temple.
‘He’s not a suspect at this stage,’ he said. ‘But we are hoping that he might be able to provide us with information about Miss Fuller.’
Redwood was turning away from me as I threw another question.
‘Can you confirm that Mr Shapiro spoke to Miss Fuller by phone yesterday and that they had an argument? According to Mr Fuller, his daughter was threatened by Mr Shapiro.’
Redwood wasn’t expecting that and he wasn’t happy. His face tensed and for a moment he was lost for words.
Cain came to his rescue. He fixed me with an evaluating gaze and said, ‘May I ask who told you that, Miss Chambers?’
That was when I realised that he and Redwood weren’t aware that I’d interviewed Nigel Fuller.
‘I spoke to Miss Fuller’s father a few minutes ago,’ I said. ‘He told me about the phone call.’
‘Well, we’re still in the process of following up the information that Mr Fuller gave us,’ Cain said. ‘So I’m afraid I can’t answer your question at this time, Miss Chambers.’
Cain gave me a knowing stare and the corners of his mouth twitched, hinting at a smile. But that was for the audience. I was willing to bet that inside he was fuming.
I transferred my gaze to Redwood and found it difficult to read the expression on his face. I could tell that his mind was racing, though, and I realised that someone was going to get a severe bollocking.
Redwood answered a few more questions and then called a halt to the briefing at the first opportunity.
I moved away from the crowd, powered up the iPad, and sent some updated copy to the paper. I then took a call from Grant Scott, who said he had watched the briefing live on the TV news.
‘You sure put them on the spot, Beth,’ he said. ‘They didn’t look too pleased.’
‘They’ll get over it. So what now? I’m not sure how much more I can get from here. They’ll soon be winding things down.’
‘Then I think you should chase up Danny Shapiro. Maybe you can get a quote for the late edition. As far as I know he still hasn’t been collared. I suggest you go to his office and see if he’s there. I take it you know where it is.’
‘Of course. I’m on my way.’
9
Danny Shapiro
Danny walked out of his mews house safe in the knowledge that the police weren’t about to pounce on him. The very existence of the property was a closely guarded secret. It was his father who had advised him not to live on their south London manor.
‘Don’t make the same mistakes I did, son,’ Callum told him. ‘The Old Bill were able to follow my every move because I was careless and com
placent. They bugged my home and my car, and wherever I went they had me on camera. I also made myself a target for my enemies.’
Danny took the advice on board but didn’t act on it until that Chechen scumbag tried to shoot him over a territorial dispute. It was a wake-up call and it prompted Danny to reassess his lifestyle.
As a result he stopped using his own car, started using pay-as-you-go phones and wore a baseball cap or a hoody when he took to the streets. He also bought as much as he could with cash rather than with traceable credit cards.
The most significant decision he took was to move out of his luxury flat overlooking the Thames in Bermondsey. He never felt safe there anyway after the attempt on his life, and he was convinced the filth had it under surveillance.
There was no shortage of places for him to go since the firm had for years been investing in property across London. He settled on the mews house which had been purchased through an offshore company five years earlier with the proceeds from a major drugs deal. It had remained empty ever since, gathering dust and increasing in value.
There was nothing to link it to him or his father and because it was smack in the middle of the West End he considered it the ideal location.
In explaining the decision to his father, he’d said, ‘It’s in one of the busiest spots in the capital, Dad. The area’s covered with CCTV cameras and teeming with tourists, and the streets are permanently gridlocked. I won’t just be inconspicuous – I’ll be fucking invisible.’
So far it had worked a treat. Most evenings he left the manor in a taxi or on a tube and disappeared into the bustle of the West End, making it impossible for anyone to follow him.
The house had four bedrooms, a garage that housed his rarely used BMW, and overlooked a small communal garden at the rear. It was located just off New Bond Street, within walking distance of Sotheby’s and a range of designer shops from Burberry to Jimmy Choo.
The arrangement had its disadvantages, of course. He never took women back there and he sometimes wondered if it was worth all the hassle. Still, he couldn’t deny that once he closed the door behind him he always felt safe and secure, knowing that no one knew where he was.