by Jamie Raven
That was the upside about these meetings with Ethan. He was always so gloriously indiscreet. He went on to tell me about how unhelpful the CCTV footage had proved to be and how none of the neighbours had seen anything suspicious, although one had heard raised voices coming from the house.
He also mentioned Megan’s boyfriend and the fact that she’d dumped him because he’d hit her.
‘He’s some bloke called Sam Jones,’ he said. ‘He has a conviction for domestic violence and it seems Megan got into serious debt because he gave her bad investment advice.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
‘Not yet. We don’t know where he is.’
‘So he could be the one who did her in?’
‘That’s right.’
Ethan finished off his beer, looked at his watch, said he had time for one more.
‘I’ll go and get us both another drink and then you can fill me in about what happened to you today. I can tell you’re stressed out about it.’
My glass was empty by the time he came back with my fourth G and T, but I still didn’t feel tipsy, which was why I was able to talk him through what had happened at the snooker hall without stumbling over my words.
‘I assume you’re acquainted with Frankie Bishop,’ I said.
A shadow passed over his face and he made a thoughtful noise in his throat.
‘He’s well known to us as Shapiro’s enforcer. They don’t call him The Nutter for nothing. I was told the police in Southampton held a party when he decided to move from there to London. It made a big difference to their workload. The guy’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘So I discovered.’
‘You should have called us straight away, Beth.’
‘And what would you have done?’
‘Not much I suppose, seeing as his mates would have said you were lying.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought.’
‘Well, if I were you I wouldn’t go to that place again. Shapiro and his crew feel safe there. They think they can get away with anything.’
‘So should I take Bishop’s threat seriously?’
‘You ought to take all threats seriously, Beth – for Rosie’s sake if nothing else.’
His words sparked a frisson of guilt in me and I felt my shoulders sag.
‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a message through to Bishop that I know what he did and that he shouldn’t mess with you. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds good, thanks. I appreciate it.’
He looked at his watch again. ‘I’d better go. I’ll walk up to the hospital to find a taxi. What about you?’
I held up my glass. ‘I’ll finish this and be off.’
We didn’t kiss. We never did. That was how it was when we met up. There were boundaries that we both adhered to. For example, we never inquired into each other’s private life. I had no wish to know what the dirty bugger was up to and I didn’t want him to know that I still hadn’t found anyone to replace him. We only ever talked about Rosie and whatever information I was aiming to elicit from him.
I rarely came away disappointed, though, and this evening was no exception. I had learned that DCI Redwood was sceptical about Danny Shapiro’s alibi. And I’d been given a name.
Tamara Roth.
The woman Shapiro supposedly spent the night with. Tomorrow I’d try to find out where she lived and pay her a visit. I’d try to talk her into giving me an on-the-record interview.
At the same time I’d try to suss out whether or not she was telling the truth.
There was a bus stop close to the pub so I hopped on one and rode on the top deck to Peckham. It took just under fifteen minutes and I spent the time trying to shift my thoughts away from the events of the day.
The alcohol that was sloshing around inside me helped. I was more relaxed, in a better mood, and I couldn’t wait to see my daughter.
Her usual bedtime was still an hour away and I was going to do some colouring with her. It was the least I could do after letting her down this morning.
Too often the job made me lose all sense of perspective, and I failed to prioritise the things that were most important to me. I kept telling myself that I was going to change but I honestly wondered if I ever would.
The bus dropped me at the bottom of Rye Lane so I walked from there. The street was still busy and many of the shops still open. On impulse I popped into a newsagent’s and bought my mother a box of Ferrero Rocher, her favourite chocolates.
I called out as I let myself in the front door and Rosie came running into the hallway. My mother had already fed and bathed her, and she looked exceptionally cute in her new Cinderella pyjamas.
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she cried out.
She was so excited to see me that she almost tripped over her own feet. I dropped my bag on the floor and swept her up in my arms, kissing her on both cheeks.
‘And have you been a good girl for Nanny?’ I asked her, and naturally the answer was yes. She’d been the bestest girl in the world, she said.
‘Did you get me a present, Mummy?’ she asked me.
I put her down and took the colouring books and crayons from my bag.
‘There you go, sweetheart. I hope you like them.’
She gave a little giggle, then ran into the living room, a boundless ball of kinetic energy.
My mother was bustling about in the kitchen.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I said, and handed her the chocolates. Her face lit up and she pecked me on the cheek.
‘I made you a cottage pie,’ she said. ‘I’ll put it in the oven. It won’t take long to heat up.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘I haven’t eaten all day and I’m famished.’
‘I saw you on the news. And it was weird watching Ethan answer your questions. He didn’t look too happy about it and neither did that other detective.’
‘Serves ’em right,’ I said. ‘They weren’t as organised down there as they should have been. But anyway I don’t want to talk about work for the rest of the evening. Tell me about your day. Did you go to the park?’
‘We did and Rosie thoroughly enjoyed herself. She’s been a little darling as usual.’
My mother spoke as she put my dinner in the oven. She told me that after the park they had lunch and then spent the afternoon watching DVDs.
‘She made me sit through Shrek again. That’s the third time in a week. I really don’t understand why she isn’t fed up with it. I know I am.’
I laughed and then went upstairs to have a quick shower. Afterwards I snuggled into my robe, then came back downstairs for my dinner, which I ate on my lap in the living room so that I could watch Rosie do her colouring.
After I’d eaten I joined her on the floor and helped her colour in a couple of nasty-looking dragons while my mother watched the telly and stuffed her face with chocolates.
It felt good to chill out and relax after the day I’d had. And I was glad I was at last able to spend some quality time with my daughter. It was good for both of us. She got to have my undivided attention, and I got the chance to remind her that she was the most precious thing in the world to me. At one point I apologised again for not taking her to the park.
‘That’s all right, Mummy,’ she said. ‘Nanny says you have to go to work so that you can buy me things.’
My heart flipped and I had to force myself not to cry.
‘Oh, sweetheart, that’s a lovely thing to say. You deserve a big hug and a big wet kiss.’
I grabbed her before she could crawl away from me and held her in my arms as though my life depended on it.
I managed to plant half a dozen kisses on her cheeks before she wriggled free. Then it was back to the colouring, followed by a short game of hide-and-seek that left me positively breathless.
I let Rosie sit up until nine. By then she was exhausted and falling asleep in my arms.
When she was tucked up in bed I poured myself a glass of wine and joined Mum in the living roo
m.
‘The chocolates were delicious,’ she said.
I shook my head and smiled at her. ‘I can’t believe you’ve eaten the whole box.’
‘Why not? They’re my favourites.’
I lost interest in the film we started watching and picked up my iPad to check my emails and The Post’s online site. When I saw my by-line on the front page I felt a flash of pride. The top of the story was exactly how I had written it, and they’d even inserted a stock photograph of me.
There were several other photographs relating to the story, including one taken by an agency photographer outside the police station in Wandsworth. It captured the moment when Danny Shapiro was confronted by Nigel Fuller and I could see myself in the background.
Another photo was of Amy Cassidy, Fuller’s fiancée, talking to reporters. The caption underneath described her as a successful businesswoman. Out of curiosity I googled her and discovered that Miss Cassidy owned a chain of stores that sold wedding dresses. The forthcoming marriage to Fuller would be her second and she had two grown-up sons of her own.
Viewing all those photos reminded me of the one I’d come across this morning showing a young Danny Shapiro with his father on Peckham Rye Common. I’d saved it to my favourites so that I could show it to my mother. But as I was about to open the site she said something that totally threw me.
‘I neglected to mention that someone phoned here earlier this evening asking for you. He wouldn’t give his name but said he enjoyed meeting you at the snooker club.’
I froze and felt the hairs on the back of my neck quiver.
‘So what were you doing in a snooker club?’ my mother said.
I had to swallow to moisten my throat before responding. ‘Oh, I went there to follow up a lead. I spoke to a couple of people.’
‘Then do you know who the caller was? He sounded very polite. I wondered if he might have been someone who showed an interest in you.’
‘I can’t think who it might have been,’ I lied. ‘What else did he say?’
‘Only that he’s looking forward to seeing you again and if he has reason to come to Peckham he’ll be sure to pop in.’
I was glad my mother’s eyes stayed glued to the television because she would have seen the blood drain from my face. I didn’t want her to know what Frankie Bishop had said and done to me, and the thought that he had phoned my home caused my skin to prickle with anxiety.
The rest of the evening was ruined. I couldn’t concentrate on anything, and my thoughts became jumbled and dislocated. Even after I finally got into bed what my mother had said kept me awake. I lay supine on the mattress, staring into the darkness for what seemed like an eternity.
Try as I might I could not dismiss the gnawing fear growing at the back of my mind. The fear that Frankie Bishop had meant what he’d said and that they wouldn’t stand for me sticking my nose in their business or Shapiro’s private life.
I have only to say the word and I can make you disappear.
They were strong words, stark and unambiguous. And they served as a timely reminder that my job brought me into contact with some shockingly bad people; people who wouldn’t think twice about committing an act of violence against a journalist.
Even if that journalist happened to be a mother with a young child.
16
Danny Shapiro
Danny rarely stayed in on a Saturday night. He would usually go to one of his clubs or pubs, pick up a bird, and end the evening at his flat in Bermondsey or at a hotel.
But tonight he was alone in the mews house off New Bond Street and he had already downed three whiskies.
He was in no mood for partying, and he did not want to be seen out enjoying himself only hours after his ex-wife was found murdered. He still felt cut up about that and he was annoyed that people were still pointing the finger at him.
After leaving the police station today he had gone straight to his office above the snooker club. It was obvious that a few of the lads thought he did it – or paid someone to do it – despite his denials.
‘It’s a good thing you have an alibi,’ Bishop had said. ‘Odds on you would have been fitted up otherwise.’
There was palpable relief among the crew that the Old Bill had let him go. He knew they liked having him as their boss, even though it had taken him a while to settle into the role.
He’d been nervous and unsure of himself at first, and his father had been a tough act to follow. So Danny had been forced to prove himself in order to win their respect and their loyalty. He had succeeded in this by demonstrating a level of ruthlessness that surprised and impressed even the most hardened members of the crew.
The first test of his ability came three months after Callum was jailed. A gang of Eastern Europeans tried to muscle in on the distribution of drugs to schools and colleges on the manor. When he told them to back off they ignored him, believing that with his father out of the way, Danny didn’t have the balls for a turf war.
But he proved them wrong by kidnapping the gang’s leader and his two bodyguards. He had them taken to a warehouse in Greenwich where they were tortured by Bishop until they agreed to up sticks and move out of London altogether.
It was a message to all those foreign outfits who thought the firm was dead. And it played well among his own people, especially those who had harboured reservations about his leadership credentials.
‘After the police came here today we had a visit from that reporter with The Post,’ Bishop had told him. ‘I gave her a slap and warned her to stay away from us.’
At any other time Danny would have torn Bishop off a strip. It was never a good idea to threaten anyone but your rivals and people who owed you money. However he couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Bethany Chambers being knocked off the chair. He was just sorry he hadn’t been there to witness it.
He’d wanted to spend the evening by himself in order to reflect on everything that had happened. He was also expecting a call from his father, who had sent a message that he would phone the house around nine.
Callum would no doubt be worried about him and anxious to know if he was okay. But he wasn’t okay. Megan’s murder had affected him more than he would have thought possible.
Memories of the good times they’d spent together kept pushing themselves to the forefront of his mind. Their wedding day, the honeymoon in Thailand, the celebrity parties, the cosy weekends at the cottage in the New Forest.
It wasn’t as if she had been to blame for the break-up of their marriage. He was the one who’d been unable to keep his dick in his pants, the one who’d decided that holding on to the family firm was more important than holding on to his wife.
It was a shame that things had turned sour between them and that the last time they were together they’d had a blazing row.
When he closed his eyes he saw her face from last night, all twisted up in anger, spite spewing from her mouth. That he still couldn’t remember how it had ended filled him with despair.
Had she pushed him too far? Had he lost control? Was that why his mind had blanked it out?
He was on his fifth whisky when his father rang. Strangely enough he still felt as sober as a judge.
Callum usually called about twice a week, using mobile phones that were smuggled into the prison. Rarely did he use prison phones for fear that they were bugged.
‘Everyone is talking about Megan,’ Callum said, his voice deep and gravelly.
‘It wasn’t me who killed her, Dad. But I swear that if the filth don’t find out who did then I will.’
He couldn’t bring himself to confess that he wasn’t actually sure what had happened last night because the booze had created gaps in his memory. So he told him what he’d told Tamara – that he went to the house to confront Megan about the blackmail threat and then left after an argument. Next he explained how he had asked Tamara to give him an alibi and how she had saved his arse.
‘Bless her,’ Callum said. ‘She’s a doll. Please tell her
that I’m as grateful as you are and that I miss her loads.’
‘I will, Dad, but to be fair I’ve also said I’ll pay her fifty grand.’
Callum laughed. ‘Cheap at the price, son. You should also try to persuade her to go away for a bit. Book her on a cruise or send her to our place in Marbella. Just create some distance between her and the filth so they don’t try to put pressure on her to change her story.’
‘I’ll give it a go, but I’m not sure she’ll be up for it. Besides I don’t think she’ll let the bastards push her around.’
‘It’s worth a try, son. And my advice to you is to keep a low profile for a while. At the same time try to get as much intel as you can from your contacts in the Met so you can stay one step ahead of them.’
They then talked briefly about the business and about life in Belmarsh prison. It struck Danny that his father sounded different, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He asked him if he was feeling okay and Callum said he was fine. Danny suspected that there was more to it and that he was suffering from one of his frequent bouts of depression. After all, who wouldn’t be depressed being banged up for twenty-five fucking years.
‘Take care, Dad,’ he said, before hanging up. ‘And remember I’m always thinking about you.’
Danny had learned long ago that there was no point trying to encourage his father to cheer up. That served only to make him feel even worse about his situation.
Seated on the sofa in front of the television, Danny had a few more slugs of whisky before falling asleep.
He woke up in the early hours, snapping into consciousness from one of the most vivid dreams he had ever had.
Only it wasn’t a dream, he quickly realised. It was a flashback to the night before – a series of images that had been dislodged from where they’d been concealed in his mind.
He sat bolt upright, knocking the half-empty bottle of whisky from his lap onto the floor.
The shock of what he’d seen tore through him like a bullet and goose bumps crawled up his arms. He held his breath and shut his eyes as more images floated before him and more memories snapped into place.