by Jamie Raven
The fact that he’d got his memory back changed nothing in respect of his predicament. He knew the cops still fancied him for the murder and were sceptical of his alibi.
He was sure that Tamara wouldn’t let him down, but all the same he hated having to rely on her. He checked the time. Nine o’clock. He had no idea if she’d be up, but he called her anyway.
She’d been up for ages, she said when she answered, and was now looking forward to a day with her feet up watching the telly.
‘Same here,’ Danny said. He then thanked her for helping him out and asked her how it had gone with the police.
‘They were rude and arrogant and they made it clear that they didn’t believe me,’ she said. ‘But I insisted we spent the evening together and there was no way they could prove otherwise.’
‘Well, they’ll probably pester you again, along with the media. So just stick to the story.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘I spoke to my father last night. He wanted me to thank you on his behalf and to tell you that he misses you a lot.’
‘And I miss him, Danny. I really do. We were good together in spite of the age difference.’
‘I know you were, sweetheart. You made him very happy.’
‘I’m glad. But the time we had was too brief.’
‘At least you’ve got some good memories.’
‘And I’m grateful for those,’ she said.
He then told her what his father had said about her going away on a short holiday at the firm’s expense.
‘You really don’t have to do that,’ she said.
‘I know we don’t have to, but we want to. And it’ll be on top of the fifty grand. There’s the villa in Spain. I know Dad took you there a couple of times. Or what about a cruise? You could fly out tomorrow.’
‘I need to give it some thought,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect this.’
‘That’s not a problem. Call me back later and we can sort it.’
After speaking to Tamara, Danny made himself some coffee and toast. He usually spent most Sundays at home because he invariably had a hangover. Thankfully he was feeling fine this morning despite putting away half a bottle of whisky last night.
There was no urgent business to attend to. Things were ticking over on all fronts and he’d be meeting Bishop later this evening to discuss what had to be done during the week ahead.
Until then he thought maybe he’d go for one of his walks around the West End. Or perhaps visit the cinema, watch one of the new movies.
His life was very different these days to how it used to be, and there was no question he was lonely at times. He had no real friends, and the women who came and went only ever shared a bed with him.
Marriage had suited him, at least to begin with. But the mistake he’d made had been to try to have it all. His father had managed to pull it off, at least until the law caught up with him.
For years Callum had run his empire and held on to his marriage to Danny’s mother, while having affairs on the side. But Danny wasn’t made from the same mettle as his dad. He was sure he would have been happier without the power, wealth and notoriety. After all, this wasn’t the life he chose for himself. It was thrust upon him at an early age because it was what his father had wanted. Sometimes it felt like he was serving his own life sentence. He knew he could never just jack it all in and walk away. Too many people depended on him, and those same people would turn on him if he suddenly left them in the lurch.
For guys like him who scaled the dizzy heights of organised crime there were usually only two ways out: in a prison van or in a coffin.
20
Beth Chambers
My mother and I would have wallowed in self-pity for hours if it hadn’t been for Rosie. As soon as she was up she demanded our attention, and we both responded with alacrity.
I ran the bath while my mother prepared her breakfast. I was grateful for the distraction, and Rosie’s laughter dispelled the gloom that had descended on the house like a big, dark cloud.
‘Are we going out today, Mummy?’ Rosie asked.
I pointed to the patio doors, through which we could see the rain lashing down onto the garden.
‘I don’t think so, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘The weather’s really horrid.’
‘Then will you do some colouring with me? Please!’
‘Of course I will. But let’s get you sorted first, eh?’
I bathed her and washed her hair and she splashed around so much I got a soaking. Then while Mum supervised her breakfast I went upstairs to get ready.
Before stepping in the shower I sat on the bed to reflect on my mother’s shocking disclosure. Callum Shapiro had arranged for my stepfather to be murdered; at least that was what she believed. It was a dreadful, gut-churning thought and it was chewing me up inside.
It was irrelevant to her – and to me – that her conviction was based principally on rumours. While I knew only too well that guys like Callum Shapiro rarely left a trail of evidence in their wake, I also knew they took drastic steps to protect their business. And Tony and his crew had apparently posed a threat to that business by expanding their operations across south London.
It would have been a surprise to me if Shapiro or any of the other gang leaders had actually failed to retaliate.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine how my mother must have suffered for all those years. The pain of losing her husband would have been compounded by what she’d subsequently learned. It must have hurt every time the Shapiros featured on the news – and every time I’d mentioned them, which had been quite often.
I felt that I needed to react in some way to what I’d been told, but I wasn’t sure how. It was something I’d have to think about, analyse, stress over.
As I sat there staring at nothing in particular, my eyes were drawn to the bedraggled teddy bear sitting atop the chest of drawers. He was the last gift my real father had ever given to me and he had named him Olly. I’d treasured him for over twenty years, and he was still my most prized possession, even though he only had one eye and most of his fur had worn away.
He was a constant reminder to me of what might have been had my father not been married when my mother met him. Would she have been spared all the turmoil and heartache that had marred her life?
I was forever wishing he’d stayed around for longer so that I’d now have more than just a few vague memories of him. There was so much I’d never been told and probably a lot I’d forgotten. Had he really been as bad as my mother had always made out? A shyster who never did an honest day’s work in his life. Surely she wouldn’t have had him in our lives for so long if he’d been so terrible!
I resolved to confront my mother again, to plead with her to break her silence. If she could come clean about Shapiro after all this time then she could bloody well tell me what she’d been holding back about my father.
I didn’t even know his name, for pity’s sake. Or even if he was still alive. For too long I’d accepted her word for it that I was better off not knowing, whatever that meant.
But what had happened this morning had triggered in me a new determination. It was time to unravel all the secrets from my past and not just those that my mother saw fit to reveal.
I called the office after I’d showered and before I got dressed. Grant was on a day off so I spoke to the duty news editor, Evie Wren.
There was nothing new to report, except that Danny Shapiro had turned down an interview request made through his solicitor. His whereabouts were unknown, but the paparazzi were staking out his flat in Bermondsey.
‘No one believes he’s there,’ Evie said. ‘Still, they’re hoping he’ll turn up eventually.’
I told Evie I’d be at home for most of the day and to keep me updated on the Megan Fuller case and on any other breaking crime stories. The newsdesk would normally do that as a matter of course, but it didn’t hurt to remind them.
I slipped on a light sweater and tracksuit bottoms and went downstai
rs make-up free.
My mother had made a toasted bacon sandwich – my favourite – and I was glad to see that she was having one too. Her eyes were still red and there were shadows beneath them.
I decided to wait until much later to broach the subject of my real father – and to tell her I’d come up with the idea of writing a feature on Tony’s murder. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to that, and I didn’t want to risk sparking another flood of tears.
After breakfast I played with Rosie for an hour before I got to my laptop. I ran through the usual checklist first – emails, Facebook, The Post’s online site, the BBC News front page and finally my Twitter account.
Then I googled Tamara Roth. There were several women in the UK with that name, but I narrowed it down pretty quickly thanks to a newspaper story from several years ago.
It told how she had appeared in court at the then age of 23 charged with soliciting near her home in Vauxhall.
From there I managed to get her exact address and locate the website where she advertised herself as an escort. It included a small head-and-shoulders photo of a pretty red-headed woman in her thirties or forties. Then, to my astonishment, I came across several references to her in a couple of online news stories about Callum Shapiro.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I blurted out to myself, startling my mother, who was sitting across the room on the sofa helping Rosie do some colouring.
‘What is it?’ she asked me.
Excitement swelled in my stomach.
‘Would you believe that the prostitute who’s given Danny Shapiro his alibi for Friday night used to date his father?’
My mother’s jaw dropped. ‘Do you think the police know?’
‘There’s one way to find out,’ I said, reaching for my phone.
I called Ethan, but it rang until his voicemail picked up. I left a message asking him to ring me back.
‘I wouldn’t get too worked up about it,’ my mother said, having given it some thought. ‘Danny Shapiro’s lawyer will just say it’s irrelevant and the police will probably be of the same opinion.’
‘But surely it makes their story less believable.’
My mother shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. The only thing that counts is whether it can be proved that they’re lying.’
She was right, of course, but it did nothing to stop the blood pumping supercharged through my veins.
I turned back to the laptop and carried on searching for information on Tamara Roth.
But within minutes I was in for another shock when the breaking-news app flashed up an alert on the top of the screen.
Police investigating the murder of soap actress Megan Fuller are questioning an unidentified man after swooping on a house in south London.
21
Ethan Cain
As soon as Sam Jones entered the interview room Cain took an instant dislike to him. The guy looked as though he was full of himself. He wore a soft plaid shirt and chinos, and walked with a pronounced swagger.
The duty solicitor trailed in behind him, a world-weary brief named Arnold Frobisher, who had been on the scene for as long as Cain could remember.
The pair sat down across the table from Cain and DCI Redwood. Jones was fortyish, of average height, with dark receding hair. He had dull, lacklustre eyes and a rosy drinker’s hue on his cheeks.
Cain studied him with ill-concealed hostility. As a convicted wife-beater and murder suspect he felt it was no more than he deserved.
‘For the record Mr Jones is here to assist our inquiries into the murder of his former girlfriend, Megan Fuller,’ Redwood said. ‘He’s been informed that as part of the process we’ve applied for a warrant to search his flat and check his phone records.’
Frobisher leaned forward across the table and spoke, his voice a soft baritone.
‘Also for the record my client has already stated that he knows nothing about Miss Fuller’s death and has not seen her for several weeks.’
Frobisher was a small, scruffy man with beady eyes and a greyish pallor to his skin. But Cain knew that his appearance belied a shrewd analytical mind, and he was not to be underestimated.
Redwood opened a folder on his desk and shuffled some papers. Jones watched him. His mouth was set firm, expressing no obvious emotion. Then he placed his hands on the table as if he was about to push himself up. Cain noted the nicotine-stained fingers and chewed-to-the-quick nails.
He wondered what an attractive woman like Megan Fuller had seen in the guy and, for that matter, what she’d seen in Danny Shapiro. It occurred to him that she must have been a lamentable judge of character.
‘The first thing I want to ask you, Mr Jones, is where you’ve been since yesterday morning,’ Redwood said. ‘We know you weren’t at home because an officer was stationed outside your flat. And we know your phone was switched off because we tried calling you.’
‘There’s no mystery, Inspector,’ Jones said. ‘I spent yesterday and last night at my sister’s house in Ramsgate. I forgot to take my phone with me and you couldn’t get an answer because I’d also forgotten to charge it so the battery was flat.’
‘Why did you go to your sister’s place on the same day that Megan was found dead?’
Jones exhaled a long, slow breath. ‘It was her birthday and I wanted to see her. I didn’t know about Megan when I left the house in the morning to go to the train station. It wasn’t until I got to my sister’s that I found out.’
‘I’m not sure how this is relevant, Inspector,’ Frobisher said. ‘It’s my understanding that Miss Fuller was killed on Friday night.’
‘I was coming to that,’ Redwood said. He pursed his lips and his voice dropped an octave as he asked Jones where he was at that time.
‘I was out on the lash with some mates,’ Jones said. ‘I’ve got their names and phone numbers if you want to verify it.’
‘We certainly will want to,’ Redwood said. ‘So where were you?’
‘A pub called the Flying Dutchman in Tooting. It’s around the corner from my flat. They had an extension to mark the pub’s fiftieth anniversary so I didn’t get away until after one in the morning.’
‘Will the landlord be able to confirm that you were there all evening?’
‘Sure he will. His name’s Terry Lee. Known him for years.’
Cain listened to Jones’s answers with mounting irritation. If the alibi was genuine then they were back to square one and Redwood would want to shift the focus back onto Danny. It wasn’t what Cain wanted, though. So long as Danny was in the frame then his own position was compromised. At some point Danny would start calling in favours and that would get very tricky indeed.
‘Tell us about Megan,’ Redwood said. ‘Starting with why you broke up.’
Jones threw a glance at his lawyer, probably expecting him to say he didn’t have to answer. But Frobisher merely nodded without making eye contact.
‘Let me make it easy for you,’ Redwood said. ‘We’ve seen the last text message you sent to Megan apologising for hitting her. If that’s why she dumped you then just say so.’
Cain was pleased to see that Jones didn’t look so smug now, and a thin sheen of perspiration had gathered on his forehead.
‘It was only a slap,’ he said, as if that were permissible. ‘She kept going on about the money she lost on the shares and acting like it was all my fault. But I was in just as much shit as she was. I don’t have a job or any savings. So I got angry and snapped.’
‘But what she said was true, wasn’t it?’ Cain said. ‘Didn’t you persuade her to buy the shares because you were expecting to make a quick buck?’
‘She didn’t need much persuading,’ Jones said. ‘She was up for it, but when it went wrong she got in a panic.’
‘So you hit her,’ Redwood said. ‘Just like you used to hit your wife.’
As expected Frobisher intervened, telling his client not to respond to the question. But he did.
‘Look, for your information I regretted what happened,’
Jones said. ‘I went too far and shouldn’t have lost my temper. That’s why I apologised. I wanted us to get back together. I missed her and I loved her.’
‘You had a funny way of showing it,’ Redwood said.
‘Yeah, I know. It was the first time I’d got physical with her. It’s a problem I have and it’s why I went on an anger management course a while ago. But I never go completely over the top. I know when to stop.’
‘Which is your way of saying you were happy to slap Megan around but would have drawn the line at stabbing her in the throat.’
‘I’m not a murderer, Inspector. And when you talk to my mates you’ll know I couldn’t have killed Megan because I was with them when it happened.’
Redwood consulted his notes and then asked Jones if he knew about the autobiography that Megan was supposedly working on.
‘I knew about it because it was my idea,’ he said.
‘Care to explain that?’
Jones shrugged. ‘It was after things went belly-up with the shares and Megan realised she was skint. We were discussing ways to raise some money and I asked her why she didn’t write a book like a lot of other celebrities. Well, she thought about it for a couple of days and then said it would take too long but she’d come up with a way to make a ton of money by pretending to write one.’
‘But she told her agent that she was going to.’
‘She also told that to an interviewer on a TV chat show,’ Jones said. ‘It was never her intention though. It was just part of her plan to convince her ex-husband that she was going to reveal things about him that he wouldn’t want to be made public.’
‘A crude attempt at blackmail you mean?’ Cain said.
‘Exactly. I told her it was bloody risky, but she set her mind on seeing it through.’
‘So she confronted Shapiro and demanded money from him?’ Redwood said.
‘That’s right. She felt sure he’d stump up the cash rather than have his secrets revealed in a book. But his initial reaction was to tell her to piss off. She continued to threaten him anyway. That was another reason why we argued. I thought it was stupid to push someone like Shapiro, not to mention fucking dangerous. But she kept saying he’d see sense eventually.’