by Jamie Raven
‘Forget it,’ she said bluntly and started to close the door.
‘Look, please don’t be alarmed,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m actually trying to help Danny, and I’m sure he’ll be keen for me to talk to you, if not now then later.’
She hesitated and the door stopped moving.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she said.
‘As you know, Danny has told the police that he was with you on Friday night when his ex-wife was murdered,’ I said. ‘But they don’t believe him.’ The lie that came next I’d made up in the cab. ‘Then this afternoon they gave an off-the-record briefing to several newspapers during which they said they believed his alibi to be false.’
‘But it isn’t false. He’s told them the truth. He was here with me.’
‘And as far as we’re concerned that’s what the public needs to know,’ I said. ‘It’s the only way to stop all the wild speculation on the internet and social media. Even though the police haven’t arrested Danny most people are assuming he did it.’
I could see from her face that she was wrestling with indecision.
‘We think it’s only fair that the truth is put out there,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is tell me in your own words where Danny was on Friday evening and we can then make it clear in tomorrow’s paper that he’s an innocent man. I’m sure that’s what you both want.’
She let go of the door and pushed her fringe away from her eyes.
‘I’m really not sure,’ she said. ‘I’d have to ask Danny.’
Not a good idea, I thought.
‘Why don’t you let me in and we can talk it through first,’ I said. ‘And then if you still have reservations I’ll go and leave you in peace.’
I knew that if I could just get inside I’d be halfway home. But as I watched her mull it over I realised it could go either way.
‘I suppose that’s fair enough,’ she said after a few long seconds. ‘Come in.’
I indicated to the taxi driver that he could go and stepped into the house. It was cosy, but dated, and there was a strong smell of cigarettes.
I followed her along the hall to the kitchen and she waved me into a chair while she remained standing. I sat down without bothering to take off my coat.
‘Do you have any identification?’ she asked.
I showed her my press pass and also gave her one of my cards.
‘Weren’t you on the news today?’ she said. ‘I’m sure I saw you on the television.’
I nodded. ‘I went to Megan’s house, and I was also at the police station when they let Danny go.’
‘I don’t know why they don’t believe us,’ she said. ‘Why would I lie for him if there was a possibility he’d committed a murder?’
‘Well, as I understand it the police are sceptical because you dated Danny’s father, Callum.’
She bit down on her bottom lip as she thought about it and I took the opportunity to study her. She was in her forties and quite pretty, with healthy-looking skin and huge, dark eyes. She was slim, but endowed in all the right places, her breasts full and weighty. It struck me that she had a lot to offer the men who paid to bed her.
‘Me and Callum were an item a long time ago,’ she said. ‘After he went to prison Danny stayed in touch with me. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘So are you and Danny a couple?’
She shook her head. ‘Not in that sense. We meet up from time to time.’
‘Is he one of your clients?’
‘No. He’s a friend. A close one.’
‘So he doesn’t pay you to be with him.’
She eyed me suspiciously, then reached for a mobile phone that was lying on the worktop.
‘I’m not comfortable with this conversation,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I should say any more until I speak to Danny.’
‘I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, Miss Roth. You’re only telling me what you’ve already told the police.’
‘I know, but I still think Danny should be made aware that you’re here. It’ll just take a second.’
She tapped at her phone and turned away from me as she put it to her ear.
I puffed out my cheeks because I just knew that once she spoke to Shapiro I’d be out the door. Still, I hadn’t done too badly. Tamara had already given me enough for a couple of good quotes to freshen up the story.
I looked around me. The room was large and bright, with beige walls and grey appliances, including a tall old-fashioned fridge-freezer. On one wall there was a clock shaped like a frying pan and on the other hung a calendar with a picture of a castle above the monthly planner. I noticed that a lot of the boxes for November had been written in with a black marker pen.
‘He’s not picking up,’ Tamara said, turning back to me. ‘So I think perhaps you should go.’
I remained sitting and said, ‘Did Danny tell you not to talk to the press, Miss Roth?’
‘No, but I don’t think he would like the idea.’
‘Why not? You’re only confirming what he said to the police. All I want to do is make people aware that he was here with you at the time of the killing.’
‘I’ve already told you that,’ she said. ‘He was here from early Friday evening until late on Saturday morning. And that was when he found out what had happened.’
‘So what would you like to say to those people who claim you’re lying?’
She looked shocked, but before she could produce a furious retort her phone rang. She grabbed it from the worktop and this time she stepped into the hallway as she started talking to whoever was on the other end.
For no particular reason my eyes drifted to the wall calendar. Idle curiosity prompted me to lean forward and look at the notes she’d made in the monthly planner.
About half the boxes contained men’s names and appointment times. Some had phone numbers and London addresses.
At first I didn’t see what was staring me right in the face. In fact it was several seconds before I realised that on the day of Megan’s murder, 17 November, Tamara had penned in an appointment for someone named Peter Kline.
There was an address in Maida Vale and beneath it were scrawled the words: New client.
But what really caused my heart to speed up was the appointment time. It was nine o’clock in the evening.
The same time that Tamara was supposed to have been here at home with Danny Shapiro.
I reacted swiftly to what I’d seen by whipping my phone out of my bag and taking a picture of the calendar. I was returning it to the bag just as Tamara stepped back into the kitchen.
She looked furious, and her features were set hard.
‘Danny wants to talk to you,’ she snapped, thrusting her phone towards me.
I stood up, held out my hand, felt a hot flush spread over my body.
‘Afterwards I want you to go,’ she added.
I took the phone, which was warm and moist, and spoke into it. ‘Bethany Chambers here.’
There was a short delay before he responded, and when he did his voice was full of bitterness and scorn.
‘Listen to me, you fucking parasite. I’m sick of you turning up everywhere and stirring things. There’s only so much of it I’ll take. Do you understand?’
An uneasy knot formed in my stomach, and my first instinct was to switch the phone off. But a primal rage seized control of me and I said, ‘No, I don’t understand, Mr Shapiro. I’m a reporter and I’m just doing my job. If you’ve got nothing to hide then what are you so worried about?’
‘Leave it out, Chambers. You’re trying to use Megan’s murder to find out what you can about me and my businesses. That’s out of order and you know it.’
‘You’re part of the story whether you like it or not, Mr Shapiro. So is Miss Roth.’
‘You have no right to harass her, Chambers. And what goes on between me and her is none of your fucking business.’
‘If it’s relevant to the story then it is my business.’
He gave a laugh, harsh and ab
rasive. ‘Frankie told me you were a gobby cow and he was spot on. But let me give you a word of warning, Chambers. The slap he gave you is nothing compared with what will happen if you carry on pissing me off.’
I felt my temper spark at the same time as a voice in my head started screaming for me to see sense and stop antagonising him. But I’d never been able to keep a lid on my emotions, especially when challenged by bullies and hypocrites.
So I blew into the phone, loud enough for him to hear. ‘I’m used to idle threats from self-important wankers, Mr Shapiro. If I were to let them get to me I wouldn’t be able to do my job.’
‘You won’t be able to do your job anyway if something bad happens to you.’
‘You really are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?’ I said with all the contempt I could muster. ‘I’m willing to bet that your psycho father said much the same thing to my stepdad before he had him shot dead.’
‘What are you on about?’
I felt my insides contract as the voice in my head became more strident, urging me to shut up.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know about Tony Hunter,’ I said. ‘He was my stepdad and I loved him. But I just found out that your old man had him murdered. And believe me I’m going to go all out to make sure people know about it.’
I was on a reckless roll now and about to accuse him of killing his ex-wife. But suddenly Tamara snatched the phone from my hand and started screaming at me.
‘Get out of my house, you mad bitch. How dare you say that about Callum?’
‘Because it’s the truth,’ I yelled back. ‘And since you used to shag the murdering old bastard you probably knew all about it.’
She lunged forward and grabbed my arm. ‘Go. Now. Before I call the police and have you arrested.’
She started pushing me towards the hallway and I could see the tears gathering in her eyes.
‘You won’t call the police, Miss Roth,’ I said. ‘The last thing you want is for me to tell them that you’re lying about the alibi.’
She lost it then just as I was approaching the front door. She gave me a hard slap to the back of the head and it almost made me lose my balance. As I spun round to face her she hit out again, but this time her open hand struck my shoulder.
‘I won’t have you accusing me of being a liar,’ she screamed at me. ‘Who the fucking hell do you think you are?’
I raised my arms in a defensive gesture, expecting her to take another swipe. But she stood in front of me, her lips pulled back in an angry snarl, sparks igniting in her eyes.
My breathing wheezed in my chest and a fiery rage balled in my stomach. I braced myself for another slap, ready to retaliate this time. Instead, her eyes swept over my face, full of contempt, and she raised her arm to point a finger at me.
‘You deserved that, you bitch. And if I ever see you again you’ll get more of the same.’
She reached for the handle and threw the door open. ‘Now go crawl under your rock. And stop winding people up just so that you can sell a few more newspapers.’
Every nerve in my body was vibrating, and an intense heat radiated from my brow. A part of me wanted to stand firm and have it out with her, tell her that I knew she was covering for a man who had murdered his ex-wife. Yet I realised there was nothing to be gained by refusing to go. With emotions running this high there was a risk that one or both of us would push things too far.
She moved aside and gave me a look that could have melted ice. A red mist clouded my vision suddenly so I fought back the urge to lash out and stepped through the door.
As she slammed it shut behind me I walked away from the house as fast as I could, my head down, my heart slamming inside my chest.
I wanted to cry – but not until I was far enough away so that Tamara Roth wouldn’t see me.
I got as far as the end of the street before I started shedding tears of anger and frustration. Meanwhile I carried on walking so that I could put as much distance as possible between myself and Shapiro’s prostitute friend.
I could hear the blood hissing in my ears, and my legs felt like they had lead weights attached to them.
I couldn’t believe I had been physically attacked twice in as many days. It had to be a record. The back of my head still hurt and my body felt like it was on fire.
Even so I was glad that I hadn’t hit her back. It might have made me feel better, but it would have been grossly unprofessional. As it was I knew I had to accept some responsibility for what had happened. The situation had got out of hand because I had refused to let Danny Shapiro intimidate me. But then I had every right to tell him what I thought of him, and what I thought of his father.
I stopped walking and took a tissue from my pocket to wipe my eyes. An elderly man passing with his dog stopped to ask me if I was all right. I told him I was and then moved off again so that he couldn’t ask me any more questions.
My mind was reeling under a jumble of thoughts and questions. Had I gone too far with Shapiro? Should I be worried about how he might respond? What was I going to do with the information I had come by?
I spotted a pub up ahead and realised I could do with a drink to help me calm down. It was almost empty inside so I was served straight away. A large G and T went down a treat. I sat in a booth with a second glass and drank it slowly as the rush of adrenalin started to wane.
I took out my mobile, opened up the photo I’d taken of the calendar on the kitchen wall.
17 November. Peter Kline. An address in Maida Vale. A nine o’clock appointment.
This was what had prompted me to tell Tamara Roth that she and Shapiro were lying about Friday night. Of course, I couldn’t be sure that they were. Maybe she hadn’t kept the appointment. Maybe she had cancelled it so that she could spend the evening with Shapiro.
I had to find out before I got too excited. And the only way to do that was to pay Mr Peter Kline a visit.
25
Beth Chambers
Maida Vale is a part of west London famous for its tree-lined streets and pretty canals.
My Uber taxi driver entered the address I’d taken from the calendar into his sat nav and it took us twenty minutes to get there from Vauxhall.
Peter Kline lived in an affluent area known as Little Venice, a beauty spot with boutique shops, trendy restaurants, and colourful houseboats. His whitewashed semi overlooked the Regent’s Canal and that told me he must be minted. There was an integral garage with a silver-grey Lexus parked on the short driveway. It was a highly desirable location and a huge step up from our road in Peckham.
I got the driver to drop me fifty yards beyond the house because I needed more time to decide how to approach Mr Kline. I knew nothing about the man except that he was into prostitutes. But that didn’t mean he lived alone. He could well be married with a wife and kids and the whole family might now be at home having dinner or watching television.
So I had to know what I’d say if a woman or child answered the door. And if Kline himself answered it how was I going to get him to tell me if he had or hadn’t spent Friday evening in the company of Tamara Roth?
If I introduced myself as a reporter from The Post I fully expected him to tell me to bugger off rather than disclose his dirty little secret. It was a scenario I’d encountered many times during my journalistic career. I’d usually managed to rise to the challenge by resorting to devious and totally unethical practices.
It didn’t take me long to decide that if ever there was a time when the end justified the means then this was it. After all, it was more than just a news story to me now – I was playing detective and there was a strong possibility that I was about to unearth evidence to prove that the well-known London gangster Danny Shapiro had given police a false alibi. It would almost certainly lead to his arrest for his ex-wife’s murder. It would also provide my paper with a major exclusive.
But that was jumping the gun. First I had to overcome a very significant obstacle by getting Peter Kline to open up to me.
After pacing up and down the street for ten minutes I came to the conclusion that I would have to pretend I was someone I wasn’t. If I then discovered that Tamara had been here on Friday I’d call Ethan to tip him off and wait for events to unfold.
There was a serious downside to this approach, however; I wouldn’t be able to take credit for uncovering the lie.
That was because I was going to break the law in a bid to get Peter Kline to talk to me.
I’d impersonated a police officer several times in the past and had got away with it. In the ruthless world of tabloid journalism it’s not an uncommon practice, especially among investigative reporters who resort to it when they can’t extract information through legitimate means.
It’s a risky business, though, and not for the faint-hearted. The courts can impose a heavy fine or even a prison sentence. But I had never let that stop me. In fact I carry a fake Metropolitan Police warrant card in a concealed sleeve in my purse. It identifies me as DC Karen Smith. I bought it on the internet, and it’s an obvious forgery to anyone who’s familiar with the real McCoy. Luckily most people aren’t, so when I hold it up they rarely ask to have a close look.
Still, I wasn’t going to take any chances with Peter Kline, just in case he was a copper himself, so before calling at the house I used my phone to see if I could find him online. And I was in luck.
A Peter J. Kline who resided in Little Venice came up through Google and on LinkedIn. Turned out he was an investment analyst for a private equity firm in the City. According to his online profile he was aged 37 and single. His photograph showed a bespectacled man with a narrow face and a neat goatee.
Buoyed by this information, I went to his house. I rang the bell and waited. If someone other than Kline answered I was going to say that I was calling at all the homes in the street to advise them to be extra vigilant following a spate of burglaries in the area.
I didn’t have to worry because when the door opened it was Kline who was standing there. He looked exactly like he did in his profile picture. Thin face. Glasses. Trim goatee.
He was wearing an open-necked shirt and neatly pressed trousers and was a good six feet tall.