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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Copyright © Jaime Raven

Cover photographs © Getty Images

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016

Jaime Raven asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008171490

Ebook Edition © December 2016 ISBN: 9780008171506

Version 2016-11-29

Dedication

To Lyanne, Ellie and Jodie – my three wonderful daughters.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

‘Don’t look at me like that, you pathetic bitch. You brought this on yourself.’

The words fell out of his mouth on the back of a ragged breath.

Through the tears that blurred her vision, Megan Fuller watched him straighten up and step away from her. She wanted to plead for her life, to beg for forgiveness, but she couldn’t speak because her mouth was filled with blood and fragments of broken teeth.

She had never known pain like it, and it pulsed along every nerve in her body. From the demented look in his eyes she could tell that he had completely lost it. The red mist had consumed him. He was in the grip of a dark rage, and not for the first time. She’d seen it happen before and had likened it then to someone being possessed by the devil.

He gave her a look of sneering contempt as he stared down at her, his face tense, jaw locked, blue veins standing out on his neck.

‘I warned you,’ he yelled. ‘It didn’t have to be like this.’

Every molecule in her body was screaming, and hot tears spilled from her eyes.

She should never have let him in. It had been the mother of all mistakes. He was fired up before stepping over the threshold, intent on making her regret what she had threatened to do to him.

After slamming the front door behind him, he had launched into a furious rant, accusing her of being a money-grabbing whore. She had tried to calm him down by offering to make him a cup of tea.

But it wasn’t tea he was after. He wanted her to tell him that she was backing down and that he didn’t have to worry. But her refusal to do so had wound him up to the point where he’d snapped.

He’d smashed his fist into her face. Not once but twice. The first blow struck her mouth and stopped her from screaming. The second blow broke her nose and sent her sprawling backwards onto the kitchen floor.

Now she was at his mercy, unable to cry out as she watched him reach towards the knife block on the worktop. He withdrew the one she used for cutting vegetables. The sight of it paralysed her with fear.

‘You were a fool to think I’d let you get away with it, Megan. The others might cave in, but I fucking won’t.’

His voice was high-pitched and filled with menace, and his chest expanded alarmingly with every breath.

Panic seized her, and she tried to push herself up, but he responded by stamping on her right arm.

There was no stopping him now, she realised. Even if she could talk he was too far gone to listen to reason.

‘You’ve always been a frigging liberty taker,’ he fumed. ‘But now you’ve overstepped the mark big time.’

The knife was above her now, and as he squeezed the steel handle the blood retreated from his knuckles.

She tried again to scream but it snagged in her throat and suddenly she couldn’t even draw breath.

At the same time he lowered himself until his knee was pressed into her chest and his weight was threatening to crush her breastbone.

Face clenched with murderous fury, he moved his hand so that the tip of the knife was pressed against her windpipe. She could actually feel the adrenalin fizzing through her veins like a bolt of electricity.

A voice in her head was pleading with a God she had never believed in.

Please don’t let him do it.

Please make him see sense.

She managed to swallow back the blood in her mouth and let out a strangled sob. But that was about all she could do.

‘I can’t let you live, Megan,’ he said, and the harsh odour of his breath caused her nostrils to flare. ‘I realise that now. If I do I know you’ll make it your business to destroy me.’

She arched her body, desperate to throw him off, but he was too heavy and too determined.

Suddenly all hope took flight and she felt herself go limp.

Then she closed her eyes because she couldn’t bear to look at his face as he plunged the knife into her throat.

1

Beth Chambers

I jolted awake to the sound of my mother’s voice and the earthy aroma of instant coffee.

‘You need to get up,’ she said. ‘The paper phoned and they want you to call them back straight away.’

I forced my eyes open and felt a throbbing pain at the base of my skull, made worse by the harsh sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ I groaned.

‘Let me guess,’ my mother said, placing a mug on the bedside table. ‘You’ve got a hangover.’

I rolled on my side, squinted at the flickering numbers on the digital clock.

‘Bloody hell, Mum. It’s only half eight.’

‘That’s right,’ she said, her tone disapproving. ‘It’s also Saturday – one of only two days in the week when Bethany Chambers gets to spend quality time with her daughter.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘Is she still in bed?’

‘You must be joking. She’s been up for an hour. I’ve washed and dressed her and she’s having breakfast. She thinks you’re taking her to the park.’

I felt the inevitable wave of guilt wash over me. It had been a mistake to drink so much last night. But then how else would I have got through what had been such a tiresome ordeal?

‘How bad is it?’ my mother asked.

I closed my eyes, held my breath, tried to assess the level of discomfort.

‘On a scale of one to ten I’d say it’s an eleven,’ I said.

My mother exhaled a long breath. ‘Then sit up and drink some coffee. It’ll make you feel better.’

I hauled myself up and placed my back against the headboard. I had to close my eyes again to stop the room from spinning. When I opened them my mother was still standing there looking down at me. Her arms were folded across her ample chest and she was shaking her head.

I sipped at the coffee. It was strong and sweet and I felt it burn a track down the back of my throat.

‘When did the office call?’ I said.

‘A few minutes ago,’ my mother said. ‘I answered your phone because you left it in your bag – which you left on the floor in the hallway, along with your coat and shoes.’

I couldn’t resist a smile. It was like going back to when I was a wayward teenager. Most weekends I’d roll in plastered, barely remembering what I’d been up to. My poor mum had put up with a lot in those days and even now, aged 29 and with a kid of my own, I was still a bit of a handful. Still cursed with a reckless streak.

‘So how did it go?’ she said. ‘Was this one Mr Right?’

I shook my head. ‘I should be so lucky. Suffice to say I won’t be seeing him again.’

She gave a snort of derision. ‘I told you, didn’t I? The only blokes you’ll meet on those internet dating sites are losers and cheats. It’s a waste of time and money.’

And with that she turned and stepped back out of the room.

‘Can you get my phone for me?’ I called after her.

‘No, I can’t,’ came the reply. ‘If you want it you’ll have to get up.’

I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, tuneful sigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to accept that she was probably right about the dating thing. Last night had been awful. Another date, another disaster. The guy’s name was Trevor and in the flesh he looked nothing like his profile picture. Most of his hair had vanished since it was taken and he’d also grown a second chin. He said he was an IT consultant, and I believed him because he spent the whole time talking about what he did with computers.

It became obvious early on why he was still single at the age of 35. And if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d gone to the trouble of travelling all the way across London to meet me I would have left sooner than I did. But that would have been impolite, perhaps even a little cruel. So I’d stuck it out while knocking back the Pinot in an effort to numb my senses.

Over the last five months I’d dated seven men through online dating sites and Trevor was the dullest. He’d been even less entertaining than Kevin the chiropodist who had offered on our first date to examine my feet. When I wouldn’t let him he went into a sulk and accused me of being a snob.

No way was I a snob. When it came to men I’d always been happy to cast a wide net. I’d never discriminate against race, colour, or class, and I accepted that most guys around my age had baggage from a previous relationship. I just wanted someone who was honest, open, reasonably intelligent and with a sense of humour. It would help, of course, if there was also an instant physical attraction. But so far those I’d met online had lacked most or all of those qualities.

‘I suppose it’s time I called it a day,’ I said aloud to myself, knowing I didn’t really mean it.

The trouble was I missed being in a relationship. The divorce was two years ago and I hadn’t slept with anyone since. It wasn’t just the sex though. I missed being part of a couple. I missed the companionship, the intimacy, the stream of pleasant surprises that were part and parcel of a burgeoning relationship.

Of course being a single mum with a full-time job kept me busy. In fact I had hardly any time to myself. And that was essentially the problem. I wanted more fun and a touch of romance in my life. I wanted to fall in love again and maybe have another child. I wanted a home of my own and to share it with someone who’d get to know me as well as I knew myself.

My mother didn’t really understand me, or so she said. She reckoned I was being selfish, that I should forget about men and focus on bringing up Rosie.

‘You already work far too many hours,’ she told me when I first joined the dating scene. ‘You haven’t got time for a boyfriend or a husband.’

Then again she had her own reason for wanting things to stay as they were. As long as I remained unattached she got to have us living with her. Not that I’d ever complain. If it wasn’t for my mother I’d probably find it impossible to look after a 3-year-old and continue to work as a journalist.

Thanks to her I didn’t have to pay for childminders or meet the high cost of living in London. While married my husband and I had shared the exorbitant rent on a property in Dulwich. But Mum owned outright this three-bed terraced house in Peckham, and my contribution to the outgoings was relatively small.

She was also on hand to take care of Rosie. That was important, given the fact that my job entailed horrendously unsocial hours.

Take this morning, for example. I had a horrible feeling that the newsdesk wanted me in on my day off. Why else would the office call me at this hour on a Saturday morning? Had something happened? Was there a breaking news story they wanted me to get across?

There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to get up and phone them back. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. My head was hurting and I felt more than a little nauseous. Plus I didn’t want to have to tell my daughter that I might not be taking her to the park after all.

As if on cue the bedroom door was flung open and there she was, the apple of my eye, looking absolutely gorgeous in a yellow dress, her long fair hair scraped back in a ponytail.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she yelled. ‘Nanny said you have to get up. You’re not allowed to go back to sleep because if you do you’ll be in trouble.’

People have told me that Rosie is the image of her mother. And it was true up to a point. We both have blue eyes and hair the colour of wheat. Our noses are small and pointed, and we each have a slight lisp.

But Rosie has her father’s facial bone structure and also his smile, which was one of the things I’d loved about him in the beginning. That was before I realised he used it as a distraction, a way to make me believe that he was a caring, faithful husband instead of a cheating scumbag.

‘Hurry up, Mummy,’ Rosie said excitedly. ‘It’s sunny and I want to go to the park.’

She stood next to the bed, pulling at the duvet, her big round eyes pleading with me to get up.

‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’s still really early and Mummy’s got a headache.’

‘I can kiss it better for you.’

The words out of my daughter’s mouth never failed to lift my spirits. I put the mug back on the bedside table and reached over so that she could peck me on the forehead.

‘I feel much better already,’ I said.

Then I pulled her close to me and gave her a cuddle. She felt soft and warm and smelled of shower gel.

‘Go and tell Nanny to make me some more coffee,’ I said. ‘I’ll be out as soon as I’ve been to the loo.’

She skipped out of the room, repeating my words to herself so that she wouldn’t forget them.

I then dragged myself out of bed, only to be confronted by my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

I usually wear silk pyjamas at night but I’d either forgotten to put them on or I just hadn’t bothered. I couldn’t remember which. Anyway, I was naked expect for my watch and a going-out necklace.

As always I cast a critical eye over my body. And as always I felt a pang of disappointment. Despite all the diets, gym sessions and yoga classes, I was still very much a work in progress. My breasts were not as firm as they used to be, my thighs were riddled with cellulite, and my tummy looked as though it was in the early stages of pregnancy.

But I did have my good points, thank God. My hair was full-bodied and shoulder-length and I never had to do much with it. I was just over five seven in bare feet and had a face that most people considered attractive. In fact my ex went so far as to tell me that I reminded him of the actress Jennifer Lawrence. It gave my ego a huge boost up until the day I discovered that he was incapable of being truthful.

I shook my head, annoyed that I’d allowed that deceitful sod to invade my thoughts this early in the morning. But then it wasn’t as though I could distance myself from him. For all his faults – and there were plenty of them – he adored Rosie and made a point of seeing her twice a week as part of the custody arrangement. It meant we remained in contact, and in all honesty it wasn’t as bad now as it had been at the start. I was over the shock and humiliation of his betrayal, and all the feelings I’d had for him had evaporated.

I was now civil to him whenever we met and that made life easier all round. There were never any arguments over maintenance payments and he was usually willing to help out when I needed certain favours.

Naturally my mother hated him with a vengeance, and when he called at the house she made a point of retreating to her bedroom to avoid seeing him.

It wouldn’t be an issue today because he’d taken Rosie out on Thursday and wasn’t due to see her again until Wednesday, when he’d pick her up from the nursery.

Today it was my turn to spoil her – if I didn’t have to go to work. And that was a bloody big if.

I turned away from the mirror, picked up my robe from the chair next to the bed and peered through the curtains. The bright sun made a change since we were in the middle of one of the wettest and coldest Novembers for years.

My bedroom was at the front of the house and the view was of a row of almost identical terraced houses opposite. All of them were worth in excess of half a million pounds, which seemed extraordinary to me given that Peckham used to be one of the grimiest and most dangerous parts of south London. But having undergone massive regeneration and steady gentrification, the area was now considered a trendy place to live, attracting families and city workers alike.

For me Peckham was both familiar and convenient. The house was a short walk from the railway station and from there it was just a ten-minute train ride to London Bridge and the offices of the The Post, the evening newspaper that served the capital. I’d worked there for the past five years.

Peckham Rye Common was also close by and that was where I’d planned to take Rosie today. I really didn’t want to disappoint her because Mum was right about me not spending enough quality time with her. I definitely needed to make more of an effort, put Rosie before everything else and stop jumping to the tune of the newsdesk.

I came to a decision suddenly. If the newsdesk asked me to go to work I’d tell them it wasn’t possible. I’d say I’d already made plans and they couldn’t be changed.

They’d no doubt be surprised because I loved the job and could usually be relied on to come in at short notice. But this time they’d just have to call up someone else, assuming they hadn’t done so already.

‘You took your time getting back to me,’ Grant Scott said. ‘I was about to get someone else to cover a story that we’ve just got wind of.’

‘I’m afraid that’s what you’ll have to do, boss,’ I said. ‘It’s my day off and I’ve made plans.’

‘Well, I suggest you change them or else you’re going to be sorely disappointed. This is huge.’

‘That’s what you always say when you’re short of people.’

‘I mean it this time, Beth. You’ve got first call on this because you’re the paper’s crime reporter. So I want you on it from the start. And trust me it’s right up your street.’

Grant was The Post’s senior news editor and an expert in the art of manipulation. He was an old-school newspaperman who knew there was one sure way to get a reporter – any reporter – to do his bidding, and that was to dangle the carrot of a cracking yarn.

‘So just out of curiosity what’s the story?’ I said.

I could imagine him smiling on the other end of the line, thinking he’d got me hooked and that all he had to do was reel me in. He’d been my mentor after all, helping nurture my career since I got the job at The Post. He was also the one who had nicknamed me The Ferret, because of my uncanny ability to ferret out stories.

Three years ago he appointed me to the position of the paper’s first-ever female crime reporter. And in the pub afterwards he told me: ‘You got the job because like me the news is embedded in your psyche, Beth. It’s part of your DNA. You can’t resist the excitement that comes from being the first to tell people what bad things are happening all around them. It’s like the rush you get from a sniff of the white stuff.’

He’d been right, of course. From an early age I’d been fascinated by the news and how it was covered and disseminated. Before I left school I knew exactly what career path I wanted to follow. It wasn’t easy, given my background, but I’d managed to pull it off, and like every other hack I knew I was now addicted to the chase.

‘There’s been a murder,’ Grant was saying. ‘And the victim is none other than Megan Fuller.’

It took a second for the name to register.

‘Do you mean the actress?’ I said.

‘Yep, although as you know that’s not her only claim to fame. As well as being a former TV soap star she was also the ex-wife of a well-known London gangster.’

‘Christ,’ I blurted. ‘Danny Shapiro.’

‘That’s right,’ Grant said, as though he’d scored a point. ‘Danny fucking Shapiro – the villain with the film-star looks who took over a huge criminal empire after his notorious father got banged up.’

I felt a surge of adrenalin. Grant wasn’t far wrong in saying the story was huge. Danny Shapiro was one of the country’s highest-profile criminals. His gang operated south of the Thames and was involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, extortion, money laundering, and even kidnapping. He and Megan Fuller had been tabloid fodder throughout their three-year marriage which had ended in divorce fourteen months ago.

‘Megan was found stabbed to death at her home in Balham earlier this morning,’ Grant said. ‘We had a tip from a paramedic who attended. So we’ve got the jump on everyone else.’

I was suddenly oblivious to the ache in my head as my mind filled with a flood of questions that I doubted Grant would know the answers to. I was certain the story would have created a buzz in the newsroom. The headline writers would already be focused on the paper’s early edition front page, and the online team were probably about to publish something on the website. Then it’d be out there, leading to a full-blown media firestorm.

‘So do you still want me to pass the story on to one of your colleagues?’ Grant said. ‘Only I can’t piss around. We need to move on this.’

From where I stood in the kitchen I could see Rosie at the table in the adjoining dining room. She was busy drawing pictures on a pad with big colourful crayons. My mother sat next to her, but her eyes were on me and her brow was scrunched up in a frown. I could tell she knew what was coming.

I felt my resolve dissipate and the guilt rear up inside me again as I turned away from them and said into the phone, ‘Okay, give me the details and Megan Fuller’s address. I’ll get right on it.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Grant said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’

2

Ethan Cain

The girl had said she was 18, but Ethan Cain wasn’t sure he believed her. She looked younger. Much younger.

It hadn’t stopped him spending the night with her, though. She was mature enough to know exactly how to please him.

Even if she was underage there was no danger of anyone in authority ever finding out. The girl would be too scared to let slip that she’d been shagged by a 34-year-old man at his flat in Wandsworth.

She was still asleep on the bed and she hadn’t stirred when he’d got up just now to have a piss. It didn’t surprise him. Last night she’d consumed copious amounts of vodka and had sniffed at least five lines of coke. So she’d probably be comatose for a while yet.

But that was okay because he wasn’t in a hurry to get shot of her. It was Saturday and he didn’t have to go to work. Besides, he was already aroused at the prospect of fucking her again, maybe a couple of times this morning if he could manage it.

After emerging from the en-suite bathroom, Cain sat naked in the armchair next to the bed and lit his first cigarette of the day. It was always the best, the most satisfying, and he savoured the acrid warmth that filled his throat.

He knew he wasn’t a pretty sight. He looked far better with clothes on. At least they concealed his paunch and the man boobs that had begun sprouting up after he’d stopped working out. He wasn’t grossly overweight, just bigger and softer than he wanted to be.

The girl, on the other hand, looked good enough to eat. The duvet had been pushed aside to reveal her lying spread-eagled on her back. It was all he could do not to get back on the bed and feast on her bare flesh.

She had lush black hair, small pert tits, and skin as smooth as porcelain. It struck him that she was a picture of innocence. This made him smile because she was far from innocent.

Ania Kolak – if that was her real name – was among the thousands of Eastern European sex workers who had poured into London in recent years. She was Polish and had told him that she hoped one day to embark on a career as an actress.

He’d heard it all before. Most of them believed that selling their bodies was a means to an end and that after a few years they’d have enough money saved to be able to fulfil their dreams. But in most cases that never happened. Instead they ended up as drug addicts or pathetic zombies drained of every last drop of self-respect.

Not that he gave a toss. As far as he was concerned it served them right. They didn’t deserve his or anyone else’s pity.

He did have some sympathy for those who were forced into sex slavery, though. Their plight was indeed tragic. But all the women and girls he’d been with had clearly become prostitutes out of choice. Many of them had told him they actually enjoyed being on the game. It meant they had enough cash to live well in one of the world’s most expensive cities.

It still amazed him how much some of them earned. The high-class escorts who worked the West End often raked in thousands of pounds in a single night. Ania wasn’t in that league, not yet anyway, and her fee for an entire night was five hundred pounds. Cain was just glad he didn’t have to pay her and the others out of his own pocket. He would never have been able to afford it.

As it was he was lucky. The girls and drugs were the perks he enjoyed for being on Danny Shapiro’s payroll. Danny, like his father before him, ran the biggest prostitution racket this side of the Thames. But it was only part of his empire, an empire that stretched across the whole of south London.

He was without doubt the shrewdest villain in the capital and the most feared. Even the Russians, who controlled the West End, and the Albanians, who ran most of north London, knew better than to try to muscle in on his territory. They did attempt it a couple of years ago and quickly came to regret it. Two of their top people were shot dead outside their homes in Kensington, and one of the casinos they operated up west was set on fire.

It was widely accepted that Danny was just as ruthless as his old man, Callum Shapiro, who was doing a twenty-five-year stretch for a raft of convictions including murder.

Cain’s relationship with Danny was purely professional. He didn’t actually like the man, let alone trust him. But the arrangement they had was mutually beneficial. And to be fair Danny had always treated him with a modicum of respect – unlike Frankie Bishop, Danny’s second-in-command and the gang’s most brutal enforcer.

Bishop, a career criminal, had earned his ferocious reputation on the south coast where he was groomed by a gangster named Joe Strickland. He’d managed the security arrangements at Strickland’s pubs and clubs in and around Southampton. One night he attacked a punter who ended up with a fractured skull and ruptured spleen. For that he went down for three years. While in prison he met a couple of Danny’s lads and they urged him to move to London if he wanted to see more action and more money. So after his release he dropped in on Danny and offered his services, and Danny jumped at the chance to take him on.

It was Bishop who handed Cain his monthly cash retainer and supplied the girls and drugs. But dealing with him was never a pleasant experience. In the underworld he was known as ‘The Nutter’ because it was obvious to everyone that he was a grade-A psychopath. Still, Cain reckoned it was a small price to pay to indulge his passions for drugs, gambling, and sweet young things like Ania.

She was still out cold, her chest rising and falling with every breath. It occurred to him that he ought to take one of his little blue pills so that he could make the most of her before she left. It would take at least thirty minutes to kick in so he decided to wash it down with a cup of tea.

He crushed what was left of his fag in the ashtray on the floor and rummaged in the bedside drawer for a pill.

In the kitchen he opened the blinds and reached for the kettle to fill it with water. That was when he noticed his mobile phone on the worktop next to the sink.

As soon as he picked it up he saw that he had two unopened text messages and three missed calls.

‘Shit.’

At some point last night he’d put the phone on silent and had forgotten to take it off. It had been careless of him. Downright stupid.

He checked the times of the messages and the calls. They had all come in during the past hour, which was a relief. He would say he was asleep in bed and hadn’t heard it ringing.

It wasn’t until he phoned the office that he discovered why they were anxious to reach him. It was bad news.

He wasn’t going to have a day off, after all. And there would be no time for even a morning quickie with Ania.

Cain didn’t know what to make of it. Megan Fuller had been murdered in her own home in Balham.

Jesus.

He had never met the woman but he knew all about her. She’d appeared in a soap that had aired on the BBC for about five years, playing the glamorous wife of a cantankerous factory owner. In real life she’d been married to Danny Shapiro, and by all accounts it had been a tumultuous relationship.

The word on the street was that she’d fallen on hard times since the Beeb dropped her from the soap over a year ago as part of a character shake-up. She’d been struggling to find other work ever since and had recently been threatening to write a tell-all book about her life.

Danny was among a number of people who were apparently not happy about it. He feared she might reveal a bit too much about their life together in order to secure a lucrative publishing contract.

As Cain stood under the shower, he realised that Danny would most likely be in the frame for her murder because the book thing meant that he had a motive. If so, then things could get tricky. He thought about phoning Danny to find out what he knew, if anything. But he decided against it. Maybe later when he had a better idea about what was going on.

After the shower, he towelled himself dry and had another go at waking Ania. She hadn’t responded to the first attempt, but this time her eyes flickered open and she looked up at him.

‘I said get your arse out of bed and get dressed,’ he told her. ‘Something’s come up and I have to go out.’

She licked her lips and cleared her throat. ‘Can’t you just leave me here? I’m tired and I don’t feel well.’

‘Like I give a shit,’ he said. ‘Your clothes are over there. Put them on and scram. I’ve left a thirty-quid tip on the chair.’

Suddenly he was no longer interested in her. He was in such a hurry to get going he didn’t even look at her as she got out of bed and sauntered naked into the bathroom to use the toilet.

By the time he’d put on his grey suit and a white shirt he was flustered. He didn’t bother with a tie because he hated wearing them.

He told Ania she would have to have a shower when she got home and while she put on her clothes he called her a cab.

‘Charge it to my account,’ he told the operator. ‘The name’s Cain. Detective Inspector Ethan Cain.’

After hanging up he grabbed his wallet and warrant card from the dressing table and slipped them into his pocket. Then he checked himself in the mirror one last time and decided that nobody would guess he’d been up half the night shagging a teen prostitute and snorting coke. That was a relief. It meant he was ready to report for duty.

He checked his watch. Seven forty-five. Balham was only a couple of miles away and with luck he could be at Megan Fuller’s house in less than half an hour, traffic permitting.

3

Danny Shapiro

‘We’re getting reports that the British actress Megan Fuller has been found dead at her home in south London. Police say she was stabbed late last night. Her body was discovered this morning. Scotland Yard has confirmed that Murder Squad detectives are at the scene. We’ll bring you more when we have it.’

Those words from the BBC newsreader hit Danny Shapiro like a cattle prod. His eyes snapped open and he struggled to focus on the TV screen fixed to the wall in front of his bed.

For a few seconds it was just a blur, and by the time his vision cleared the newsreader was talking about something else. But the caption scrolling across the bottom of the screen told him that he hadn’t been dreaming.

Breaking News: Soap star Megan Fuller found murdered in her home.

Danny sat bolt upright and shuddered from a fierce intake of breath. He had turned the telly on twenty minutes ago to help him shake off his slumber before getting up. Since then he’d been dozing on and off and hadn’t taken any notice of it.

Now though he was wide awake and the morning news had his full attention.

Megan Fuller. His ex-wife. Murdered. Stabbed. In her own home.

Fuck.

Surely it can’t be true, he told himself. It must be a ghastly mistake or some sick joke. After all, he was at her house last night and she had been very much alive. As spiteful and as mouthy as ever. They had argued and there’d been a shouting match. He remembered threatening her and recalled the fear on her face as she’d backed away from him in the kitchen.

She had really pissed him off with her crude ultimatum, and he’d told her that he wouldn’t allow himself to be blackmailed. But she’d laughed in his face and had said he would have to pay up or suffer the consequences.

Afterwards he’d come straight home and had drunk himself into oblivion because he’d been so angry. That was why his head was bunged up now and there were things he couldn’t remember: such as whether he’d given her a slap – or worse – before storming out. If he had then it would have been the first time. During their three years together he’d never once laid a hand on her, even though he’d come close to it on numerous occasions.

He was sure he would have held back last night too, whatever the extent of the provocation. But right now he couldn’t be 100 per cent certain. He closed his eyes briefly, cast his mind back to last night, saw himself inside Megan’s house, yelling at her, threatening her.

The picture kept fading, which came as no great surprise. Although he enjoyed the booze, he wasn’t a heavy drinker, and when he did get rat-arsed he often suffered partial memory loss the morning after. Usually the memories surfaced eventually, but sometimes they didn’t.

He was reminded of the time he got into an argument with a stranger who got lippy with him in a nightclub. The next morning he remembered the argument, but had no recollection of punching the bloke in the face and then stamping on his head. Luckily Frankie Bishop had been with him in the club and had told him what had happened.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it, boss,’ Bishop had said. ‘Most of us don’t remember everything we do when we’re hammered. And I reckon that’s a good thing. It’s just a shame we can’t blank out some of the stuff we do when we’re sober.’

But Danny was worried. Not knowing exactly what had happened last night sparked a twist of panic in his gut.

He opened his eyes, grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table, switched over to Sky News.

And there was Megan’s face filling the screen, her eyes staring right at him. He felt the air lock in his chest and was gripped by a sudden anxiety.

It was a photograph he had seen hundreds of times before, one of the professional publicity shots distributed by the BBC. It showed Megan at her most stunning, before her life became a train wreck. Her long brown hair framed an oval face with soft, delicate features. Her smile was warm and engaging, and for a split second he remembered why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

His mind carried him back six years to the night they met. It was at a New Year’s Eve bash in a club his father had just taken over in Camberwell. She’d come along with a group of luvvie friends from television and he’d been there with Bishop and some of the crew.

Danny had introduced himself and had given them two bottles of champagne on the house.

‘It’s my way of thanking you for coming to the club,’ he’d said. ‘I do hope it’s the first of many visits.’

It was Megan who asked him to join them at their table to welcome in the New Year. And from that moment he was beguiled by her beauty and the fact that she was a celebrity.

At the stroke of midnight they kissed, and he would never forget how good it felt and how his heart raced. It was the start of a passionate relationship that most people – including his father – predicted wouldn’t last. They weren’t wrong.

Callum Shapiro never did like Megan, and he told Danny he was a moron for getting involved with someone in the public eye.

‘Are you off your fucking trolley?’ he said after Danny proposed and Megan accepted. ‘You’re a villain and you need to keep a low profile. You’ve let this celebrity thing go to your head and it’s a big mistake. On top of that you and her are from entirely different worlds. She’ll be trouble, son. You mark my words.’

But Danny didn’t listen. He loved Megan and he enjoyed the thrill of being in the limelight and going to film premieres and celebrity parties. And he lapped up the attention and the way the tabloids described him as the playboy son of the reputed gangland boss Callum Shapiro.

Four months after he met Megan they got married on Danny’s twenty-seventh birthday. Then two months after the wedding his father was arrested and the lawyers warned them he was facing a life sentence.

It fell on Danny to take the reins of the organisation, which made his life more complicated and put an enormous strain on the marriage from the start.

If Megan had conceived during that first year then maybe things would have been different. But she put her career before a family and at the same time Danny found that being the boss meant a bigger commitment than he’d been prepared for. So the odds were stacked against them from the beginning. It didn’t help that Megan found it tough coping with pressure and suffered bouts of depression, which she blamed on a difficult childhood and low self-esteem.

‘Miss Fuller was thirty-two and married for several years to Danny Shapiro, the man who has repeatedly denied any involvement in organised crime in London.’

Now his own face stared down at him from the TV screen as the newsreader relayed background information relevant to the story.

Danny’s unease mounted as he watched and listened with a hawkish intensity.

‘The couple split up three years ago and were divorced fourteen months ago. Shortly after that Miss Fuller was dropped by the BBC from the long-running soap. A close friend has told Sky News that this – coupled with mounting debts – caused her to become clinically depressed.’

Danny had known all about the state she got herself into. She’d phoned him often enough to tell him it was his fault for being a shit husband and cheating on her with a string of women. Out of guilt and pity he had given her a large sum of money as part of the divorce settlement, plus two properties – the house in Balham and the cottage in the New Forest.

But he’d refused to accept responsibility for the fact that she blew the money on high living and a business venture that went tits up. She’d been forced to remortgage the house and put the cottage on the market.

On the TV the newsreader was saying that Megan’s body was discovered by her own father when he called at the house this morning.

‘Mr Nigel Fuller apparently looked through the kitchen window when he got no response from ringing the front doorbell. He then saw his daughter’s body lying on the kitchen floor.’

Danny’s mind conjured up an image of the scene that would have confronted Nigel Fuller. It caused the muscles in his jaw to tense and brought a lump to his throat. It also made him realise that deep down he still had feelings for Megan despite the friction that had developed between them, and for that reason he was saddened by the manner of her death.

He started to go through the events leading up to last night again in his head. Megan had called him on his mobile while he was still at his office in Bermondsey. She’d wanted to give him the news that her agent had secured a publishing deal for her autobiography.

‘So here’s the thing, Danny Boy,’ she’d said. ‘If you want to stop me dishing the dirt about you and your business then you’d better sort out the money fast. Half a mil buys my silence.’

She’d severed the connection before he could respond. He’d still been fuming an hour later when he left the office with two minders and headed for a business meeting in Clapham, a short way from Balham.

The meeting was with a bunch of Turks who had opened up a new drugs supply route into the UK from Istanbul. Over a plentiful supply of booze they’d struck a good deal. The Turks had access to some high-quality coke and heroin, and they were now going to be one of the firm’s main suppliers.

But as he left the meeting above a pub his thoughts had switched back to Megan. And because he’d been tanked up he’d decided to go to her house to confront her. In hindsight it had been a mistake to have sent the minders home, but he’d wanted to go alone and to have a brisk walk to clear his head.

Clapham was about a mile away and halfway there it had started to rain, a steady drizzle rather than a downpour. Luckily he hadn’t been suited up. As usual he’d been wearing a fleece with a hood, his ‘uniform of choice’ that allowed him to take to the streets without being recognised. Even so by the time he got to Megan’s house he was wet, miserable and fit to explode …

‘A police source has just confirmed that she may have been murdered by someone she let in – someone she might have known.’

The newsreader’s words seized Danny’s attention again and pulled him back to the present. That was when alarm bells started going off inside his head, and he realised that he had a serious problem. It didn’t matter that he was convinced he didn’t kill Megan. Unless it was obvious to the cops who did then he was going to be their prime suspect.

They’d probably find out that she phoned him earlier in the day, even though he used an unregistered mobile. They would know he was worried about what she would write in her forthcoming book. They’d probably drum up CCTV footage of him walking from Clapham to Balham. And he couldn’t be sure, of course, that he hadn’t been seen entering or leaving the house.

Fuck.

His heart started booming in his ears and a hole opened up in his stomach. He told himself to stay calm, not to panic, but he had to fight back an urge to scream.

This was bad. Really bad. The cops would jump at the chance to pin Megan’s murder on him, and once they discovered he’d been to the house they’d have him bang to rights.

Fuck.

What he needed was an alibi and he didn’t have one. He also had no idea what to tell the Old Bill when they eventually turned up. He needed to think, to get his mind around the problem and see if he could find a way out.

A coffee would help, he decided, followed by a hot shower. He had to flush the booze and the sleep from his system so that he could start firing on all cylinders.

He threw back the duvet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. At that moment the landline started ringing in the other room. His heart froze in his chest and his body flooded with adrenalin. Only a few people had the number to the house phone – his father, his lawyer, his accountant, and Frankie Bishop.

He had no idea which one of them it could be or whether he should answer it. He didn’t want to speak to anyone until he knew what he was going to say, so he listened to the ringing for about thirty seconds. After it stopped he didn’t move. He just sat there, his mind whirring, as he tried to think of a way to save himself.

4

Beth Chambers

The story broke even before I left the house. I saw Megan Fuller’s picture on BBC News as I stepped out of the shower. By the time I was on my second mug of coffee they were saying she might have been murdered by someone she’d known. That didn’t surprise me, since most murders are committed by friends or relatives of the victims.

‘So is that why you have to go to work?’ my mother said, flicking her head towards the TV.

‘It’s a big story, Mum,’ I said. ‘And as I happen to be the paper’s crime reporter they expect me to cover it.’

‘But it’s the start of the weekend.’

I huffed out a breath. ‘I know that, Mum, and I’m sorry. But I can’t help it. I’ll make it up to Rosie. I promise.’

She gave me one of her long, prickly looks so I kept my gaze firmly fixed on the screen and pretended not to notice.

I could see her out of the corner of my eye, standing in front of the sink with her hands on her hips. Not for the first time I realised that I would probably be just like her when I too was the wrong side of sixty. I certainly had her temperament. We were both stubborn, strong-willed, opinionated.

Thankfully the physical resemblance was less apparent. She’d had a hard life and it showed in the lines that were etched into her face. What remained of her grey hair was thin and wispy, and the whites of her eyes were tinged with yellow.

As a younger woman, Peggy Chambers had been beautiful, and it was no wonder she’d had more than her fair share of male admirers. She was 28 when she gave birth to me. I had only a vague recollection of my father because he was only around for a short time. He popped in and out of my life when I was a small child. He brought me presents and sometimes put me on his lap and gave me a cuddle. But he never took me out or came to any of my birthday parties.

Mum told me it was because he was married and I was the result of an illicit affair. She also told me that he turned out to be a low-life shyster who couldn’t be trusted. One day when I was 5 he just decided he didn’t want to see her any more and stopped coming to the house.

I couldn’t even picture him in my mind’s eye, although occasionally a distant memory came to me at night. A tall man with a husky voice telling me that he loved me, and that I was the most beautiful girl in the world.

My mother fell in love again when I was 8 with a black man named Tony Hunter, who she met in the Nag’s Head pub in Peckham. He got her pregnant and so they married.

Tony was good to both of us and he treated me like his own daughter. When my brother Michael was born, Tony promised me he would always be there for us. But he wasn’t, and the years that followed Michael’s birth were filled with tragedy and heartache.

That was why my mother was like she was: tough, assertive, and intolerant. It had been her way of coping with the cruel blows she’d suffered during her lifetime. And however much she annoyed me at times, I knew she would do anything for her daughter and granddaughter.

Rosie thought the world of her, so she hadn’t thrown a hissy fit when I’d told her that Nanny would be taking her to the park because I had to go to work. I’d sweetened the pill by promising to bring her back a present.

On the TV they were now showing a photograph of Megan Fuller and Danny Shapiro together, and it drew my mother’s attention back to the screen.

‘Do you think he killed her?’ she asked me.

‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me. The guy’s a notorious thug. Just like his dad was before he got sent down.’

I’d written countless stories about Danny Shapiro. I’d even tried to expose the inner workings of his organisation. But along with every other investigative journalist who’d tried I had barely been able to scratch the surface. The guy was more careful, and more insulated, than most other villains I’d come across, which was why the police had struggled to bring him down.

Shapiro was a known face in this area of London. It was part of his manor, and most people knew who he was and what he did. His father, Callum, had lived in Peckham back in the days when my mother ran a salad stall in Rye Lane. He and a few other south London villains were among her customers. Since then times had changed and so had the Lane. These days it had little to offer well-heeled villains, who preferred more upmarket shopping streets.

‘So have you ever met him?’ my mother said.

‘Do you mean Shapiro?’

‘Who else would I be talking about?’

I shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve approached him twice for an interview. But each time he turned me down.’

‘And what did you think of him?’

‘He’s a bit flash,’ I said. ‘He’s a charmer, though, and good-looking to boot. I can see why Megan Fuller fell for him.’

My mother shook her head. ‘You know what, Beth? That man sounds just like your stepdad. He was also handsome and charming and as crooked as they come.’

The thought made me shudder, but she was right. Tony had been a career criminal just like Danny Shapiro, which was why he was no longer with us.

And it was why our lives had been filled with so much drama and sadness.

Grant Scott had arranged for a taxi to pick me up outside the house. The driver honked his horn to let me know he had arrived.

I apologised again to Rosie for having to work and she gave me a kiss and told me not to forget her present.

‘If you do you’ll have me to answer to,’ my mother said. But as she spoke she had a smile on her face and I knew she’d forgiven me, just as she always did. I hugged her and thanked her for taking Rosie to the park.

‘I don’t know what I would do without you, Mum,’ I said. ‘You’re a gem.’

‘And you’re a right royal pain in the backside, Bethany Chambers,’ she said. ‘But I love you just the same.’

So all was well on the home front as I left the house.

I still felt guilty, though. It was always the same when I left Rosie at home and went to work, even though I knew I didn’t really have a choice. After all, someone had to pay the bills. I found some comfort in the fact that I was luckier than most single mums. My own mother was there to help and I took home a good wage. According to the latest hot parenting book I was actually setting a good example for my child.

But that didn’t mean I was able to shake off the brutal burden of so-called ‘working mum’s guilt’. It was going to plague me for years to come; of that I was certain.

It was chilly out and I was wearing my designer jeans, black T-shirt, and a thick fleece jacket. My hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and I had sunglasses on my head.

I was carrying my favourite M&S leather shoulder bag containing my purse, iPad, phone, Olympus voice recorder, and small make-up bag. So I was back in reporter mode and ready to roll.

I gave the driver Megan Fuller’s address and made myself comfortable on the back seat. Then as soon as we were moving I started making calls. The first was to the New Scotland Yard press office. I was well known to the team and they confirmed what I had already gleaned from the TV news. They also told me that the investigation would be run by Wandsworth CID based in Lavender Hill. The officers leading the inquiry were Detective Chief Inspector Jack Redwood, who I’d never met, and Detective Inspector Ethan Cain, the toerag who happened to be my ex-husband.

It didn’t surprise me that Ethan had been assigned to the case because it was on his patch, and he was part of the murder team. It also didn’t surprise me when he failed to answer his mobile. I knew it’d be because he either wasn’t ready to talk to me or he was too busy. No matter, I thought. I’d call again later when he was bound to have more to tell me anyway.

The second call I made was to another contact inside Wandsworth nick. He was a senior officer in the uniform division who’d been feeding me with information for years, despite the crackdown on the cosy relationship between the press and the police that followed the Leveson Inquiry. I referred to the officer as Doug, although that wasn’t his real name. In fact I gave false names to all my police contacts because it meant there was less risk of them being outed.

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.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she said to me before she had even introduced herself to Mr Fuller.

‘I was actually just about to leave,’ I said. ‘Mr Fuller here was kind enough to grant me a short interview.’

‘Did you get permission?’

‘I didn’t think I needed it. There were no officers outside when I arrived.’

Tomlinson was a tall woman with short dark hair and storm-grey eyes which stared at me accusingly. She clearly wasn’t happy, and I could tell she was up for making an issue of it. But Nigel Fuller took the wind out of her sails by getting to his feet and saying, ‘It’s not a problem, Officer. I was happy to cooperate in the hope that an appeal for information will produce a result.’

Tomlinson masked her disappointment well by introducing herself to him and then offering to show me out.

‘No need to bother,’ I said. ‘I know the way.’

I then turned back to Megan’s father and offered my condolences again.

‘It’s impossible for me to imagine what you’re going through,’ I said. ‘I’m confident though that whoever killed Megan will be brought to justice.’

My words ignited another blast of emotion in him. He dropped back onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

As I walked out of the room his shoulders were pumping up and down with his crying and I became aware of guilty feelings stirring inside me.

Sure, I’d got an exclusive interview and an explosive angle on the story. But the man’s grief had dampened my enthusiasm and reminded me of what it was like to lose a loved one.

6

Ethan Cain

Detective Inspector Ethan Cain studied the body as dispassionately as he could. Even so the sight of it caused something to stir in the pit of his stomach.

Megan Fuller was still lying on the kitchen floor with a gaping hole in her throat. The blood that had spilled onto the lino was now dry, but some still glistened inside the wound and between her thin, purple lips which had been cut from a blow to the mouth. Her nose was broken and her pale, lifeless eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling.

She was wearing a navy-blue blouse and tight jeans. Her long brown hair was fanned out around her head and had soaked up some of the blood.

‘The bloody shoe-prints belong to the father,’ Detective Chief Inspector Redwood said. ‘The poor sod will have to live with what he saw here for the rest of his life.’

Cain lifted his gaze from the floor to the back door, which stood open. Nigel Fuller had gained access by smashing one of the glass panels and reaching for the key left in the lock.

Any dad would have done the same in his position, Cain thought. After all, he must have believed there was a possibility that she was still alive. Trouble was he had contaminated the crime scene and they would never know for sure if he had inadvertently destroyed any crucial evidence.

‘There’s no other sign of a break-in,’ Redwood said. ‘So there’s a good chance she let the killer in.’

Cain turned to his boss, who was standing in the doorway. Redwood was in his early forties, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. Dark stubble bristled on his face and his eyes were bright blue and slightly bulging.

He was a hard-nosed individual with a short temper and a gruff voice. He didn’t drink or smoke and rarely socialised with the team, preferring the gym to the pub.

As the senior investigating officer he was in charge of the investigation, and Cain knew he’d do a thorough job. Redwood was fairly new to the Met, having moved down from Manchester five months ago, and he’d brought with him an impressive reputation. Unlike Cain he still viewed police work as a worthwhile vocation rather than a relentless grind on behalf of an unappreciative public.

The gaffer was the kind of copper that Cain used to be before disillusionment set in and he was told he’d probably never be promoted beyond the rank of detective inspector within the Met. And long before he fell into the trap of wanting to spend more money than he earned.

‘Megan suffered a single stab wound to the throat,’ Redwood was saying. ‘The doc says the blade must have been a minimum of fourteen millimetres long. It cut through the trachea and hit the cervical vertebrae. The killer then sliced downwards and ripped open the thyroid gland and the oesophagus. It’s a safe bet the knife was taken from the block over there on the worktop.’

It was a six-knife block and one of them was missing. Cain had already been told that there was no sign of the murder weapon. Officers were searching the house, the front and back gardens, and the surrounding area, although in all likelihood the killer or killers had taken it with them when fleeing the scene.

‘There are no signs of a struggle in any of the other rooms,’ Redwood said. ‘But it does appear as though the house has been searched. Drawers have been left open and the contents dropped on the floor. Having said that we don’t know if anything has been stolen but this doesn’t look like a burglary gone wrong to me.’

Redwood had had time to acquaint himself with the scene, having arrived an hour ago. Cain had been delayed by traffic hold-ups in Clapham. He needed to look around for himself and get a feel for the place.

‘Come out into the back garden,’ Redwood said. ‘The SOCOs want to get back in here and I need to tell you and the others what else we’ve got.’

The others were detective constables Rachel Fisher and Toby Dean, who had also just arrived and were already waiting in the garden to be briefed.

They all stood on the patio, out of the way of the scene-of-crime officers who were dusting and swabbing every inch of the house.

Redwood pulled down the hood of his overall and took out his notebook. He began by telling them what they already knew – that the victim was 32-year-old Megan Fuller who lived alone in the house and was well known as a TV soap actress.

‘Estimated time of death is between ten thirty and midnight last night,’ he said. ‘The neighbour to the right apparently heard raised voices around ten but no screams. The house doesn’t have a video security system but there are some CCTV cameras around here so I want them checked.’

Cain was fairly certain that a person or car approaching the house would have been caught on camera at some point. He himself had turned into Ramsden Road from Balham High Road and had spotted at least two cameras at that junction alone. But last night it had rained so there was no guarantee that any footage would be useful.

‘What does the father say?’ Cain asked.

‘I was just coming to that,’ Redwood said. ‘I’ve only had a brief conversation with him, but he’s with one of the neighbours so we can talk to him again before he’s taken home.’

‘Did he tell you why he turned up here this morning?’ Cain said.

Redwood nodded. ‘Megan sent him a text last night at twenty past ten, which was presumably just before she was killed. Her phone was in the kitchen and I had a quick look before it was bagged up.’ He lowered his eyes and read from his notes. ‘She wrote, and I quote: “Can you come over early tomorrow, Dad? Need to talk to you.” He then replied that he’d be here about seven. Mr Fuller also says he had a conversation with her earlier in the evening during which she said she’d had a bust-up with her ex-husband Danny Shapiro and that Shapiro threatened to kill her.’

Cain felt a flash of heat in his chest. He had known it was only a matter of time before Danny came into the equation, but he hadn’t expected this.

‘I don’t need to remind you who Danny Shapiro is,’ Redwood went on. ‘Or that he’s more than capable of committing murder or getting one of his henchmen to do it for him. He’s therefore our number one suspect. Megan’s phone shows that she made a call earlier to an unregistered mobile number that’s in her contacts under the name Danny. That’s why a team should be descending on his flat in Bermondsey about now.’

‘He probably won’t be there, guv,’ DC Fisher said. ‘He hardly ever stays at the flat.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s common knowledge, sir. Danny Shapiro spends most nights at a secret address. That’s one of the reasons he’s been dubbed Mr Paranoid.’

‘This is news to me.’

‘You would have found out eventually, boss.’

‘Yeah, well, I obviously have a lot to learn about London’s leading underworld faces.’ He turned to Cain. ‘Are you up to speed on Shapiro, Ethan?’

Cain shrugged. ‘I know about as much as everyone else, guv. The guy doesn’t trust anyone, apparently, and it’s not hard to understand why. His father Callum was less careful and eventually paid the price. After months of covert surveillance the organised crime teams managed to gather enough evidence to take him down.

‘Shortly after his son took charge of things a rival villain took a shot at him as he left his flat. The bullet missed but it convinced Shapiro that he wasn’t safe there – or anywhere else that people knew about. The flat is still his formal address and he occasionally entertains and holds court there. But we’ve no idea where he lays his head most nights, except that it’s somewhere in London.’

Redwood nodded several times as he mulled this over. Then he said, ‘Well, Shapiro is not our only suspect. Megan has been phoning and texting someone named Sam on a fairly regular basis. I get the impression from the messages that he was her boyfriend up until a short time ago. But it seems they had a falling-out. He sent her a text three days ago in which he apologised for hitting her and promised not to do it again. She responded by saying it was over and that if he came to the house again she’d call the police.’

‘He sounds promising,’ Cain said.

Redwood nodded. ‘We need to find out who this Sam is and where he was last night. We’ve got his number so it shouldn’t be hard.’

Cain found himself hoping that Sam had murdered Megan and that they would quickly solve the case. The thought of having to pursue Danny Shapiro – the man he accepted regular bribes from – made his blood run cold. As long as Danny was in the frame his own duplicity was under threat of exposure.

The detectives then discussed possible motives for murder, one of which was the tell-all book that Megan had claimed she was writing. It was public knowledge because she’d mentioned it in several TV and newspaper interviews.

‘I’ve asked the techies to look for notes and a manuscript,’ Redwood said. ‘It might be that the killer is someone who fears being featured in the book.’

Redwood asked DC Fisher to check Megan’s bank accounts and phone records.

‘There’s been talk of her having money problems,’ he said. ‘If that’s the case then I want to know the extent of it.’

After the briefing, Cain had a quick look around the house, careful not to get in the way of the forensic sweep.

It was much less impressive than he had expected. The furnishings were dated and it looked as though Megan hadn’t been taking care of the place. The rooms were untidy and the stale smell of cigarettes hung in the air.

In the main bedroom the search teams discovered several wraps of cocaine and a leather pouch filled with cannabis. The drinks cabinet in the living room was stuffed with bottles of spirits, most of which were half empty. In the small study at the front of the house a SOCO found something significant after firing up Megan’s laptop. Cain and Redwood responded to his request to go and check it out.

‘I opened up her browser and then her Hotmail account,’ the SOCO said. ‘I immediately came across an email that I think you need to see.’

The email was from Megan to a Yahoo account in the name of Daniel Shapiro. When Cain read it a sliver of ice slid down his spine.

Don’t make the mistake of ignoring me, Danny. A one-off payment is all I’m asking for. I know you can afford it. So if you fuck me about you’ll seriously regret it.

‘It’s a clear motive for murder,’ Redwood said. ‘Shapiro was threatened by his ex-wife so he decided to sort her out.’

Cain felt obliged to play it down for Danny’s sake.

‘I’m not so sure, guv,’ he said. ‘From what I hear about Shapiro he’s not stupid. I can’t imagine he would kill her only days after that email was sent. He’d know how bad it would look.’

‘She might have given him a deadline,’ Redwood said. ‘So he felt he didn’t have a choice but to come here and make sure she didn’t carry out her threat. Or perhaps he paid someone to do it for him.’

Cain felt a shiver of apprehension. He knew that what Redwood was saying made sense and that so far the evidence was pointing to Danny.

‘How well do you know the guy, Ethan?’ Redwood asked.

Cain shrugged. ‘I’ve hauled him in a couple of times in connection with gangland killings but we’ve never been able to pin anything on him.’

Redwood narrowed his eyes in concentration as he turned something over in his mind. After a few moments, he said, ‘I had dealings with a couple of the big-time villains in Manchester. It was always difficult because they’re so well connected. I’m assuming that like them Shapiro has his fair share of friends in high places across London.’

‘I reckon that goes without saying,’ Cain said.

Redwood nodded. ‘In that case we have to assume that he’s got at least one or two of our colleagues in the Met on his books. Which means we have to play this close to our chests. I don’t want him getting wind of evidence we need to keep to ourselves.’

Cain’s stomach folded in on itself. He realised now that he was going to have to be ultra-careful. Redwood was clearly no novice when it came to dealing with criminals like Danny Shapiro who had heaps of cash and lots of clout.

He was aware that the tentacles of corruption reached into the guts of every force in the UK.

So he would know not to trust anyone – not even those officers who were working alongside him on the investigation.

7

Danny Shapiro

Danny tried to focus his mind as he showered and shaved. But it wasn’t easy because of the rising sense of panic inside him. He was used to being in control, staying one step ahead of everyone else. Now he was on the back foot and struggling to see how he’d be able to convince the filth that he didn’t kill his ex-wife.

There was no way he could admit to being in Megan’s house last night, or that he had been anywhere near the area.

He’d been thinking about the CCTV cameras that would have picked him up during the walk from Clapham to Balham and felt sure the cops would struggle to identify him from any footage. It had been raining, after all, and he’d been wearing a hoody.

But even if he struck lucky there he still couldn’t account for his movements. They would probably know by now that he hadn’t spent the evening at the Bermondsey flat. The concierge would have confirmed that he hadn’t been back there since Thursday. He couldn’t even say he’d been here all evening – in the house that he actually considered his home and that precious few people knew existed.

A security camera on the front of the building and a CCTV camera on the street would have recorded him arriving back at about 11.30. That in itself would be another nail in his coffin.

What he needed was a cast-iron alibi and he didn’t have one. There were any number of people working for him who could provide him with a false one, but he wasn’t sure he had enough time to get it sorted. He’d first have to decide who he trusted, then find out what they were doing last night, before agreeing a story. Any mistakes on their part, any holes in the story, and the whole thing would come unstuck.

Bishop would have been the obvious choice, but Danny knew for a fact that his enforcer had spent the evening at their new club in Streatham.

Besides, as soon as he started asking people to give him an alibi they’d assume it was a sign of guilt and that he had killed Megan. He had been under pressure anyway to warn her off since she’d starting threatening to reveal details about the firm in her autobiography. Bishop and some of the other crew members had been concerned that she’d land them all in the shit.

Danny had tried to assure them that she was bluffing and knew very little about his business affairs. He’d nevertheless agreed to sort her out. But Megan had ignored his warnings, and even when he had offered her 100 grand ‘for old times’ sake’ she had rejected it and continued to demand half a million.

Out of principle he would never have paid her that much, but he would probably have offered her another 100 k. If that still hadn’t been enough to shut her up he wasn’t sure what he’d have done. Now, of course, he didn’t have to worry.

Not for the first time he wondered if she’d been telling the truth when she told him she had a publisher. For all he knew she wasn’t even writing a book. Maybe it was just a desperate attempt to force him into giving her money.

He could feel the blood pulsing in his neck as he got dressed. Casual clothes as usual. Jeans, shirt, leather jacket. When he checked himself in the mirror he got a shock. His face was gaunt and pale, the lips set in a tight line.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when the landline phone rang for the second time that morning. After a brief hesitation he decided to answer it, and when he heard Bishop’s voice the relief surged through him.

‘Is that you, boss?’

‘Who else would it be on this number?’ Danny said.

‘I called earlier and there was no answer. Wasn’t sure if you were there.’

‘I was in the shower.’

‘Right. Well, I take it you’ve heard about Megan.’

‘Of course. It’s all over the fucking news.’

‘At least she no longer poses a threat,’ Bishop said. ‘You want me to pass on a message to the lads?’

‘Yeah. You can tell them I wasn’t responsible. I haven’t a fucking clue who topped her.’

‘’Course you haven’t, boss. That goes without saying. But the Old Bill are looking for you anyway in case you don’t know. I’ve just had a call from the office. They turned up there mob-handed about ten minutes ago and they’ve also been to your flat.’

‘Well, I’ll talk to them when I’m good and ready. Where are you?’

‘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 complacent. 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.

The flat in Bermondsey still had its uses. He stayed there occasionally and it was great for parties and meetings. It was also where he took his women, usually prossies and one-night stands. But he knew he would have to have a rethink when and if he eventually entered into another long-term relationship.

As usual the area was heaving. Traffic was snarled up in New Bond Street so he walked up to Grosvenor Street to hail a black cab.

His progress would have been monitored by a whole bunch of security cameras but it didn’t bother him because he’d be just another anonymous figure in the crowd. These days he preferred not to attract attention, which was why he dressed down and chose not to go everywhere with minders.

The years spent with Megan had turned him into the best-known villain in London. That hadn’t been so bad when his father was running the show and he’d been able to concentrate on enjoying himself.

Now things were different. The onus of responsibility had made him appreciate just how vulnerable he was.

It had also made him realise that he couldn’t trust anyone but himself.

Tamara lived in one of the residential streets bordering Vauxhall Park. As the taxi pulled up outside her house, Danny did a quick recce of the immediate area.

He couldn’t see any street cameras and this came as a relief. It would make it harder for the cops to prove that he hadn’t spent the previous evening here.

He still had to convince Tamara to provide him with an alibi, but he was hopeful because she hadn’t turned him down on the phone. It would have been easy for her to do so and he would have understood.

She’d appeared sympathetic to his plight, and had said that she did not want to see him go to prison for something he hadn’t done. But he reckoned it was probably the £50,000 bribe he offered her that had prompted her to tell him to come right over so that they could talk it through.

Hers was a modest terraced house with creeping ivy clinging to the brickwork. Danny’s stomach was churning as he rang the bell. He had no back-up plan if she decided not to help him and he had no idea what he would do.

The filth were probably thinking he’d done a runner. He’d considered calling Ethan Cain, the firm’s main man inside the Met, to find out what was going on, but had decided it should wait until after he’d sorted an alibi.

His empty stomach lurched when Tamara answered the door and ushered him quickly inside. The first thing she did when the door was closed was to give him a hug and the strong smell of her perfume made his eyes smart.

‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘The kettle has just boiled.’

She was softly spoken and there was the subtle hint of an Irish accent in her voice.

The house interior was surprisingly old-fashioned, with chintzy curtains and wallpaper, and brightly coloured rugs on the floor.

In the kitchen Tamara told him to sit at a table while she poured the teas. A portable TV stood on the worktop and it was tuned into the news. An anchor was talking about the prime minister’s latest pronouncement on welfare reform.

‘Does your father know what’s happening?’ she asked over her shoulder.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I haven’t heard from him.’

She turned and he watched her as she placed the mugs on the table. She was in her mid-forties but looked younger. Her eyes were dark, her lips full, and she had perfectly symmetrical features. There was a spray of faded freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her skin was clear and smooth with just a touch of foundation around the eyes.

She was wearing a grey sweatshirt and jeans, and her red hair hung loose about her shoulders. She sat down at the table and lit a cigarette, expelling the smoke in a long, thin stream.

‘You look like you’ve got the world on your shoulders, Danny,’ she said.

‘Right now that’s what it feels like. This has come out of the blue and I need to react to it.’

She leaned across the table and placed a hand over one of his.

‘Before we talk about this I need you to do something for me, hon. I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t kill Megan. I’ll know if you’re lying.’

Danny straightened his back and thrust out his chin.

‘I swear on my life that I didn’t do it, Tamara. I’ve done some bad things in my time, but murdering a woman isn’t one of them. It’s not my style.’

‘But you did go to Megan’s house last night.’

‘I did, and we argued like I told you on the phone. But she was alive when I left there.’

That at least was what he wanted to believe. The truth was there were still gaps in his memory. As hard as he tried he just couldn’t remember how the argument with Megan had ended and what she’d been doing when he’d stormed out.

‘The police are not going to believe me,’ he said. ‘If no one else is in the frame and I don’t have an alibi then I’m toast.’

‘So what makes you so sure that the police will believe me?’

‘Why wouldn’t they? It’ll be hard, if not impossible, for them to prove that I wasn’t here.’

‘But I wasn’t here myself, Danny. I told you that on the phone. I got home after midnight.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘I doubt it. The taxi dropped me right outside. I didn’t notice anyone around. And the neighbours aren’t particularly nosey.’

‘So where had you been?’

Her face filled with colour and she flicked her head towards a calendar hanging from a hook on the wall behind her. It was too far away for Danny to see the words scrawled in the boxes.

‘I spent the evening with a new client,’ she said. ‘I went to his place in Maida Vale at nine and left after midnight.’

‘But that’s not a problem,’ Danny said. ‘He never has to know what you’ve told the police. In fact no one has to know. As soon as you tell them that I was with you that’ll be the end of the matter. And if anyone comes here asking you just stick to the story.’

She turned back to him, sucked in a breath, said, ‘I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t believe you, Danny. Even for fifty thousand pounds. But I do believe you. So it follows that I can’t stand by and let them fit you up. Your dad would never forgive me.’

‘Does that mean …?’

She nodded. ‘It means I’ll tell the Old Bill that you were with me all evening and that you’re often here. I’ll say that between ten and midnight we were watching telly and drinking wine.’

Danny felt the knot in his chest loosen. ‘I’ll owe you big time, babe. And so will Dad. I’ll make arrangements for the money to be sent wherever you want.’

‘You and your father have done a lot for me, Danny. This is my way of paying you back.’

They spent the next half an hour agreeing the details of their story. They’d say he arrived early in the evening but that he couldn’t recall the exact time because he’d been drinking. Then he stayed overnight and heard about Megan’s murder when he woke up this morning.

‘We can get around the details by saying we were on the booze the entire time,’ he said.

She gave a hesitant smile. ‘So you’re confident we can get away with it?’

‘I’m positive. Trust me. It’ll be fine.’

The TV news seized their attention suddenly. They were back to reporting on Megan’s murder. Two detectives, one of them Ethan Cain, were standing before a crowd of reporters answering questions.

Danny felt his jaw set with tension when a woman asked them whether Megan’s ex-husband had been questioned and if it was true he’d made threats against her. He recognised her straight away as Bethany Chambers, the crime reporter on The Post. She was well known on the manor, and not just because of her job. She was the stepdaughter of Tony Hunter, the blagger who was shot some years ago in Tulse Hill. How bloody ironic, he thought, that her job now was to report on such things.

He recalled meeting the cheeky cow a couple of times when she approached him for an interview. It occurred to him then, as it did now, that she was a ballsy bitch.

‘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.’

Danny’s blood surged with a hot rush of anger. The fucking slag was trying to implicate him.

The anger mounted when she went on to say that Megan’s father had told her about the phone call in an interview.

‘Those fucking idiot coppers should have kept her away from him,’ he blurted.

‘Don’t let it get to you, hon,’ Tamara said. ‘It would have come out sooner or later. And besides, it’s common knowledge that you two were always arguing.’

Danny shook his head and the rage continued the burn inside him.

After a few seconds he switched on one of his three pay-as-you-go phones and tapped in a number he knew by heart. When DI Ethan Cain answered, he said, ‘It’s Danny Shapiro here, my friend. I just heard your lot are looking for me.’

10

Beth Chambers

I called up an Uber taxi and gave the driver the address of a well-known snooker club in south Bermondsey. It was from there that Danny Shapiro ran his operations, most of which were illicit.

On the way I did some research on Google. Unsurprisingly the search engine came up with thousands of hits going back years. The Post’s own archive was packed with stories about him, many with my by-line.

He hardly got a mention until after he married Megan Fuller, though. Before that it was his father who attracted the headlines. There were only a few photographs showing the pair of them together. The latest was taken just before the old man was arrested. The likeness was evident in their narrow faces and chiselled features.

One photo I came across I hadn’t seen before. It must have come from a family album because it showed father and son posing under a tree. The boy looked about 5 and his dad was in his late twenties or early thirties. The caption beneath the picture said it had been taken on Peckham Rye Common.

There was no date, but it occurred to me that it was probably around the time that Callum was building his reputation as a hard man in Peckham. I wondered if that was also when he bought his salads from my mother’s stall. She’d told me that he would often walk up Rye Lane on Saturdays as though he owned the place. I made a mental note to show her the photo. Then I came across dozens of other pictures showing Danny Shapiro and Megan together. It seemed to be a period in his life when he was actually courting publicity.

They were a glamorous couple – the soap star and the mobster. Or to be precise – the alleged mobster. It was a fact that despite everyone knowing what he did the police hadn’t yet been able to prove it. His only criminal convictions were from years ago. He’d been put on probation for stealing a car and had done some community service after assaulting a pub bouncer in New Cross. But unlike his father he had never faced racketeering and murder charges.

Was that about to change? I wondered. Was Danny Shapiro about to get what was coming to him?

I couldn’t help smiling at the thought that in the end most villains ended up in prison or dead at the hands of their enemies. It was certainly true of London’s most notorious gangsters. The roll call was endless: Charlie and Eddie Richardson, Ronnie and Reggie Kray, George Cornell, Freddie Foreman, Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie, ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser, Callum Shapiro.

The list went on and I knew there was no way it would ever stop growing. Organised crime was as much a part of London as its multi-ethnic population. It would never be eradicated and would forever be a part of the capital’s heritage – and its future.

The snooker club was just around the corner from Millwall Football Club’s legendary stadium known as The Den.

My stepdad Tony used to take Michael to home matches there on Saturday afternoons and I went along a few times. I hated football but it was fun spending quality time with Tony and Michael.

It was before my little brother went off the rails and got sucked into the gang culture. Back then he was a delight to be with and I’d loved him dearly. We were unlikely siblings – me with my pale complexion and him with his coffee-coloured skin.

He was a happy boy with a pleasant demeanour and a disarming smile. I often wondered where he would be now if he hadn’t died before his time. I liked to imagine him as a doctor or a lawyer, or perhaps even a Premier League soccer star.

My mother and I talked about him all the time, and when we did it was still hard not to cry.

According to various biographical snippets on the internet, Callum Shapiro had also been a Millwall supporter and a regular visitor to The Den. The snooker club had been one of his first investments and local legend had it that it was where he started selling drugs and dealing in stolen cars.

The members-only club was situated between an MOT centre and a confectionery wholesaler’s. The cab dropped me outside and I asked the driver to wait. As soon as I stepped onto the pavement I was assaulted by the smell of exhaust fumes and rancid fat from the chip shop across the road.

The guy at the small reception desk looked like a Samurai wrestler with clothes on. He eyed me suspiciously and his brows almost came together.

‘What can I do for you, love?’ he said with a heavy, indeterminate accent. ‘I take it you’re not here to hit some balls about.’

‘I have an appointment with Mr Shapiro,’ I lied. ‘The name’s Bethany Chambers.’

It was all I could think to say to have any chance of gaining access. If Shapiro was on the premises – and not already in a police cell – then he might well agree to an interview. If not then there was just a possibility that one or more of his minions could be persuaded to talk to me, either on or off the record.

‘Mr Shapiro ain’t here,’ the man said.

‘Then where is he?’

‘Are you with the police? Because they’ve already been here and checked the place over.’

‘I’m not with the police,’ I said.

‘Then you can’t come in. So bugger off.’

‘If Mr Shapiro isn’t here I’d like to speak to whoever is in charge.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s my business. But I can tell you this. If you turn me away without checking you’ll get in trouble. Do you want that?’

That gave him food for thought. He was just a lackey, after all, and the last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of the guys who ran this place.

After a couple of seconds of indecision he picked up the desk phone and spoke into it with his back to me. Then he gave a rigorous nod, replaced the receiver and said, ‘Mr Bishop says you can go up to the office.’

Frankie ‘The Nutter’ Bishop. It had to be. He was Danny Shapiro’s right-hand man and it was said that he went out of his way to live up to his reputation as a sociopath.

I mounted the stairs to what turned out to be a suite of offices above the snooker hall. A bloke in a black polo sweater was waiting for me. He was completely bald and had the build of a gorilla.

‘Follow me,’ he said.

I kept pace with him along a long corridor past several closed doors. The door at the end of the corridor stood open and the gorilla moved to one side and waved me in.

That was the precise moment when I realised I might be making a huge mistake. Not for the first time my eagerness to chase a story had blinded me to the risks. I was about to enter the inner sanctum of south London’s most violent criminal gang. A voice in my head was telling me to turn around and walk away. But another voice told me to brazen it out.

‘So what are you waiting for?’ the gorilla said. ‘Go in.’

I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding and entered the room. It was a large, airy room with a long mahogany table surrounded by about a dozen chairs. Five of the chairs were occupied by burly men in casual clothes. They were all leering at me like I’d walked in naked. Two other men were standing to my right next to what looked like a drinks cabinet. I was at once aware of a palpable air of menace.

My heart started pounding high up in my throat and I was sorely tempted to beat a retreat. But at that moment the man at the head of the table stood up and gave a twisted smile.

‘It’s good to see you in the flesh at last, Miss Chambers,’ he said in a broad cockney accent. ‘I’m Frankie Bishop and I have to say I’d willingly pay to give you one, as I’m sure would every man in this room.’

There were groans of agreement from the others and I felt my system flush with rage and indignation.

I was about to fire back an angry retort when the two men to my right lunged towards me. One seized my shoulder bag while the other grabbed my arms from behind and held me in a firm grip.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I screamed. ‘Let me go.’

‘We need to be sure that you’re not recording what goes on in this room,’ Bishop said. ‘It’s just a precaution.’

The man with my bag emptied the contents on the floor. Then he picked up the phone and voice recorder and checked that they weren’t recording.

‘All clear,’ he said as he set about putting everything back into the bag.

The other man now pushed me forward and onto one of the chairs. I wanted to resist but felt paralysed as raw fear flooded my body.

I sat there, trying to control my breathing, as Frankie Bishop lowered himself back onto his chair and stared at me.

He was a big, hard-looking bastard. His face was dimpled with small scars as if from terrible wounds. His nose was splayed and crooked, and his bulging biceps strained at the black T-shirt he was wearing. He had short cropped hair and eyes that were small and cold.

‘I will say this for you, Chambers,’ he said, dropping the Miss. ‘You’ve got some front coming here and telling a big fat lie to get in. You never had any appointment with Danny. He never speaks to reporters as you well know.’

‘I thought he might make an exception today,’ I said with false bravado. ‘In view of what’s happened to his ex-wife.’

‘Well, Danny’s not here.’

‘So where is he?’

He ignored the question. ‘I don’t think he’d be pleased to see you even if he was here. In fact I reckon he’d give you a slap for what you said to those coppers. We just watched it on the telly.’

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