The Alibi: A gripping crime thriller full of secrets, lies and revenge

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.