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

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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