Jaime Raven - The Alibi - A gripping crime thriller full of secrets, lies and revenge

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.

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.