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

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.’

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.