‘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.’
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