had assumed the pair were scene-of-crime officers. One of them was wearing a protective forensic suit and the other was slipping into one.
Now I recognised both of them. The guy already wearing the suit was DCI Jack Redwood. The other man was DI Ethan Cain, my ex, and it looked as though he had only just arrived.
Redwood was doing the talking and Ethan was listening. Both men wore solemn expressions.
When they disappeared into the house I turned my attention to a group of neighbours standing on the pavement across the road. Five minutes later I had elicited a few useful quotes from them. One woman told me she had known Megan Fuller well and had considered her a friend.
‘This is terrible,’ she said with tearful eyes. ‘I can’t believe it’s happened.’
A man in his sixties who lived opposite said he’d seen Megan the previous morning as she’d walked home from a shopping trip to the Waitrose store at the end of the road.
‘She smiled at me and asked how I was,’ he said. ‘She seemed in good spirits. Who the bloody hell could have done such a thing?’
That gave me enough to fire off my first piece of copy. I sent it via my iPad and included the quotes and the facts about how Megan had been stabbed and the estimated time of the murder.
Grant Scott called me straight back to say well done and to tell me to hang around.
‘Just keep filing updates as and when you get them,’ he said. ‘We’re pulling together a background piece on Megan at this end. I’ve got two people bashing the phones to get reactions. We’ve already got quotes from the BBC and a couple of her showbiz friends.’
‘I read somewhere that she had a boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Took up with him after her divorce from Danny Shapiro.’
‘Have you got a name?’
‘I’m afraid not. See if you can dig it up. It’s odds on the police will want to talk to both him and Shapiro.’
As soon as I hung up a text message came through on my phone. It was from Doug and he’d sent through the address in Lewisham of Megan’s father. A minute later I received a second message. In this one Doug confirmed that Mr Fuller was still in Ramsden Road and he gave me the number of the house where he was being comforted by a neighbour.
Beth Chambers
Nigel Fuller was staying at a terraced house about fifty yards from his daughter’s place. It was just outside the police cordon and I was surprised there were no uniforms standing out front.
I fully expected him to decline the opportunity to speak to the press but decided it was worth a try. As any reporter knows you can never be sure how loved ones will react when approached. Some consider it the ultimate intrusion. Others just slam the door in your face, or refuse to even answer it in the first place. But a sizable number do actually open up and perhaps even find it cathartic to talk about how shocked and grief-stricken they are.
I had to play this carefully. Mr Fuller might well still have been here because the detectives wanted to interview him again, in which case they wouldn’t want me anywhere near him. But if I could persuade him to talk to me it would put me way ahead of the pack.
When a woman answered the door I knew it probably meant that there were no police officers inside. That was a result. She was plump and middle-aged. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and her face was a grey, washed-out colour.
Before she could get a word out I flashed my press card and said, ‘My name’s Bethany Chambers and I’m a reporter with The Post. I’ve come to have a word with Mr Fuller.’
Her eyes narrowed and her expression became wary.
‘How did you know he was here?’
‘The police told me,’ I said. ‘They’re keen to put out an appeal for information and they believe a quote from Megan’s father would ensure it has maximum impact.’
Okay, that was stretching it, but it wasn’t actually an outright lie since the cops would soon be using the media to reach out to the public anyway.
‘Of course I’ll understand if he’s not up to it having gone through such a traumatic experience.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she replied. ‘The detective told us not to talk to anyone. He said Nigel should wait here until he came back, and that a family liaison officer was on her way over. That’s who I thought you were.’
‘The thing is the sooner the appeal can go out the better,’ I said. ‘The police are desperate to contact anyone who might have seen or heard something last night.’
The woman bit down on her lower lip and looked back over her shoulder. I could tell she was anxious and confused. And I knew that if I didn’t get over the threshold in the next few seconds I never would.
‘Perhaps you should ask Mr Fuller,’ I prompted. ‘It might be something he wants to do. I promise I’ll only ask a couple of questions.’
She was about to respond when a man appeared in the hallway behind her.
‘Who is it, Martha?’ he said.
The woman turned.
‘It’s a newspaper reporter. She wants—’
‘The name’s Bethany Chambers, sir,’ I cut in. ‘I’m with The Post. Are you Mr Fuller?’
He stepped forward and stood next to his neighbour in the doorway.
‘I am,’ he said. ‘What is it you want?’
I cleared my throat and weighed my words before I spoke.
‘Well, let me begin by saying that I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr Fuller. What has happened to your daughter is truly shocking. We’re now cooperating with the police to get as much publicity as possible. My paper is about to publish an appeal for information and it’s been suggested by the police that you might like to include a few words about Megan.’
I had used the same spiel on numerous occasions before and it had worked about fifty per cent of the time. There was no easy way to approach a grieving relative, and it was always hard not to come across as insensitive, or even callous.
I studied the man as he thought about what to do. He was in his late fifties, and tall enough to look down his nose at me. His grey hair was cropped short, and his eyes were red and puffy.
After a few seconds he gave a stiff nod and said, ‘Very well. You’d better come in.’
I followed him along the hall and Martha closed the door behind us. In the living room he sat on the sofa and gestured for me to sit on an armchair opposite. Martha asked me if I wanted a cup of tea; I declined, but she said she would put the kettle on anyway and left the room.
I took out my notebook and pen and rested them on my knee. Questions stormed into my mind,
