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.
‘Estimated time of death is between ten thirty and midnight last night,’ he said. ‘The neighbour to the right apparently heard raised voices around ten but no screams. The house doesn’t have a video security system but there are some CCTV cameras around here so I want them checked.’
Cain was fairly certain that a person or car approaching the house would have been caught on camera at some point. He himself had turned into Ramsden Road from Balham High Road and had spotted at least two cameras at that junction alone. But last night it had rained so there was no guarantee that any footage would be useful.
‘What does the father say?’ Cain asked.
‘I was just coming to that,’ Redwood said. ‘I’ve only had a brief conversation with him, but he’s with one of the neighbours so we can talk to him again before he’s taken home.’
‘Did he tell you why he turned up here this morning?’ Cain said.
Redwood nodded. ‘Megan sent him a text last night at twenty past ten, which was presumably just before she was killed. Her phone was in the kitchen and I had a quick look before it was bagged up.’ He lowered his eyes and read from his notes. ‘She wrote, and I quote: “Can you come over early tomorrow, Dad? Need to talk to you.” He then replied that he’d be here about seven. Mr Fuller also says he had a conversation with her earlier in the evening during which she said she’d had a bust-up with her ex-husband Danny Shapiro and that Shapiro threatened to kill her.’
Cain felt a flash of heat in his chest. He had known it was only a matter of time before Danny came into the equation, but he hadn’t expected this.
‘I don’t need to remind you who Danny Shapiro is,’ Redwood went on. ‘Or that he’s more than capable of committing murder or getting one of his henchmen to do it for him. He’s therefore our number one suspect. Megan’s phone shows that she made a call earlier to an unregistered mobile number that’s in her contacts under the name Danny. That’s why a team should be descending on his flat in Bermondsey about now.’
‘He probably won’t be there, guv,’ DC Fisher said. ‘He hardly ever stays at the flat.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s common knowledge, sir. Danny Shapiro spends most nights at a secret address. That’s one of the reasons he’s been dubbed Mr Paranoid.’
‘This is news to me.’
‘You would have found out eventually, boss.’
‘Yeah, well, I obviously have a lot to learn about London’s leading underworld faces.’ He turned to Cain. ‘Are you up to speed on Shapiro, Ethan?’
Cain shrugged. ‘I know about as much as everyone else, guv. The guy doesn’t trust anyone, apparently, and it’s not hard to understand why. His father Callum was less careful and eventually paid the price. After months of covert surveillance the organised crime teams managed to gather enough evidence to take him down.
‘Shortly after his son took charge of things a rival villain took a shot at him as he left his flat. The bullet missed but it convinced Shapiro that he wasn’t safe there – or anywhere else that people knew about. The flat is still his formal address and he occasionally entertains
