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 to find out as much as I could about the man. I’d written about him in the past but not at any great length. The stories had centred on his marriage to Megan, his father’s imprisonment, and the attempt on his life when a rival Chechen gangster tried to shoot him in Bermondsey.
Since assuming control of the rackets in south London from his father he’d taken steps to lower his profile. He’d become paranoid apparently, fearful of being targeted again or of being entrapped by police surveillance. Megan’s murder had thrust him right back into the limelight, along with his nefarious business activities.
‘How’s it going, Chambers?’
The voice made me turn and I found myself facing the diminutive figure of Steve Welland, The Sun’s chief crime reporter. He was in his fifties, with craggy features and unruly grey hair. He grinned at me and I saw that his nose and cheeks were red with broken capillaries.
Welland was a throwback to the days when it was common for Fleet Street reporters to abuse their expenses on a grand scale and take three-hour liquid lunches.
‘It’s going all right,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
He shrugged. ‘I was in good spirits until just now when I heard that you’d managed to grab an interview with the victim’s father, the man who discovered the body.’
‘I had a stroke of luck,’ I said. ‘Got to him when no one was looking.’
‘So where is he now?’
I grinned back at him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to secrecy.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Anyway he’s been told not to speak to anyone else – especially any reporters from The Sun.’
He shook his head. ‘How I long for the days when us lot used to share information.’
‘That was way before my time, Steve.’
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
