can get around the details by saying we were on the booze the entire time,’ he said.
She gave a hesitant smile. ‘So you’re confident we can get away with it?’
‘I’m positive. Trust me. It’ll be fine.’
The TV news seized their attention suddenly. They were back to reporting on Megan’s murder. Two detectives, one of them Ethan Cain, were standing before a crowd of reporters answering questions.
Danny felt his jaw set with tension when a woman asked them whether Megan’s ex-husband had been questioned and if it was true he’d made threats against her. He recognised her straight away as Bethany Chambers, the crime reporter on The Post. She was well known on the manor, and not just because of her job. She was the stepdaughter of Tony Hunter, the blagger who was shot some years ago in Tulse Hill. How bloody ironic, he thought, that her job now was to report on such things.
He recalled meeting the cheeky cow a couple of times when she approached him for an interview. It occurred to him then, as it did now, that she was a ballsy bitch.
‘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.’
Danny’s blood surged with a hot rush of anger. The fucking slag was trying to implicate him.
The anger mounted when she went on to say that Megan’s father had told her about the phone call in an interview.
‘Those fucking idiot coppers should have kept her away from him,’ he blurted.
‘Don’t let it get to you, hon,’ Tamara said. ‘It would have come out sooner or later. And besides, it’s common knowledge that you two were always arguing.’
Danny shook his head and the rage continued the burn inside him.
After a few seconds he switched on one of his three pay-as-you-go phones and tapped in a number he knew by heart. When DI Ethan Cain answered, he said, ‘It’s Danny Shapiro here, my friend. I just heard your lot are looking for me.’
Beth Chambers
I called up an Uber taxi and gave the driver the address of a well-known snooker club in south Bermondsey. It was from there that Danny Shapiro ran his operations, most of which were illicit.
On the way I did some research on Google. Unsurprisingly the search engine came up with thousands of hits going back years. The Post’s own archive was packed with stories about him, many with my by-line.
He hardly got a mention until after he married Megan Fuller, though. Before that it was his father who attracted the headlines. There were only a few photographs showing the pair of them together. The latest was taken just before the old man was arrested. The likeness was evident in their narrow faces and chiselled features.
One photo I came across I hadn’t seen before. It must have come from a family album because it showed father and son posing under a tree. The boy looked about 5 and his dad was in his late twenties or early thirties. The caption beneath the picture said it had been taken on Peckham Rye Common.
There was no date, but it occurred to me that it was probably around the time that Callum was building his reputation as a hard man in Peckham. I wondered if that was also when he bought his salads from my mother’s stall. She’d told me that he would often walk up Rye Lane on Saturdays as though he owned the place. I made a mental note to show her the photo. Then I came across dozens of other pictures showing Danny Shapiro and Megan together. It seemed to be a period in his life when he was actually courting publicity.
They were a glamorous couple – the soap star and the mobster. Or to be precise – the alleged mobster. It was a fact that despite everyone knowing what he did the police hadn’t yet been able to prove it. His only criminal convictions were from years ago. He’d been put on probation for stealing a car and had done some community service after assaulting a pub bouncer in New Cross. But unlike his father he had never faced racketeering and murder charges.
Was that about to change? I wondered. Was Danny Shapiro about to get what was coming to him?
I couldn’t help smiling at the thought that in the end most villains ended up in prison or dead at the hands of their enemies. It was certainly true of London’s most notorious gangsters. The roll call was endless: Charlie and Eddie Richardson, Ronnie and Reggie Kray, George Cornell, Freddie Foreman, Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie, ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser, Callum Shapiro.
The list went on and I knew there was no way it would ever stop growing. Organised crime was as much a part of London as its multi-ethnic population. It would never be eradicated and would forever be a part of the capital’s heritage – and its future.
The snooker club was just around the corner from Millwall Football Club’s legendary stadium known as The Den.
My stepdad Tony used to take Michael to home matches there on Saturday afternoons and I went along a few times. I hated football but it was fun spending quality time with Tony and Michael.
It was before my little brother went off the rails and got sucked into the gang culture. Back then he was a delight to be with and I’d loved him dearly. We were unlikely siblings – me with my pale complexion and him with his coffee-coloured skin.
He was a happy boy with a pleasant demeanour and a disarming smile. I often wondered where he would be now if he hadn’t died before his time. I liked to imagine him as a doctor or a lawyer, or perhaps even a Premier League soccer star.
My mother and I talked about him all the time, and when we did it was still hard not to cry.
According to various biographical snippets on the internet, Callum Shapiro had also been a Millwall supporter and a regular visitor to The Den. The snooker club had been one of his first investments and local legend had it that it was where he started selling drugs and dealing in stolen cars.
The members-only club was situated between an MOT centre and a confectionery wholesaler’s. The cab dropped me outside and I asked the driver to wait. As soon as I stepped onto the pavement I was assaulted by the smell of exhaust fumes and rancid fat from the chip shop across the road.
The guy at the small reception desk looked like a Samurai wrestler with clothes on. He eyed me suspiciously and his brows almost came together.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ he said with a heavy, indeterminate accent. ‘I take it you’re not here to hit some balls about.’
‘I have an appointment with Mr Shapiro,’ I lied. ‘The name’s Bethany Chambers.’
It was all I could think to say to have any chance of gaining access. If Shapiro was on the premises – and not already in a police cell – then he might well agree to an interview. If not then there was just a possibility that one or more of his minions could be persuaded to talk to me, either on or off the record.
‘Mr Shapiro ain’t here,’ the man said.
‘Then where is he?’
‘Are
