the start. I was over the shock and humiliation of his betrayal, and all the feelings I’d had for him had evaporated.
I was now civil to him whenever we met and that made life easier all round. There were never any arguments over maintenance payments and he was usually willing to help out when I needed certain favours.
Naturally my mother hated him with a vengeance, and when he called at the house she made a point of retreating to her bedroom to avoid seeing him.
It wouldn’t be an issue today because he’d taken Rosie out on Thursday and wasn’t due to see her again until Wednesday, when he’d pick her up from the nursery.
Today it was my turn to spoil her – if I didn’t have to go to work. And that was a bloody big if.
I turned away from the mirror, picked up my robe from the chair next to the bed and peered through the curtains. The bright sun made a change since we were in the middle of one of the wettest and coldest Novembers for years.
My bedroom was at the front of the house and the view was of a row of almost identical terraced houses opposite. All of them were worth in excess of half a million pounds, which seemed extraordinary to me given that Peckham used to be one of the grimiest and most dangerous parts of south London. But having undergone massive regeneration and steady gentrification, the area was now considered a trendy place to live, attracting families and city workers alike.
For me Peckham was both familiar and convenient. The house was a short walk from the railway station and from there it was just a ten-minute train ride to London Bridge and the offices of the The Post, the evening newspaper that served the capital. I’d worked there for the past five years.
Peckham Rye Common was also close by and that was where I’d planned to take Rosie today. I really didn’t want to disappoint her because Mum was right about me not spending enough quality time with her. I definitely needed to make more of an effort, put Rosie before everything else and stop jumping to the tune of the newsdesk.
I came to a decision suddenly. If the newsdesk asked me to go to work I’d tell them it wasn’t possible. I’d say I’d already made plans and they couldn’t be changed.
They’d no doubt be surprised because I loved the job and could usually be relied on to come in at short notice. But this time they’d just have to call up someone else, assuming they hadn’t done so already.
‘You took your time getting back to me,’ Grant Scott said. ‘I was about to get someone else to cover a story that we’ve just got wind of.’
‘I’m afraid that’s what you’ll have to do, boss,’ I said. ‘It’s my day off and I’ve made plans.’
‘Well, I suggest you change them or else you’re going to be sorely disappointed. This is huge.’
‘That’s what you always say when you’re short of people.’
‘I mean it this time, Beth. You’ve got first call on this because you’re the paper’s crime reporter. So I want you on it from the start. And trust me it’s right up your street.’
Grant was The Post’s senior news editor and an expert in the art of manipulation. He was an old-school newspaperman who knew there was one sure way to get a reporter – any reporter – to do his bidding, and that was to dangle the carrot of a cracking yarn.
‘So just out of curiosity what’s the story?’ I said.
I could imagine him smiling on the other end of the line, thinking he’d got me hooked and that all he had to do was reel me in. He’d been my mentor after all, helping nurture my career since I got the job at The Post. He was also the one who had nicknamed me The Ferret, because of my uncanny ability to ferret out stories.
Three years ago he appointed me to the position of the paper’s first-ever female crime reporter. And in the pub afterwards he told me: ‘You got the job because like me the news is embedded in your psyche, Beth. It’s part of your DNA. You can’t resist the excitement that comes from being the first to tell people what bad things are happening all around them. It’s like the rush you get from a sniff of the white stuff.’
He’d been right, of course. From an early age I’d been fascinated by the news and how it was covered and disseminated. Before I left school I knew exactly what career path I wanted to follow. It wasn’t easy, given my background, but I’d managed to pull it off, and like every other hack I knew I was now addicted to the chase.
‘There’s been a murder,’ Grant was saying. ‘And the victim is none other than Megan Fuller.’
It took a second for the name to register.
‘Do you mean the actress?’ I said.
‘Yep, although as you know that’s not her only claim to fame. As well as being a former TV soap star she was also the ex-wife of a well-known London gangster.’
‘Christ,’ I blurted. ‘Danny Shapiro.’
‘That’s right,’ Grant said, as though he’d scored a point. ‘Danny fucking Shapiro – the villain with the film-star looks who took over a huge criminal empire after his notorious father got banged up.’
I felt a surge of adrenalin. Grant wasn’t far wrong in saying the story was huge. Danny Shapiro was one of the country’s highest-profile criminals. His gang operated south of the Thames and was involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, extortion, money laundering, and even kidnapping. He and Megan Fuller had been tabloid fodder throughout their three-year marriage which had ended in divorce fourteen months ago.
‘Megan was found stabbed to death at her home in Balham earlier this morning,’ Grant said. ‘We had a tip from a paramedic who attended. So we’ve got the jump on everyone else.’
I was suddenly oblivious to the ache in my head as my mind filled with a flood of questions that I doubted Grant would know the answers to. I was certain the story would have created a buzz in the newsroom. The headline writers would already be focused on the paper’s early edition front page, and the online team were probably about to publish something on the website. Then it’d be out there, leading to a full-blown media firestorm.
‘So do you still want me to pass the story on to one of your colleagues?’ Grant said. ‘Only I can’t piss around. We need to move on this.’
From where I stood in the kitchen I could see Rosie at the table in the adjoining dining room. She was busy drawing pictures on a pad with big colourful crayons. My mother sat next to her, but her eyes were on me and her brow was scrunched up in a frown. I could tell she knew what was coming.
I felt my resolve dissipate and the guilt rear up inside me again as I turned away from them and said into the phone, ‘Okay, give me the details and Megan Fuller’s address. I’ll get right on it.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Grant said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’
Ethan Cain
The girl had said she was 18, but Ethan Cain wasn’t sure he believed her. She looked younger. Much younger.
It
