Her mobile buzzed with a message to say that the car had arrived and was waiting for them in the street outside, so she went downstairs to fetch Lance.
They spoke little on the forty-minute drive, conserving their energy for what was to come. The Dunholt church clock was already striking five as they arrived at the compact modern vicarage that would serve as an emergency meeting point until the village hall could be set up as a temporary incident room. The falling snow muffled much of the noise of other cars arriving and doors slamming. The police driver opened her car door. As she stepped out, she noticed several faces at windows, neighbours staring out at the commotion as if, by missing nothing, they could come to terms with their brutally altered world. She and Lance walked up a longish garden path from where, through shadows of thick shrubbery, she could make out a row of elegant windows belonging to the original eight-bedroom Georgian rectory next door. She thought wistfully how useful such facilities would be at a time like this.
Even though she suspected that quite a few of the team squashed in around a teak dining table that appeared to double as the vicar’s desk had partaken of a good measure of Christmas cheer, there was none of the usual banter and catching-up gossip. Everyone was relieved when Detective Superintendent Colin Pitman, looking as spry as ever, quickly and efficiently got down to business.
‘We are awaiting verification,’ he began, ‘but two eyewitnesses have identified the gunman as a local man, thirty-one-year-old Russell Fewell. In addition, a body has been found in the churchyard, the victim of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot. Death has been confirmed, and we believe the body to be that of Russell Fewell. All the witnesses so far have described only one shooter and one weapon, so it’s probably safe to assume there’s no further immediate danger.’
‘How many dead, sir?’ asked Grace. ‘The news reports say five.’
‘So far we have six confirmed fatalities, including the suicide, three people in hospital and eight separate crime scenes,’ said Colin grimly.
‘Has the weapon been recovered?’ asked Lance.
‘Yes, from beside the body,’ said Colin. ‘A Heckler & Koch G3 rifle. Russell Fewell did not hold and had not applied for a Section 1 firearms certificate, and the weapon appears to be unlisted.’
‘Isn’t that the same type of gun that police marksmen use?’ asked Grace.
‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘Although it, or a variant, has also been military issue in Iraq and Afghanistan, so there’s likely to be plenty of them knocking about. And let’s not forget that Colchester – a garrison town – is not that far away.’
‘Was Russell Fewell ex-military?’ asked DC Duncan Gregg.
‘Not as far as we know,’ said Colin.
Duncan looked relieved, and Grace remembered that he was himself ex-army.
‘Our first objective,’ Colin resumed, ‘is to formally identify all the victims and inform next of kin. Then, while it appears that we have our perpetrator, we still need to build up as detailed a picture as possible of the day’s events ready for the coroner’s inquest. So we want formal statements from all the witnesses who’ve already come forward, and we’ll need to identify any other potential witnesses. Uniform have already begun house-to-house. And we must find out all we can about the shooter.’
‘Sick bastard!’ Grace caught the whispered curse from the other end of the table.
Colin did his best to ignore the accompanying murmur of revulsion that passed through the packed vicarage dining room and carried on. ‘First task is to secure his home and any related properties. We’ve already recovered his van, which he used for his work apparently. We think he repaired washing machines, dishwashers and the like.’
‘Was he self-employed?’ asked Grace.
Colin consulted his notes and shook his head. ‘No. On short-term contract to one of the big appliance companies. No criminal record, but I want to know everything there is to know about who he is, why he’s done this and what, if any, relationship he has to each of the victims. Any other questions?’
‘Do we know anything else about his mental state?’ asked Lance. ‘I mean, he can’t have been normal. Who’d do a thing like this? And on Christmas Day?’
Several people muttered and nodded in agreement. ‘We’re waiting for access to his medical records,’ said Colin. He held up his hand to halt the fresh wave of disgust. ‘Listen up. As if things aren’t already bad enough, you need to know that the first victim, Mark Kirkby, was a serving police officer. One of our own.’
Colin allowed time for the outrage and hurt felt at the killing of a fellow officer to ebb away, then looked at Grace. ‘DI Fisher, I want you to deal with the family.’
Grace nodded, aware of the general feeling that sending an officer of senior rank would show proper respect. ‘I understand, sir,’ she said. ‘One question, though: the fact that Mark Kirkby was the first victim, does that suggest he was top of Fewell’s list in some way?’
‘Yes, very much so, unfortunately. The gunman’s ex-wife, Donna, and her two kids were spending Christmas with Mark Kirkby. They were all inside when Fewell shot and killed Kirkby outside his house.’
‘Bastard!’ This time the curse wasn’t whispered. Grace swallowed down her repugnance. Fewell was already one of the damned, consigned to the hell that history reserved for mass murderers, but he could have her hatred to top it off, and welcome.
‘His wife and children weren’t among the victims?’ she asked.
‘No, thank goodness. They were unharmed.’
Grace let out a sigh of relief: at least the investigating officers were spared the horror of a family annihilation. However pitiful the physical carnage when children were involved, it was the sheer vindictive futility of such violence that proved hardest to bear. ‘But they saw what happened?’ she asked. ‘They’re witnesses?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Colin. He remained silent for a moment as the team absorbed this new aspect to the day’s reality. ‘It’s possible that Fewell could have set out intending to shoot them all, but either missed the opportunity or lost his nerve. Donna Fewell and her two children have been taken back to her house and we’ve got a family liaison officer with them now. DI Fisher, I want you to be the one to talk to them too. Find out what history there is of domestic violence, the circumstances of the divorce, anything she can tell you. This hasn’t just come out of nowhere.’
‘Do we know if Fewell deliberately targeted any of the other victims?’ she asked. ‘Or was it only Mark Kirkby?’
‘From what we’ve got so far, which isn’t much, it appears his only direct connection was with his ex-wife’s new partner. But we can’t rule out grudges against the others.’
‘So otherwise he might just have been shooting at random?’ asked Lance, the bafflement clear in his voice.
‘It’s starting to look that way,’ said Colin. ‘But it could have been very much worse. In experienced hands the G3 can fire several hundred rounds a minute, so I suppose you could say we’ve got off lightly. Two Home Office pathologists are attending and a third is on her way from London. All leave for scene-of-crime officers has been cancelled, although, with the continuing snowfall, there’s probably very little they can usefully do now until daylight, which won’t be until eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Ten centimetres of snow is predicted by then, and overnight temperatures will be below freezing, so wrap up warm.’
‘Has a refreshment van been organized?’ asked Duncan. ‘Hot drinks and bacon butties are not going to be a luxury on a night like this.’
‘As long as traffic isn’t held up by the snow,’ Colin said with a smile, ‘then Teapot One’s ETA is half an hour.’
The team laughed, relieved to break the tension.
‘Even though it’s not yet official, we know the perpetrator is dead,’ Colin continued. ‘We’re not looking for anyone else in connection with these crimes. So our investigation has to be a how and a why, especially the why. And, I promise you, we are going to get answers. However, I can
not emphasize enough that the chief constable intends Essex Police to control the flow of all intelligence about the shooter. All information is to be passed to me, every scrap, and no one speaks to the media, on or off the record, for any reason. We give them information as and when we decide to, not the other way round.’
‘It may be that some people will choose to approach the press rather than us,’ said Grace hesitantly. ‘The media are bound to dig up information we’ll miss.’
‘Very possibly,’ agreed Colin. ‘But I don’t want to be ambushed by any vital details we don’t already have. I want you all to make sure there are no loose ends for the media to unravel before we’ve got the full picture. Got that?’
Everyone nodded, their faces sombre, all well aware that, for a police officer, aiding and abetting the press was a hanging offence. Grace sighed, envisaging how quickly the world’s media would engulf this rural backwater. The intrusion would be not only physical – satellite vans, camera crews, journalists scavenging for ‘colour’ – but also emotional, with raw grief filmed and served up on an endlessly rolling loop and with talking heads repeatedly asking stunned friends and neighbours how they felt about what had happened. How did anyone feel? How did anyone even begin to make sense of such pointless and random horror? Except, she reflected, the causes of human evil all too often turned out to be banal and rooted in the most unspectacular of resentments and woes. She’d seen her share of wives and girlfriends savagely beaten or even murdered for allegedly undercooking the bacon or forgetting to record a TV programme. The worst tragedies often had the most paltry motives.
‘And finally’ — Colin once again held up a hand as the team sensed the end of the briefing and began to shift around and murmur to one another — ‘I’ve been informed that the chief constable has already had Number Ten on the phone, and that the prime minister wants to put in an appearance here tomorrow on behalf of the nation.’
‘No pressure then,’ said Duncan wryly.
‘It is Christmas,’ said Colin, deadpan. ‘We should also expect a message of condolence from Sandringham. And with that in mind I want you all to remember that, with the gunman dead, the media will be rooting around to find someone more newsworthy to blame. Our job is very simple: to make quite sure they don’t pick on us. So if Fewell does have any prior history of domestic violence or any other unsavoury practices, I want us to be the first to know about them.’
4
It was around 6 p.m. on Christmas Day when Grace rang the doorbell of Donna Fewell’s box-like little house. Lance had gone to secure Russell Fewell’s rented flat, and to check whether he’d left a suicide note or anything else that might help explain his actions. Grace hoped that, if he had, it wouldn’t say anything to cause his family yet more pain. She was pleased she’d managed to secure Duncan as her wingman; his presence would offer an unthreatening manliness that she hoped might be comforting for Donna and her kids.
The snow had stopped falling, but the lowering sky promised more to come, and, with darkness, the temperature had dropped by several degrees. Grace was glad when the family liaison officer – a constable from the local station whom Grace did not know – opened the door and let them into the brightly lit shelter of the narrow hallway. The FLO, a plain young woman with badly cut short hair and intelligent eyes, introduced herself as Ruth Woods.
‘How are they?’ Grace asked her quietly, nodding towards the living-room door, which Ruth had sensibly shut behind her.
‘Very shocked. I said you might want to speak to Donna alone, but she refuses to be separated from the kids.’
‘Understandable. If we have to, we can wait to take a formal statement in the morning.’
‘She thinks it must all be her fault. She wanted to go and say sorry to everyone.’
‘You explained why that’s not possible?’
‘Yes. Luckily the vicar called round. She’s well liked, the vicar. Exactly what you need at a time like this. Said she’d make sure that people understand how Donna feels about what her ex-husband has done.’
‘Had Donna been concerned about Fewell’s violence before today?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I didn’t want to start asking questions before you got here.’
‘Good, thanks. What about Fewell’s relationship with Mark Kirkby? Has Donna said anything to shed light on what was going on there?’
Ruth shook her head. ‘Not really.’
It occurred to Grace that Ruth would have known Mark Kirkby. ‘Everyone at the local nick must be pretty shocked,’ she said.
‘Dreadful business,’ echoed Duncan.
The FLO nodded but showed little emotion.
‘And the kids?’ asked Grace. ‘How are they?’
‘Ella’s only six. She doesn’t really understand. I think she was more scared of the blood than anything. Davey’s that bit older. He’s clammed right up. At least the vicar’s visit provided a bit of welcome distraction.’
‘OK. Do you want to go in first? Make the introductions?’
The room was too small to hold six people comfortably. Donna took her daughter onto her lap, and Ruth disappeared to the kitchen next door and came back with two upright chairs for her and Duncan. Grace took the armchair opposite the two-seater couch on which Donna sat with her children. Still dressed in a Primark Christmas jumper with a holly-sprigged plum pudding on the front, Donna had a pleasant face with inquisitive eyes and straight shoulder-length dark hair tucked back behind her ears. Grace had been informed that she worked part-time behind the counter in a building society, and could imagine her being helpful and concise. It was less easy to see her as perhaps a battered wife, but then Grace knew she didn’t look like the stereotype of one either.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ Grace began, once the formalities were over.
‘My loss?’ asked Donna sharply.
‘The children’s father,’ said Grace mildly. ‘And your partner, Mark Kirkby.’
Donna shook her head as if trying to shake off the bewilderment hammering at the inside of her skull. It didn’t seem to work.
‘When had you last seen or spoken to Russell?’ Grace asked.
‘Not since last week, when the kids broke up from school for the holidays. Mark said . . .’ Donna broke off but determinedly recomposed herself. ‘Mark thought we should all take a little break from each other. A breather. Let things settle down again.’
‘Why was that? Had something happened? An argument?’
Donna shook her head, absent-mindedly stroking her daughter’s hair as she spoke. ‘Russell was never very good at coping when things got on top of him, but everything had been fine between us until I met Mark, and then Russell just seemed to lose it. Like it was OK for us to split up, but not OK once I met someone else.’
‘Was he jealous? Controlling?’
‘I don’t know what it was. Maybe not so much over me, but the kids, you know? He kept saying he didn’t want Mark taking over his kids.’
‘Mark didn’t have children?’ asked Grace, although she already knew the answer.
‘No. He’s not been married. But he loved having all of us over to his place. There’s a nice big garden, and he went out and bought a trampoline and stuff for them.’ She ruffled Ella’s hair. ‘You liked that, didn’t you? Going over to Mark’s house.’
Donna’s whole body crumpled, and she began to sob, clinging tightly to her daughter, who twisted herself free, looking up at her mother with a mixture of alarm and curiosity. Beside Donna, Davey seemed to shrink even further into himself, while Duncan and Ruth sat silently, doing their best to look at nothing in particular.
‘Why would he do this?’ Donna cried. ‘No one was out to get him. It was all in his head. How could he do such a thing?’
Grace sat quietly until Donna calmed herself. She glanced around the room as unobtrusively as she could: there was little in it apart from the couch, armchair, TV and a box of toys and children’s DVDs in the corner, but it was clean and tidy, and framed
school photographs of both kids adorned the little mantelpiece over the gas fire. All the same, she wondered what rows or fights these two young children had seen or overheard in this house.
‘You said the divorce had been amicable?’ Grace asked once Donna seemed ready.
‘We married too young,’ said Donna. ‘We just, you know, fizzled out.’ She wrapped her arms around Ella. ‘This makes no sense. No sense at all. Russell wasn’t like that. He was a pushover really, a right softie.’
‘You said he thought someone was out to get him. What made him think that?’
‘Russell was afraid he was going to lose his driving licence,’ said Donna. ‘He was really stressed out about it.’
‘Why was that?’ Grace knew that Russell Fewell had recently been charged with a drink-drive offence, but she wanted to hear what Donna would say.
‘It was really bad luck, but he’d lose his job if he was banned from driving. Probably have to pay a big fine too.’ Donna sighed. ‘He blamed Mark.’
‘Why would Mark be to blame?’
‘He wasn’t; it was Russell being stupid,’ said Donna. ‘He’d got a bee in his bonnet. Accused Mark of getting one of his mates to follow him and pull him over.’
Duncan cleared his throat, making Grace aware that he was signalling his protest at such an accusation against a murdered fellow officer. Out of the corner of her eye she also noticed Davey, who until now had appeared not even to be listening, turn to look at his mother beside him on the couch. Realizing that Grace was watching him, he swiftly reverted to blankness.
Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2 Page 2
