Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘Did you think that might be true?’ Grace asked Donna carefully.

  ‘Of course not!’ said Donna. ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Did Russell often get ideas like that about people?’

  Donna wrapped her arms around Ella once more. ‘No, not really. It’s just, since I got together with Mark, he really lost it.’

  Grace decided to let it go for now. She had yet to tackle the hardest part of why she was here. She pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag and unfolded it with trembling fingers. Never in her entire career had she faced such a list, the deadly roll-call of forty minutes of sheer madness. Sick bastard! That whispered curse had been right. And there was no point trying to protect Ella and Davey from these harsh realities: they’d been there; they’d seen Mark Kirkby die, knew their father was a killer. Grace licked her dry lips before speaking.

  ‘Donna, I need to ask you something very difficult. And I need to include Davey too, in case he knows any of these people from school.’

  Donna took the proffered piece of paper and scanned the list of names. Uncomprehending, she stared at Grace. ‘What is it?’

  ‘All the people he shot,’ Grace said gently. ‘I need to ask you if you’re aware of any connection that Russell had with any of them, however slight. Did he know them? Do you? Or were they . . .’ Grace stopped, not sure, in front of Davey and Ella, how best to finish the sentence. ‘Or were they just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’ she ended lamely, feeling at that moment that all her skills and experience were woefully inadequate for such an event. She caught Duncan’s eye and he gave her an encouraging nod: she was doing the best she could.

  The colour drained from Donna’s cheeks as she once more read down the list of names of dead and wounded.

  Davey stirred and craned to look over his mother’s shoulder. ‘After Dad shot Mark, he shot a man who came out of one of the houses opposite.’ He spoke matter-of-factly. ‘The man wanted to know what was going on, and he wouldn’t go away. Then Mum made us go indoors.’ He pointed to the paper. ‘None of them are to do with my school.’

  Donna covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes widening in shock. She shook her head in disbelief and then pointed reluctantly to the last of the names. ‘She works in the Co-op. Her husband died last year. Her son is training to be a teacher. But I doubt that Russell would’ve known who she is.’

  ‘Thank you. She’s one of the three in hospital. She was in her car. She drove past him at the end of the High Street.’

  ‘Will she make it?’ asked Donna.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Russell grew up in Dunholt,’ said Donna. ‘Why would he want to hurt these people?’

  Grace steeled herself to remain professional. ‘Do you recognize any of the other names?’

  Donna shook her head and handed back the sheet. ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace, trying not to shy away from the hurt and confusion she saw in Donna’s eyes.

  ‘And you’re absolutely certain that it was him?’ asked Donna. ‘There’s not been a terrible mistake?’

  ‘There’s no doubt at all,’ said Grace. ‘We have a handful of eyewitnesses who saw pretty much his whole rampage.’

  Donna hung her head in exhaustion.

  ‘If it helps,’ Grace added, ‘two of the eyewitnesses described him as panicked, frightened almost, as if he was firing in self-defence.’

  While Donna nodded as if this made some kind of sense to her, Davey sat up straight. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’ he asked belligerently. ‘Your job is to catch people, isn’t it? But Dad’s dead. You know who did it.’

  ‘That’s right, Davey,’ Grace answered softly. ‘But sometimes it’s also important to understand why things happen, especially when something is so sad and will affect a lot of people.’

  ‘You think he’s a nutter!’

  ‘No, Davey,’ Grace said gently. ‘I’m not saying that. But he must have been very, very upset, don’t you think? Not his usual self?’

  ‘Everybody’s going to hate him anyway,’ the boy said fiercely. ‘So what does it matter why he did it or what was wrong with him?’

  ‘Hush, Davey,’ said Donna. She reached out to soothe him, but he jerked away from her, shifting to the far edge of the couch. His sister stared at him with big grave eyes.

  ‘I’m so very sorry that you’ve lost your father in such terrible circumstances, Davey,’ said Grace. ‘And I think we owe it to you and your sister to find out what happened. Not only to learn if we could have done anything to prevent it or to stop such a thing happening again, but to find out if anyone could have helped your dad. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?’

  Davey shook his head, refusing to be consoled, and then swung his legs over the arm of the couch, hunching his back against them.

  Grace turned back to Donna. ‘Do you know where Russell might have got the gun?’

  Donna looked perplexed, as if she had not yet even considered that question. ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘He was never interested in guns. An air gun, perhaps, when he was a kid. Shooting rabbits on his dad’s vegetable patch. And those things cost money too, don’t they? We’ve both been skint since the divorce, so where would he get the cash to buy a gun?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Grace. ‘Though it seems that the firearm has never been listed, so it’s probably not come from a legitimate source. We’re working on it. Did Russell have any friends it might’ve belonged to?’

  ‘No,’ said Donna firmly. ‘Russell was never into, like, playing those online war games or military-type stuff. He liked a bit of fishing with his mates sometimes, otherwise it was a spot of darts down the pub. I know no one’s going to believe it now, but . . .’ Donna stopped, embarrassed. She glanced at Duncan and then at Ruth, who gave her a sympathetic smile. It seemed to give her the courage she needed, for she lifted her chin defiantly and wrapped her arms around her daughter. ‘Their dad was a nice guy,’ she said. ‘The very last person on earth you’d ever dream could do such a dreadful thing.’

  Ella began to cry. ‘I want my daddy,’ she wailed into Donna’s plum pudding jumper. ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  Grace concentrated on some scribble or other in her notebook so that she didn’t have to speak. She wasn’t sure she’d ever find the words to explain to herself, let alone to this family, what had happened here today.

  5

  Ivo Sweatman, chief crime correspondent of the Daily Courier, hated this kind of news. There was no good to be had from it, no fun, no tricky leads to chase, no competition for a fresh angle, just woe and misery and then more of the same. And at fucking Xmas too. Not that he minded being called away from Tiny Tim and the Yuletide log, whatever the hell that was supposed to be.

  He hated Christmas, always had, ever since he was a kid. Especially when he was a kid. All that playing happy families when he knew damned well that almost as soon as he’d unwrapped his presents they’d be packing his trunk to send him back to prep school, and then he’d have to leave most of his gifts in an empty bedroom and wouldn’t get to play with them again until the February half-term, by which time he’d hate the very sight of them. It was all a show, a pantomime to avoid revealing why they’d sent him away to boarding school and how they really felt about that. Ivo had longed to beg them to tell him straight: they might manage to fool themselves, but they sure as heck weren’t fooling him.

  Still, at least he’d had the good sense, before racing from London to cover the Dunholt slayings, to secure a room in one of the town’s few B & Bs. He rather enjoyed the thought of there being no room at the proverbial inn for his fellow cowboys from rival titles. Although, quite frankly, he’d much rather have stayed at home. He should’ve given the story to one of the junior reporters and hunkered down to finish his M & S turkey dinner and sparkling elderflower water. Christ, he must really be feeling his age.

  As he expected, all roads leading to the High Street had been cordoned off, the police cars’ flashing blu
e and orange hazard lights warning him that, even with a press pass, he wasn’t going to get anywhere near the heart of the action. Not that there would be any action, merely a bunch of police constables getting chilblains while guarding nondescript patches of snow where helpful neighbours and a hapless rubbernecker had each been dropped by a single bullet.

  And, if there was a story building, then that was it: the bullets. It was a shocked young paramedic who had attended one of the victims who survived, who had then called his older brother, who had tipped off a reporter at the local paper, who had tipped off the Courier’s news desk. From what the paramedic had said, it sounded like the shooter had used a type of ammunition that would cause maximum physical damage. Which made the weirdo loner bastard a real sicko.

  Information about the victims had been coming in constantly since the story broke: the first fatalities were a thirty-two-year-old police constable along with one of his neighbours, a forty-seven-year-old manager with a road rescue service. The gunman had apparently not encountered anyone else until he entered the High Street, where he shot dead an elderly woman and her teenage granddaughter, visiting with her family for Christmas. They’d been on their way to check on an elderly neighbour. A few doors down, two brothers (both married with young kids) who had left their mince pies half-eaten to go and investigate the commotion outside were both felled on their doorstep. A motorist who’d been approaching from the other end of the High Street and made the mistake of slowing down to see what was going on, and a middle-aged couple who had peered out of their window, had been badly injured, but luckily it appeared that the shots had lost velocity as they went through glass, diminishing their power to kill.

  For once Ivo took no pride in possessing such arcane forensic expertise, but he knew enough to work out that the shooter must have used soft-nosed expanding bullets. The ammo of a hunter, a sniper, an assassin. If that was the story, then he’d bet the farm on his editor creaming it at the mere thought of the proliferating pages of explanation, with diagrams, and before-and-after photos of spent bullets, and endless speculation about whether the massacre was revenge or punishment, a warning or a desire to make some kind of twisted statement.

  Ivo had already obtained Fewell’s address from the electoral register and downloaded a map. It was too dark and wet to bother getting that out of his pocket now, but he’d memorized enough of it to skirt round the police cordon and start trudging in what he was pretty sure was the right general direction. Lights were on in the little houses he passed, but curtains were tightly drawn; entire streets seemed to be holding their breath. As quickly as it popped into his head, he committed the line to memory: he could probably use it later when he filed his copy.

  But his heart wasn’t in it. It was an effort to get the adrenalin flowing over such sorrow and waste. What did an execution-style slaying have to do with some sixth-former and her granny who were unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Right now he simply wanted to bolt back to the pink scatter cushions and patchwork bedspread of his overheated B & B and get annoyed about ordinary things like how impossible it was to open those dinky little UHT milk portions piled in a saucer next to the child-size kettle without making a mess.

  But he had a job to do, no matter how much it wearied his soul. Better buck up. Spotting an old-fashioned red telephone box, he took shelter and used the meagre light to consult his printed-out map. The shooter’s gaff was just round the corner, and he prepared himself to start knocking on doors, ready to blag his way in with the neighbours to find out where Fewell worked, who his mates were, where he might track them down for a little chat, and where on earth he might lay his hands on some photos. Fewell might be dead, but nevertheless he was tomorrow’s MOST HATED MAN IN BRITAIN, and the punters would want to see for themselves THE FACE OF EVIL.

  As the questions Ivo needed to ask began to form in his mind, he could feel the familiar tingle of anticipation kick in after all. Russell Fewell – what drove him? Had he planned it and, if so, for how long? Had the bastard been waiting for Christmas Day, making sure, like John Lennon’s murderer, that no one would ever forget him? Was it the special day that had pushed him over the edge, or had he spontaneously woken up this morning to find his sad little existence so unbearable that he had picked up a rifle and got in his van?

  Fewell’s atrocity happening on Christmas Day unquestionably made for unbeatable headlines, but it also made Ivo’s job a whole lot harder. No corner shop was open for gossip; there was no possibility of mingling with the mums outside the school gate or the patients waiting in the local GP surgery; even the one pub that had offered Christmas lunch had now closed out of respect. It was frustrating because, in a town of three or four thousand people, everyone was connected somehow to everyone else, yet he wouldn’t be able to start gleaning any decent local colour until everything finally reopened, which probably wouldn’t be until after Boxing Day. At least by tomorrow some politician or other – the home secretary at the very least – would be wheeled out to express shock and horror and then wash the current government’s hands of all responsibility. That would fill a few column inches. But everyone would have that, and Ivo liked to pride himself that any story going out under his byline had its own unique slant.

  Reluctant to leave the relative shelter of the phone box, he wondered if he ought to call Hilary Burnett, the Essex Police communications director. He liked to think she’d have a soft spot for him after last summer when he’d done his best to stop DS Grace Fisher – Detective Inspector Fisher now – getting the chop. Hilary should be able to provide some hard facts on the weapon by now, as well as the timings and the fatal route Fewell had taken through the little town.

  What Ivo would like most of all would be a cosy fireside chat with DI Fisher. The Ice Maiden, he’d dubbed her when he first encountered her, but he felt differently about her now. With her clear gaze, soft brown hair and slender grace, she certainly suited her soubriquet. While she was definitely a survivor – and he was glad of that – she was also passionate about what she did, and vulnerable too. He looked forward to seeing her again, and to working alongside her. He wasn’t going to bother asking himself how she might feel towards him.

  He speculated about her promotion. Especially given how that slimy boss of hers, Colin Pitman, had taken over as head of the MIT in Colchester after Ivo’s old mate Keith Stalgood had retired. It was Keith who’d told him over a cup of coffee that a deal had been done, that the sweetener for Colin accepting a reprimand for his failure to pursue a complaint against one of his officers on the Kent force was a fresh start running the show in Essex. Keith had more than hinted that he’d personally had a hand in finessing Grace’s reinstatement as DI as the necessary quid pro quo for the whitewash on Colin. He was a good bloke, Keith. Old school. There weren’t many like him left.

  It was blokes like Keith who brought a glimmer of integrity and hope to Ivo’s job. Back in the day, long before the Leveson Inquiry, it had been an honour in a big case to be taken into the confidence of the senior investigating officer, especially when the case wasn’t going to plan or when the SIO needed help to flush out a suspect. Those were the days when there was mutual respect. Sure the police and the media each played by different rules, but they were rules that, while they could be very creatively bent, were rules. Now, instead of a code of honour, there was bureaucracy. And profit.

  Ivo heaved a sigh. Nostalgia wasn’t going to get this job done. Better shift himself, get back out in the snow and start thinking how best to schmooze Fewell’s neighbours. As he was pulling his gloves back on, his mobile vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out: not a number he recognized, but he took the call.

  ‘Mr Sweatman?’ asked a chirpy but determined voice. ‘I’m Bobbi Reynolds, head of communications at the Police Federation in Leatherhead. Just a courtesy call to check whether you need any further information about Constable Mark Kirkby. I’ve already emailed you his CV and some photos, but if I can be of any other assistance, plea
se don’t hesitate to let me know. We’re obviously sensitive to the need to show the utmost support for his family, friends and police service colleagues at this tragic time.’

  Ivo wondered whether she was reading from a script, and how many times she’d already delivered this same spiel to his esteemed colleagues on other newspapers. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I might well come back to you later.’

  ‘Any time,’ Bobbi assured him. ‘One of my assistants will be available 24/7 until further notice.’

  Ivo was impressed, although hardly surprised, at such profligacy: everyone knew how the Police Federation squatted on a huge mound of cash. He’d once visited the Leatherhead HQ – which doubled as a hotel, with restaurant, bar, heated pool, gym and leisure suite, all heavily subsided for Federation members – and had admired the sheer chutzpah of its heroic no-expense-spared bling. He could certainly imagine Hilary Burnett envying their ability to so blithely offer a round-the-clock service, but kept his views to himself, thanked Bobbi again and hung up. Yet he felt irked by her breezy assumption that he would lead with the story of her choosing, and suddenly wanted to show her what a contrary old bugger he could be. If the party line was to have Mark Kirkby, the fallen hero, as the front-page lead, then it was up to him to buck the trend. Ivo Sweatman would find his own story to tell, thank you very much.

  6

  It was well past midnight when an equally exhausted colleague dropped Grace home after a slow journey through falling snow. She let herself in and found that, in her absence, Lance’s boyfriend had done all the cleaning up: the table was cleared, the Scrabble board put away and, in the kitchen, the dishes had been washed up and piled neatly on the draining board. Opening the fridge, she saw that Peter had found cling film and done his best with all the leftovers. Christmas Day had been and gone.

  She took a festive satsuma from the bowl and, peeling it, wondered how Peter felt about his day, abandoned in the house of a virtual stranger and left to go home alone. But then she thought about Davey and Ella and their mother, about the relatives of the two brothers who had been killed who had turned up at the vicarage as Grace and the team were leaving, in search of some kind of respite from this sudden onrush of terror and pain, and about all the other families coping as best they could. She sat on her little sofa, on which kind and thoughtful Peter had even straightened the cushions, and began to cry. She wept for the tragedy she’d witnessed; she wept for herself that she’d had to steel herself to walk into people’s lives at such a moment and yet remain calm and professional, and, knowing it was pathetic, she wept that her first Christmas here in her own little house in Wivenhoe had been spent watching someone else be happy in love.