Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘He had a tough time, your dad. That’s what Martin Leyburn told me. And, whatever he did, I bet he was a really good father.’

  Davey nodded, his mouth puckering as tears welled up. ‘I miss him,’ he whispered.

  ‘I bet you do. And now you’re not even allowed to talk about him.’

  ‘Mum made me promise not to.’

  ‘That’s OK. She’s just trying to protect you. That’s what mothers do. Besides, she probably doesn’t know what really happened.’ Ivo took a deep breath: Christ, this was much harder than he’d expected! ‘I do. Maybe not all, but a bit. I can tell you, if you like?’

  Davey bit his lip, thinking about it, and then nodded. The kid was so young, thought Ivo, his skin still peachy and his lips like rosebuds. A child. It really wasn’t fucking fair.

  ‘So do you remember where you were on your dad’s last birthday?’

  ‘At Mark’s house. It was a school night and he said we’d have to wait to see Dad at the weekend.’

  ‘So Mark knew it was his birthday?’

  Davey nodded, big serious eyes clamped on Ivo’s.

  ‘Did you ever meet a friend of Mark’s called Curtis Mullins? He’s a policeman too.’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Well, Curtis and Mark were at school together. Very old friends. And it was Curtis who arrested your dad for drink-driving the night of his birthday.’ Ivo allowed time for this sink in before he continued. ‘Now that may simply be coincidence, but your dad thought it wasn’t. Which is partly why he got so very, very upset.’

  ‘I didn’t like Mark,’ said Davey, his cheeks flushing. ‘He pretended to be nice but he wasn’t. I didn’t want Mum to be with him.’ Davey’s hands dropped into his lap, and he hung his head. He spoke so softly that Ivo barely heard him. ‘I’m glad Mark’s dead.’

  Yeah, thought Ivo, you and me both, kiddo.

  ‘It’s my fault.’

  ‘That he’s dead?’

  Davey nodded, looking down into his lap.

  ‘No, Davey,’ said Ivo firmly. ‘That’s absolutely not true.’

  ‘It is. It is! I knew he had a gun.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  ‘No! Mark.’

  ‘Mark had a gun?’ Ivo was practised at concealing his surprise, but, boy, did this revelation take every last bit of skill he possessed!

  Davey nodded. ‘Big and heavy, just like the one Dad used to shoot him.’

  Ivo had heard almost as many first-person horror stories as he’d knocked back double gins, but the natural way the kid said this chilled his heart as never before. ‘Did you actually get to hold it?’ he asked. ‘Is that how you know it was heavy?’

  Davey nodded. ‘Mark showed it to me. Told me not to tell anyone. He said he hadn’t even told Mum. It was a secret, just for us men.’

  Fuck me! thought Ivo, recoiling in disbelief and grimacing as if he’d sucked on a lemon. That self-aggrandizing jerk of a bully, using someone else’s son to big up his pathetic macho fantasy of himself! And then ordering him not to speak about it. What a controlling prick! He realized too late that Davey was alarmed by his reaction and tried hard to soften his features.

  ‘Was it exciting, getting to hold a real gun?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It was scary. Mark said it wasn’t his. He was looking after it for someone, and that person would come and get me if I told anyone.’

  ‘So did you tell anyone?’ asked Ivo.

  ‘Only my dad.’ Davey looked up with imploring eyes. ‘That’s why my dad’s dead, isn’t it? Because of me?’

  29

  The grinding Friday-afternoon traffic on the hour-long drive to the prison gave Grace time to think. She felt as if she were chasing shadows. Except she’d been right about Curtis Mullins. And she believed Davey Fewell. So had Ruth Woods. And if Mark had shown Davey a gun, then that gun had to have come from somewhere. When she’d first opened the email from Duncan with the feedback from the post-sentencing interviews officer, she’d not read much further than the first paragraph outlining the officer’s view that none of those recently convicted and imprisoned for offences involving firearms was likely to be helpful, as all had so far declined to assist the police with their intelligence-gathering and clear-up rates. It was only as she was closing the document that Dunholt caught her eye.

  Warren Cox, the lorry hijacker she was now on her way to see, had lived in Dunholt before his arrest. On Christmas Day he’d already been banged up for nearly a year, and none of his family appeared to have been caught up in the tragedy of the shooting, yet Grace felt compelled to clutch at the slim chance that he might take a view on what had happened in his home town.

  Even though her visit was official, the security procedures were irritatingly slow, and she was kept waiting for a further twenty minutes as someone went to fetch Cox. Grace hoped he wasn’t being dragged out of the gym or somewhere else that broke the monotony of prison life, and was pleased, when at last he was shown into the room by a prison officer, to see that he seemed relatively relaxed. Warren was a muscular, intimidating man in his late twenties with a shaven head and fierce eyes. If Grace had been one of the lorry drivers he’d threatened, she didn’t think he’d have needed a sawn-off shotgun to get her to do what he wanted. And Warren had been good at what he did, running a large, well-organized operation; the total value of the vehicles he had stolen ran to well over a million pounds. He had finally been caught when a police helicopter followed him to the isolated farm buildings where the trailers were unloaded and the cabs dismantled for spare parts to be shipped to Africa or the Middle East.

  She thanked him for coming to speak to her and got straight to the point. ‘It’s about the Dunholt shootings,’ she said. ‘I happened to notice that you were living there at the time of your arrest.’

  He nodded. ‘Grew up there.’

  ‘Did you know Russell Fewell?’

  He looked as if he were going to spit on the floor but then thought better of it. ‘Sick bastard.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out how he got hold of a gun. It was a rifle, a Heckler & Koch G3, and he used soft-point ammunition.’

  Warren pursed his lips. ‘I’ve never even handled a rifle,’ he said. ‘That’s an army job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Possibly. We think he stole it from someone he knew, someone who was in illegal possession of it. We’re also fairly certain that the ammunition was produced locally.’

  ‘So what can I tell you?’ he asked sarcastically.

  ‘Whoever made the rounds used by Fewell to kill five of your neighbours on Christmas Day has also made other calibre rounds recovered from fatal shootings in London, Manchester and Birmingham. He supplies teenage gangs, professional criminals like yourself and total nutjobs. He’s not fussy. I want to know who he is.’

  Warren sat back, folded his arms and gave a thoughtful sniff but said nothing.

  ‘I went through your record,’ said Grace. ‘You never actually discharged a weapon on a job.’

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Point a sawn-off at someone, and you don’t get no farting about.’

  ‘You carry a gun to make sure a job goes smoothly,’ said Grace. ‘Trouble is, a lot of kids these days think they’re fashion accessories.’

  Warren nodded. ‘A teenager can get hold of an Uzi for a couple of grand. Thinks he’s clever cos he’s got a nine-millimetre Glock to go with his box-fresh trainers. I was offered a Sterling sub-machine gun right before I got nicked.’

  ‘That’ll use up bullets pretty quickly,’ said Grace. ‘I imagine ammo’s where the real money is.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Warren looked at her shrewdly, and she hoped he might at least be prepared to let her plead her case.

  ‘That’s who I want to talk to,’ she said. ‘I’d like to take the armourer who made those bullets out of circulation. The people of Dunholt deserve some positive result to come out of this, and there’s not much else I can offer them, is there?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Warren. ‘But unle
ss you’re some punk kid who doesn’t know any better, you don’t just buy this stuff from a bloke in the pub who happens to have a rifle in the boot of his car.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Grace. She knew the reasons as well as Warren did. He was far from stupid, but he had already glanced at the top button of her blouse three times: maybe, only a year into a long sentence, he’d be bored enough to be tempted into a little mansplaining.

  Warren unfolded his arms and leaned forward across the table that separated them. ‘You’ll want to know whether it’s real, converted or reactivated. You want to make sure that, if you do have to fire it, it’s not going to jam or blow up in your face. And, most important, you want be absolutely one-hundred-per-cent certain it’s clean. You get caught holding a gun that can be traced back to other incidents, then you’ll be going away for a very long time.’

  ‘So how do you protect yourself?’

  ‘If you’re sensible, you mean? Not like these kids who rent them out or barter them for drugs. A nine-millimetre pistol will buy you an ounce of crack, if you want it – you know that?’

  ‘Which is exactly why I don’t want someone out there selling ammo to kids like it’s sweeties,’ said Grace.

  ‘Look at it from my point of view,’ he said reasonably. ‘If you’re going to sell me some hardware, it’s best all round that we know as little as possible about each other, right? So there’s go-betweens, an etiquette you might call it.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know the names of any armourers, even if you were prepared to tell me?’

  ‘Solid ones?’ asked Warren. ‘Ones you can trust? No.’

  Grace wasn’t surprised by his answer. She’d always known this was likely to be a wild-goose chase, but she’d had to do something.

  ‘Anyway, why would I tell you?’ Warren continued. ‘If the man you’re looking for has any sense, he’ll be keeping a record of every weapon he handles. His courier will know where they all end up. That’s quite an insurance policy. No one’s going to piss him off. No one’s going to owe him money. And no one is going to give his name to a fucking rozzer.’

  ‘What about selling an unlicensed gun to a rozzer?’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. She saw the flare of shock and anger on his face before he instinctively looked around for the inevitable security camera, as if to reassure himself that this was being monitored and was not a trap.

  He gave a throaty laugh that felt to Grace more like a threat. ‘You looking to buy one, darlin’?’

  ‘No.’ She decided she might as well tell him the truth. What Warren would do with the precious nugget of information once she’d handed it over was unforeseeable, but she’d have to take that risk. ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘I want to know who sold a gun to a corrupt police officer.’

  Warren whistled and looked at her in crafty admiration. ‘You’ve got balls, lady, I’ll give you that. But who in his right mind would fucking do that? Why?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know.’ Grace sat very still as he thought things over for a few silent moments.

  ‘I don’t have an actual name to give you,’ he said at last, ‘and wouldn’t even if I did. But a bent copper with a gun is something else. Armed police are trigger-happy enough for my taste even when they’re on duty. Especially when they’re on duty, if you ask me. Huddling together afterwards to get their evidence straight for the judge when the poor bugger they’ve shot is a bit too dead to tell his side of the story.’ He curled his lips in distaste. ‘Leaves a bad taste, if you know what I mean?’

  Grace nodded, crossing her fingers tightly beneath the table. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’

  Warren stared at her as if studying her face for signs of trickery or deception. She did her best to return his look unflinchingly.

  ‘I want a promise that my name stays out of this,’ he said finally. ‘If you’re talking about bent cops, then I don’t want this going into any intelligence system other than your ears.’

  ‘I can register you properly as an informer, if you prefer.’

  ‘No way. This is a one-off. Just you and me.’

  ‘OK,’ said Grace. ‘You have my word.’

  He nodded, considering his decision one last time. Grace held her breath.

  ‘You got a pen and paper?’ He nodded his head in the direction of the security camera.

  ‘Yes.’ Grace had been permitted to keep a small notepad and a pencil in her jacket pocket. She passed them quickly across the table before he changed his mind then watched eagerly as Warren scribbled something down and pushed them back.

  ‘This is who everyone recommends,’ he said. ‘It’s just a nickname, but that’s all I know.’

  Grace read what he had written: the Lion King.

  Warren must have seen her frown. ‘No idea why he’s called that,’ he said. ‘Don’t know if he’s local or not. He could be anywhere. Could be some fucking African ex-mercenary selling off surplus stock. That’s the best I can do.’

  Grace pocketed her notebook and pencil and stood up. ‘Thank you.’

  Warren remained in his seat, looking up at her, unsmiling. ‘If anybody wants to know, we had a pleasant chat about the weather.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She went to knock on the door for the prison officer, praying that she hadn’t been recklessly indiscreet.

  ‘Oh and lady?’ He called after her just as she reached the door.

  She turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t ever come visiting me again.’

  30

  Grace left her house at first light the following morning to walk quickly down to the quayside. There was still frost on the roofs of parked cars and it was too cold to linger over her calf and hamstring stretches. Shivering as she set off at a jog along the track that led beside the river towards Alresford Creek, she broke into a quick sprint to warm up and then settled back into a steady pace. It was her regular weekend run – or as regular as she could manage for January – and she wanted space to think.

  The Lion King. Leo the Lion. Leonard Ingold. Was she making the connection purely out of wishful thinking, or had Warren Cox unknowingly dropped a golden key into her lap? Had Leonard Ingold been so helpful to Duncan in order to keep a close eye on the investigation? Was Duncan corrupt even? The idea was nonsense, but she couldn’t afford to be starry-eyed about anyone, not even the most unflappable and dependable member of her team. She seemed to remember Duncan mentioning he’d met Ingold through a wildfowling club: she must ask Duncan on Monday precisely how their acquaintance had come about. She was nowhere near being able to get a search warrant, but if Ingold had deliberately engineered a good relationship with the police she could play that back and make a friendly fact-finding visit to his workshop.

  Across the water, the trees were leafless and the hedgerows diminished by winter. Perished ground foliage tinged the misty fields with black, and an occasional cluster of red hawthorn berries or wild rosehips was welcome relief. She could hardly be alone in hating this barren season, yet despite the horrors of the year so far she felt the first stirrings of optimism. She hoped it wasn’t misplaced.

  As she passed a fellow runner heading back towards Wivenhoe they nodded politely to one another, their cloudy breath lingering in the cold air. Grace suddenly recalled that Duncan had introduced her to Leonard Ingold’s wife after the funerals at Dunholt. Grace hadn’t been paying much attention – her eyes had been on John Kirkby – and anyway Mrs Ingold had seemed unremarkable enough. But it struck her now that Leonard Ingold – the man who may have supplied the fatal bullets and probably the gun as well – had not accompanied his wife.

  She chided herself: now she was being fanciful! She had no evidence whatsoever that Warren Cox’s Lion King was Leonard Ingold. And yet . . . with every pounding footstep she became more convinced she was right.

  She thought about how cautious Warren had been, how little he trusted any of the people in uniform who might have access to the feed from the security camer
a in the legal visits room. The cameras were there for the safety of visitors, and conferences with lawyers were supposedly confidential, but prisons were notoriously leaky places. Every prison had at least one officer prepared to sell stories to the tabloids, who might well be the same officer who got paid to smuggle in SIM cards or drugs. Turf wars and vendettas among the prisoners themselves were common; add in a corrupt officer, and the network became even more toxic. No wonder Warren had wanted to know why anyone would be stupid enough to sell a weapon to a serving police officer.

  Why had Mark Kirkby wanted a rifle? His motives had to be sinister. If he’d wanted it for any legal purpose, he’d have simply applied for a gun licence.

  As Grace ran on beside the river, her cheeks tingling with cold, she glanced up at a skein of geese flying steadily across the featureless grey horizon. Their perfect formation and steadily beating wings ought to have lifted her spirits, but instead she felt a sudden and familiar wave of depression. Why had she not yet said anything to Colin about the difficult truth that Davey Fewell had shared with her? Why had she so inexcusably left Davey to fend for himself?

  Was it simply because she couldn’t face dealing with the fallout? But if she was too afraid to rock the boat or face dealing with Colin’s slippery hypocrisy, then had she stopped doing what mattered most about her job in order to feel safe?

  Yet how could she expect to emerge unscathed if she took on a culture that regarded a lack of unquestioning loyalty as betrayal and championed a solidarity that bordered on corruption? The black thoughts came tumbling out. What was wrong with people? Why couldn’t they aspire to the cooperative beauty of those flying birds? Why did they always have to twist and dominate and grind other people down? Worst of all, these were the very people who, if asked, would reply in all sincerity that they were in the job in order to help people and to pursue truth and justice!

  But she was no better. She’d lied to Lance. She’d placed professional obedience above friendship. Maybe Peter’s murder was, as Colin said, a textbook case where they just never got a lucky break. It happened. But wasn’t it somehow all rather too convenient that it happened precisely when one of the security or intelligence services was involved?