Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  Ivo nodded. ‘I did. You’re talking about Superintendent Pitman?’

  ‘Yes. There was no point making accusations I couldn’t back up. Well, anyway, I didn’t, did I?’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ said Ivo.

  His kindness brought a lump to Grace’s throat. Her shoulder had stiffened up and was really hurting, and she still felt like crap about Lance. She struggled to maintain her composure.

  ‘It’s one thing for me to lob a grenade right into the middle of a bells-and-whistles funeral,’ Ivo continued. ‘That’s my job. But no point you shooting yourself in the foot for nothing, is there?’

  ‘So what is my job?’ she asked bitterly.

  ‘Keep your chin up. We can’t all be superheroes.’

  ‘I suppose one good thing is that at least Davey is telling people,’ said Grace. ‘Perhaps he’ll tell Donna soon too, and not keep it a secret much longer.’

  ‘He’s not likely pipe up with Mark Kirkby’s father breathing down his neck. I saw John Kirkby, by the way.’

  Grace was taken aback. ‘Did you tell him who you are, why you were there?’

  ‘No, of course not. I just let him bend my ear about how hard done by the brave boys in blue are these days.’

  ‘Well, there’s some truth in that,’ said Grace. ‘The cuts are starting to hurt.’

  ‘I won’t quote you,’ Ivo said with a smile.

  ‘I have a favour to ask,’ she said, making a snap decision. She wouldn’t confide in him about this morning’s riverside encounter, but she had to do whatever she could to support Lance.

  Ivo nodded. ‘Shall we look at some dishwashers?’ He got to his feet and she followed him. They did not speak until they reached an area of mocked-up fitted kitchens. Wandering into the nearest one and opening a cupboard door as he checked over his shoulder, Ivo spoke quietly. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘This is absolutely not for publication.’

  Ivo held up a hand. ‘Scout’s honour.’

  ‘You probably don’t know,’ she said, ‘but nine days ago a man called Peter Burnley was murdered in Colchester. Beaten to death after leaving a bar. No witnesses, nothing.’

  Ivo shook his head. ‘Must’ve come across my radar, but I can’t say it caught my attention.’

  ‘Well, Peter Burnley just turned up in a photograph standing right next to Adam Kirkby, Mark’s younger brother.’

  ‘Well, well! Tell me more.’

  Grace took his arm and led the way along the aisle between the displays, walking slowly as if they were shopping. She checked behind before speaking softly into his ear. ‘Peter Burnley wasn’t his real name. He said he was a financial adviser, but in fact he was working undercover. I don’t know for which service. And he’d lied to his boyfriend about where he was when the photograph was taken.’

  ‘Which was?’ asked Ivo.

  ‘A golf resort in the Algarve. Vale do Lobo.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Last October.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me.’

  ‘Really?’

  Ivo squeezed her arm against his body. ‘Well, shiver my timbers if I don’t feel another sighting of Lord Lucan coming on. As you are no doubt aware, my dear, he’s only ever been spotted in warm and luxurious climes, and it’s a time-honoured tradition that every so often one’s editor will agree to sign off on a few days of hot pursuit. Never know, one day we might even stumble across him by sheer accident.’

  Grace laughed, though she felt more like hugging him. It was such a relief to have someone who didn’t think she was crazy to believe that all these dots might join up into a significant picture.

  ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I didn’t get any further with your tip about PC Curtis Mullins. My asking around in Dunholt about Mark Kirkby was brought rather swiftly to the attention of my editor, who told me to drop it, pronto.’

  ‘Well, thanks for trying,’ she said.

  Ivo sighed and shook his head. ‘All I want now is to put that gun in Mark Kirkby’s hands so Davey Fewell can make some sense of his life.’

  Mindful of Warren Cox, Grace decided it was too soon to share her suspicions of Leonard Ingold. Besides, what she really wanted to tell Ivo was that Davey was lucky to have him as his champion. But then something in the way he was looking at her made her think he might also be doing this for her. He made an unlikely knight in shining armour: a portly man in his fifties who’d gone to seed some time ago and made little effort to do anything about it since. Yet she had to admit she was happy to have him on her side.

  33

  Four weeks on from the winter solstice and Robyn could now reach home after school before the afternoon darkness fully settled in. It made a huge difference to her day, knowing she’d have even a few minutes to take the dogs for a quick run and to feel at home before the curtains were drawn and a long evening of homework and seclusion began. She never used to mind how remote they were from other houses or the nearest village, but since Angie’s death she’d felt the need to huddle closer to fellow human beings.

  Walking the last part of the track, she saw they were not alone: a car was parked outside Leonard’s workshop, and the lights were on inside. Normally she would go straight into the house, uninterested in her dad’s clients, but an impulse she didn’t choose to question directed her to the door of the reception area, and she went straight in. Her father quickly hid his surprise – did she also detect disapproval? – and turned to his visitors.

  ‘My daughter, Robyn,’ he told them shortly.

  Robyn recognized the two police officers who greeted her: DC Duncan Gregg had come to see her father a couple of days after the Dunholt shootings, and the slim serious woman in the tailored grey trouser suit had spoken to her mother at the funeral. The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Grace Fisher,’ she said. ‘Good to meet you.’

  Robyn shook Grace Fisher’s hand, acutely aware of the clear grey eyes scanning her face. Robyn backed away but stopped beside the door, where she stood against the wall, trying to remain unobtrusive yet determined to learn for herself this time why they were here and what it was they wanted with her father. But it seemed she was too late, as they were already winding up their conversation.

  ‘I really appreciate your help, Mr Ingold,’ said Grace. ‘It’ll be so much easier to get my head around the detail now you’ve shown me how a rifle round is put together. I can’t thank you enough for your time and we won’t disturb you any longer.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Leonard, ushering them to the door, a hand on Duncan’s back. ‘Duncan should bring you along to one of the visitors’ days at the club. You could try a bit of duck shooting for yourself.’

  ‘Maybe I will, thanks,’ she replied pleasantly. ‘You have my card if you hear anything you think we ought to know.’

  Robyn slipped out in front of them into the gathering dusk and, as Leonard turned out of habit to lock the door behind him, she followed the detectives to their car. ‘Are you still investigating what happened in Dunholt?’ she asked.

  ‘Just tying up loose ends,’ said Grace. ‘We owe it to the families to do all we can.’

  Robyn nodded, her eyes on her father. ‘My friend Angie Turner died. And her grandmother.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ As Grace stepped forward to place a hand on her arm, Robyn thought she seemed more shocked than the information warranted. Grace’s gesture was followed by a swift, almost involuntary, glance at Leonard, who now joined them. Robyn watched as she slipped into the passenger seat and busied herself with her seat belt, leaving it to Duncan to repeat their thanks and say goodbye.

  Leonard remained where he was, watching thoughtfully as the car made its slow progress back up the track. Robyn left him and went into the house, dropping her school rucksack and calling to the dogs as she kicked off her shoes and pulled on a pair of wellingtons. Bounder was keen to escape the house, and Martha, once she had staggered to her feet, was happy to do what was asked of her. Robyn was glad of their comforting
presence. The light was fading and there wouldn’t be time to go far beyond the first field, but she needed to gain some distance.

  From the end of the garden she looked back at her home, where the lights were now on in the kitchen and living room. It looked cosy, nestled in against the rising ground, the gnarled and knotty branches of the big old cherry tree behind the house silhouetted against the silvery-blue sky. It would be cold tonight, and she should check on the hens and donkeys on her way back.

  It was Leonard who’d announced they were getting the donkeys. Their owner had died, must be five years ago now, and it had proved difficult to find a sanctuary, so her dad had offered to take them, declaring that Robyn would be over the moon to have them. She’d never really taken to them, if she were honest – they were stubborn and unresponsive creatures – but they were part of the place now and it pleased her dad to think of them as hers.

  The point of them was that it gave him pleasure to be the kind of dad who bestowed such delightful surprises. It didn’t suit him to see that, actually, they were a chore. It was revolutionary for her to have such thoughts. She had never once questioned the goodness and generosity of her family life. It then occurred to her that the isolated spot in which they lived – chosen because it suited the needs of his business – had also always been presented to her as a special advantage, as if it bestowed something rare and commendable on them as a family.

  Robyn hated herself for thinking like this. Perhaps every teenager went through this process, as the scales fell from their eyes and they began to grow up and judge their parents more objectively, but somehow this felt bigger than that. The cracks that, since Christmas, had been opening at her feet felt deep and precipitous, as if they might divide her for ever from her old life.

  Martha, standing beside her, nudged a warm muzzle into her hand, reminding her that an old dog with an arthritic hip would be happier inside by a warm fire. Robyn rubbed the dog’s head and stroked her back. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s go in.’

  She found her parents sitting across from one another at the kitchen table in earnest conversation. They both sat back as she entered, relaxing their expressions.

  ‘Stars out yet?’ asked her father. ‘Should be able to see Jupiter at this time of year.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Robyn waited for him to mention the second visit from the police, but instead he got to his feet, asking Nicola if she wanted any potatoes peeled for supper. Robyn muttered about homework to do and, picking up her rucksack, shut herself in her bedroom. Waiting for her laptop to power up, Robyn made an effort to recall exactly what Grace Fisher’s reaction had been when she had mentioned Angie. A look of shock, of horror even, followed by a flint-like glance at her dad.

  Robyn had never looked at the online coverage of the Dunholt shootings, but she did so now. There were photographs of the town, of Russell Fewell, of his victims and their families – including Angie and her grandmother – of the locations of some of the shootings, more pictures of his victims, of a rifle and of rifle rounds and spent bullets. Staring at the images, unready and unwilling to articulate her precise thoughts, she typed in ‘gun crimes’ and then ‘fatal shootings’. There were dozens of links: page after page of murder, guns in schools, urban gangs, domestic violence, family annihilation, suicide, armed robbery, carjacking, hostage situations, terrorism. Nearly all involved illegal weapons.

  She slammed down the lid of her computer. None of this had anything to do with her or her family. Nothing.

  34

  Coming in to work, Grace heard the clack of Hilary Burnett’s high heels behind her. She turned to wait for the communications director to catch up, making an effort to conceal her irritation. Grace genuinely liked Hilary and usually took pains to hide how little time she had for her role, but this morning it seemed especially hard.

  ‘Morning, Hilary.’

  ‘Hello, Grace. I’m glad I caught you. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ Grace answered, although she wasn’t sure she looked it. She’d tossed and turned all night, trying to work out the best way to persuade Colin to place Leonard Ingold under surveillance.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Hilary. ‘Though I must say, you look a little peaky to me.’

  Grace smiled at how the older woman’s essential kindness always shone through whatever mission she was on. ‘A bit tired, that’s all,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Hilary. ‘Now, I don’t know if Colin’s had a chance to tell you yet, but the date for the Dunholt inquest has been confirmed for next month.’

  ‘Next month? As soon as that?’ Grace knew that the Essex coroner had routinely opened and adjourned the inquest to allow the funerals to go ahead, but she hadn’t expected him to reopen it for several months yet.

  ‘Yes, it’s a controversial decision,’ said Hilary. ‘But his view is that it will help the families and give the community a chance to heal if he speeds things up as much as possible. He’s let it be known that he wants proceedings to be brief and not to stray too far from the basic requirements of who, how and when.’

  Only now, feeling her disappointment, did Grace realize how much weight she’d placed on a full and thorough hearing bringing all the facts to light.

  ‘Anyway,’ Hilary continued, ‘Colin thought perhaps a quick prep session might not be a bad idea.’

  ‘A prep session?’ Grace couldn’t hold back a laugh of incredulity. ‘Hilary, I have given evidence at an inquest before.’

  ‘Yes, of course you have. But this one is a little different. The chief constable agrees that it’s a matter of tone.’

  ‘Tone?’

  Hilary reached out to touch Grace’s arm. ‘I realize it may sound trivial, but small things can matter a great deal to the families at a time like this. It’s important to see it from their point of view.’

  Grace was tempted to point out that Donna, Davey and Ella were also among the grieving families, but thought better of it and murmured her agreement.

  ‘There’s so little anyone can do for them,’ said Hilary. ‘We’ve taken best practice from other tragedies. We had all the clothing cleaned before it was given back and returned all the jewellery in proper cases. I’m not sure whether such things really help, but they can’t do any harm.’

  ‘It’s very thoughtful,’ said Grace and meant it. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded dismissive.’

  ‘You’re at the sharp end,’ said Hilary. ‘I realize that what I do can seem like a distraction, but if you could spare some time in the next day or so . . .?’

  ‘Of course. And I do appreciate what you do, Hilary.’

  Hilary laughed. ‘Thanks. It’s not what you think of as policing, but it’ll be a nice excuse to see you and have a chat.’

  ‘It will.’

  Hilary went on her way, leaving Grace conflicted. Of course everything Hilary said made perfect sense, but while an inquest was often about finding dignity and closure for the relatives, it could also be the only chance to put important truths on record. Grace wasn’t sure she liked the idea of what had taken place at Dunholt being smoothed away by a bit of smart PR work, however well intentioned, and her resistance to the idea strengthened her resolve that the time had finally come to tell Colin about Davey Fewell. She went straight to his office and rapped on the door.

  Colin looked up from his desk. ‘Ah, good, Grace. I’ve been wanting a word.’

  ‘Hilary just told me the date’s been confirmed for the Dunholt inquest.’

  ‘That’s right. Given the unusual timing, it can only be pretty much a formality, but it’ll be good to get it over and done with. And everything our end should be pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Grace.

  Colin frowned. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  Grace took a moment to compose her thoughts. ‘Davey Fewell told me something that may shine a different light on things.’

  ‘Davey Fewell?’

  ‘Russell Fewell’s
ten-year-old son. He told me that Mark Kirkby showed him a gun, a big heavy one, and that it had to be their special secret. Davey said he told his dad about it, who was furious.’ Grace waited for Colin to speak, but he remained silent so she pressed on. ‘What if Fewell stole the rifle and ammunition he used from Mark Kirkby?’

  ‘I assume Mark Kirkby had all the correct paperwork?’

  ‘No. Nothing. But he had completed a police firearms training course, so would be familiar with a Heckler & Koch G3.’ Grace knew that she had to be precise, had to build her argument brick by brick, if she was going to carry Colin along with her. ‘If Russell did take the rifle, Mark wouldn’t have been able to report it. I wondered if perhaps Mark’s response had been to fabricate the drink-driving charge?’

  ‘How long have you known about this?’

  ‘A little while,’ said Grace with deliberate imprecision. ‘I wanted to see if I could back Davey’s statement up. I haven’t been able to so far. And then we had the Peter Burnley murder.’

  ‘So why are you telling me now?’

  If his question was meant as a reprimand, Grace ignored it. ‘Davey may also have told other people,’ she said. ‘I’m telling you now because it may come up at the inquest.’

  ‘And if it does?’

  ‘I believed what Davey Fewell told me, and so did the FLO. But his mother knows nothing about it, and, when pressed, Davey backtracked, said he made it up.’

  ‘So there’s nothing concrete?’ asked Colin.

  ‘No, sir, but if a narrative does emerge of a gunman driven to desperation by harassment from serving officers, one of whom possessed an illegal firearm which may have been the murder weapon—’

  ‘Do you think it’s likely that such a narrative will emerge?’ Colin’s expression was inscrutable, but Grace knew him well enough to guess that he was rapidly calculating the range of available options, searching for the one that would cause him the least damage.