Shot Through the Heart: DI Grace Fisher 2

by Isabelle Grey

  ‘You already know about my dad, don’t you?’ said the girl.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ Grace urged, stalling the moment when she would have to commit herself. She waited as the silence stretched. ‘Is there anyone else close to you that you can talk to?’ she asked. ‘A relative or a teacher, perhaps?’

  After another silence the line went dead. Grace cursed herself. Personal scruples had no place in an investigation, and she should have coaxed the girl into telling her more, or at least agreeing to an informal meeting. Yet, although convinced the caller was Robyn Ingold, she couldn’t help being relieved. It was a dreadful thing for a daughter to testify against a parent, and it would be dreadful too for Grace to have taken advantage of a momentary impulse driven by what was most likely teenage angst.

  Her gaze fell on the sheet of paper, which had fallen into the passenger footwell. WATCH YOUR STEP. It must surely have been left by the same person who had barged into her and kicked her when she’d been running the previous weekend. She’d gone out again yesterday along the same riverside path. Her heart had kept jumping with anxiety, making her stumble and unable to settle into a rhythm. This note confirmed that the attack had been personal, but who would want to threaten her, and why?

  Robyn’s call was a further indication that Leonard Ingold was the Lion King. Could this note be from him? Had he found out about her chat with Warren Cox? Or did it somehow have to do with Peter’s death? It was clear that she’d rattled someone’s cage badly enough to prove she was on the right track about something, but precisely what, she had no idea.

  She leaned down to pick up the sheet of paper, crushed it into a ball and twisted around to chuck it behind her seat. It was no good pretending she wasn’t badly upset by it. Bullying was the trigger for all her blackest thoughts, and she could sense the threatening note releasing its venom and poisoning the air in the car, making her feel trapped and vulnerable.

  Her breath began to shorten and, afraid she was about to have a panic attack, she willed herself to look around in search of something to which she could anchor herself in the real world. Across the road a narrow strip of cobbles marked the boundary between the pavement and the front wall of a pair of Victorian cottages. Poking up between the grey flints was a cluster of early snowdrops. If ever a flower stood for delicacy and survival, it was this, and it gave her the spark of hope she needed to focus on the nearest practical task.

  Although her moment of defiance in scrunching up the note and throwing it aside might have felt good, it had also compromised any fingerprints or DNA that might be on the paper. Never mind, it was still evidence. By the time she’d got it properly bagged up, she was running late. Time to pull herself together and get to Chelmsford before the start of the first day of the inquest.

  Once Grace had bypassed Colchester and was on the A12, she found herself arguing against Hilary’s advice to stick to the bare facts, especially when doing so would coincide so conveniently with the cynical self-interest of the police service. She hadn’t been in contact with Ivo since he’d left for the Algarve – she daren’t risk any electronic record of communication between them – so didn’t know whether Martin Leyburn, the man he’d interviewed, would be called as a witness. Ivo had said Martin was keen to come forward, but she knew it was up to the coroner to decide what evidence was relevant, and there was no certainty that he would call some random person merely because he used to go fishing with Russell Fewell. As things stood, Mark Kirkby’s undeserved reputation as a gallant officer would go unchallenged. On the other hand, as Hilary had cautioned, it would be cruel to agitate the bereaved families with pointless – and uncorroborated – speculation about Fewell’s motives.

  Grace found a place to park and hurried into County Hall. The new facilities were comfortable and discreet, with the hushed, intimidating atmosphere that court buildings often seemed to have. She wasn’t too late, and proceedings had only just begun as she slipped into the seat nearest the door. The hearings were likely to take well over a week, but she didn’t want to miss the opening remarks, which would give her some sense of how deeply the coroner was prepared to probe the background to Fewell’s state of mind. The first thing that struck her was that there was no jury: although not strictly necessary, a jury would normally have been expected in such a high-profile case, and it soon became clear that the coroner, as Hilary had predicted, intended to pilot his inquiries along the narrow channel between showing due respect to the dead and not needlessly reopening wounds.

  Members of the victims’ families sat hunched up together as if for comfort, the lines of grief making all their faces look oddly alike. Only John Kirkby and – Grace realized with a start – his son Adam sat slightly apart, both dressed in impeccable black suits. The sight of Adam made her all the more desperate to know what Ivo might be unearthing in Portugal, and she had to force herself to consider how hard the coming days would be for Mark’s family.

  She recognized a couple of journalists from the local papers and TV news services, but it appeared that the story was no longer of enough interest to summon any big guns from London or further afield. Maybe the coroner was right not to give Fewell his fifteen minutes of fame – not that celebrity appeared to have played any part in his motives – but Grace felt obscurely that the lack of scrutiny could only compound a failure of justice.

  The coroner explained that the six deaths would be dealt with in chronological order, retracing Fewell’s murderous path through the little town and concluding with his own violent end in the churchyard. Only a handful of witnesses, including Fewell’s ex-wife, his manager at work and a couple of colleagues, would be called to describe his mood and intentions in the week or so prior to Christmas Day – although Grace knew that Ruth Woods, the FLO who had been keeping in touch with Donna by phone, had obtained permission for her to submit a written statement. Grace noted that neither Martin Leyburn nor Curtis Mullins was among the remaining witnesses. Grace herself would be called only to confirm that the police investigation had been completed and they were satisfied that the perpetrator, Russell Fewell, had acted alone.

  It all felt completely and utterly wrong to her, but, short of breaking ranks and outlining her own private conspiracy theories, what could she do? And besides, looking at the exhausted, anxious faces of the victims’ families as they prepared themselves to hear the final moments of each of their loved ones described in forensic detail, she was far from sure that her idea of truth and justice would help them in any way. Everything she had was anecdotal, circumstantial, contentious. Maybe Hilary was right, and all that could possibly matter now was to be kind.

  39

  When the hearing broke for lunch, Grace was able to slip from her seat by the door and get out ahead of everyone else. So she was surprised to feel a hand on her elbow as she descended the steps to the pavement.

  ‘Lance! I didn’t see you inside.’

  He shrugged. ‘I saw you come in. I let the coroner know that I’d come back earlier than expected, so I’ll be giving my evidence later today about finding the drink-drive summons in Fewell’s flat.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘I was going to grab some lunch. There’s a kind of American-style diner over the road that’s not too bad.’

  ‘OK.’

  Grace glanced at him as they rounded the corner towards the cathedral. The day was bright but with a bitter wind, and Lance’s cheeks looked chafed, his eyes red-rimmed. It might only be the cold, but she thought he looked thin and not a little desperate.

  ‘They do good ribs,’ she told him, tucking her arm into his. ‘You look like you could do with a square meal.’

  He gave a wan smile and said nothing, but didn’t disengage his arm. She was content to remain silent until they’d been seated at a corner table with a cheerful red checked tablecloth.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Pretty awful,’ he answered with a half-smile. ‘So did you talk to Colin? Are you going to use the inquest to root ou
t the bad apples?’

  ‘I’ll be called to summarize our inquiries,’ she said carefully, ‘but I’m limited as to what I can say about the weapon. When the FLO last spoke to Davey Fewell, he was still claiming he made it up, that he never saw a gun. And, when we asked Donna if Mark Kirkby might ever have had a weapon, she insisted there was no way.’

  ‘So you’re not going to say anything?’

  ‘What can I say?’

  Grace explained to Lance how, although Donna was not strictly speaking a police widow, the Police Federation had stepped up and made available an out-of-season holiday flat in Weymouth. Despite this refuge, however, Donna was aware there was plenty of online abuse, including some threats, which was why she had been so reluctant to return to Essex to attend the inquest. ‘It’s little wonder that Davey doesn’t want to add to his mother’s distress,’ she ended lamely.

  Lance sat back, shaking his head and looking at her strangely.

  ‘What can I say, Lance?’ she said again, throwing up her hands. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Same, I guess, as the brush-off you gave me when someone got into my flat and went through my stuff.’

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and all Grace’s memories came flooding back of how it had been in Maidstone when no one would look at or speak to her for weeks except when they had to about work, and she’d begun to feel insubstantial, unreal, disappeared. Colin had been her boss then, had wrung his hands and done nothing. Was she really going to stand by and watch something similar happen to Lance?

  ‘My flat, Grace,’ he repeated. ‘Where I live. And you didn’t want to know.’

  He was right: she’d let him down just as Colin had her. Worse. What was she turning into? She felt like she was drowning, felt the panic rise in her again as it had earlier that morning. And then something snapped. ‘I do know who searched your flat.’

  Now she had Lance’s full attention, but instead of looking eager and alert he seemed petrified and defeated.

  ‘Tell me he wasn’t married,’ he begged.

  ‘Peter? No! No, nothing like that.’ She looked around the restaurant, but the nearest tables were empty. This might not be the wisest course, yet she was nevertheless convinced it was the right and only one. She reached out to where Lance’s hand lay on the red and white tablecloth and lowered her voice. ‘It was the security services,’ she said. ‘Peter worked for them. I don’t know which one.’

  Lance stared at her, and then he laughed and took his hand away. ‘No way. That’s crazy.’

  A waiter chose that moment to come and take their orders. They waved him away, requesting another five minutes.

  ‘The reason Peter lied about going to Portugal wasn’t because he was cheating on you,’ Grace said, making a pretence of reading the menu. ‘He lied because he was working undercover.’

  ‘On what?’ Lance asked sharply. ‘Was I the target? Is that why he was with me?’

  ‘No. No, of course not. Why would you be a target?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. I really believed we had something. And now I can’t trust a single thing he said, or anything we did together. Who was he? The love of my life or a total dick?’

  ‘He was doing a job, Lance,’ pleaded Grace. ‘Everything else that happened between you was genuine.’

  ‘What the fuck would you know about being genuine?’ His face was suddenly filled with fury. ‘How long have you been lying to me?’

  ‘I know how you must feel, Lance, and I’m sorry. I hated not being able to—’

  Lance cut her short by getting to his feet and pushing back his chair, scraping it noisily on the floor. He leaned forward, hands pressed so hard against the edge of the table that his knuckles turned white. ‘You have no idea how I feel,’ he spat at her. ‘We’re all supposed to be on the same side, but you let them kill Peter and get away with it!’

  ‘That’s not fair!’ she cried as Lance turned on his heel. ‘Sit down and at least give me a chance to explain!’

  Heads swivelled in their direction, and the waiter peered out from behind his wooden partition to see what was going on. Lance hesitated and then returned to his seat. ‘Is this what it took for you to get bumped back up to detective inspector?’

  ‘Don’t take it out on me! I’ve stuck my neck out just telling you this.’

  ‘I’m sure you can look after yourself.’

  ‘Stop it, Lance! I understand the horrible position you’ve been put in, but the real reason I didn’t dare tell you earlier was for fear you’d react like this. You’ve got to calm down and start thinking clearly.’

  ‘What, and stick to the rules? Collude in a cover-up?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about Peter.’

  He ignored her. ‘Tell barefaced lies to a friend while pretending you care? Let a kid like Davey Fewell go hang? Forget it!’

  Grace felt each accusation like a stab in the eye. By the time she’d gathered her wits, Lance was walking out the door. She hastily left a tip for the food they’d never ordered and followed him, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was a long time since she’d felt so alone.

  She didn’t blame him one bit. Everything he’d said was true. As a consequence of accepting Colin’s orders, she had badly failed a friend. Failed Davey Fewell too. She wasn’t sorry she’d been honest with Lance at last. Even though he might turn out to be a loose cannon, surely it was better for the truth to come out, regardless of the havoc it caused? That’s what she’d always told herself before, and she’d always remained convinced, despite the deep hurt and bewilderment that never quite went away, that she had been right. Although what she could do now to limit the damage of sharing this particular truth was quite another matter.

  Reaching the wide steps that led up to the main entrance of County Hall without much awareness of her surroundings, she abruptly found herself face to face with Adam Kirkby.

  ‘Detective Inspector Fisher.’ He stood directly in front of and two steps above her, his feet apart and hands by his sides as if braced against a physical threat. She was reminded that he was a prison officer, trained to deal with violent confrontation, and moved sideways and up a step so that she was on more of a level with him.

  ‘Mr Kirkby,’ she said. ‘This can’t be an easy day for you or your father.’

  ‘My brother was a hero,’ he said, taking a step back to regain his height advantage, ‘gunned down in cold blood by an inadequate, jealous ex-husband with a chip on his shoulder. If Fewell hadn’t done the job himself, I’d’ve done it for him.’

  ‘Why, do you own a gun, Mr Kirkby?’ She knew her riposte was stupid, but couldn’t help herself. She fully expected an outraged, furious reaction, but was proved wrong.

  Adam Kirkby laughed, his eyes veiled. ‘Now, now,’ he said, wagging a finger. He came closer and she could smell the meaty tang of his breath as he leaned his mouth into her ear and spoke in a tone of fake amusement. ‘Take some advice: don’t be such a bitch that you don’t even know you are one.’

  He turned and walked away up the steps. Grace was so astonished that it took her a moment to register that it was not her nerves jangling but her phone vibrating in her coat pocket. No number was available, and she was about to ignore it, but some instinct kicked in and made her take the call. It was Ivo, calling from Portugal. She listened carefully to all he had to say, but couldn’t get out of her mind how, behind the arrogant aggression of Adam’s insulting words, she’d caught a glimpse of a kind of absolute confidence that seemed to her fanatical and delusional. Or was she becoming so overwrought that she was now conjuring phantoms out of thin air?

  40

  Grace had been sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop for well over an hour, trying every type of search she could think of in order to expand on Ivo’s information about Jerry Coghlan and his shady property developments. All her attempts were meeting dead ends, and she hoped she wasn’t busy trying to disappear down a rabbit hole.

  Listening to Ivo on the pho
ne, she’d been ready to dismiss his account of Panamanian holding companies as nothing more alarming than a bit of tax evasion until he’d told her that Jerry Coghlan had asked him about Buckingham Gate Associates. That had sent a chill down her spine and had clearly set the same alarm bells ringing for Ivo. If Peter had been murdered because of his interest in Coghlan and his financial dealings, then there must be a great deal at stake for Coghlan’s beneficiaries. Ivo had promised that his old mate on the financial desk, who really knew his stuff, would eventually be able to unravel the complex fiscal structures, and that he’d get back to her when he’d got a bit further. Grace sincerely hoped Ivo’s old mate also knew how to be very discreet.

  Her doorbell rang. It was nine at night, and she wasn’t expecting anyone, so she made sure to put the chain on the front door before opening it. It was Lance.

  ‘I came to say sorry,’ he said through the gap.

  She opened up and welcomed him in. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said. ‘I’ve been desperate to call you but didn’t want to make things worse.’

  ‘No,’ he said, not quite looking directly at her. ‘It’s me. I’ve been out of my mind since Peter died, even more so since I saw that photo of him in Vale do Lobo.’

  ‘And I didn’t help. You were quite right to hate me for holding out on you.’

  He shook his head. ‘It sent me mad, thinking he’d lied to me.’

  ‘I can imagine. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Let’s sit down.’ It seemed incredible that the last time she had sat on her sofa with Lance like this had been Christmas Day. ‘Peter was such a lovely man,’ she said. ‘And you two were perfect together. I’m sure he must already have been working on whatever it was he was doing when you met, that he never factored in that he would fall in love.’