Читать книгу The Alibi: A gripping crime thriller full of secrets, lies and revenge - Jaime Raven, Jaime Raven - Страница 7

Beth Chambers

I jolted awake to the sound of my mother’s voice and the earthy aroma of instant coffee.

‘You need to get up,’ she said. ‘The paper phoned and they want you to call them back straight away.’

I forced my eyes open and felt a throbbing pain at the base of my skull, made worse by the harsh sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ I groaned.

‘Let me guess,’ my mother said, placing a mug on the bedside table. ‘You’ve got a hangover.’

I rolled on my side, squinted at the flickering numbers on the digital clock.

‘Bloody hell, Mum. It’s only half eight.’

‘That’s right,’ she said, her tone disapproving. ‘It’s also Saturday – one of only two days in the week when Bethany Chambers gets to spend quality time with her daughter.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘Is she still in bed?’

‘You must be joking. She’s been up for an hour. I’ve washed and dressed her and she’s having breakfast. She thinks you’re taking her to the park.’

I felt the inevitable wave of guilt wash over me. It had been a mistake to drink so much last night. But then how else would I have got through what had been such a tiresome ordeal?

‘How bad is it?’ my mother asked.

I closed my eyes, held my breath, tried to assess the level of discomfort.

‘On a scale of one to ten I’d say it’s an eleven,’ I said.

My mother exhaled a long breath. ‘Then sit up and drink some coffee. It’ll make you feel better.’

I hauled myself up and placed my back against the headboard. I had to close my eyes again to stop the room from spinning. When I opened them my mother was still standing there looking down at me. Her arms were folded across her ample chest and she was shaking her head.

I sipped at the coffee. It was strong and sweet and I felt it burn a track down the back of my throat.

‘When did the office call?’ I said.

‘A few minutes ago,’ my mother said. ‘I answered your phone because you left it in your bag – which you left on the floor in the hallway, along with your coat and shoes.’

I couldn’t resist a smile. It was like going back to when I was a wayward teenager. Most weekends I’d roll in plastered, barely remembering what I’d been up to. My poor mum had put up with a lot in those days and even now, aged 29 and with a kid of my own, I was still a bit of a handful. Still cursed with a reckless streak.

‘So how did it go?’ she said. ‘Was this one Mr Right?’

I shook my head. ‘I should be so lucky. Suffice to say I won’t be seeing him again.’

She gave a snort of derision. ‘I told you, didn’t I? The only blokes you’ll meet on those internet dating sites are losers and cheats. It’s a waste of time and money.’

And with that she turned and stepped back out of the room.

‘Can you get my phone for me?’ I called after her.

‘No, I can’t,’ came the reply. ‘If you want it you’ll have to get up.’

I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, tuneful sigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to accept that she was probably right about the dating thing. Last night had been awful. Another date, another disaster. The guy’s name was Trevor and in the flesh he looked nothing like his profile picture. Most of his hair had vanished since it was taken and he’d also grown a second chin. He said he was an IT consultant, and I believed him because he spent the whole time talking about what he did with computers.

It became obvious early on why he was still single at the age of 35. And if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d gone to the trouble of travelling all the way across London to meet me I would have left sooner than I did. But that would have been impolite, perhaps even a little cruel. So I’d stuck it out while knocking back the Pinot in an effort to numb my senses.

Over the last five months I’d dated seven men through online dating sites and Trevor was the dullest. He’d been even less entertaining than Kevin the chiropodist who had offered on our first date to examine my feet. When I wouldn’t let him he went into a sulk and accused me of being a snob.

No way was I a snob. When it came to men I’d always been happy to cast a wide net. I’d never discriminate against race, colour, or class, and I accepted that most guys around my age had baggage from a previous relationship. I just wanted someone who was honest, open, reasonably intelligent and with a sense of humour. It would help, of course, if there was also an instant physical attraction. But so far those I’d met online had lacked most or all of those qualities.

‘I suppose it’s time I called it a day,’ I said aloud to myself, knowing I didn’t really mean it.

The trouble was I missed being in a relationship. The divorce was two years ago and I hadn’t slept with anyone since. It wasn’t just the sex though. I missed being part of a couple. I missed the companionship, the intimacy, the stream of pleasant surprises that were part and parcel of a burgeoning relationship.

Of course being a single mum with a full-time job kept me busy. In fact I had hardly any time to myself. And that was essentially the problem. I wanted more fun and a touch of romance in my life. I wanted to fall in love again and maybe have another child. I wanted a home of my own and to share it with someone who’d get to know me as well as I knew myself.

My mother didn’t really understand me, or so she said. She reckoned I was being selfish, that I should forget about men and focus on bringing up Rosie.

‘You already work far too many hours,’ she told me when I first joined the dating scene. ‘You haven’t got time for a boyfriend or a husband.’

Then again she had her own reason for wanting things to stay as they were. As long as I remained unattached she got to have us living with her. Not that I’d ever complain. If it wasn’t for my mother I’d probably find it impossible to look after a 3-year-old and continue to work as a journalist.

Thanks to her I didn’t have to pay for childminders or meet the high cost of living in London. While married my husband and I had shared the exorbitant rent on a property in Dulwich. But Mum owned outright this three-bed terraced house in Peckham, and my contribution to the outgoings was relatively small.

She was also on hand to take care of Rosie. That was important, given the fact that my job entailed horrendously unsocial hours.

Take this morning, for example. I had a horrible feeling that the newsdesk wanted me in on my day off. Why else would the office call me at this hour on a Saturday morning? Had something happened? Was there a breaking news story they wanted me to get across?

There was only one way to find out, of course, and that was to get up and phone them back. But it was the last thing I wanted to do. My head was hurting and I felt more than a little nauseous. Plus I didn’t want to have to tell my daughter that I might not be taking her to the park after all.

As if on cue the bedroom door was flung open and there she was, the apple of my eye, looking absolutely gorgeous in a yellow dress, her long fair hair scraped back in a ponytail.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she yelled. ‘Nanny said you have to get up. You’re not allowed to go back to sleep because if you do you’ll be in trouble.’

People have told me that Rosie is the image of her mother. And it was true up to a point. We both have blue eyes and hair the colour of wheat. Our noses are small and pointed, and we each have a slight lisp.

But Rosie has her father’s facial bone structure and also his smile, which was one of the things I’d loved about him in the beginning. That was before I realised he used it as a distraction, a way to make me believe that he was a caring, faithful husband instead of a cheating scumbag.

‘Hurry up, Mummy,’ Rosie said excitedly. ‘It’s sunny and I want to go to the park.’

She stood next to the bed, pulling at the duvet, her big round eyes pleading with me to get up.

‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’s still really early and Mummy’s got a headache.’

‘I can kiss it better for you.’

The words out of my daughter’s mouth never failed to lift my spirits. I put the mug back on the bedside table and reached over so that she could peck me on the forehead.

‘I feel much better already,’ I said.

Then I pulled her close to me and gave her a cuddle. She felt soft and warm and smelled of shower gel.

‘Go and tell Nanny to make me some more coffee,’ I said. ‘I’ll be out as soon as I’ve been to the loo.’

She skipped out of the room, repeating my words to herself so that she wouldn’t forget them.

I then dragged myself out of bed, only to be confronted by my own reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

I usually wear silk pyjamas at night but I’d either forgotten to put them on or I just hadn’t bothered. I couldn’t remember which. Anyway, I was naked expect for my watch and a going-out necklace.

As always I cast a critical eye over my body. And as always I felt a pang of disappointment. Despite all the diets, gym sessions and yoga classes, I was still very much a work in progress. My breasts were not as firm as they used to be, my thighs were riddled with cellulite, and my tummy looked as though it was in the early stages of pregnancy.

But I did have my good points, thank God. My hair was full-bodied and shoulder-length and I never had to do much with it. I was just over five seven in bare feet and had a face that most people considered attractive. In fact my ex went so far as to tell me that I reminded him of the actress Jennifer Lawrence. It gave my ego a huge boost up until the day I discovered that he was incapable of being truthful.

I shook my head, annoyed that I’d allowed that deceitful sod to invade my thoughts this early in the morning. But then it wasn’t as though I could distance myself from him. For all his faults – and there were plenty of them – he adored Rosie and made a point of seeing her twice a week as part of the custody arrangement. It meant we remained in contact, and in all honesty it wasn’t as bad now as it had been at the start. I was over the shock and humiliation of his betrayal, and all the feelings I’d had for him had evaporated.

I was now civil to him whenever we met and that made life easier all round. There were never any arguments over maintenance payments and he was usually willing to help out when I needed certain favours.

Naturally my mother hated him with a vengeance, and when he called at the house she made a point of retreating to her bedroom to avoid seeing him.

It wouldn’t be an issue today because he’d taken Rosie out on Thursday and wasn’t due to see her again until Wednesday, when he’d pick her up from the nursery.

Today it was my turn to spoil her – if I didn’t have to go to work. And that was a bloody big if.

I turned away from the mirror, picked up my robe from the chair next to the bed and peered through the curtains. The bright sun made a change since we were in the middle of one of the wettest and coldest Novembers for years.

My bedroom was at the front of the house and the view was of a row of almost identical terraced houses opposite. All of them were worth in excess of half a million pounds, which seemed extraordinary to me given that Peckham used to be one of the grimiest and most dangerous parts of south London. But having undergone massive regeneration and steady gentrification, the area was now considered a trendy place to live, attracting families and city workers alike.

For me Peckham was both familiar and convenient. The house was a short walk from the railway station and from there it was just a ten-minute train ride to London Bridge and the offices of the The Post, the evening newspaper that served the capital. I’d worked there for the past five years.

Peckham Rye Common was also close by and that was where I’d planned to take Rosie today. I really didn’t want to disappoint her because Mum was right about me not spending enough quality time with her. I definitely needed to make more of an effort, put Rosie before everything else and stop jumping to the tune of the newsdesk.

I came to a decision suddenly. If the newsdesk asked me to go to work I’d tell them it wasn’t possible. I’d say I’d already made plans and they couldn’t be changed.

They’d no doubt be surprised because I loved the job and could usually be relied on to come in at short notice. But this time they’d just have to call up someone else, assuming they hadn’t done so already.

‘You took your time getting back to me,’ Grant Scott said. ‘I was about to get someone else to cover a story that we’ve just got wind of.’

‘I’m afraid that’s what you’ll have to do, boss,’ I said. ‘It’s my day off and I’ve made plans.’

‘Well, I suggest you change them or else you’re going to be sorely disappointed. This is huge.’

‘That’s what you always say when you’re short of people.’

‘I mean it this time, Beth. You’ve got first call on this because you’re the paper’s crime reporter. So I want you on it from the start. And trust me it’s right up your street.’

Grant was The Post’s senior news editor and an expert in the art of manipulation. He was an old-school newspaperman who knew there was one sure way to get a reporter – any reporter – to do his bidding, and that was to dangle the carrot of a cracking yarn.

‘So just out of curiosity what’s the story?’ I said.

I could imagine him smiling on the other end of the line, thinking he’d got me hooked and that all he had to do was reel me in. He’d been my mentor after all, helping nurture my career since I got the job at The Post. He was also the one who had nicknamed me The Ferret, because of my uncanny ability to ferret out stories.

Three years ago he appointed me to the position of the paper’s first-ever female crime reporter. And in the pub afterwards he told me: ‘You got the job because like me the news is embedded in your psyche, Beth. It’s part of your DNA. You can’t resist the excitement that comes from being the first to tell people what bad things are happening all around them. It’s like the rush you get from a sniff of the white stuff.’

He’d been right, of course. From an early age I’d been fascinated by the news and how it was covered and disseminated. Before I left school I knew exactly what career path I wanted to follow. It wasn’t easy, given my background, but I’d managed to pull it off, and like every other hack I knew I was now addicted to the chase.

‘There’s been a murder,’ Grant was saying. ‘And the victim is none other than Megan Fuller.’

It took a second for the name to register.

‘Do you mean the actress?’ I said.

‘Yep, although as you know that’s not her only claim to fame. As well as being a former TV soap star she was also the ex-wife of a well-known London gangster.’

‘Christ,’ I blurted. ‘Danny Shapiro.’

‘That’s right,’ Grant said, as though he’d scored a point. ‘Danny fucking Shapiro – the villain with the film-star looks who took over a huge criminal empire after his notorious father got banged up.’

I felt a surge of adrenalin. Grant wasn’t far wrong in saying the story was huge. Danny Shapiro was one of the country’s highest-profile criminals. His gang operated south of the Thames and was involved in drug trafficking, prostitution, extortion, money laundering, and even kidnapping. He and Megan Fuller had been tabloid fodder throughout their three-year marriage which had ended in divorce fourteen months ago.

‘Megan was found stabbed to death at her home in Balham earlier this morning,’ Grant said. ‘We had a tip from a paramedic who attended. So we’ve got the jump on everyone else.’

I was suddenly oblivious to the ache in my head as my mind filled with a flood of questions that I doubted Grant would know the answers to. I was certain the story would have created a buzz in the newsroom. The headline writers would already be focused on the paper’s early edition front page, and the online team were probably about to publish something on the website. Then it’d be out there, leading to a full-blown media firestorm.

‘So do you still want me to pass the story on to one of your colleagues?’ Grant said. ‘Only I can’t piss around. We need to move on this.’

From where I stood in the kitchen I could see Rosie at the table in the adjoining dining room. She was busy drawing pictures on a pad with big colourful crayons. My mother sat next to her, but her eyes were on me and her brow was scrunched up in a frown. I could tell she knew what was coming.

I felt my resolve dissipate and the guilt rear up inside me again as I turned away from them and said into the phone, ‘Okay, give me the details and Megan Fuller’s address. I’ll get right on it.’

‘That’s my girl,’ Grant said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.’