The Alibi: A gripping crime thriller full of secrets, lies and revenge. Jaime Raven

his lawyer, his accountant, and Frankie Bishop.

      He had no idea which one of them it could be or whether he should answer it. He didn’t want to speak to anyone until he knew what he was going to say, so he listened to the ringing for about thirty seconds. After it stopped he didn’t move. He just sat there, his mind whirring, as he tried to think of a way to save himself.

       4

      Beth Chambers

      The story broke even before I left the house. I saw Megan Fuller’s picture on BBC News as I stepped out of the shower. By the time I was on my second mug of coffee they were saying she might have been murdered by someone she’d known. That didn’t surprise me, since most murders are committed by friends or relatives of the victims.

      ‘So is that why you have to go to work?’ my mother said, flicking her head towards the TV.

      ‘It’s a big story, Mum,’ I said. ‘And as I happen to be the paper’s crime reporter they expect me to cover it.’

      ‘But it’s the start of the weekend.’

      I huffed out a breath. ‘I know that, Mum, and I’m sorry. But I can’t help it. I’ll make it up to Rosie. I promise.’

      She gave me one of her long, prickly looks so I kept my gaze firmly fixed on the screen and pretended not to notice.

      I could see her out of the corner of my eye, standing in front of the sink with her hands on her hips. Not for the first time I realised that I would probably be just like her when I too was the wrong side of sixty. I certainly had her temperament. We were both stubborn, strong-willed, opinionated.

      Thankfully the physical resemblance was less apparent. She’d had a hard life and it showed in the lines that were etched into her face. What remained of her grey hair was thin and wispy, and the whites of her eyes were tinged with yellow.

      As a younger woman, Peggy Chambers had been beautiful, and it was no wonder she’d had more than her fair share of male admirers. She was 28 when she gave birth to me. I had only a vague recollection of my father because he was only around for a short time. He popped in and out of my life when I was a small child. He brought me presents and sometimes put me on his lap and gave me a cuddle. But he never took me out or came to any of my birthday parties.

      Mum told me it was because he was married and I was the result of an illicit affair. She also told me that he turned out to be a low-life shyster who couldn’t be trusted. One day when I was 5 he just decided he didn’t want to see her any more and stopped coming to the house.

      I couldn’t even picture him in my mind’s eye, although occasionally a distant memory came to me at night. A tall man with a husky voice telling me that he loved me, and that I was the most beautiful girl in the world.

      My mother fell in love again when I was 8 with a black man named Tony Hunter, who she met in the Nag’s Head pub in Peckham. He got her pregnant and so they married.

      Tony was good to both of us and he treated me like his own daughter. When my brother Michael was born, Tony promised me he would always be there for us. But he wasn’t, and the years that followed Michael’s birth were filled with tragedy and heartache.

      That was why my mother was like she was: tough, assertive, and intolerant. It had been her way of coping with the cruel blows she’d suffered during her lifetime. And however much she annoyed me at times, I knew she would do anything for her daughter and granddaughter.

      Rosie thought the world of her, so she hadn’t thrown a hissy fit when I’d told her that Nanny would be taking her to the park because I had to go to work. I’d sweetened the pill by promising to bring her back a present.

      On the TV they were now showing a photograph of Megan Fuller and Danny Shapiro together, and it drew my mother’s attention back to the screen.

      ‘Do you think he killed her?’ she asked me.

      ‘I have no idea,’ I said. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me. The guy’s a notorious thug. Just like his dad was before he got sent down.’

      I’d written countless stories about Danny Shapiro. I’d even tried to expose the inner workings of his organisation. But along with every other investigative journalist who’d tried I had barely been able to scratch the surface. The guy was more careful, and more insulated, than most other villains I’d come across, which was why the police had struggled to bring him down.

      Shapiro was a known face in this area of London. It was part of his manor, and most people knew who he was and what he did. His father, Callum, had lived in Peckham back in the days when my mother ran a salad stall in Rye Lane. He and a few other south London villains were among her customers. Since then times had changed and so had the Lane. These days it had little to offer well-heeled villains, who preferred more upmarket shopping streets.

      ‘So have you ever met him?’ my mother said.

      ‘Do you mean Shapiro?’

      ‘Who else would I be talking about?’

      I shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve approached him twice for an interview. But each time he turned me down.’

      ‘And what did you think of him?’

      ‘He’s a bit flash,’ I said. ‘He’s a charmer, though, and good-looking to boot. I can see why Megan Fuller fell for him.’

      My mother shook her head. ‘You know what, Beth? That man sounds just like your stepdad. He was also handsome and charming and as crooked as they come.’

      The thought made me shudder, but she was right. Tony had been a career criminal just like Danny Shapiro, which was why he was no longer with us.

      And it was why our lives had been filled with so much drama and sadness.

      Grant Scott had arranged for a taxi to pick me up outside the house. The driver honked his horn to let me know he had arrived.

      I apologised again to Rosie for having to work and she gave me a kiss and told me not to forget her present.

      ‘If you do you’ll have me to answer to,’ my mother said. But as she spoke she had a smile on her face and I knew she’d forgiven me, just as she always did. I hugged her and thanked her for taking Rosie to the park.

      ‘I don’t know what I would do without you, Mum,’ I said. ‘You’re a gem.’

      ‘And you’re a right royal pain in the backside, Bethany Chambers,’ she said. ‘But I love you just the same.’

      So all was well on the home front as I left the house.

      I still felt guilty, though. It was always the same when I left Rosie at home and went to work, even though I knew I didn’t really have a choice. After all, someone had to pay the bills. I found some comfort in the fact that I was luckier than most single mums. My own mother was there to help and I took home a good wage. According to the latest hot parenting book I was actually setting a good example for my child.

      But that didn’t mean I was able to shake off the brutal burden of so-called ‘working mum’s guilt’. It was going to plague me for years to come; of that I was certain.

      It was chilly out and I was wearing my designer jeans, black T-shirt, and a thick fleece jacket. My hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and I had sunglasses on my head.

      I was carrying my favourite M&S leather shoulder bag containing my purse, iPad, phone, Olympus voice recorder, and small make-up bag. So I was back in reporter mode and ready to roll.

      I gave the driver Megan Fuller’s address and made myself comfortable on the back seat. Then as soon as we were moving I started making calls. The first was to the New Scotland Yard press office. I was well known to the team and they confirmed what I had already gleaned from the TV news. They also told me that the investigation would be run