Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  But he was unable to shake off the little niggle at the back of his mind. And Vogel was a man who couldn’t proceed with an investigation, or indeed anything much else in life, until he had dealt with anything that niggled at him. What were the odds against a group of friends finding themselves on the receiving end of a series of random incidents of this nature? No, either someone was targeting them or one of the group was the perpetrator, which meant that anyone whose behaviour was not entirely straightforward had to be suspect. And that included PC Michelle Monahan.

  Vogel checked his watch. Michelle was on point duty and would not be returning to the station until late afternoon. He decided to fill in the time by interviewing Ari Kabul. As he was uncertain where to find him, Vogel checked the list of numbers for the group which Michelle had supplied and dialled Ari’s mobile.

  He was unsurprised to be diverted to voicemail and left a message asking Ari to call him back as soon as possible concerning the incident involving Marlena. He was, however, somewhat surprised by how promptly Ari returned his call and the way in which he so readily agreed to come into Charing Cross – ‘for a chat’, as Vogel put it.

  ‘Anything I can do to help clear up what happened to poor Marlena,’ said Ari. ‘Not that I think I have any information for you, but I’ll help in any way I can.’

  Vogel was struck by the highly educated Englishness of Kabul’s voice. He promptly gave himself a telling-off for indulging in stereotyping verging on a kind of racism. What had he expected, for God’s sake? Peter Sellers doing ‘Goodness Gracious Me’?

  Ari duly arrived within the hour and was escorted to an interview room. Vogel noted that the young man was not only handsome and well turned out, he was also extremely self-assured and displayed no obvious signs of drug or drink abuse, nor of suffering from a hangover. Just because he had been arrested under the influence of alcohol and in possession of cocaine, did not, of course, necessarily mean that Ari Kabul had a drink problem and was a regular drug user. The sequence of events Vogel had witnessed at Harpo’s the previous evening could merely have been a one-off occurrence from which Kabul had, apparently, swiftly recovered. However that wasn’t how it had seemed. And, Vogel reminded himself, the effects of cocaine could be deceptive.

  He stared hard at Ari, looking for dilated pupils, or even an unnatural brightness in the eyes. There was nothing, and if Ari noticed Vogel’s close scrutiny he passed no comment.

  He also gave no indication of recognizing Vogel. But then, in spite of his impressively swift recovery, the previous evening’s excesses must surely have dulled Kabul’s senses to some extent.

  He answered most of Vogel’s questions easily and satisfactorily enough. Was he speaking any more quickly than might be normal? Did he seem overexcited or overactive? Vogel didn’t think so. Ari Kabul appeared to be quite calm and in control.

  There was one question he could not answer satisfactorily. He had no verifiable alibi for the time of Marlena’s incident.

  ‘I’m afraid I was on my own, at home in bed, Mr Vogel,’ said Kabul. ‘I had some sort of tummy bug. I didn’t go into work that day. My father was in his office as usual and my mother was out most of the day. In any case, my flat in the basement is completely separate from their part of the house, and has its own entrance, so they rarely know for certain whether I’m in or not.’

  ‘Did you contact your doctor?’ asked Vogel.

  Kabul shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, Detective Sergeant. I just put it down to some dodgy grub at Johnny’s the night before.’

  Other than, perhaps, the absence of an alibi, there was nothing in Kabul’s response to raise any suspicions in Vogel.

  Ari seemed genuinely eager to help and concerned about the misfortunes, albeit that at least two cases were mere pranks, which had now befallen seven of the ten Sunday Club friends.

  ‘If I think of anything that might throw any light on any of this, anything at all, I’ll call you right away, Mr Vogel,’ said Ari, when the policeman indicated that he had no further questions.

  Vogel waited until the young man had reached the door before calling after him.

  ‘You got home all right last night, then,’ he commented.

  Ari suddenly didn’t look quite so self-assured. Which had been Vogel’s intention.

  ‘Were you at Harpo’s?’ he asked, perhaps a little apprehensively.

  Obviously he had no memory of Vogel being there, but that was hardly surprising, thought the detective.

  ‘Playing backgammon,’ he said.

  Ari grinned disarmingly.

  ‘We didn’t play each other, did we?’ he enquired. ‘Surely I couldn’t have forgotten that.’

  Vogel shook his head.

  ‘Did you win?’ asked Ari.

  Vogel reckoned the other man was a good recoverer in more ways than one.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘Did you?’

  Ari looked puzzled. Presumably even he could remember that he’d been knocked out in the first round.

  ‘The young woman, the one you left the club with,’ said Vogel, by way of explanation.

  ‘Ah, the lovely Kylie,’ said Ari, grinning again. ‘Oh yes. I won.’

  Vogel remained sitting at the interview-room table for a few minutes after Ari left, pondering their dialogue. Ari was disconcertingly likeable, and obviously had a way with women, probably whether or not he was coked up. Vogel wondered fleetingly if the young man had been too helpful. But he reckoned he could drive himself crazy with that sort of thinking. And in any case Michelle Monahan was due back from point duty any minute.

  Vogel couldn’t help feeling a reluctance to confront his colleague. He certainly could not bring himself to do so formally, not at this stage anyway. So he hovered at the coffee machine conveniently situated in the corridor just outside the Traffic department’s offices in order to contrive an apparently accidental encounter. In fact, when he saw Michelle approaching he moved so fast he almost tripped over his own feet, lurched forward and bumped into her, spilling much of the black coffee he had already acquired, but fortunately over himself rather than her. She looked surprised and a tad alarmed.

  ‘Cup of coffee?’ he enquired, dabbing ineffectively at the stained front of his faded beige corduroy jacket, but otherwise making a fairly good recovery.

  Michelle nodded her assent.

  ‘White, no sugar,’ she instructed.

  Vogel had been confident she would take the opportunity to spend a few minutes with him. He knew she liked him – well, possibly more than that, although he had no intention of taking advantage. He also suspected she would want to know what progress he was making on the matter she had brought to his attention, although she was probably not yet sure whether he was actively investigating it.

  He told her that he had already interviewed Greg, Karen, Ari and Marlena, and that he was planning to talk to the remaining members of the group over the next day or two.

  ‘Does that include me?’ Michelle asked levelly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Vogel.

  ‘No. There’s something else you want to ask me, isn’t there?’

  Michelle was looking him straight in the eye, her manner absolutely direct. She might once have made a pass at him but that didn’t make her any kind of pushover professionally, he reminded himself. He also, either because of or in spite of the pass, remained disconcertingly fond of the young policewoman.

  She spoke again before he had time to fully marshal his thoughts.

  ‘You’d better get on with it,’ she said.

  Vogel felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t like it when his usually clinical approach was tainted, as he saw it, by even a hint of emotion. That was when mistakes were made.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Vogel said.

  ‘For God’s sake, shoot,’ said Michelle.

  ‘W-well,’ Vogel stumbled. ‘Marlena told me you said you’d just come back from a course when you visited her the other night. That you’d been with the Diplomatic Pr
otection boys in Belfast. There was no such course in Belfast.’ Vogel paused. ‘Indeed, as far as I can discover, there was no such course at that time anywhere, and although you have made an application to Diplomatic Protection you’ve not been interviewed yet, let alone sent on a course. And apparently you called in sick those two missing days.’

  Michelle stared at him.

  ‘You really have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’

  Vogel felt the flush in his cheeks deepening. He didn’t reply.

  ‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Michelle, the impatience clear in her voice. ‘I took a sickie to go back to Dorset to see Phil. The tart he left me for has dumped him, which serves him right. Trouble is, I still love the rotten bastard. He called me in a dreadful state in the middle of the night on Sunday and I upped sticks and took off straight away. It was too late to apply for leave so I just went sick. And I didn’t want Marlena or any of the rest of our lot to know, because I’ve done nothing but slag Phil off to them all. So I lied. I couldn’t bear the thought of them knowing that I went running back to him at the first opportunity. I can’t believe you picked me up on that, Vogel.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Vogel.

  Michelle managed an ironic laugh. ‘No, you can’t, can you? You pick everyone up on everything. You dissect every detail. And that’s why I asked you to look into this. So serves me right you’re currently dissecting me, I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Vogel.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Michelle. She downed the last of her coffee and binned the paper cup. Vogel was still holding his cup even though it was already empty. After all, he’d spilt most of it. Michelle turned on her heel and headed on to Traffic HQ. For a second or two Vogel watched her go. Then he called after her.

  ‘So are you two getting back together again, then?’ he asked.

  Michelle glowered at him. ‘I don’t want the whole fucking world to know about this,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no one else here,’ said Vogel reasonably, gesturing with his free hand at the empty corridor. ‘Are you?’ he persisted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Michelle. ‘And in any case it’s none of your fucking business.’

  She seemed extremely angry. If she did still carry a torch for him, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Or perhaps that merely added to her anger. Vogel wasn’t sure. Vaguely wishing he hadn’t got involved in the first place, he headed back to his desk. The trouble was that now he’d started his investigation he wouldn’t be able to stop. He knew that much about himself. He wished he could but he couldn’t.

  He had a new email from his superior asking him to look into a couple of queries concerning his report on the fraud case. He decided to deal with that straight away, but his mind kept wandering.

  Finally he gave in to temptation. He had to reassure himself about Michelle, he just had to. He called a colleague with Dorset police, Ben Parker, a man he’d trained with at Hendon many years previously whom he knew was a sergeant at the same station as Phil Monahan.

  Only when he’d successfully completed that call did he feel able to return to finalizing his part of the fraud case. After that he considered himself free to return to the matter which was now constantly nagging away at him. He checked out his contact details for the rest of the friends and began to set up interviews for that evening and the next day. He arranged to meet Alfonso a little later on during the waiter’s break from duty at the Vine. Bob agreed to come to the station the following morning at 10 a.m. He decided to visit the three men, whose dogs had died so horribly, in their own homes and made appointments to call on both Tiny and George the following afternoon. Billy, it seemed, was planning to return to work the next day but offered to come to Charing Cross police station as soon as he left his office.

  Vogel wanted to speak to each of the friends individually, just in case there were contradictions or even minor variations in their stories which might give him some sort of lead.

  He also wanted to interview Greg and Karen again, this time separately. He remained convinced that both had something on their minds which they weren’t telling him, particularly Greg.

  He had mobile numbers for the Walkers, but neither answered, so he left messages asking them to contact him, and wondered how long it would take them to do so.

  Then he began to pack up his desk ready to leave for his appointment with Alfonso, who had suggested they meet in a Costa cafe just across the street from the Vine. Vogel logged out of his computer and closed it down. He cleared his desk of any bits and pieces that he didn’t carry in his pocket, like his calculator and his desk diary, and locked them in a drawer. Vogel was naturally tidy and as meticulous with objects as he was awkward with people. His desk always looked as if nobody used it. There was never any personal paraphernalia, no photographs, no loose notes. Nothing.

  He was just leaving the building when his mobile rang.

  It was Ben Parker in Dorchester.

  ‘You were right to be suspicious,’ Ben began. ‘I’m having a pint with Phil Monahan. I’ve just stepped out of the pub to call you. He’s not seen or spoken to Michelle in over a year.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Well yes, I think so. I enquired about Michelle as casually as I could. Phil has no reason to lie to me.’

  ‘No, I suppose he doesn’t,’ murmured Vogel thoughtfully.

  ‘And there’s another thing,’ Parker went on. ‘The new bird’s pregnant.’

  ‘So she’s not dumped him, then?’

  ‘Seems not. She phoned while we were in the pub. I wouldn’t say it’s a match made in heaven, but there’s no doubt he’s over the moon about having a kid. Something he always wanted, apparently.’

  Vogel was disturbed by what Ben Parker had told him. Apart from anything else, Michelle Monahan seemed to have left herself without an alibi for the time of the Marlena incident, although Vogel still found it hard to accept that she needed one. But her husband surely had no reason to lie. Certainly not to Parker.

  Vogel wondered if Michelle was aware that the new woman in her husband’s life was pregnant. Either way, what was she playing at? She had asked him to investigate after all, so surely she had nothing to hide. But maybe that was double bluff. He still couldn’t believe that the young policewoman could be responsible for any part of the unpleasant sequence of events he was investigating. Nonetheless he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit.

  ten

  Greg, of course, did not really believe that the unpleasant incidents concerning his family were random acts of vandalism. Not at all. Not the slashing of the tyres on his van, nor the brick through the window of his apartment.

  And he shared none of the professed doubts of the other Sunday Club members concerning who may or may not have been responsible. The other episodes, the pranks, the Marlena incident, the horrible attack on the two little dogs, they were one thing. What had happened to his van and to his home, the danger his whole family now seemed to be in, was entirely another. Greg knew who was responsible. Absolutely. He had no doubts at all.

  He also knew that he had to do something about it. Fast. Unless he wanted to wait until someone he loved was hurt. And he knew exactly what he had to do. He had no choice.

  Later that evening he made excuses to Karen, who was still furious with him, and set off for that Chinatown gambling club again. Karen thought she knew about Greg’s past. She really didn’t have a clue. And he could not share it with her. If she ever found out, he dreaded what the knowledge would do to their relationship. He also did not want his wife to live in fear. It didn’t matter about him. Greg had sold out to the devil many years previously, and was prepared to take the consequences. He’d learned to live with fear over the years. Once in a while he almost allowed himself to forget. But only ever almost, in spite of it having been so long since he’d been given any real cause to remember. Although he’d become expert at concealment even from those closest to him, there had always been an abiding dread in his
heart. And now, it seemed, he must face his demons again.

  The same security doormen, in their dark suits and dicky bows, stood outside the Zodiac. Or if they weren’t the same ones, then they were clones. Hard-faced and dangerous-looking.

  But on this occasion Greg did not shuffle by and lurk around while desperately seeking the courage to go in. He knew that he must fulfil his intentions. If the latest events were anything to go by, he was probably running out of time.

  So, attempting a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel, he walked straight up to the door of the Zodiac and addressed the nearest of the two doormen, explaining briefly why he was there and who he hoped to see. The man turned his back on Greg and spoke into a mike clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He was also wearing an earpiece. Greg knew he would be carrying, probably in a belt holster, a standard security-industry Motorola two-way radio linked to other security staff within the building and, most importantly, to the upstairs offices of Zodiac Enterprises.

  ‘All right, you can go through,’ the doorman said after a minute or two. ‘I understand you know the way?’

  Greg nodded. It had been years since he’d visited the Zodiac, but he knew the way all right. It was one of those things you never forgot. He moved swiftly through the main rooms of the club, past the usual roulette tables, the blackjack, and the fruit machines. There was also a fanton table, the traditional Chinese version of roulette involving placing bets on the number of buttons to be left beneath a bowl. Few of the clientele looked up as he passed. Intent upon their gambling, they were not interested in him, and he certainly was not interested in them. At the back was a door marked private, outside which stood a third dinner-jacketed heavy. He invited Greg to pass through, into a dimly lit hallway, then frisked him with brisk efficiency before indicating the rickety flight of stairs ahead.

  Greg duly climbed to the third floor, pacing himself, hoping he was fit enough not to arrive out of breath. The walls on either side were distinctly grubby and greasy, the carpet was stained and fraying, and the door off the third-floor landing, with its peeling paint and ill-assorted door furniture, appeared to have seen far better days. But appearances can be deceptive, and almost always were in this other, secret world. The door, which was actually steel-plated beneath its layer of bad decoration, possessed all the benefits of modern technology, including a camera eye. As Greg approached, as if by magic, it opened smoothly to reveal the sumptuously appointed rooms within. Greg stepped inside. His feet sank into plush carpet in the richest shade of purple. Opulent leather furniture and banks of computers lined the walls, one of which bore a massive flat-screen TV.