Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  Vogel felt a terrible foreboding as he stepped out onto the street. Despite the age difference between the victims, there was that one striking similarity between the King’s Cross murders and the killing of Marleen McTavish. The sexual organs, the womb and ovaries of all three women had been hacked from their bodies.

  But Marlena, unlike the earlier victims, had not been strangled beforehand. Her internal organs had been ripped from her body while she was still alive, and she had bled to death. That was what Dr Fitzwarren had said, wasn’t it?

  That being the case, Marlena had died slowly. Vogel shuddered at the thought. The poor woman would have been in mortal agony for what must have seemed like an eternity.

  fourteen

  When my work was done, I dissolved into the night. It was something I had always been able to do. I knew how to cover my tracks, how to disappear without trace. My feet were winged. My soul was free. There would be no blood-covered, raincoated murderer on the streets of London, no easy target for the CCTV cameras to focus upon.

  I was the Houdini of death. I was the messenger from Hell, and after I had wreaked my vengeance it was as if I evaporated into thin air, leaving little more than a ghostly presence.

  Everything had gone according to plan. Moreover I had found a strength and a will beyond my own expectations. I’d wondered if I might falter, but even though the blood and gore exploded from her living body with far greater force than I had anticipated, I did not waver. Quite the reverse. As I watched her face twist in agony, as her life’s blood washed over me, my resolve grew ever stronger, so that the power of my arm achieved greater magnitude with every stroke, and the thrust of the knife grew ever bolder and more incisive.

  I had a memory, of course, a kind of gene memory, of how to cause great pain without myself being consumed by it. I knew what I was capable of because of what I had done before. Because of all that had been forced upon me. In childhood and beyond.

  But this had been a step further. An extraordinary new experience. From the moment I had learned the truth, my entire being had been focused on this ultimate act of revenge. I had lain awake at night, imagining what it might be like to carve into a living body and feel it tense and try to escape the agony I was inflicting, to be able to stare into the eyes of my victim as the life slowly ebbed from them . . .

  The reality had exceeded my imaginings.

  On his arrival back at the station, Vogel was summoned to DI Forest’s office. This was no more than he had expected. After all, he had blatantly disobeyed orders.

  ‘I’ve had DCI Clarke of the MIT on the phone,’ began Forest, glowering at Vogel. ‘Apparently you went behind my back and blundered into her crime scene.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Vogel, keeping his voice level and his face as expressionless as possible. He’d assumed Clarke would make a formal complaint about his unauthorized appearance.

  ‘I’ve supported you, Vogel,’ continued Forest, quivering with rage. ‘I’ve given you a free hand, let you do things your own way. And this is how you repay me.’

  Only because of the results I’ve delivered, only because of what I do for your crime figures, that’s why you support me, you pompous prat, thought Vogel.

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ he said.

  Forest grunted. ‘However, it seems you must have been blessed at birth.’

  ‘What, sir?’ Vogel wasn’t following this.

  ‘DCI Clarke tells me she was impressed with your knowledge of the case and with your suggestion that there could be a link with two unsolved crimes. “The man’s a thinker,” she said.’

  Forest continued to glower at Vogel, as if he had delivered a thoroughly damning insult rather than passing on a remark most people would take as a compliment. ‘Anyway, she wants you on her team as Assistant SIO.’

  Vogel’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Seems her usual number two’s just taken early retirement.’ Forest sniffed. ‘Not bloody surprised.’

  Vogel waited to see if any further explanation might be forthcoming. It wasn’t.

  ‘I haven’t got the rank, sir,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You have now,’ replied Forest with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘As of this moment, you’re Acting Detective Inspector Vogel. Clarke’s already fixed it with the top brass at the Yard. Moves fast, that one. And what she wants, Nobby Clarke gets. She is the golden girl, after all. Wonderful crime figures . . .’

  Forest’s eyes glazed over for a moment, before he came to and shook his head somewhat sorrowfully.

  ‘I see, sir,’ said Vogel, who wasn’t entirely sure that he did.

  He did know that an inspector’s salary, even if it didn’t prove to be permanent, would be extremely useful right now. Although Vogel had never actively sought promotion, nor even known whether he really wanted it, his personal financial responsibilities had been rising of late. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife. He was only human.

  ‘Right then, get on with it,’ continued Forest, his usual bluster restored. ‘Clarke wants you hands on, Vogel. She’s given orders for Bertorelli to be arrested straight away, and she wants you to lead a team of the MIT chaps and bring the bastard in. A squad car’s outside waiting, Vogel. Oh, and from now on you report to her. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Vogel.

  Alfonso Bertorelli was not at his grandmother’s home in King’s Cross, as Vogel had hoped he would be. Instead the arresting officers found merely a frightened old woman who spoke poor English but managed to tell them that her grandson had gone to work.

  ‘My boy, he say he just want to carry on as normal . . .’

  Clarke had simultaneously arranged for a CID man and two uniformed officers from Dagenham nick to go to Bertorelli’s mother’s address. They found nobody at home, perhaps backing up by default the grandmother’s claim.

  Unless Bertorelli had done a runner, thought Vogel. Leaving two officers to search the premises, he asked for more back-up to meet him at the Vine.

  It was by now nearly four in the afternoon. As this was a Sunday, the restaurant was still full. Most of the remaining lunchers were on puddings, coffee, and in some cases brandy or liqueurs, when they became aware of police activity around them.

  Alfonso was delivering iced Scandinavian berries with warm chocolate sauce to table fifteen when two uniformed PCs relieved him of the dish and steered him towards the door.

  Chocolate sauce slopped onto Alfonso’s pristine white shirt and several berries fell to the floor, which the waiter only wished would open up and swallow him. He tried to shake himself free of the grasp of the officers.

  ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’ he asked. ‘I’m an innocent man, do you hear?’

  ‘Just step outside, please, sir,’ instructed Detective Constable Jones, who was right behind the two PCs. They had positioned themselves on either side of Alfonso and had each firmly grasped him by the upper arm.

  ‘At least will you let me walk out of my restaurant without being manhandled?’ asked Alfonso. ‘I’m not going to try to run, am I?’

  The two uniformed officers looked at DC Jones, who glanced around the busy room. Outside, several more police officers waited. DC Jones nodded slightly to the PCs, one of whom released his grip on Alfonso while continuing to steer him to the door. The second officer kept one hand lightly resting on Alfonso’s arm, just in case.

  Vogel had remained outside, letting the woodentops and DC Jones do the dirty work. He stood on the pavement opposite the door to the Vine, watchful as ever. When Alfonso emerged, Vogel stared at him with impassive eyes. Jones and the two PCs stepped away from Alfonso, allowing Vogel to confront him one to one.

  ‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Miss Marleen McTavish,’ Vogel began. ‘You do not have to say anything—’

  Vogel stopped abruptly. He could see he wasn’t going to get to finish the caution until later.

  Alfonso looked as if he’d been hit by a truck. His face turned ashen, his eyes glazed o
ver.

  ‘Marlena,’ he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Marlena . . .’

  Alfonso’s body began to sway.

  Vogel stepped forward, arms outstretched. Other officers also reached out towards the arrested man. All of them were too slow and too late.

  Alfonso dropped like a stone onto the pavement.

  They took him to UCH for a check-up. Alfonso came round almost as quickly as he had passed out, and his only injuries appeared to be a grazed hand and a sprained wrist, but Vogel was taking no chances. Whatever the outcome of the next couple of days, he didn’t want the result undermined by some technicality that would create a legal loophole through which a killer could escape.

  While waiting to be given the all-clear to detain Alfonso for interviews, Vogel learned that the officers searching the grandmother’s home at King’s Cross had found a pair of bloodstained Adidas trainers in one of the bins outside the back door of her block. Size nine. The same size apparently as the small collection of shoes in Alfonso’s bedroom.

  This was a potentially highly incriminating discovery. Vogel had little doubt that the blood on the shoes would prove to be Marlena’s. He did, however, as when Alfonso had previously been arrested, have doubts about the location and manner of the discovery of the trainers. Alfonso Bertorelli didn’t strike him as unintelligent. Would anyone, having committed murder, dump a pair of incriminating bloodstained trainers in the bin at his place of residence? Or one of his places of residence. It would seem to be an act of total stupidity. Particularly when the perpetrator in question had already been arrested on suspicion of previous, doubtless connected, offences.

  On the other hand, Vogel was well aware how those responsible for criminal acts could panic when the enormity of their actions overwhelmed them. Particularly where crimes of violence were concerned. And most particularly when it came to murder. Any murder. But surely all the more so when the murder had been as brutal as this one.

  However, to question Bertorelli’s guilt for no other reason than the sheer weight of evidence against him would be perverse, even by Vogel’s standards.

  Nobby Clarke and her MIT had installed themselves at Charing Cross police station and a cell had been made ready for Alfonso by the time Vogel was able to return there with the arrested man.

  Alfonso was processed in the custody suite, his personal possessions and his clothes taken from him as before, even though this time Vogel did not expect them to necessarily provide evidence. He was then offered a cup of tea. Everything by the book, said Vogel, who countered his eccentricity in certain areas by acting with almost obsessive adherence to regulations in others.

  While this was going on, Clarke summoned Vogel to the office which had been temporarily assigned to her. The DCI had a real presence about her, Vogel thought, emphasized by her height and her stylish appearance. Her dark blonde hair, its length pushing the limit of Met regulations, fell nearly to the collar of her sharply tailored jacket. Her manner was confident and authoritative without being imposing or domineering. She welcomed Vogel to MIT, told him she was looking forward to working with him as her number two, then cut to the chase.

  ‘Everything does now point to Bertorelli,’ she said. ‘But the more we can interview out of him the better. And you should know what the search team have found at Marlena’s apartment.’

  Vogel looked at her enquiringly.

  ‘There was a suitcase under her bed containing memorabilia from her time in Paris. Back then, she was known as Madame Lola. And it appears she ran an upmarket brothel.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Vogel.

  ‘Indeed,’ Clarke agreed. ‘There were photographs both of her and various clients. A very elite clientele, from the look of it. We’ve been on to the French police. As you’d expect, they knew all about Madame Lola. They lost track of her twenty years ago after she fell foul of the mob. Word had it she’d got overambitious, decided to try her hand at a bit of blackmail. Only she chose the wrong victim. When she suddenly disappeared, the gendarmes weren’t sure whether she’d gone to ground or been buried six feet under it. Turns out she must have fled the country.’

  ‘So is it possible someone from her past has caught up with her, ma’am?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘Must be a possibility, I suppose. But she came back to the UK, reinvented herself, has lived in Covent Garden ever since, and there seems to be no question of her having set herself up as a madam again. Made plenty of dosh before, apparently. No, why would anyone from her Paris days come after her twenty years after the event? It must be Bertorelli. We already have hard evidence, don’t we? I just wanted you to be aware of what we’ve learned about Marlena, that’s all.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Vogel stood up to leave. When he reached the door, DCI Clarke called after him. Vogel turned to face her.

  ‘Listen, Vogel,’ she said. ‘Would you stop calling me bloody ma’am. This is MIT, we’re not a bunch of provincial wooden-tops, and you’re my assistant SIO. Call me Nobby, for Christ’s sake.’

  Vogel gulped. He could not imagine calling any woman Nobby, let alone his rather impressive superior officer.

  Clarke seemed to be waiting for him to respond. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Oh, all right, then,’ she continued eventually. ‘Boss will do. Anything but bloody ma’am.’

  ‘Yes, ma— I mean boss,’ said Vogel.

  DC Jones was hovering in the corridor ready to take the first interview shift with him.

  ‘Pam, do you know why the boss calls herself Nobby?’ Vogel asked.

  ‘Isn’t it to do with the clerks in the City wearing top hats in the old days? People took to calling them nobby and it stuck. So if your surname’s Clarke, you’re liable to get called Nobby. Thought you’d know that, guv.’

  ‘Yeah, but I thought it was just men. I’ve never come across a woman called Nobby. What’s her real first name?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ replied Pam Jones. ‘Apparently she hates her given name and won’t let it be used.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said Vogel, his thoughts immediately turning to a famous fictional detective. ‘Hasn’t anyone tried to find out?’

  ‘Carlisle and Wagstaff have a real thing about it. They’ve checked her out big time – the electoral register, everything. She’s always Nobby Clarke. They even managed to get hold of her driving licence. Nobby Clarke.’

  Vogel found himself smiling. His new superior officer was certainly different.

  He turned his attention to the matter in hand as he and Pam Jones approached the interview room where Alfonso Bertorelli was waiting for them. The Italian had tried to get Christopher Margolia, the criminal lawyer previously called in via Billy, to be by his side, but it seemed Margolia had jetted off to Prague for the weekend. A duty solicitor had been duly provided.

  Nothing Clarke had told Vogel made him any happier about the Bertorelli situation. Quite the reverse, in fact. But neither did he believe that Marlena had been the victim of some mobster hitman. He just hoped, as he sat down opposite Alfonso, that the ensuing interview would prove to be fruitful. Who could tell, the man might even confess, and that would solve everything. But Vogel didn’t think so, somehow.

  ‘To begin with, Mr Bertorelli, could you please take us through your movements after you were released from police custody yesterday?’ he asked.

  Alfonso looked a wreck. His eyes were red-rimmed as if he’d been crying. His response took Vogel by surprise. He made no attempt to answer the question, instead he took off on a tangent.

  ‘I loved Marlena, she was probably the most important person in the world to me, after my mamma and my nan,’ he said. ‘How dare you accuse me of murdering her? I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head.’

  ‘Mr Bertorelli, I have merely asked you to account for your movements—’

  ‘Yes, on the day Marlena was murdered. You’ve arrested me, for God’s sake, for murdering her. Me! I can’t even think straight.’

  ‘You mu
st try, Mr Bertorelli. If you are innocent, then help me prove that. I’m going to ask you again. Would you please take us through your movements on the day that you were released from police custody?’

  Alfonso took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t know my movements,’ he said. ‘After you lot released me I walked for a bit and then I went into a pub. I think I had a bit too much to drink. I must have done. I lost most of the day. I just wanted to blot everything out.’

  ‘What was the name of the pub?’

  Alfonso held his hands out in a despairing gesture.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t look. I just wanted to drink.’

  ‘Well, do you know where the pub was, the street perhaps?’

  Alfonso shook his head.

  ‘OK. Do you remember what direction you were walking?’

  Alfonso shook his head again.

  ‘Not really, towards Soho, I think, but I can’t be sure. I was trying to clear my head. I just walked around for a bit, without taking any notice of where I was.’

  ‘Right. Do you have any idea how long you walked for before going into this pub?’

  ‘I’m not sure of that either. A while. Twenty minutes. Maybe more.’

  ‘And you were on your own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you were drinking alone?’

  ‘I didn’t have anyone with me, did I? Of course I was drinking alone. Who would have wanted to drink with me? Me, the prime suspect.’

  ‘Did you speak to anyone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Maybe. I’m not sure.’

  ‘What about the landlord, or whoever was serving behind the bar?’

  ‘Well, I ordered drinks, so I must have spoken to someone behind the bar, I suppose.’

  ‘But no conversation?’

  Suddenly Alfonso mustered a bit of attitude.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘I had a chat about my morning. “I’ve just come out of the nick. They think I’ve mugged a young woman police constable.” You know the sort of thing. Oh yeah, I had plenty to chat about.’

  Alfonso put a heavily sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘chat’.