Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am charging you with the murder of Marleen McTavish,’ he began, his voice very soft.

  Alfonso stopped crying again for a moment. He focused red-rimmed eyes on the policeman.

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I’m innocent.’

  Then he collapsed onto the table, his shoulders heaving, great noisy sobs filling the room.

  fifteen

  The friends had learned of Marlena’s horrific murder the previous afternoon. Tiny had spent much of Sunday morning trying to call her to see if she fancied Sunday Club, and to offer to get her to Johnny’s Place, but, of course, he received no reply – until around 2 p.m. when DCI Nobby Clarke answered Marlena’s phone.

  The terrible truth quickly became apparent. Tiny and Billy between them called the rest of the group. Everyone expressed shock and disbelief. They were even more shocked to learn that Alfonso had again been arrested, this time on suspicion of murdering Marlena.

  Then on Monday afternoon came the official announcement that Alfonso had been charged.

  Tiny and Billy saw it on Sky News and again phoned around the other Sunday Clubbers.

  ‘If it wasn’t so fucking serious, I’d think it was an April fool,’ George told Tiny.

  ‘What?’ responded the big man.

  ‘It is the first of April,’ replied George.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, mate,’ remonstrated Tiny.

  ‘All right, all right. But how could anyone believe the Fonz would harm his beloved Marlena.’

  Tiny ended the call. None of their group wanted to believe Alfonso would have harmed Marlena. But somebody damn well had. She was dead. And although the details were not yet known, she had apparently been killed in a particularly horrific way.

  A disjointed and disturbing week followed, during which Alfonso appeared at Westminster Magistrates’ Court and could be seen in press photos and on the TV news, head bowed, being loaded into a police van en route to Brixton Prison, where he was to be remanded in custody.

  It was towards the end of the week that Ari, the only member of the group other than the arrested Alfonso not to have suffered from some kind of incident or attack, decided he wanted to see the others, that it might help if they got together again to talk. So he set about trying to organize supper at Johnny’s Place for the following Sunday.

  Previously there had never been any need for organization. There had always been an easy relaxed air about their gathering; the table at the far end of the basement restaurant would be laid and waiting for however many of the group turned up.

  Ari had realized that if the friends were ever to meet up again – and for reasons he could not fully explain he thought it was important that they did so – then someone would have to not only do some planning, but also some persuading.

  Since the sinister chain of events had engulfed the friends, Ari had become increasingly dependent on coke. And it wasn’t coincidence. He hoped that he could get it under control; the last thing he needed was a repeat of the incident at Harpo’s, which, to make matters worse, had been witnessed by DI Vogel. So far his father didn’t seem to suspect. And Ari needed to keep it that way.

  Nonetheless he indulged in a hefty snort of the white stuff before beginning to make his calls. George was first on the list. And Ari didn’t receive a particularly warm reception from him.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Ari, I’m a bit scared of us all getting together. I’ve already had my dog tortured to death and my friends are falling like flies. In any case, I’m probably going out with Carla.’

  ‘For God’s sake, George, bring her to Johnny’s. Don’t you think it’s time we all met her?’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Ari? I can’t think of a worse time to bring her.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ said Ari. ‘You’re right. Who’d want to get mixed up with us lot right now. I’m sorry, George. But it would be great if you could make it. I think it might help if we all sit down together to talk things through. Those of us still able to be there, that is . . .’

  ‘Look, I do see where you’re coming from.’ George seemed to be relenting. ‘I’ll be there if I can, all right?’

  ‘Great,’ said Ari. He paused. ‘I can’t believe Alfonso did this though, can you?’

  Ari could hear George sigh at the other end of the line.

  ‘I don’t know what to believe any more, mate,’ said George.

  The remaining friends were equally unenthusiastic.

  Bob said he didn’t feel like going out anywhere at the moment, particularly not to Johnny’s.

  ‘Couldn’t you think of somewhere else for us to meet up for this therapeutic chat?’ he asked. ‘It’s not as if Covent Garden is short on restaurants.’

  The truth was, Ari hadn’t even considered another venue.

  ‘We always meet at Johnny’s,’ he said lamely.

  ‘There’s no “always” about it any more, is there?’ commented Bob.

  Ari could think of no reply to that.

  ‘Look, I’ll think about it,’ said Bob.

  Disappointed with the reactions he had so far encountered, Ari took a bottle of Hendricks from his freezer and sent a couple of shots of neat alcohol to join the chemical mix already whizzing around his brain before making any further calls.

  Greg told Ari he had a big job on and was working 24/7, and anyway he wasn’t sure Karen could make it because her mother was away and wouldn’t be having the kids that Sunday.

  Ari was getting fed up with the knock-backs. And the coke had, as usual, shortened his temper and lengthened his courage.

  ‘You’re just making fucking excuses,’ he told Greg tetchily.

  ‘What if I am, mate?’ Greg answered. ‘What if I am? Far as I know, you haven’t been mugged or had a brick through your bleedin’ window, ’ave you?’

  Then he hung up. Ari felt terrible. The coke was beginning to wear off. He regretted having been temperamental with Greg, and as was often the case at this stage in the proceedings, knowing that he was heading for a big low, he regretted having taken the cocaine in the first place. Ari was well aware that he was the only one of the remaining friends not to have been the victim of something. Until Alfonso had been charged, Ari had wondered, obviously, how many of the group suspected him. He’d tried to put himself in their shoes. They had all suffered to some degree, and he had not. Even if they didn’t suspect him, they probably didn’t like him very much any more. Ari decided that was it. He wouldn’t call anyone else. Sunday Club was over. Dead as Marlena. The thought made him shiver.

  Then Greg called back.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘We’re all on edge, aren’t we? I’ll come if I can. And we’ll see if we can get a babysitter so Karen can come too. You’re probably right. It might do us all good.’

  Ari felt much better after that. He changed his mind again. He would continue to try to round up the group. He called Tiny and Billy. Billy answered the phone. And finally Ari got the sort of response he’d been hoping for from the beginning.

  ‘I think we’d like to meet up,’ Billy said quietly. ‘It’s been a tough time and it’s far from over yet. You’re right, Ari. There’s a lot for us to talk through. We still don’t know what it’s all been about, and we need closure, don’t we? I’ll have to check with Tiny, but I reckon we’ll be there.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Ari.

  ‘Oh, and we’ve got a little bit of good news,’ said Billy.

  ‘Great,’ said Ari, who was beginning to wonder if there was any good news left in the world.

  ‘Tell you when we meet.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ari.

  Then he made the final call, the one he had always thought would be the most difficult.

  ‘Are you mad?’ hissed Michelle. ‘Do you really think I want to show my face to anyone, the state I’m in? It’s been over a week now and I still look like roadkill.’

  ‘Look,’ countered Ari stoically, ‘I just didn’t want you to feel left out, that’s
all.’

  Michelle’s response was waspish.

  ‘Oh, I don’t feel left out, I can assure you, Ari,’ she said. ‘But no doubt you do.’

  And so Ari, the first to arrive, wearing his best jeans and vintage leather jacket with the biker studs on the collar, really had no idea who else would turn up at Johnny’s Place eight days after Marlena’s murder. It was five fifteen. Early. Even for Sunday Club. Ari had been on tenterhooks all day and couldn’t wait. He paused at the door to the basement restaurant then ran down the steps as if he wanted to get in there before he changed his mind. Johnny was at the piano playing ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. Ari was aware of the gentle irony. Nobody seemed to have been watching over him or any of the others for some time now. Johnny glanced up and looked as if he was about to stop playing to speak to Ari. Ari hurried by. He couldn’t make casual conversation with Johnny, and neither did he have any wish for a more serious discussion with anyone other than the surviving members of his now devastated group of friends.

  As he made his way across the room he noticed Justin, the counter attendant at Shannon’s gym, another Johnny’s regular, sitting with an unattractive older man. This was Justin’s usual sort of companion and undoubtedly well-heeled, thought Ari, who had never liked Justin and usually felt rather superior to him. After all, Ari was from one of the wealthiest and most established Asian families in the country, although he tried quite hard not to let it show. On this particular evening Ari just felt conspicuous and vulnerable. He looked away from Justin, determined to avoid any possibility of eye contact, and the heat rose in his cheeks as he approached the familiar table by the rear wall.

  It stood empty, but was laid for ten as usual. Ari felt a stab of irritation. Hadn’t the staff grasped that there were no longer ten friends who might attend? One was dead, horrifically murdered, one was in jail, accused of being her killer, and one had such a bad facial injury she could not bear to be seen.

  In spite of the hefty snort of coke he’d ingested minutes earlier, Ari’s courage almost deserted him. He was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to make a run for it, and it was only the arrival of a waitress at his side, asking if he would like a drink, that averted a hasty departure. Habit took over. And innate good manners. Ari placed an order. He asked for a beer with a vodka chaser, one of his favourite combinations of alcohol, and sat down on the nearest chair, reflecting that it might well be possible that he would find himself sitting there on his own for the entire evening. Even Billy and Tiny weren’t certainties. Tiny might not have reacted the way Billy did to the prospect of meeting up at Johnny’s again.

  Ari downed his beer almost in one swallow, tossed back the vodka shot, and ordered a pair of replacements straight away. His nerves were jangling. He needed to relax, but he couldn’t. The minutes passed. He knew he was early, but historically most of the friends turned up before six. Though he tried to convince himself they were often later, it did nothing to dispel the fear that he was about to spend the evening alone.

  Then Bob arrived, his face pinched and strained, hurrying across the room just as Ari had done, not looking around him. Bob managed a small smile and ordered a beer, Corona, the same brand Ari was drinking, but without the vodka chaser.

  ‘Don’t really know what I’m doing here,’ Bob muttered. ‘Just couldn’t stay away, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve come, anyway,’ said Ari.

  George was next, handsome as ever in a tan bomber jacket over a cream linen collarless shirt. But Ari could see the tension in his eyes as George stretched out his arms for a hug, and his fingernails had been bitten almost to the quick. Ari was certain he’d never seen them in that state before; George’s nails had always been well manicured and immaculately presented, just like the rest of him. No one in the group, it seemed, was immune to the pressure and anxiety which Ari was beginning to feel quite crushed by.

  George hugged Ari hard and spoke into his left ear.

  ‘Well done, mate,’ he said. ‘You were dead right, you know. This could do us all the power of good.’

  Ari smiled edgily, unsure how to respond. He decided, probably unwisely, on what he too late realized was a rather pathetic stab at the old banter.

  ‘No Carla then?’ he queried.

  George frowned. ‘Don’t you ever know when to stop?’ he asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ replied Ari, mentally kicking himself.

  This was an evening requiring tact and compassion, mutual understanding and shared sympathy. The last thing it needed was a cheap and flimsy attempt at humour.

  The rest arrived within minutes; almost, to Ari’s surprise, the entire remaining group. Tiny and Billy first, then Greg and Karen. That only left Michelle to make up the full complement, but Ari had never really expected her to come. He knew she must be hurting mentally and physically, her shattered nose and swollen face doubtless still aching and sore, her state of mind wounded and fragile. Perhaps more to the point, she had made it clear she had no wish to show her damaged features to the world.

  And so there were seven of them. Seven diverse people who had once been such good friends, albeit somewhat casual friends, suddenly quite uncomfortable with each other. Hardly anybody spoke at first. There was the kind of awkward silence at the table that had never existed before. They were all too aware of the curious stares and mouth-behind-hand whispers of other diners in Johnny’s that Sunday evening.

  Their fate, because that was surely what it had become, was common knowledge now. Most of the other regulars at the restaurant must have been aware of what was going on. News travels fast and comprehensively in Covent Garden, an area of London which retains so much of the village about it, in spite of being at the apparently racy heart of a cosmopolitan city. And there’d been substantial media coverage. The story of Marlena’s brutal murder and Alfonso’s arrest had been in all the papers. Not only had he already been charged with two serious offences – the attack on Michelle and Marlena’s murder – but there were hints of more to come. Even the most cautious and bridled press of the après Leveson era had found ways to make it tantalizingly clear that a rare and tasty tale of yet-to-be revealed intrigue lurked beneath the bald statements of police and prosecution.

  Ari thought there were more people in the restaurant than usual at that time on a Sunday. There were certainly more people that he didn’t recognize. He wondered if he and the others had become macabre tourist attractions, if there were people in the restaurant who’d been drawn in by the lure of a visceral thrill from seeing those touched by a high-profile murder.

  Ari glanced around that familiar table at six strained faces, and had no doubt that he looked every bit as strained. He suspected everybody wanted to talk about Alfonso, to discuss whether or not he really could be a murderer. But nobody seemed to want to broach the subject which was surely at the forefront of all their minds.

  It was Ari who had called them together. Fuelled by false white courage, he’d more or less summoned them. He was unsure now if he’d been right to do so. At the very least he should have listened to Bob and chosen a different venue. But now they were here, Ari felt it incumbent on him to lead the way, to help them talk to each other again, to at least attempt to get things back to how they had been before. Not that it ever could be the way it had been before. But, perhaps, Ari thought, he and his friends could attempt a new beginning.

  ‘I-I just wondered how everybody was?’ Ari enquired eventually, starkly aware of what a lame remark that was.

  Greg jumped straight in. ‘Personally I’m bloody marvellous,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t suppose the boys miss their dogs at all, we don’t ’ave to worry about Marlena any more, and Michelle’s new nose’ll probably turn out to be better than the old one.’

  Ari looked down at the table. The other four men sat open-mouthed, staring at Greg. Karen placed a hand lightly on her husband’s arm.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Greg.

  There was another silence. Then one of the waiters, not chatty like they usual
ly were at Johnny’s but clearly embarrassed and every bit as stilted and awkward in his behaviour as the seven friends sitting round the table, arrived to take their order.

  Food was duly chosen, albeit with little enthusiasm, and more drink ordered.

  Then Billy spoke.

  ‘Actually, Tiny and I do have a bit of good news,’ he said.

  Oh yes, remembered Ari. Billy had mentioned that on the phone. Ari glanced at Billy questioningly. Hopefully almost.

  ‘About the dogs . . .’ began Billy.

  ‘Oh yeah, been stuck back together and resurrected, have they?’ asked George.

  Tiny winced.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t you start, George,’ said Karen. ‘I thought we were here to talk, to listen to each other, to help each other understand . . .’ Her voice faltered and she broke off, fighting back the tears.

  ‘I think we might be here a long time for that,’ muttered Bob.

  ‘Tell us then,’ said Ari, still looking hopefully at Billy.

  ‘Well, you know we arranged a post-mortem examination on our Daisy and on George’s Chumpy, after the police said there was no point. Turns out they were wrong. From our point of view, anyway. We finally got the results. Our vet’s been away . . .’

  Billy glanced at George. ‘Sorry, George, we were going to call you. Then we thought, well, we’d be seeing you tonight, better to tell you in person, and everybody else too.’

  ‘OK, go on then,’ said George sulkily.

  ‘The post-mortem showed that the dogs were killed by a lethal injection, an overdose of barbiturate – the same way vets put animals down. They were only mutilated after they were dead. Chances are Daisy and Chump died peacefully in their sleep. So we know now they didn’t suffer. Isn’t that great?’

  ‘I think “great” may be a bit of an exaggeration, but it is a relief to know they didn’t suffer, or not the way it seemed they had anyway,’ said George.

  ‘Yes, it must be,’ said Karen. ‘I know how I’d feel if it was our Westies.’