Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

Bob looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t understand it though. Why would anyone evil enough to do all the other stuff that’s happened show mercy to a couple of dogs?’

  ‘And a funny kind of mercy at that,’ said Tiny. ‘Poor little devils are still dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bob continued. ‘But someone went to the trouble of killing them painlessly and then making it look as if they’d been tortured to death. Why? To frighten the rest of us? To make George, Tiny and Billy suffer even more?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Tiny. ‘Anyway, I suppose we have to accept now that it wasn’t a someone. It was Alfonso.’

  ‘He never did like dogs,’ said Karen. ‘I’ve heard him grumble about dogs pooing all over the streets and their owners not clearing up after them.’

  ‘Long way from that to dismembering ’em,’ said Greg.

  Tiny winced again.

  There was yet another silence. Alfonso’s arrest was the subject they had all wanted to discuss but couldn’t bring themselves to. It remained difficult for any of them to find the right words.

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Karen eventually.

  ‘Me neither,’ responded Billy. ‘But I spoke to Michelle yesterday, and she said the word at the nick is that he’s definitely guilty. The evidence against him is overwhelming.’

  ‘But what does she think?’ said Greg. ‘I mean, she was mugged. Punched in the face at close quarters. Has she told anyone whether she saw her attacker’s face? Did she think it could have been the Fonz? At the time, I mean. Did you ask her that, Billy?’

  Billy’s attention was momentarily diverted. Johnny had abruptly stopped playing the piano, midway through a melody. The silence in the restaurant, interrupted only by one or two half-strangled gasps, was deafening.

  Billy glanced across the room.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’ he said. ‘She’s here.’

  Michelle was indeed making her way across the room. Johnny had stood up and taken a step towards her, his face full of concern. She ignored him. Her stride was uncertain and she even bumped into a chair as she approached the Sunday Club table.

  But it was the sight of her face that had caused the other diners to gasp. The whole of it was swollen and discoloured. Her nose was twice its usual size, multicoloured and twisted. It wasn’t so much broken as smashed. Although the friends knew that to be the case, none of them had seen her since the attack. The severity of the damage therefore came as a tremendous shock.

  Ari recovered first. He jumped to his feet, reached out to Michelle with both arms and hugged her.

  ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he said. ‘We’re just so glad to see you, darling, aren’t we, guys?’

  Everyone around the table murmured agreement and words of greeting.

  ‘I changed my mind,’ said Michelle, sitting down heavily on the chair Ari pulled out for her. ‘I suddenly wanted you all to see what the bastard did to me. To see the state I’m in.’

  Karen, the only other woman at the table, understood at once.

  ‘It’s awful, darling, horrid, but you will get better,’ she said.

  ‘Not without major plastic surgery,’ countered Michelle.

  ‘I’m sure there are surgeons out there who’ll make you as good as new,’ Karen persisted. ‘Even prettier than you were before, you’ll see.’

  ‘Don’t fucking patronize me, Karen,’ Michelle snapped.

  ‘I wasn’t, darling, honestly . . .’

  ‘We all feel for you, honey,’ said Bob. ‘And we’re so glad you’ve come.’

  ‘Yep, I thought you’d enjoy a freak show,’ said Michelle.

  Karen placed her hand over Michelle’s. ‘You know that’s not how we see it,’ she said. ‘We feel for you – we’re your friends.’

  ‘I thought Alfonso was my friend,’ said Michelle. ‘And he did this to me.’

  With her free hand she gestured towards her ruined face. Above the shattered nose her eyes were narrow bloodshot slits in mounds of discoloured flesh. One seemed to be permanently watering from a corner.

  Are you sure it was Alfonso?’ Greg seized the opportunity to ask the question he’d voiced earlier. ‘Did you think it was him at the time?’

  ‘That’s not the point, and of course I’m bloody sure,’ said Michelle. ‘He’s been charged with assaulting me, hasn’t he? And murdering Marlena. I’m a copper, remember, I know exactly how good a case has to be before someone gets charged with murder. The police and the prosecution service don’t get that wrong – well, hardly ever, whatever the bloody public think.’

  Michelle’s voice had risen. Not only were all of the friends staring at her but everyone else in the restaurant too.

  ‘Evidence,’ she continued, banging her hand on the table. ‘When you charge someone with murder it’s because you’ve got fucking evidence. That’s why Alfonso’s banged up in Brixton nick. Fucking evidence.’

  Her words were not exactly slurred, but there was something wrong with the manner of her speech, her diction not as clear as usual. Karen wondered at first whether the blow to her face had affected Michelle’s ability to speak clearly. But Ari, being more familiar with the effects of drink and drugs, suspected otherwise.

  ‘Look, don’t upset yourself, we all want to help you,’ he began, trying to sound as soothing as possible.

  ‘Don’t upset my fucking self! You all want to fucking help, do you?’ Michelle spat out the words, her voice louder than ever. ‘How can anyone fucking help? I’ll never get a man now, never have a fucking baby . . .’

  Tears formed in her narrowed eyes and began to run down her face. Her mouth twisted in anguish. The men around the table were almost squirming with embarrassment. Tiny reached for Billy’s hand. Bob and Greg exchanged bewildered glances. Ari wished the meticulously distressed floorboards of Johnny’s Place would part and swallow him up. Indeed swallow the lot of them up. He now regretted having organized this meeting, this impossible attempt at a reincarnation of a past which was gone forever.

  Karen stood up, walked round to Michelle’s side of the table and wrapped both arms around her.

  ‘It will be all right,’ she persisted. ‘It will be. We will get through this. All of us. And most importantly we will look after you, make sure you get through it.’

  Michelle began to sob loudly. All eyes in the room were now fixed upon her. The tears did not last long, less than a minute certainly, but it seemed like forever to the rest of the group.

  Then she stopped crying, as suddenly as she had begun, and sat up straight in her chair, obviously making a huge effort to regain her self-control.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Whisky mixed with painkillers, I’m afraid. Quite a cocktail, eh? I knew I’d had too much of both. I knew I shouldn’t have come. On the other hand, the only reason I’m here is courtesy of the whisky and the pills and the Dutch courage they gave me. Now all I’ve done is make a fool of myself.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. And yes, you should have come, you really should,’ said Ari. ‘I mean it.’

  Michelle smiled wanly. ‘Order me some coffee, will you. Strong coffee.’

  Ari asked a waiter for a double espresso, which was delivered with alacrity. No doubt the staff were eager to see the restaurant return to something approaching normality. Johnny was playing the piano again with a loud thumping rhythm, far removed from his usual sensitive touch on the ivory keys. You could feel the tension in the air, no longer just at the Sunday Club table, but throughout the restaurant. Ari wondered what it would be like not to feel anxious any more. Indeed he wondered if he would ever stop feeling anxious. He suspected the rest of them around the table were going through the same thing, and like him they had forgotten what it was to wake up in the morning without a feeling of apprehension at what the day might bring.

  Michelle drank the coffee in one go and asked for another.

  ‘Tiny and Billy were just telling us a bit of good news when you came in,’ said Ari, who, having instigated an occasion which was
in danger of turning into a circus, was desperate to maintain at least a semblance of ordinariness.

  Michelle uttered one high-pitched shriek of mirthless laughter. But there was to be no repeat of her earlier hysterical outburst.

  Instead she fixed a cool stare on the boys. ‘Really?’ Her voice was enquiring but icy.

  Tiny fidgeted. It was left to Billy to repeat the account of the post-mortem results.

  Michelle did not respond. Ari supposed that given what she had been through, and indeed what they had all been through with Marlena’s murder and Alfonso’s arrest, the fate of two dogs was of small concern. It had seemed curiously significant to him though.

  Billy carried on speaking, as if he didn’t know how to stop, filling the silence.

  ‘There’s more.’ He turned to face George. ‘Did you know that your Chumpy was poorly, George?’ he asked.

  George shook his head, as if puzzled.

  ‘Apparently he had cancer of the liver.’

  ‘He never showed any signs of being ill,’ said George.

  ‘Well, he soon would have done,’ Billy went on. ‘According to the autopsy, Chump would have died within weeks. I don’t know whether that helps, but I thought you’d like to know.’

  George stared at Billy for several seconds before answering.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said eventually. ‘I think it does help a bit. Yes.’

  ‘At least you know he didn’t have long to live anyway. That’s the problem for Tiny and me: Daisy was so young, barely four years old. We feel we should have protected our little girl, been able to save her.’

  Michelle continued to stare at Billy in that icy way.

  ‘And do you think maybe you should have protected Marlena?’ she asked, her words clearer now, her voice quieter. She seemed suddenly quite calm. Ari found that even more disconcerting.

  ‘Maybe even protected me,’ Michelle went on. ‘Or is it just the bloody dogs you’re concerned about?’

  Billy flushed. Tiny squeezed his hand. His voice too was very quiet when he spoke.

  ‘You know better than that, Michelle,’ he said. ‘Billy and I would have done anything in our power to protect you and Marlena, to save her life, to prevent your attack. And we are well aware that losing our dog must seem a very small thing compared with all that’s happened to you. Of course we realize that it pales into insignificance compared with the loss of human life. Any human life, but particularly our friend, dear Marlena. But Daisy meant a lot to us, and we were just glad to learn she didn’t suffer the way we thought she had. That’s all.’

  Michelle’s face softened. ‘I’m sorry, Tiny. I do understand really, it’s just hard to . . .’ She broke off, started again: ‘Like I said, I shouldn’t have come. I’m going to leave now. I’m so sorry.’

  And with that she rose abruptly from the table and half ran towards the door.

  ‘But you haven’t eaten anything,’ Ari called after her.

  ‘At least let me take you home,’ shouted Bob.

  Michelle stopped in the doorway and turned to face them all.

  ‘No, no, I want to be on my own,’ she said. ‘Just leave me alone.’

  Johnny stood up from the piano. ‘I’m putting you in a taxi,’ he said firmly.

  The remaining friends watched in silence. They all knew Johnny would do that for any of his clientele whom he felt needed help. But Michelle was special to him, no doubt about that, and he had made no secret of how upset he had been by what had happened to her.

  Johnny put a protective arm around Michelle’s waist. She did not protest. He steered her towards the stairs, where she turned and glanced towards the Sunday Club table one last time.

  And then she was gone.

  sixteen

  Back in her little studio flat Michelle went to bed, even though it was not long after eight o’clock, and cried herself to sleep. She was still under the influence of her earlier excess of whisky and prescription drugs, and both her mind and body felt empty and exhausted. Fortunately, sleep came with merciful ease and speed.

  However in the cold early hours Michelle woke with a start. Her head was no longer woozy. Her thoughts were suddenly crystal clear. She hadn’t been around the table with the others for long, but it had been long enough. The policewoman in her had picked up on something during that brief conversation, and now it was seriously troubling her.

  As she went over it in her mind, she began to think again about what had happened to her. She had total recall, the events of that night still vivid in her mind. As she replayed the scene, re-examining each detail, a new train of thought was beginning to form. She found herself questioning whether it really had been Alfonso who’d attacked her.

  Her eyes turned to the digital clock on her bedside table, its luminous numbers flickering slightly in the gloom. It was 2 a.m. She lay for a while, quite still, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  Alfonso Bertorelli had been charged with Marlena’s murder and her assault because of the weight of evidence against him. That was what she had told the group around the table. The police don’t make mistakes with murder charges, she’d insisted. And most of the time that was true. But sometimes mistakes did occur. Could it be that this was one of those sometimes?

  Greg had asked her whether she’d thought at the time that it was Alfonso who’d punched her in the face.

  She hadn’t answered the question. The truth was, she didn’t have a clue.

  Her head was buzzing. She should leave this to Vogel and his team. Michelle knew she was too involved. She was a victim. If you were a victim, you could not detach yourself. You couldn’t sift through the facts with anything like the required objectivity. The way Vogel always did. She trusted Vogel, didn’t she? No one was more meticulous than him, no one less likely to leap to conclusions. She had to trust Vogel.

  Although she was so very wide awake Michelle still felt exhausted. She told herself she should try to get back to sleep. That if she could only sleep until dawn, things might straighten themselves out. Her doubts might resolve themselves without her doing anything about them.

  She turned over on her side and shut her eyes. But sleep was not to come. Instead of the oblivion she craved, she lay in her bed tossing and turning, thoughts racing through her mind. After what seemed like a very long time, though it was actually only twenty minutes or so, she gave up. Sleep was not going to come, and there was nothing she could do about it, except perhaps repeat the previous day’s overgenerous doses of whisky and prescription drugs. But now that this idea had taken over her brain, she doubted that such measures would have any effect.

  She climbed out of bed, wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders, made herself tea in the little kitchen and took it to the window at the far end of her room, the one that overlooked Theobalds Road. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone three now. Still the middle of the night. But there was an intermittent flow of traffic on the street below her. Central London never sleeps. A couple of black cabs, one with its light on, rolled by. A motorist in a four-wheel drive sounded his horn at a cyclist who stuck two fingers up at the retreating vehicle and hollered some incomprehensible abuse.

  Michelle’s nose was beginning to throb again. She wondered how long it would be before that throbbing began to ease. The numbing effects of the painkillers had totally worn off, and the pain was back with a vengeance. Aside from being distressing in its own right, the throbbing was a constant reminder of the sorry state of her face and the horrible reality of her injuries having been caused by someone she cared about.

  She made her way into her tiny bathroom, removed the bottle of painkillers from the mirrored cabinet on the wall, and swallowed two of them, the correct dose this time, filling her tooth mug with tap water to wash them down.

  She hoped they would do the job well enough, because she was determined not to deaden her brain for the second day in a row. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to make sense of the thoughts buzzing around inside her hea
d.

  It could be nothing. The brief snippet of conversation probably didn’t mean anything, she told herself. If it had, surely it would have triggered an immediate reaction from her the moment the words were uttered? But then, sitting there in the restaurant surrounded by the unscathed faces of her friends, she’d been oblivious to anything beyond her own misery. Moreover she’d been far too befuddled by drink and painkillers to react immediately to what she’d heard. Maybe she wasn’t too bad a cop after all, even if she was stuck in Traffic, because something had filtered through, something had lodged in her subconscious. And now it had shifted from the back of her mind to lodge firmly at the forefront.

  She wandered back to her chair by the window, switching on the radio on the way. As usual it was tuned to BBC Radio 2. Michelle liked Radio 2. She knew it was a bit naff to admit to enjoying something so middle of the road, but she didn’t care. There was something wonderfully unchallenging and restful about Radio 2.

  The kind of music somebody at the BBC had chosen as suitable for the early hours wafted over her as she gazed out of the window. She recognized the distinctive notes of Acker Bilk’s trombone playing ‘Stranger on the Shore’. It had been a favourite of her father’s. Michelle’s eyes filled with tears. She so wished her police officer father, the inspiration behind Michelle’s choice of career, were still alive. He would know what to do. He had always known what to do.

  Outside, a group of migrating clubbers, three young men and two girls, made their way noisily along the pavement, laughing and talking loudly. Bizarrely, Michelle was reminded of the good old days of Sunday Club. At first glance the little troop sashaying its way along Theobalds Road, so much younger, so much dafter, and no doubt popping E and God knows what else to keep themselves awake, could not have been more different from her old group of friends. But it was the way these kids were with each other, their obvious closeness, their ease in each other’s company, verbally and physically, as they joshed and teased, linked arms and patted backs and shoulders. Surely that was the way she and the other Sunday Clubbers had once been, before everything went wrong.