Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  I knew that while I sat in my cell, Vogel’s minions would invade my home, sifting through my belongings, trying to find evidence against me. Their search would be in vain. I had covered my tracks well. I’d had to move fast, thanks to Michelle Monahan sticking her nose in. I could have detained her when I surprised her in my flat, and dispatched her there. But that would inevitably have left evidence. I was too clever for that. Instead I snatched her bag, knowing it would contain her phone. I didn’t want her dialling 999 or summoning help from any other quarter. It took me a matter of seconds to pull on a hooded tracksuit and gloves and run after her. On the way out I had the presence of mind to snatch up the iron I had been using earlier and throw it, along with Michelle’s handbag, into my sports bag which hung on a hook by the front door.

  I caught up with Michelle easily. The damage I’d done to her nose made it difficult for her to breathe, which in turn prevented her running as fast as she otherwise might. Her home was too far to run to in her condition, so I’d calculated that she would head for her place of work, thinking she would be safe there. Driven by fear, prey will instinctively scramble for the lair. And so I had set my course accordingly, aiming to intercept her at the entrance to the narrow alleyway, trusting in the Lord to deliver her to me and to ensure that we would be alone. And He did. But I’d had to be fast. One blow with the iron and she fell back into my arms. It had been so easy then to place my gloved hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her.

  My skin had not touched her skin. The point of the iron must have dug into her skull as it was tinged red with her blood. I took it away with me in the sports bag. I was certain I had left no traces on her body, no DNA and certainly no fingerprints. It was possible that a microscopic thread or two from my tracksuit could have adhered itself to her clothes, and that modern forensics might detect this. But that tracksuit was about to disappear, along with the iron. The meticulous planning I had done in preparation for Marlena’s demise stood me in good stead now. I had a mental checklist already in place, means of disposal already worked out.

  The fact that this was a cleaner kill simplified matters. After I dispatched Marlena, my outer garment – the raincoat buttoned to the neck which had puzzled Marlena, though not for long – had been covered with blood. Before leaving her apartment I’d removed it and placed it, along with Alfonso’s trainers, now covered in Marlena’s blood, into a sturdy plastic bag that I then dropped into a sports bag. Even in central London, someone wearing a blood-soaked coat would attract notice. Underneath my raincoat I’d been wearing a hooded tracksuit. Hoodies are God’s gift to the criminally inclined. There may be CCTV on every street corner in London, but in a hoody your anonymity is guaranteed. I’d walked for some time, in ever increasing circles, until I came to the pub by the river, not far from Southwark Bridge. An insalubrious hostelry, but perfect for my present needs, being unprotected by video security and with a gents’ toilet that can be accessed from a side hallway without going through the bar. There I changed into the clothes I’d been carrying. Alfonso’s incriminating trainers went into a plastic carrier so that I could return them to him later. Everything else I had worn when I killed Marlena was now in the sports bag, along with three bricks. I left the pub, walked to the middle of the bridge and leaned over the parapet as if looking down into the water. It was dark by this time, but I took the time to make sure no one was watching and that no vessels were passing below. Then I dropped my bag into the water.

  I didn’t have a change of clothes on hand when I dispatched Michelle Monahan, but fortunately my credit card was in the pocket of the tracksuit pants. I drew £200 from a cash machine so I would not leave a trail of plastic. Then I bought a T-shirt from one of the tourist stalls on Trafalgar Square, a hoody – naturally – from another store, jeans from somewhere else, and so on and so on until I had everything I needed.

  Then I made my way to the public toilets near Embankment tube station. It wasn’t an ideal venue because there were bound to be CCTV cameras in the area, but I hadn’t the luxury of time on this occasion. Keeping my hooded head lowered, I entered the cubicle and dressed in the new clothes. The old clothes went into my sports bag, along with Michelle’s handbag, the plastic bags that had contained my new purchases, and the iron, which would make a most effective weight.

  I pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt and walked to the middle of Waterloo Bridge. There was no time to go further afield or to wait until dark, which made it a risky undertaking, but no one seemed to pay any attention as I dropped the incriminating evidence into the Thames, where it was immediately swallowed by the fast-flowing current.

  It was a shame that, thanks to Michelle, all the meticulous work that had gone into framing Alfonso would now be wasted. When I thought of the hours I’d put in, all for nothing, I found myself wishing Michelle were still alive so I could punish her for the nuisance she’d caused. Knowing that Marlena and Alfonso usually crossed paths on a Monday morning – you’d think it was his idol Madonna or some celebrity, the way he gushed about their weekly ‘chance’ encounter – I had pedalled along Marlena’s route through Covent Garden for three successive Mondays until finally the timing came together and Alfonso appeared just as she made to cross the road at Cambridge Circus. I hadn’t bargained on a bus approaching the junction just at the moment I’d ridden my stolen bicycle straight at her, but it had turned out well in the end. The ‘coincidence’ of Alfonso being first on the scene had aroused the suspicions of both Marlena and the police.

  I had thought to frame him for the first attack on Michelle by leaving her handbag at his grandmother’s flat. Provided the ‘mugging’ occurred after he finished his shift at the Vine, I was confident he would have no alibi. Ironically, Michelle’s comings and goings were so unpredictable that I was still struggling to devise a way to keep track of her when by chance I saw her emerging from Marks and Spencer’s in Long Acre and followed her to Marlena’s place. While I waited for her to emerge I scoured the surrounding streets for another bike to steal, then lay in wait. When I slammed my fist into her face as she reached the junction of Theobalds Road, I had no idea Alfonso was so close at hand. Truly, God was with me that night. He stands by my shoulder in all that my adversity has driven me to. And he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.

  While Alfonso toddled off to the hospital with Michelle, I had all the time in the world to plant the evidence that would guarantee his arrest. Not his conviction – not at this stage. If he hadn’t been released from custody as soon as the requisite thirty-six hours had passed, I would have had to defer my plans for Marlena. But no, everything proceeded as He had ordained.

  Until Michelle ruined everything with her prying and probing, leaving me no option but to dispose of her at a time when Alfonso, locked up in a police cell, had the most impeccable of alibis.

  After disposing of the bag of clothes off Waterloo Bridge I’d gone home and cleaned the place thoroughly, wiping every surface Michelle might have touched. Not that it would have been a disaster if I missed the odd print. After all, we were friends, what could be more natural than Michelle having visited my flat?

  There was nothing in my flat to arouse suspicion, nothing to indicate to the police that I was not the man I claimed to be.

  For if they were to discover my true identity, even that bumbling Detective Vogel would be capable of piecing it all together.

  twenty

  Vogel spent most of the latter part of the afternoon in the evidence room. The teams searching the homes of the friends had seized a considerable selection of items including computer equipment, cameras and assorted paperwork. Specialist officers were in the process of checking the contents of hard drives and memory sticks, but so far nothing of significance to the case had been found.

  Tiny and Billy had a penchant for gay porn, nothing heavy duty though. Bob had signed on to a lonely hearts site, but had engaged in little activity, not even arranging a single date. George’s computer contained a considerable n
umber of photographs of attractive young women, but the pictures were innocent enough.

  The personal possessions removed from the group in the custody unit had also been bagged and filed. These included phones, wallets, notebooks and even a couple of non-electronic diaries.

  Vogel paid particular attention to the contacts directories in the phones and diaries, and the contents of the wallets.

  On each phone Vogel picked the first few numbers from the list of numbers most frequently called and checked them out. The recipient of the first call he made from the numbers on Greg’s list sounded most disconcerted to hear from a police officer. That, however, did not surprise Vogel. He’d already checked the number against the police database and discovered that it belonged to an importer of goods whose shipments were often dubious in origin. While distinctly shifty, it seemed unlikely that these dealings had any connection with the case under investigation.

  Similarly, Ari’s list of favourites included a well-known drug dealer. That held no interest for Vogel either.

  Calls to numbers on the favourites lists of the other five detainees revealed nothing of obvious interest. Vogel planned to put a team onto a more thorough examination of all seven phones and their records, but before handing over had a quick glance down the full contacts directories just in case anything leapt out at him. Something did. It was an entry on Greg’s phone for a Tony K. Vogel realized he might be jumping to conclusions, but there was an 0207 287 prefix, which he knew identified it as a Soho number. He hesitated for a moment then pressed dial. An educated voice with just the hint of an indefinable accent answered on the second ring.

  ‘Zodiac Enterprises.’

  Vogel ended the call. So Greg had Tony Kwan’s office number listed on his phone. It was difficult to imagine what connection Kwan would have with the friends, or, indeed, with all that had befallen them. But Greg knew him well enough, or had at least had sufficient dealings with Kwan, to include him on his contacts list. That might just be the most interesting piece of information so far.

  Kwan was a notorious gangland figure, and although nothing had ever been proven he’d been implicated in murders in the past. Even so, Vogel considered him an unlikely suspect. Tony Kwan was ruthless, a deadly adversary who would eliminate a rival or enemy without compunction, but he went about his business efficiently, taking care to ensure that it was conducted without attracting the attention of the authorities. This was not his style. If he’d been behind these killings, the bodies would never have been found.

  However, the fact that Kwan was listed on Greg’s phone was enough for Vogel to recall Greg for interview. He asked him how he knew Tony Kwan.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Greg quickly. Rather too quickly, Vogel thought.

  ‘Mr Walker, Tony Kwan’s phone number is listed on your phone,’ said Vogel wearily.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Greg. ‘Oh yes, I remember now. I sold him a few crates of malt whisky a while back. They like their whisky, the Chinese.’

  ‘And that was enough for you to enter his phone number in your personal contacts list?’

  ‘More business than personal. I like to be able to keep in touch with my customers, never know when they might want to place another order.’

  ‘And you have had no other dealings with Mr Kwan?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  I have no idea, thought Vogel, but I’d stake this year’s backgammon winnings that you bloody well have, big time.

  ‘Mr Walker, you do know who Tony Kwan is, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘’Course I do, Chinese businessman, ain’t he?’ said Greg ingenuously.

  Too irritated to argue, Vogel sent Greg back to his cell. Then he recalled Karen Walker for interview. This could be interesting, he thought.

  ‘Mrs Walker, did you know that your husband has an association with a man called Tony Kwan who is believed to be a high-ranking member of the Triad crime organization?’ Vogel asked.

  Karen looked shocked to the core.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘No, no, of course I didn’t know.’

  Then she burst into tears yet again.

  After that Vogel turned his attention to the wallets, diaries, notebooks, and other pocket and bag paraphernalia belonging to the arrested seven. The contents of George’s wallet proved of interest to Vogel. Tucked into the flat section at the back was a photograph of a striking young woman with cropped white-blonde hair. Vogel removed it and studied it carefully. He held it to the light from the window. The face triggered some memory that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed familiar, yet he had no recollection of her name or where he had encountered her. Had he come across her in the course of a police investigation, either as a perpetrator or a victim? Vogel screwed up his eyes and concentrated hard. Try as he might, the answer eluded him. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to create connections where none existed. It had happened in the past, in investigations where the lack of a breakthrough had left him feeling as if he was clutching at straws.

  Nonetheless, he decided it was cause enough to reinterview George Kristos.

  He placed the photograph which had caught his attention on the interview-room table so that it faced George.

  ‘Could you please tell me who this is?’ Vogel asked.

  George looked irritated rather than uneasy.

  ‘It’s my girlfriend,’ he said.

  ‘I see, sir. Would you mind telling me her name?’

  ‘Carla. She’s called Carla. What the heck does she have to do with any of this? She’s never even met any of the Sunday Clubbers.’

  ‘All the same, I should very much like to talk to her.’ Vogel opened his notepad. ‘I’ll need her full name and address.’

  ‘Carla Karbusky. I don’t have her address.’

  Vogel’s antennae wiggled, instantly on the alert.

  ‘Are you telling me you don’t have your girlfriend’s address?’

  George shifted in his chair. He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘She’s Polish, she’s not been in the country very long. She stays with friends.’

  ‘I see. Does she work?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. She wants to study over here, as a mature student, only she hasn’t got a college place yet.’

  ‘You don’t know very much about this girlfriend of yours, Mr Kristos, do you?’ Vogel persisted.

  George blushed. ‘I know all I need to know,’ he muttered.

  Then he attempted what seemed to be a sort of knowing leer, as if indicating that his comment was a reference to matters sexual. Vogel didn’t think it worked very well.

  ‘Where did you meet her?’ he persisted.

  ‘I just bumped into her in the street,’ said George. Then, as if realizing that he sounded wary and defensive, he switched gear and became effusive: ‘Literally. We collided. She dropped her bag. I picked it up and asked her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee. One thing led to another.’

  George leered again.

  Vogel stared at him.

  He reached for the padded envelope on the table in front of him and tipped out George’s phone, still in its polythene evidence bag. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Vogel removed the phone and held it out towards George.

  ‘Presumably you have Carla’s phone number?’ he enquired.

  George frowned.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And so you have it listed in your phone?’

  George hesitated for a split second. Or did he? Vogel wasn’t sure of anything any more. Then George nodded.

  Vogel searched for an entry for Carla. There did not appear to be one. He frowned and held out the phone across the table again.

  ‘Then perhaps you would point her number out to me, Mr Kristos,’ Vogel instructed.

  ‘Scroll down,’ said George. ‘Go to G.’

  Vogel did so. George pointed at an entry. Vogel was puzzled by what he saw.

  ‘Mr Kristos, this number is not listed under the name of Carla or Ka
rbusky. It is simply listed as GF. Could you explain that to me, please?’

  ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said George chippily. ‘GF for girlfriend.’

  ‘I see, and is there any particular reason for that manner of listing?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious too,’ said George. ‘When you get through girlfriends at the rate I do, it’s easier to list ’em that way. I just change the number. Don’t have to bother with a new name or anything like that.’

  He looked pleased with himself.

  Vogel didn’t know what to make of him. Was the man being serious? And was his behaviour suspicious or was it simply a display of rather unpleasant bravado?

  ‘So you consider yourself to be something of a ladies’ man, do you, Mr Kristos?’

  ‘Obvious again,’ said George, this time smiling what he presumably thought was his charming smile.

  He might be a good-looking bastard, thought Vogel, but he wondered that any woman would be interested in someone who appeared to be so lacking in charm, manners and any kind of respect for women.

  While continuing to stare at George, Vogel dialled the number for GF. The call immediately switched to voicemail. Vogel tried again. Same result.

  ‘All right, Mr Kristos, you can go back to your cell. But rest assured we will continue to check out your Carla Karbusky.’

  George just carried on smiling. It seemed to Vogel the kind of smile that indicated that the bearer reckoned he knew something you didn’t.

  He was beginning to wonder about George Kristos. But he reminded himself that just because the man was an arrogant ratbag it didn’t necessarily follow that he was a murderer too.

  Vogel was determined to keep the seven for as long as possible. Certainly for the full thirty-six hours allowed without a court appearance. And so they were detained in police cells overnight.