Friends to Die For

by Hilary Bonner

  Ari locked the door of his apartment, ignored the pleas of his mother and the fury of his father, lifted his bathroom cabinet from the wall, removed a small panel of plaster from behind and took from the cavity his reserve stash of crack cocaine. To his relief, a full-scale police search had failed to locate it. Then he snorted his way to oblivion.

  Alfonso also spent the night seeking oblivion, which, apart from his brief and unsuccessful attempt to return to work and carry on as if everything was normal, had more or less been his only aim in life since being released from Brixton Prison. He too had locked himself away, in a far less salubrious bedroom than Ari’s, at his mother’s Dagenham home, with a litre-bottle of supermarket whisky. He had sunk into drunken depression, made worse by his mother’s near-hysterical response to all that had happened. She seemed to have barely stopped crying.

  George also shut himself away in his flat. He passed the evening tending his orchids, trimming back any dying stalks, giving them feed. George loved the way orchids responded, sometimes quite spectacularly, to just a little TLC. He wondered if he were getting like Bob, who often gave the impression that he preferred plants to people. Certainly George wanted no other companionship that night. He felt utterly drained.

  Greg and Karen had barely spoken to each other since their release. Karen was no longer in tears. She just seemed angry. Very angry. Mostly with Greg. It didn’t occur to Greg that Karen could have had anything to do with the death of their two friends, but she was now making her suspicions of him quite clear. He understood that she must feel wounded, and indeed have doubts about him, since learning details of his past life that he had never previously revealed to her. But she appeared to suddenly believe him capable of almost anything, as if their many years of happy fruitful union meant nothing to her. Or that was the way Greg saw it. And he found that far more distressing than having been arrested and held in custody.

  As soon as they arrived at their flat Karen called her mother, who was both babysitting and dog-minding, and asked if she would keep dogs and children for another night, and take the kids to school in the morning. Karen fielded her mother’s questions and expressions of concern and ended the call summarily. Then she turned her attention to her husband.

  ‘I want to know everything that’s going on,’ she stormed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this Mr Kwan? Am I married to a gangster? Is that the truth of it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Greg responded, stricken. ‘I’m no gangster. I could have become one, though. You know the sort of kids I was running with back then. But once I met you, that was it. All I wanted was you and our kids. To become a decent family man. And I’ve done my best. You must know that.’

  ‘All I know is what you’ve told me,’ Karen replied, her voice loud and shrill. ‘And I don’t know what the hell to believe any more.’

  She began to weep, unstoppable tears of rage and despair. Greg tried to console her, to reassure her. Desperate to get things back to the way they had been, he tried to explain.

  ‘Look, Kwan got in touch with me, not the other way round. I hadn’t seen him or heard from him for years. He wanted me to do something for him – I still don’t know what. I told him no. Then my tyres got slashed and there was the brick through the window. I reckoned it had to be him, that’s why I kept telling you it had nothing to do with all the other stuff. To get him off our backs, I went to see him, told him I’d do whatever it was he wanted. He hasn’t called on me yet and chances are, he won’t. That’s how he operates. The whole thing could’ve been a test, a way of putting me in my place. You never know with Kwan. But I had to go along with it, Karen. You must see that. I was afraid for you, and the kids.’

  ‘Don’t you try to put the blame on me!’ Karen shouted. ‘None of this has got anything to do with me. Why didn’t you go to the police, you stupid idiot?’

  ‘You don’t understand—’

  ‘Oh yes I do. Leopards don’t change their bleedin’ spots. I knew you’d been a bit of a wild one, but I thought you’d changed. And I never knew you were involved with them Chinese gangsters.’

  ‘Look, I’m not—’

  ‘Yes, you bloody are. And if you think anything of me and our kids, Greg, you’d better get in touch with that man Kwan right now – right now, d’you hear – and tell him once and for all that you want nothing more to do with him.’

  Greg opened his mouth to explain that he didn’t dare do that. That she had no idea what Kwan would do to someone he regarded as one of his own who turned his back on the Triads. But he knew Karen wouldn’t listen. There was nothing he could say that would make her understand, any more than anything he could say would console or reassure her.

  Automatically he reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. Then cursed under his breath. It was still impounded. He picked up the house phone, dialled directory enquiries and asked for a number for the Zodiac Club. The number he was given was the public one, not the private number for Kwan’s office. It rang a few times, then he was connected to a message service.

  Conscious of Karen’s eyes on him, he began to speak:

  ‘This is a message for Mr Kwan from Greg, I mean Gregory Walker.’ Greg paused, desperate to find the right words, aware that there were no words for this situation. For this man.

  ‘I, uh, just wanted to apologize, to say, I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘But I’m afraid I will not be, um, available to work for you after all. Not in the near future, that is. I have, uh, family problems, you see. I hope you will understand, Mr Kwan. I know what a great family man you are. And, uh, well, I just want to say how sorry I am.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Why don’t you grovel a bit?’ asked Karen.

  Greg held out his hands. ‘I’ve done what you asked, haven’t I, doll?’ he pleaded. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘Too little too bleedin’ late. What I want is some honesty from my alleged husband.’

  ‘“Alleged husband” – what the fuck are you going on about?’

  The row escalated. Greg’s phone call to Kwan seemed to have done nothing to defuse the situation. Karen remained furious. Greg became furious. They argued on and on. The neighbours to one side knocked on the wall. Several times. Neither of them even heard the knocking.

  ‘You can’t seriously believe that I murdered Marlena and Michelle?’ asked Greg, incredulous.

  ‘Can’t I?’ Karen shouted the words at the top of her voice. ‘Why the hell not? Maybe Tony Kwan told you to do it. Maybe you enjoy killing women. Maybe that’s something else I don’t know about—’

  Greg took a step towards her. She was the love of his life. She was his life. He had never looked at another woman since he’d found her. She had always been his rock, supporting him in everything he’d ever done or attempted to do. Until now. Over and over, she kept telling him he wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. And he’d tried so hard to be that man. But apparently he’d failed. What did that make him? Did she genuinely believe he was capable of murdering Michelle and Marlena? No, she couldn’t, she had to know him better than that. She had to. Surely she was just trying to hurt him.

  He reached out a hand, his eyes pleading. He touched her gently on one cheek.

  She pulled back, swatting his hand away.

  ‘Don’t come near me! Don’t you dare touch me, don’t you ever touch me again, you evil bastard,’ Karen yelled.

  Something snapped in Greg. Without realizing what he was doing, he slapped her. He had never in his life hit a woman, let alone his beloved Karen, but it was done before he knew what had happened.

  She cried out, just once, and looked at him in horror. Tears formed in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of one hand, and drew herself up, looking him in the eye as she did so. It was as if she was determined not to break down, not to show any weakness.

  For what seemed a very long time neither of them spoke. It was Greg who broke the silence, horrified at what he had done.

  ‘I’m sorry, love. I am so
sorry.’

  All he wanted was to hold her close, and go on holding her all through the night. But the slap had changed everything.

  Curiously, Karen’s anger seemed to evaporate. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and calm, but her eyes were cold as ice.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘Don’t try to follow me into the bedroom. I think you’d better sleep out here on the sofa, don’t you?’

  Greg just stared at the floor. He didn’t look up until she’d left the room. Soon afterwards he heard the key to their bedroom door turn. The lock he’d installed so they could ensure privacy from the kids, keep their sex life going strong. And some of the best sex had been make-up sex, after a row. But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  He so wanted to hammer on the door, beg Karen to let him in, try again to explain everything. At least get her to forgive him for hitting her. To make her believe it would never ever happen again.

  But he had enough sense to know that would only make matters worse. If they could be any worse. So instead he took a blanket from the airing cupboard and curled up on the sofa.

  Unable to sleep, afraid to move in case she heard him and in doing so he angered her further, he lay there in the sitting room and waited for morning, when he hoped he might be able to begin to put things right.

  twenty-two

  That next morning Vogel was at his desk at 7.30 a.m. in spite of having been late home the previous night.

  He checked through his messages and scanned the reports that had been filed overnight. There had been no progress, no sign of a breakthrough. Forensics had drawn a blank. The computer boys had got nowhere.

  An hour later, as Vogel was devouring the organic egg sandwich his wife had packed for him, DC Parlow burst in, flushed with excitement.

  ‘Guv, I’ve been through electoral registers, employment and immigration records, the lot,’ he announced. ‘I’ve found three Carla Karbuskys in the UK. One is sixty, one’s a ten-year-old child, and the third, probably about the right age, lives in Cardiff. Only she swears she’s never heard of George Kristos and—’

  ‘Right,’ Vogel interrupted, about to issue further instructions. Parlow, positively pink with excitement now, didn’t give him the opportunity.

  ‘I haven’t finished, guv. I just got word on that pay-as-you-go phone. We tracked it down, and you’ll never guess what . . .’

  ‘Get on with it, Parlow,’ snapped Vogel. ‘I’m in no mood for guessing.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. The phone was purchased by George Kristos. It’s his bloody phone. If you ask me, that girlfriend of his doesn’t exist. He made her up. It’s all a great big lie, and if he can lie about something like that, what else is he lying about, eh guv?’

  ‘Calm down, Parlow. One step at a time,’ said Vogel, even though it was all he could do to keep calm himself. He could feel that familiar buzz somewhere in his solar plexus that always occurred when he was on the brink of cracking a case.

  ‘Could the network tell us anything else?’ Vogel continued.

  ‘You bet, guv. They’ve just emailed me a list of calls and a transcript of recent messages. Not a lot of activity, but what there is is all from Kristos’s other phone, the one we detained. He was sending text messages and leaving voicemails for this woman who probably doesn’t exist, on a phone that is actually his. What d’you suppose that’s all about, guv?’

  Parlow handed Vogel a sheet of A4, the contents of which he was able to swiftly assimilate.

  There were only two messages, both left on the same Sunday evening a couple of months earlier, just before the start of the chain of events which had culminated in the deaths of Marleen McTavish, known as Marlena, and Michelle Monahan.

  Hi, Carla darling, it’s me, read the first one. I’m calling from Johnny’s – I’m with the gang, Sunday Club. Like I told you about. Don’t suppose you can join us, can you? I’d love to see you and so would the rest of the bunch. If you can bear it, do come. Love you, baby. Kiss kiss.

  The other message had been sent half an hour or so later on the same night, when George had again claimed to be attempting to contact his girlfriend.

  Oh dear, I’m still getting your voicemail, baby, and I soooooo want to speak to you. Please come to Johnny’s if you can. This lot are driving me mad. They’re desperate to meet you. But don’t be put off. They’re all right, honest. All my love, baby-face. More kisses.

  Vogel folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he looked up at Parlow.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘I’ll put Clarke in the picture, you get us a couple of uniforms and organize a car. Then let’s bring Kristos in. We need the devious bastard to tell us exactly what he’s up to.’

  Parlow beamed. ‘You bet, boss,’ he said, taking off at a run to do Vogel’s bidding.

  Vogel called after him. ‘One more thing, Parlow.’

  The young man looked anxiously back over a shoulder.

  ‘Bloody well done,’ said Vogel.

  Vogel called his superior officer, who had not yet arrived at Charing Cross, on her mobile to bring her up to speed. Then he rushed out of the station to catch up with Parlow, who was already behind the wheel of a CID car.

  It took them only minutes to get to George’s apartment block. George was dressed, in jeans and a black sweater. There was a bag of pastries on his kitchen table. He said he’d been out to buy them fresh, and was about to take them round to his neighbour Marnie, as was his habit.

  At almost exactly 9 a.m. Vogel again formally arrested George, who seemed more baffled than angry.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘You only released me yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘We will discuss that during a formal interview back at the station,’ said Vogel.

  Greg finally dropped off at dawn, though it was more of a doze than proper sleep. He was woken by Karen going into the kitchen just after nine. Usually they were both up much earlier, getting the kids off to school and themselves ready for work. He wondered if she had really slept until then, or lain fitfully awake for most of the night as he had done.

  He listened to the usual morning noises, the clatter of crockery and cutlery, the hiss of the kettle. It all sounded so normal, even though this horrible morning was anything but normal. Then he heard Karen talking on the phone. He couldn’t catch what she was saying so he had no idea who she might be speaking to. He decided he would just stay put rather than risk inflaming matters by making the first approach. Eventually Karen came into the sitting room. There was a faint pink mark down one side of her face. Greg felt ashamed of himself. It had been unforgivable for him to strike out at her, and he still couldn’t believe what he had done.

  Karen was carrying two mugs of tea, one of which, rather to his surprise, she handed to him.

  He felt momentarily encouraged. Maybe things would turn out OK after all.

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ‘I think we need some time to ourselves. I do, anyway, while I sort myself out and decide what to do next,’ she said. ‘I certainly don’t want to be with you right now, Greg. So I’m going to spend the day with Sally.’

  Sally was Karen’s sister. She lived with her lesbian partner in Hounslow. Karen would have said she was the last person in the world who could ever be accused of being homophobic; she had gay friends, and was totally opposed to any kind of prejudice based on people’s sexuality. Nonetheless Greg suspected that she’d never quite come to terms with her own sister’s sexuality. The two women weren’t entirely comfortable with each other. And yet, on the very first occasion there had ever been a problem in their marriage, it was to her sister that Karen now turned.

  He knew better than to argue. He tried to remain calm, to appear affectionate and concerned without attempting to get close. But he hated the thought of Karen discussing their differences with her sister rather than him. He wished she would stay at home so that they could sort things out together, just as they had always done.

&nbs
p; Karen, it seemed, was not interested.

  She showered, dressed, spent some time putting on rather more make-up than she usually wore, and an hour or so later bade him a cursory goodbye as she prepared to leave the flat.

  She was wearing her best, and tightest, jeans, with the shiny black ankle boots he had given her for Christmas, and that chunky black leather waistcoat with the little steel spikes on the shoulders which was quite butch, yet, Greg reckoned, somehow made her appear all the more feminine.

  She had washed her spiky red hair and it gleamed in the morning sun. Greg loved Karen’s retro punk look, and he thought she looked even sexier than usual. Certainly her appearance betrayed nothing of the events of last night and the previous day.

  Irritated by this, he stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. ‘Won’t you at least try to talk things through for a bit, before you go?’ he asked. ‘We could go across the road to Starbucks, if you like. Their cappuccinos always give you a lift, don’t they? A change of scene might do us good. What about it, darling?’

  ‘No,’ said Karen. ‘Right now, Greg, I’m not up for a cosy chat with you over a cup of coffee.’

  Greg’s irritation grew. All he wanted was to put things right. And he had tried. Really tried. He’d even made that phone call to Kwan in an effort to appease her, totally against his better judgement. He was prepared to do anything, risk anything, for the good of his marriage. But Karen didn’t want to know.