Karen’s anger and frustration when she learned of Greg’s association with Kwan had been understandable. But she had no idea what Kwan was capable of, so it was incomprehensible to her that Greg couldn’t just turn his back on the man. The miracle in Greg’s life was that he’d been allowed to move on as much as he had. Yet the shadow of the Triads had never really gone away, and it never would. How could he explain that to Karen without telling her everything, forcing her to share with him the dreadful burden of what he had done?
Unable to face going to work or even getting up off the sofa, Greg had stared up at the ceiling trying to figure out a way to salvage his marriage. His phone rang twice shortly after Karen’s departure. He checked the display panel just in case it was her who was calling. Or, heaven forbid, Tony Kwan. But the first call turned out to be from his dodgy whisky supplier and the second from Bob. He had no wish to speak to either of them, particularly Bob, so he ignored both calls. He supposed later that he had heard the whine of police sirens and the noise of ambulances arriving at the tube station a couple of streets away, but such sounds were a normal part of city life. He paid them no heed. After an hour or two of torturing himself about both his past and his now uncertain future, the sleep Greg had denied himself in the night finally overcame him and he drifted into blissful nothingness.
He was woken by the entryphone. With a start, he sat bolt upright on the sofa. Maybe Karen had come back. She had her own keys, but she could have forgotten them. Especially given the state she’d been in. He hurried to the phone and spoke into it hopefully.
He was disappointed to hear Vogel’s voice.
‘We need to come up and see you, please, Mr Walker. I’m afraid there is something we have to speak to you about.’
Greg felt no particular sense of foreboding. He was merely irritated. He assumed the detective had more questions, and that was the last thing he needed right now.
But he opened the door to find Vogel grim-faced. And an equally grim-faced CID man accompanying him.
‘I think you’d better go and sit down, Mr Walker,’ said Vogel.
Greg led the two policemen into the living room and perched himself on an upright chair at the table by the window. It was obvious that Vogel had something important to say, but the policeman seemed to be having difficulty finding the words. Alarm bells were now ringing loud and clear in Greg’s head. This was serious, he thought, very serious. Yet it did not occur to him that this latest police visit concerned his wife until Vogel spoke again.
‘I am afraid I have some bad news, Mr Walker,’ said Vogel.
It was like being struck by a bolt of lightning. Suddenly Greg knew. Beyond any doubt, he knew.
‘Karen,’ he said. ‘Karen. She’s dead.’
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need to ask a question. It was a statement.
Vogel nodded. ‘I am afraid she is, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘And I am so sorry to be bringing you this—’
‘How?’ Greg interrupted, his voice unnaturally high. ‘Was she murdered? If she was, I’m going to get the bastard. You lot can’t do it, that’s bloody obvious. But I will. I’ll get the bastard.’
‘Mr Walker, we do not know yet whether your wife was murdered, not for sure anyway.’
‘What happened? Just tell me, will you. Tell me exactly what happened to my Karen.’
Vogel did so. He explained that while the cause of death seemed clear, it was not known exactly how Karen came to fall under the wheels of a train, that inquiries were ongoing, CCTV footage was being checked, and so on.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know how she came to fall? She must have been bloody pushed. I mean, after what happened to Marlena and Michelle it’s obvious she’s been murdered. It’s not fucking rocket science, is it?’
‘Clearly we are investigating that possibility,’ said Vogel.
Greg stared hard at him. He sensed that the policeman believed Karen had been murdered. All this business about keeping an open mind was just Vogel playing it by the book.
‘We can’t rule out at this stage that Mrs Walker’s fall was accidental. And then again, it could have been . . .’ Vogel paused to take a very deep breath. ‘It has to be possible, I’m afraid, Mr Walker, that your wife may have taken her own life.’
‘What? My Karen? Top herself? No fucking way, mate,’ said Greg.
Vogel glanced pointedly at the sofa. There was a pillow at one end and a crumpled blanket tossed carelessly across the middle. It was obvious someone had been sleeping there.
‘May I ask if you and your wife had a recent disagreement, Mr Walker?’ Vogel asked.
‘Oh my God,’ said Greg. ‘You seriously think my Karen went and topped herself because we had some bloody silly row? Is that what you’re saying? That’s rubbish. Rubbish, do you hear?’
Vogel seemed to take pity on him. Certainly his reply was uncharacteristic in that it revealed more information about his own attitude than might have been prudent at that stage.
‘Actually, that isn’t what I think, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘I believe, in all probability, and given the circumstances involving other recent incidents with which you and your wife have connections, that Mrs Walker was murdered. But our inquiries are still proceeding, and I must say again that we do have to investigate all possibilities.’
Greg simply nodded. He felt drained. For the moment, it didn’t matter how Karen had died. All that mattered was that she was dead.
‘And I am afraid I need to ask where you were this morning, at 10.25 a.m., when your wife died?’
Greg wanted to scream at Vogel. No one in their right mind would believe he was capable of killing his own wife, the only woman he’d ever loved. But he couldn’t summon up the energy. He had no fight left in him.
‘I was here, just lying on the sofa most of the time,’ he said.
‘On your own, sir?’
‘Yes, on my own.’ Greg spoke wearily rather than in anger. He had gone beyond anger.
Vogel glanced again at the sofa, with its pillow and blanket.
‘Were you sleeping?’
Greg shrugged. ‘Some of the time. Not at first. But I hadn’t slept for most of the night, so yes, I did drop off eventually. I was asleep when you—’
Greg stopped speaking abruptly. He supposed he might be arrested again now. On suspicion of his wife’s murder. He stared apprehensively at Vogel, waiting for the detective to speak again. To issue a caution, perhaps.
Instead Vogel asked, ‘Do you have anyone you could contact, someone who could be with you, Mr Walker? You’ve had a terrible shock, you shouldn’t be on your own.’
Greg shook his head. He supposed he was relieved that he wasn’t going to be arrested. But he didn’t care what happened to him. Not now.
Vogel continued, ‘I could arrange for someone—’
‘No,’ Greg cut him off. ‘I don’t want anyone with me. Not family, not friends, and certainly not a copper.’
‘As you wish, sir, but—’ Vogel began.
‘I want to see her,’ Greg said suddenly. ‘Will you take me to see her?’
‘Mr Walker, your wife was hit by a train. Her injuries are . . . They are extensive . . .’
‘Look, doesn’t she have to be formally identified? Isn’t that what happens?’
‘Yes, but not necessarily by you, Mr Walker. You may prefer to remember her as she was.’
‘No,’ Greg insisted. ‘She’s my wife. I should be the one to identify her. And I want to see her. You can’t stop me.’ He looked at Vogel questioningly. ‘You can’t, can you?’
Vogel shook his head. ‘I can’t stop you, Mr Walker,’ he said gently. ‘Nor would I wish to, if that is what you want. But I must warn you that you may find it upsetting. Upsetting in the extreme.’
Greg drew himself up, visibly steeling himself for whatever lay in store.
‘I have to say goodbye to my Karen,’ he said. ‘I have to. For her. For me. And for our kids.’
Back at Charing Cross pol
ice station minor pandemonium awaited Vogel in the shape of a rampant Christopher Margolia. Nobby Clarke had instructed the front office staff to make him wait for Vogel’s return, and the lawyer wasn’t best pleased. Neither was Vogel. His workload seemed to be growing with every passing minute, and he needed to focus all his powers of concentration on the three violent deaths he was dealing with, not waste his precious time fending off angry lawyers.
Somehow Margolia had learned of Karen Walker’s death, and he seemed to think this meant George Kristos should be released at once. Vogel sighed to himself as the lawyer pontificated as if he were grandstanding in front of a crowded courtroom instead of one unimpressed detective. Kristos had been very much Vogel’s own personal prime suspect, so he supposed it was fair enough that Nobby Clarke had delegated this tiresome business to him. All the same, he could have done without it.
‘You had no cause whatsoever to re-arrest my client in the first place,’ stormed Margolia. ‘How Mr Kristos cares to conduct his personal life is not a police matter. And now it emerges that while he was detained in police custody another murder was committed. In light of the fact that Karen Walker was the only surviving female member of Sunday Club, there is every reason to suppose her death was the work of the same person who killed Michelle Monahan and Marleen McTavish. Is that not so, Acting Detective Inspector Vogel?’ Margolia put emphasis on the word ‘acting’. ‘Or are you one of those police officers who ignores the overwhelming evidence against him and tries to pass it off as a coincidence?’
Vogel did not reply to that. He wasn’t one of those police officers. Nor was he one of those officers who was led by hunches rather than hard facts. But he had been so sure that Kristos was guilty. He’d honestly believed it would be only a matter of time before some genuine incriminatory evidence was revealed. Unfortunately, it appeared he was running out of time.
‘Mr Margolia, we are still investigating your client and we wish to continue questioning him. We have thirty-six hours, as you well know, and then we can if we wish apply to a court for an extension.’
‘Well, you certainly won’t get it,’ snorted Margolia.
Vogel thought the lawyer was probably right, but he said: ‘That would be for a court to decide, and would obviously depend on how our inquiries are proceeding.’
‘I am asking for my client to be released immediately on police bail,’ insisted Margolia.
‘No, sir,’ said Vogel, quite forcibly for him. ‘I intend to keep your client in custody for as long as I am legally allowed.’
And with that he turned his back on the lawyer and marched off in the direction of the MIT room.
Much as they would have preferred to devote their energies to building a case against Kristos, Clarke and Vogel knew they had no option but to pursue other avenues of inquiry. They immediately set about assigning teams of officers to question the rest of the friends as to their whereabouts at the time of Karen Walker’s death.
Bob had returned to work, trying to carry on as normal. A pair of MIT detectives tracked him down to a boutique hotel off Covent Garden’s Broad Court, where he was attending to the small garden and window boxes. He seemed stunned by the news of Karen’s death. But he was once more able to satisfactorily account for his movements. He had arrived at the hotel just before nine and had remained there ever since. There were a number of witnesses who could vouch for this. He was not re-arrested.
A second team found Ari, near comatose on cocaine, at his home. It proved impossible to ascertain his movements earlier in the day. They therefore arrested him on two accounts, the second as instructed by Vogel before they paid their visit. Suspicion of murder and possession of class-A drugs.
‘If he’s got any coke on him, then let’s do him for it,’ Vogel had said. ‘Sticking a drug charge on him will allow us to keep him in custody, whether his lawyer likes it or not.’
Alfonso had not returned to his job at the Vine, having been told by the management to stay away until the matter was cleared up. In any case, he would have been in no fit state to walk let alone wait on tables. Previously only a moderate drinker, he was now hell-bent on drinking his way to oblivion. He was found in an alcoholic stupor at his mother’s home in Dagenham. His mother affirmed sadly that he had been drunk all day, and had not left his bedroom except for calls of nature. She had taken him breakfast and then sandwiches at lunchtime, but he was not interested in food, she’d said. Just alcohol.
Alfonso was not rearrested.
Billy, who had been suspended by Geering Brothers until, or unless, he was formally cleared, and Tiny, who was so distressed he couldn’t even think about work, and in any case whose duties were almost exclusively nocturnal, were both at home when two detectives arrived. They claimed to have been at home at the time Karen Walker died, and indeed to have been at home together all day. But their only alibi was each other.
They were re-arrested. And along with Ari they were detained at Charing Cross overnight.
Around noon on the day after Karen Walker’s death Greg was finally escorted to the morgue at University College Hospital to see his wife’s remains and to formally identify her body. DC Parlow, as a recently qualified family liaison officer, had been assigned to support and monitor the bereaved man.
Greg couldn’t get over the fact that his last words to her had been ‘fuck off. He hadn’t told the police that. They were already investigating the possibility that Karen had topped herself. But Greg knew better. He hated himself, though, almost as much as he hated the man he believed had murdered his Karen.
The previous evening, Greg had visited his children, who were still staying with Karen’s mother. He’d come away feeling, if possible, even worse than before, having been unable to answer their questions or to provide any comfort. He couldn’t begin to think about how his little family was going to face a future without Karen. He couldn’t think about anything but the fact she was dead and the person responsible was still living.
The staff in the morgue had made Karen Walker look as presentable as possible, her amputated limbs and decapitated head had been arranged in such a way that the body appeared intact underneath the white sheet. The orderly who pulled the sheet back so that Greg could see his wife’s face was careful to reveal nothing below chin level.
Greg knew though. He had guessed from Vogel’s reaction, and the way the detective and his team had tried to persuade him not to see his wife’s body, that she had been decapitated. It had seemed obvious somehow.
The head, in spite of the attentions of the morgue staff, was in any case shocking to look at. Discoloured and distorted. But it was his Karen lying there so horribly mutilated. Greg didn’t flinch. He leaned forward and kissed her poor bloated forehead. Then he left, declining all offers of assistance from DC Parlow, and refusing to allow the officer to accompany him further. But it wasn’t grief that was consuming Greg now, it was anger.
After breaking the news to his children and Karen’s mother he had returned to the home they’d once shared and spent a long sleepless night formulating a plan to deal with the man he held responsible Karen’s death. The prospect of taking revenge was the only thing keeping him going.
The police might think that Karen had been killed by the same individual who murdered Michelle and Marlena, but he knew better. He’d said all along those acts of vandalism directed at him and his family had nothing to do with the attacks on the other Sunday Club members, but no one would listen to him. They were all too scared of Tony Kwan. The police had wasted no time hauling Greg and his friends to Charing Cross nick, throwing them in cells and questioning them for hours on end, but you could bet they wouldn’t try that with Kwan. It would be like every other police investigation into his activities: the case would be dropped due to lack of evidence. Well, Greg didn’t need bloody evidence. He knew it was Kwan. The bastard had picked up that voicemail Karen made him leave, refusing to work for him. The message which said he was sure Kwan would understand, being a family man. Kwan had understood
, all right. Knowing how much Greg’s family meant to him, he’d targeted Karen. No beating, no torture his heavies could have inflicted on Greg would have been worse than losing the woman he loved.
But Kwan had made a fatal mistake. Because Greg was now quite mad with grief.
Greg took a cab from Agar Street to his Waterloo lock-up. He went straight to the workbench at the rear of the building and, using a screwdriver for leverage, began to prise a wooden peg from one section of the bench. The moment the peg was removed, Greg was able to easily push the apparently solid workbench to one side exposing the wall behind. One of the bricks was not cemented in place; Greg pulled it free, revealing a small rectangular hiding place recessed into the wall. He reached inside with one hand and lifted out an object wrapped in a soft oily fabric, which he placed carefully on the bench. Then he unpeeled several layers of protective cloth to expose a handgun which his squaddie father had taken from an Argentinian prisoner and brought home from the Falklands. It was a semi-automatic Browning 9mm Hi-Power, standard international army issue at the time. There was also a box containing magazines and cartridges.
Greg had wondered whether the police who’d searched both his workplace and his home would find his hidey hole and the illegal weapon it contained. Fortunately, they hadn’t.
He picked up the pistol and stroked it. He’d only been four or five when his father first showed him the gun, telling him he must never mention it to anyone, and that he should never touch it. Even now he could clearly remember the way his father used to take the pistol out to clean and oil it before wrapping it in the cloth and hiding it away again.
Greg had hero-worshipped his father. If it hadn’t been for Ted Walker abandoning his family, running off with his wife’s younger sister when Greg was fifteen, he would never have got involved with Kwan. Instead his dad’s departure had marked the beginning of Greg’s wild period and his involvement with the Triads, culminating in Karen’s murder.
Friends to Die For Page 32
