Wheel of Fire

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘Nice to see you again, DC Saslow,’ said the detective superintendent at once. She didn’t mention that case. But then she wouldn’t. Vogel knew that Nobby Clarke’s philosophy of policing was very simple. The only way to effectively proceed was to move on after every setback. And then move on again.

  She greeted Vogel with casual affection, introduced the two officers to DC Lloyd Springer, then turned to Saslow again.

  ‘What are you drinking?’ she asked. Adding with a grimace and gesturing towards two cups on the table: ‘We’re on the coffee.’

  Vogel smiled. Nobby Clarke liked a drink. Malt whisky for preference. But eleven a.m. in the morning was just a tad too early, even for her, it seemed.

  He and Saslow also both asked for coffee. Clarke led them to the bar, ordered, then introduced them to the landlord, Peter Forest.

  ‘Peter, I’m sorry to ask you this,’ she said. ‘But do you think you could go over again with DI Vogel here what you told my DC last night. We believe the deceased man found in the canal was one George Grey, whom Mr Vogel was seeking in connection with a very serious case of arson in the west of England. I think you know that?’

  Peter Forest nodded his assent. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘No problem. I’m happy to help. Shall we sit down?’

  He gestured to the table where DC Springer remained sitting, then led the way over.

  Vogel opened the proceedings. ‘So, I understand Mr Forest, that you think you may have seen the deceased on the day that he died. Indeed, quite possibly very shortly before he died. Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I did. I’ve seen a photograph of him, and if it wasn’t him it was his double. He came in here about eight o’clock, or thereabouts, the night before last. The football had just started, you see …’

  ‘Mr Forest, this is a busy pub. What makes you so sure? Was there something that made you particularly notice the man you believe to have been George Grey?’

  ‘Yes, when he came in I thought he might be already drunk. Or on drugs. I’m careful about that sort of thing. So, I watched him, studied his face. Then I realised it probably wasn’t drink or drugs. Not recreational, anyway. He was ashen. He walked with a limp. He looked ill. I wondered what he was doing out visiting a pub, but that was none of my business. As long as he didn’t die on the premises of course—’

  Peter Forest stopped himself abruptly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘That’s quite all right, Mr Forest, I know what you meant. What else can you tell me? How long did George Grey stay? What was he drinking, that sort of thing?’

  ‘He stayed about an hour I think, maybe more. He was drinking whisky, large ones. But the chap he was with was doing all the buying. George Grey just sat there, same table we’re at now …’

  ‘Ah yes, the chap he was with?’ queried Vogel, glancing sideways at Clarke.

  ‘Don’t worry we’re on it,’ said the superintendent quietly. ‘I’ll fill you in later.’

  ‘So, will you tell me about this other man?’ continued Vogel, looking back at Peter Forest.

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t take so much notice of him to tell the truth,’ said the landlord. ‘I remember he was bearded and wearing a baseball cap, so I couldn’t see his hair, or his face properly really. Anyway, I was more interested in your George Grey. Didn’t like the look of him at all. Although the other man did seem to be taking care of him. Seemed quite solicitous, and like I said, did all the drink buying. Except the first one. Grey ordered that himself when he came in.’

  ‘So, you did speak to him?’

  ‘Barely,’ said Forest. ‘All he said was, large whisky, please. Then he went and sat down over here. So he wasn’t any trouble. I did ask the other man if he was all right. Said I was a bit concerned.’

  Forest didn’t look as if he was going to say anything more.

  ‘What was the reply to that?’ Vogel prompted.

  ‘Oh, he said your George Grey had just been to the dentist and was a bit wobbly, that he’d be all right after a few drinks.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that was a bit strange, Mr Forest?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Mr Forest,’ Vogel continued. ‘If someone is a bit wobbly after a visit to the dentist they don’t normally go to a pub and down large whiskies, do they?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, you get all sorts in here.’

  ‘How many whiskies do you think he had?’

  ‘At least three. Maybe four.’

  ‘In an hour or so?’ queried Vogel. ‘Enough to make most people woozy, don’t you think, even someone who didn’t already look ill and unsteady on their feet.’

  ‘Yes,’ Forest agreed a little reluctantly, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Do you know what time he left the pub?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly. Sometime after nine, I would think. But I had to change a barrel, and the connector was playing up. Then my brother phoned me, I was out of the bar for about fifteen minutes or so.’

  ‘And I take it you didn’t recognise either of the men when they came in to the pub.’

  ‘Well no, I didn’t. I mean, they certainly weren’t regulars. And they certainly hadn’t been in recently. But, there was this niggle, I did have the feeling I had seen them before. I just couldn’t place them, that’s all. I do have a pretty good memory for faces. Helps in my line of work. Particularly if you have to ban someone.’

  Forest grinned. Vogel smiled politely back. Although he was really not interested in amusing asides. He took the conversation straight back to the point.

  ‘If you had seen them before, do you think it was here, in this pub?’

  ‘More than likely. I don’t get out much.’

  He grinned again. This time Vogel didn’t bother to smile back.

  ‘Would you say most of your trade is local, Mr Forest?’ he asked. ‘The pub is tucked away a bit.’

  ‘About fifty-fifty probably. But there’s quite a big rental market in Brentford, in the Dock, in the new developments in the high street and along towards Kew Bridge, and up by Brentford Lock. People come and go hereabouts. Just as you’ve got to know someone, they’re moving on.’

  Vogel glanced at Saslow and Clarke. ‘Either of you anything else to ask?’ he enquired.

  The two women both said they hadn’t.

  Vogel glanced towards Lloyd Springer.

  ‘Just one thing, did you or anyone else hear what the two men were talking about?’ asked the young DC.

  ‘They were talking quietly. Most of the time. But your George Grey, he seemed to be asking for something. Asking where something was. I think I heard him say “why haven’t you brought it?” He raised his voice, seemed angry.’

  Vogel thanked Peter Forest, and the landlord returned to the bar.

  ‘So, what about the second man?’ asked Vogel as soon as he’d gone, addressing Clarke. ‘You said you were on it.’

  ‘Well, yes. We’ve been making door-to-door inquiries. Just to the left of Thames Lock, as you walk toward the Dock, there’s a basin with several residential moorings. Thames Wharf. Houseboats, couple of narrowboats. Seems there’s a barge there which was bought about eighteen months or so ago by a man who could match Forest’s description of George Grey’s companion on the night of his death. Tall, bearded, and bald, but usually seen wearing a baseball cap. We got this from the chap who looks after the wharf. And that’s about it. Not even a guess at age. He said all bald men look the same age.’

  Clarke chuckled. ‘He might be right, too,’ she said.

  ‘What about a name?’ asked Saslow.

  Clarke nodded. ‘Yep. Called himself Richard Jones. Not quite as bad as John Smith, but getting there. Anyway, it seems he paid cash for the barge and for two years’ mooring fees in advance. Surprisingly enough, nobody asked too many questions, and all our efforts so far to trace this Richard Jones have come to a dead end.’

  ‘So, he could well be using a false name and that really does make him suspicious,’ commented Springer.
>
  ‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel. ‘We need to find him, that’s for sure. Do I assume there’s been no sign of him around here over the past couple of days since Grey was last seen in the pub?’

  ‘Absolutely not. In fact, it seems he’s only very rarely been seen since he bought the boat. Nobody got the chance to get to know him or anything about him. Also not surprising. We’ve put out a national alert for him. But there’s not a lot to go on, unfortunately.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose there is,’ said Vogel thoughtfully, as he finished his coffee. ‘Wouldn’t mind a look around, before the inquest. Crime scene first perhaps?’

  ‘I was going to suggest that,’ said Clarke. ‘Let’s get over there shall we.’

  Vogel stood up and headed for the door, Saslow at his heels and Nobby Clarke just a step or two behind. Vogel thought he saw her casting a wistful look at the optics behind the bar which seemed to include an extensive range of malts, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Clarke then led the way to Thames Lock, which was, of course, still cordoned off, pointing out en route Town Wharf, and the bridge which health and safety didn’t seem to have discovered yet.

  ‘I see what everyone means about this place,’ muttered Vogel.

  Pat Fitzwarren was long gone, along with the corpse. CSI were still at work and a pair of uniforms were protecting the crime scene. There were no barriers on either side of the murkily deep Thames Lock, which, thought the DI, was an accident waiting to happen. Or alternatively, an eerily likely location for a murder.

  ‘If it wasn’t for George Grey’s recent history, and the fact that we suspect him of arson leading to the death of two people, you’d easily believe he fell in here, wouldn’t you?’ Vogel mused. ‘Certainly, after four large whiskies and the state he was already in. It would have been dark too, and I wouldn’t think the lighting around here would be all that.’

  ‘Indeed, but this is a possible double murderer, who was with a mysterious companion who seems to have already disappeared on us,’ commented Clarke. ‘We also don’t know why he turned right toward the lock when he left the Brewery Tap, instead of left towards Brentford High Street. The hotels, the station, buses, taxis – all those things are in the other direction. This footpath leads only to the Dock housing estate. Even the entrance to Town Wharf is in the other direction.’

  ‘So, if his bearded drinking mate was the equally mysterious boat owner, do we assume he wasn’t going back with him, then?’ asked Saslow.

  ‘Who knows, he could have been so disorientated he didn’t have a clue where he was going,’ said Clarke.

  ‘Or, perhaps he knew someone who lived in the Dock,’ offered Saslow. ‘Someone who might put him up for the night. Perhaps that’s where he was heading, and he did just fall in the lock. It has to still be a possibility.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel with a certain reluctance. ‘But what about the bearded drinking companion? If he was with him, why didn’t he raise the alarm when George fell? Unless, of course, he pushed him in, which is the theory we all favour, I think. The truth is, though, we don’t even know whether or not the two men left the pub together?’

  DS Clarke nodded. ‘No, we don’t. But it would have been so easy; not taken much of a push, from what we hear of George’s condition.’

  ‘Surely he’d have cried out, screamed or something,’ commented Saslow. ‘Wouldn’t someone have heard something?’

  Vogel looked around him. Although more or less surrounded by buildings of one sort or another, Thames Lock was peculiarly isolated. Some of the Dock flats overlooked the canal, but Vogel thought the residents would have had to be either looking out of their windows or standing on their balconies, on a cold wet October evening, in order to have a chance of noticing anything. Even then, in the dark, and with aircraft passing overhead intermittently, it was, he considered, probably unlikely. And the lock in which George Grey’s body had been found was the one furthest away from the flats.

  ‘You know, I reckon only someone actually walking by would have seen or heard anything,’ he replied, after a moment’s reflection.

  He stared into the lock. Deep water. Tall sides. There was just one vertical ladder which would be difficult for anyone to reach and climb in the dark, even if they had been in good condition physically and mentally when they had entered the water, which George Grey reportedly had not.

  ‘Whether he fell or was pushed he wouldn’t have had much chance of getting out of there, even if he hadn’t been half off his head with booze and medication,’ Vogel commented.

  It was starting to rain yet again. Nasty weather in London as well as Somerset. Clarke shivered as she muttered her agreement.

  Vogel leaned forward and took a last lingering look into the lock; deep, black and oily.

  ‘What a truly horrible way to die,’ he murmured, half to himself.

  NINETEEN

  Bella took rather longer than usual applying her make-up and drying and styling her hair. She always thought that appearance was important, today it seemed even more so.

  Her father had had a saying which, many years ago, she’d taken on board as a kind of mantra. Never let the act drop.

  Even now she would try to live up to that for as long as possible, but she was well aware that if she went ahead with her avowed intention to reveal all to DI Vogel, that might become increasingly more difficult.

  Once satisfied with her appearance, Bella quickly packed her bag, then sat down with more room service coffee to make some phone calls – mostly to continue to rearrange her London life – and to text her daughter. Her message merely sent love and asked Kim to call her mother as soon as possible. It was lesson time, and pupils at Kim’s boarding school were not allowed to take phones into the classroom. However, Bella knew that her daughter checked her phone as frequently as she could, in free periods and during lunch and other breaks, and confidently expected to hear from her before the day was out. She didn’t know yet exactly what she was going to say to Kim. She did know how much she needed to hear her daughter’s voice.

  Bella eventually left the hotel just after ten thirty a.m. She had a fair run along the M5 and M4, and into London, arriving at her Chelsea Harbour apartment just under three hours later. Her phone rang as she was about to pull into the underground car park. The caller was her daughter. Bella pulled to a halt by the car park entrance in order to maintain a signal.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mum?’ asked Kim almost straight away. ‘You sound funny.’

  Bella smiled to herself. That was the trouble with daughters. And sons too, she suspected. They knew you too well.

  ‘No, nothing’s wrong,’ she lied. ‘Well, except for dealing with the aftermath of the fire. And your grandfather, and everything. I’ve just got back from Somerset. It’s not been easy …’

  ‘Of course not, Mum, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been upset, too. But it must be really horrid for you.’

  Not for the first time Bella wondered how she had managed to produce such a kind and sensitive daughter. These were not known Fairbrother attributes.

  ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she replied. ‘Just a lot to sort out, that’s all.’

  ‘And, well, I know you and Grandad didn’t get on, and all that, and we hadn’t seen him in yonks, but the fire was such a shock, wasn’t it?’ Kim continued. ‘An awful way for anyone to die. Are you sure you don’t want me to come home for a few days? Miss Jackson’s already said I could, any time I want. I can go and see her straightaway …’

  ‘No, Kim. You stay where you are. For the time being, anyway. I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all.’

  That, at least, was the truth. Unlike much of the rest of what she had said, thought Bella.

  After a brief further chat Bella ended the call, having promised that the two would speak again that evening. She knew she might only be delaying the inevitable, but she had chosen to decide then, after her meeting with DI Vogel, exactly what she should tell her daughter.

  She c
arried on into the car park, then made her way up to her penthouse apartment. The river view normally brought her almost instant peace and contentment, to a certain degree, even on a bad day. But there had never been a day as bad as this.

  She made herself a mug of tea, sat down at the table by the window, and opened the briefcase Freddie had given her. Their father’s will was on top. She removed it and opened the buff envelope. The will seemed to be exactly as Freddie had described it. The other papers were all neatly stacked below. It would be, as she had always known, a complex job to unravel the tangle of trust funds and investments which she had been led to believe would allow a vast input of cash into the bank once her father’s death had been registered. Then there were the hedge funds. A nightmare in themselves.

  But it was a task she had been prepared to undertake, with the help of some of Fairbrother International’s most experienced and able employees. Until the fire. Until three people had died. Until she had, she believed, been made complicit in murder.

  She pushed the papers to one side. Their content really made no difference. She’d made up her mind what she must do. Rather to her surprise, perhaps, her conscience would let her take no other course of action. She checked her watch. It was only twenty minutes past two. From what he had said, DI Vogel would be another hour or so at least. She wanted to get their meeting over with as quickly as possible. The idea of waiting more than an hour seemed interminable.

  Then the entry phone rang. It seemed she would not have to wait so long after all.

  She spoke into it. ‘You’re early,’ she said.

  ‘Are you expecting someone?’ replied a familiar male voice. A voice she recognised at once.

  It was not the voice she was expecting.

  ‘You?’ she responded in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have a message for you.’

  ‘Who from?’ asked Bella.

  It was an inane question. She suddenly knew only too well who the message must be from. And so much was suddenly explained. Her caller did not even grace the question with an answer.