Friends to Die For (19 page)

‘Ummm,’ responded Vogel. ‘To you, perhaps, but not to a court of law. You were not actually a witness at all, sir, you do see that?’

‘I damn well saw that cyclist take off and the bus run over poor dear Marlena’s foot,’ responded Alfonso feistily. ‘I was a witness to that.’

Vogel smiled one of his small tight smiles that stretched his lips to the minimum.

‘Did you happen to notice the colour of the bicycle?’ he asked.

‘What? No. Hang on. It may have been black. It was a dark colour. Yes, I’m sure of that.’

‘Do you own a bicycle yourself, by any chance, Mr Bertorelli?’ he asked.

‘Do I look like the sort of chap who owns a bike?’ retorted Alfonso.

Vogel had to admit that the man had a point. But an elderly woman had been seriously hurt. He reminded Alfonso of that.

‘OK, I’m sorry,’ said Alfonso. ‘I do not own, and never have owned, a bicycle.’

‘Thank you, sir. And, by the way, where in town do you stay when you don’t go back to Dagenham?’

Vogel saw Alfonso flush.

‘Oh, here and there,’ the Italian muttered.

‘I am afraid you need to be more precise than that, sir. This is now a very serious inquiry and I need to know the whereabouts of everyone involved. As you are in full-time employ, I
believe, at the Vine, and working variable hours, I presume you would need a regular place to stay in central London.’

Alfonso didn’t answer. Vogel knew nothing of the likely habits of a man like this, but he decided to speculate in the hope of provoking an answer.

‘Some sort of club, perhaps? Or a friend whose name you can give me? Or a girlfriend?’

Alfonso looked askance. It was Vogel’s turn to flush slightly.

‘O-or a boyfriend?’ he concluded boldly, wondering if it was politically correct to make such a suggestion.

‘No, no, absolutely not, I’m not effing gay, for Christ’s sake!’ Alfonso looked flustered. ‘Listen, I stay with my nan. She has one of the last council places
standing up by King’s Cross. Near all those flash new developments. I stay with her. I can walk there from the Vine. Anyway, Mamma likes me to keep an eye on me nan . . .’

Alfonso looked thoroughly uncomfortable now.

Vogel decided he wasn’t going to get much more out of the man. And in any case he didn’t think he had any more questions. Not any consequential ones anyway.

He told Alfonso he was free to return to work. Then made his way home to the pretty little flat in Pimlico which he shared with his wife and daughter. On the bus.

Vogel’s daughter, Rosamund, was already tucked up in bed and sound asleep by the time he unlocked his front door and stepped into the pink-and-white hallway dotted with
prints and water-colours of old London. His wife collected them – from markets and car boot sales and jumble sales. She couldn’t afford dealers and art galleries on her husband’s
salary. He, however, thought her collection quite splendid. Indeed, he thought everything about his wife was splendid. Mary Vogel was the sole homemaker. She was designer and decorator, shopper and
cook. She even sewed the floral-printed curtains and cushion covers. Mary filled the window boxes with plants and the flat itself with flowers. Mary did everything. The result was that Vogel lived
in an intensely feminine home. Partly because he was so tidy, and because he hadn’t any hobbies apart from backgammon, which required no clutter, just one folded board, there was little sign
of his presence in the place. Vogel didn’t mind. In fact he loved the home his wife had created for them, and thought it quite beautiful. When he thought about it at all, which was only
rarely.

The family dog, border collie Timmy, wrapped himself delightedly around his master’s legs.

Mary, ever-patient with both Vogel’s obsessive attitude to his work and the hours he kept, greeted her husband with a kiss then swiftly produced scrambled eggs on toast followed by a cup
of hot chocolate, while he made an effort to talk, for just an hour or two, about anything and everything other than his job.

Vogel had, however, over the years developed the knack of chatting to his wife while his mind remained deployed elsewhere. In this instance, firmly focused on the case which was beginning to
enthral him.

Alfonso Bertorelli, who’d seemed at first to be a straightforward dandy of a man, whom Vogel still thought was possibly gay although he had so vehemently denied it, had turned out to be
anything but straightforward. Vogel wondered why he was considerably more at ease talking about the traumatic event he had witnessed, or nearly witnessed, than giving details about his personal
life.

His place of residence seemed to be a matter of particular sensitivity. Could it be that he was embarrassed to be still living with his mum? Vogel recalled the waiter’s vehement protests
that Mrs Bertorelli’s Dagenham address wasn’t really his home. And he’d been equally embarrassed to admit that, when he couldn’t make it back to Dagenham, instead of staying
in a trendy club, or with a girl or boyfriend, or even with one the group of friends in their central London pad, Alfonso Bertorelli stayed with his nan.

By the time Vogel had finished his bedtime chocolate he’d reviewed the interview with Alfonso over and over again in his mind. It had taken only cursory inquiries about his living
arrangements to establish that, beneath the smooth, personable facade, the man was something of an oddball.

But did that increase the likelihood that he was the prankster targeting Sunday Club? Was he capable of a series of attacks that had escalated from harmless practical jokes to violence with
shades of sadistic brutality?

Vogel continued to ponder the question as he climbed into his small but comfortable double bed alongside the wife he loved so dearly in his own rather detached way. He sank his head into a
pillow delicately scented with lavender and pulled up the duvet in its pink-and-lilac floral cover, until it reached over his ears.

No, nothing about Bertorelli indicated any such thing. Yet still Vogel could not get over just how convenient his arrival on the scene of the Marlena incident had been. But there was no evidence
to suggest that Alfonso was guilty of anything other than witnessing a nasty crime.

Evidence. Irrefutable evidence. That was what was needed. Vogel, who didn’t much care for hunches, drifted off to sleep muttering the word like a mantra: Evidence, evidence . . .

By the time she finished her stint on point duty, Michelle’s anger and irritation had evolved into full-blown fury. She couldn’t believe the way Vogel had
cross-examined her. She had no doubt whatsoever that he’d deliberately orchestrated their ‘chance’ meeting by the coffee machine in order to grill her. And it had been a
tremendous shock to her to realize that he considered her a suspect – which he most definitely did, however much he might protest.

She decided to walk from Charing Cross police station to her home at the top end of Holborn in order to calm herself down a bit. But it didn’t work. Taking a sickie for her own personal
reasons might be an unwise career move, but it had nothing to do with Vogel. Similarly if she chose not to reveal to her friends the true reason for her absence from town, that was entirely her own
business. How dare Vogel poke about in her life.

Michelle was still fuming as she unlocked the door to her studio flat in an ugly purpose-built 1960s block just off Lamb’s Conduit Street. It seemed very cold inside. She shivered as she
began to take off her coat. She put it back on again and then checked the heating system thermostat. Everything seemed to be in order, but the place was definitely extremely chilly.

Surely it couldn’t be the damned communal boiler again? She phoned the part-time caretaker. The boiler was indeed on the blink, for the third time that year – and it was only
March.

Michelle shouted at the caretaker, which she knew was small of her. It wasn’t his fault. Well, not exactly. Then, roundly cursing the world in general, she made her way into the tiny
kitchen off the far end of her bedsit. She wanted a drink. But she’d finished her last bottle of wine the previous evening. She remembered that she was also hungry, having skipped lunch, and
opened the door of her fridge. It contained only the dubious remains of a carton of milk, a piece of cheese tinged with green and some bread so hard you’d need an axe to break into it.

Her mood darkened further. She was fed up, cold, hungry and thirsty. For a moment she considered just getting into bed with a hot-water bottle and forgetting the day. Then she thought again. She
really should at least try to do something positive.

She called Marlena and suggested she come over and bring a bottle. Marlena jumped at the idea.

‘Just make sure it’s a decent one,’ she commanded imperiously.

Michelle grinned. Marlena rarely disappointed. And Michelle knew exactly what her friend meant by a decent bottle. It had to be champagne. She checked her watch. It was just gone eight. If she
hurried, Marks and Spencer in Long Acre, just half a street away from Marlena’s home by the Opera House, should still be open. Their own-brand vintage bubbly was one of the few mass-market
labels Marlena found even remotely palatable. Anything beyond that, however, was outside Michelle’s means, until and if that long-awaited transfer to a better job, and maybe the promotion to
go with it, ever came.

She had walked home still wearing her police uniform, with only a raincoat covering it. She changed swiftly into jeans and a sweater, then hailed a cab to speed up the short journey, a luxury
she rarely allowed herself. Less than an hour later, carrying an M&S shopping bag loaded with champagne, chicken liver pâté, a loaf of crusty bread, a piece of decent cheese, and a
few other bits and pieces from the deli counter, she arrived at Sampford House.

Marlena buzzed her in.

‘Darling,’ she said, by way of greeting, as she leaned on her crutches in the hallway of her flat. ‘I didn’t expect dinner.’

‘Why, have you eaten already?’ enquired Michelle disingenuously, well aware of her stick-thin friend’s insistence that she rarely took solids except in company.

‘Of course not,’ said Marlena, appalled at the suggestion.

‘Well, I’m absolutely starving, so I thought if I brought some grub you might at least have the grace to join me.’

‘If you insist,’ drawled Marlena. ‘But for God’s sake, let’s have a drink first.’

Swiftly and efficiently she opened the champagne Michelle had brought and poured generous portions into large crystal glasses. Meanwhile Michelle piled the food on a tray which she placed on the
coffee table in the middle of the sitting room.

As if by unspoken agreement both women at first avoided all mention of the string of incidents which was at the forefront of both their minds, which resulted in their conversation taking a
rather stilted and unnatural tone.

How Marlena was feeling and the condition of her leg occupied some time. Marlena, who claimed to be much better and said she was sure she would be on her feet in no time – ‘both of
them, darling’ – wanted to know how Michelle was getting on at work, and if she was any nearer to the promotion she so desired.

Eventually this led Michelle on to the subject which was actually the only thing either of them really wanted to discuss that night. She told Marlena how she had sought help from the man whom
she regarded as probably the best detective in the Met.

‘Would that be Detective Sergeant Vogel?’ asked Marlena.

‘Ah,’ responded Michelle. ‘Has he been to see you already?’

Marlena said that he had, adding: ‘I could see he was a sharp cookie.’

‘He’s that all right,’ said Michelle, giving the words more edge than she’d intended.

Marlena glanced at her enquiringly. ‘I thought that was why you went to him,’ she said.

‘Ummm.’ Michelle couldn’t help herself. ‘Trouble is, now the bastard seems to have me down as his prime suspect, damn and blast him.’

‘You? Why on earth would he suspect you? I mean, any more than anyone else. One would assume you would be beyond suspicion, since you’re in the police and you brought the whole
darned thing to his attention?’

Michelle gave herself a moment to think. She realized that she had backed herself into a corner. If she responded honestly, that would mean revealing to Marlena that she had lied about being
away in Belfast on that non-existent course. And she couldn’t do that. Not yet, anyway.

‘Oh, I don’t suppose he does – not any more than Alfonso and Ari, anyway,’ she said eventually, keeping her voice as level as she could manage. ‘We’re the
only three not to have been targeted, so obviously any police inquiry is going to focus on us first.’

‘Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.’ Marlena clasped her hands together under her chin. ‘What an absolutely ghastly state of affairs.’

‘Isn’t it just.’ And you don’t know the half of it, thought Michelle.

‘Indeed, indeed. And all I can suggest right now, darling, is that we finish the last of your champers. I think I may well have another decent bottle or two tucked away
somewhere.’

‘As long as you think you dare risk it,’ said Michelle. ‘I mean, maybe I spiked the bottle.’

‘Well, if you have, darling, that should solve all our problems,’ said Marlena, emptying the last of the Marks and Spencer champagne into Michelle’s glass.

Another bottle was duly opened. This time a claret far superior to anything Michelle would ever have acquired.

‘Just a little something to go with that rather good cheese you brought with you, dear,’ said Marlena. ‘Mr Kips – the nice man who runs that shop in Endel Street which
sells everything – gets it in specially for me. He sent round half a dozen bottles the morning after I came out of hospital, bless him. A welcome-home present, he said. Seems everyone in
Covent Garden knows what happened – in as much as any of us do . . .’

Marlena allowed her voice to tail off as she poured them each generous measures. She took a long appreciative drink.

‘Nothing quite like drowning your sorrows,’ she murmured.

By the time Michelle finally left Marlena’s apartment just before midnight she was inclined to agree. She had declined her friend’s offer to open a third bottle, but consuming the
equivalent of one had definitely helped. Along with the food too. Funny how a full tummy could improve your state of mind.