Friends to Die For (25 page)

So, he told himself as he waited for the lift to arrive, he had to accept that Bertorelli would have had opportunity to kill the woman.

There was something else forcing its way to the surface of Vogel’s memory. An unsolved case dating back to his early days in CID. He was still mulling it over when the lift doors opened.
Out stepped two young men and an older woman, much taller than either of her companions, who was wearing an expensive-looking tailored black trouser suit. Although none of the three were in uniform
it was obvious to Vogel that they were police officers.

‘And who the hell are you?’ asked the woman. Her body language made it clear that she was in charge.

Vogel told her. ‘You’re MIT, I assume?’ he said.

The woman nodded curtly. ‘These officers are DCs Wagstaff and Carlisle,’ she said. ‘And I’m DCI Clarke.’

So that was what lay behind Forest’s knowing smile, thought Vogel. Nobby Clarke was a woman.

‘Now, how about telling me what you’re doing at my crime scene?’ DCI Clarke continued. ‘Your reputation precedes you, Vogel, but that doesn’t mean you can trample
all over one of my cases without my say-so.’

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said Vogel. Then he tried, to the best of his ability, to explain his presence, glossing over the fact that he had deliberately disobeyed an order from his
superior officer.

‘I thought because of the knowledge I’d gained in my previous inquiries, both concerning the deceased and her group of friends, that I might be of some use, ma’am,’ Vogel
said. ‘I mean, I hoped I might be able to contribute.’

Clarke grunted.

Vogel cleared his throat. He decided to be bold. After all, what did he have to lose?

‘Also, ma’am, the case brought to mind the murders of two young women in the King’s Cross area, around fifteen years ago. It was pretty rough around there in those days, as
I’m sure you know, ma’am. One of the victims was a prostitute, out plying her trade. But the other was a student nurse from Sweden who almost certainly had no idea that she’d
wandered into an area known for its vice trade. Both were killed in exactly the same way, ma’am: strangled, and then stabbed repeatedly in the same part of their body.’

Vogel paused. He was afraid that he sounded coy, and wondered if this was because he was addressing a woman. Surely not? Clarke was a top homicide cop. Nonetheless he was struggling to say the
words that would accurately describe what had happened to the two women. And indeed to Marlena.

‘Go on, Detective Sergeant,’ instructed Clarke, her impatience evident.

Vogel coughed again.

‘Their reproductive organs were removed from their bodies, ma’am,’ said Vogel. ‘Which is what seems to have happened to the victim in this case.’

‘I see,’ said Clarke. ‘Right, thank you, DS Vogel.’

Vogel knew he was being dismissed. He stepped into the lift, unaware of DCI Clarke’s thoughtful eyes following him, his thoughts entirely occupied by those two unsolved murders.

At the time of the King’s Cross murders, the Met had feared some kind of crazed serial killer was at large. But fifteen years had passed without any further killings that fitted the same
profile. Not in London, at least. And nowhere else in the country, as far as Vogel knew. Despite mammoth resources being thrown at the inquiry, the police had failed to come up with a single clue
as to the killer’s identity. Neither case had ever been closed. Technically at least, police inquiries into the murders were still ongoing. Vogel had not been involved in the investigations
into the earlier murders nor had he attended the crime scenes, but as part of Forest’s drive to improve clear-up rates he had been asked to review the case files.

Vogel felt a terrible foreboding as he stepped out onto the street. Despite the age difference between the victims, there was that one striking similarity between the King’s Cross murders
and the killing of Marleen McTavish. The sexual organs, the womb and ovaries of all three women had been hacked from their bodies.

But Marlena, unlike the earlier victims, had not been strangled beforehand. Her internal organs had been ripped from her body while she was still alive, and she had bled to death. That was what
Dr Fitzwarren had said, wasn’t it?

That being the case, Marlena had died slowly. Vogel shuddered at the thought. The poor woman would have been in mortal agony for what must have seemed like an eternity.

When my work was done, I dissolved into the night. It was something I had always been able to do. I knew how to cover my tracks, how to disappear without trace. My feet
were winged. My soul was free. There would be no blood-covered, raincoated murderer on the streets of London, no easy target for the CCTV cameras to focus upon.

I was the Houdini of death. I was the messenger from Hell, and after I had wreaked my vengeance it was as if I evaporated into thin air, leaving little more than a ghostly presence.

Everything had gone according to plan. Moreover I had found a strength and a will beyond my own expectations. I’d wondered if I might falter, but even though the blood and gore
exploded from her living body with far greater force than I had anticipated, I did not waver. Quite the reverse. As I watched her face twist in agony, as her life’s blood washed over me, my
resolve grew ever stronger, so that the power of my arm achieved greater magnitude with every stroke, and the thrust of the knife grew ever bolder and more incisive.

I had a memory, of course, a kind of gene memory, of how to cause great pain without myself being consumed by it. I knew what I was capable of because of what I had done before. Because of
all that had been forced upon me. In childhood and beyond.

But this had been a step further. An extraordinary new experience. From the moment I had learned the truth, my entire being had been focused on this ultimate act of revenge. I had lain awake
at night, imagining what it might be like to carve into a living body and feel it tense and try to escape the agony I was inflicting, to be able to stare into the eyes of my victim as the life
slowly ebbed from them . . .

The reality had exceeded my imaginings.

On his arrival back at the station, Vogel was summoned to DI Forest’s office. This was no more than he had expected. After all, he had blatantly disobeyed orders.

‘I’ve had DCI Clarke of the MIT on the phone,’ began Forest, glowering at Vogel. ‘Apparently you went behind my back and blundered into her crime scene.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Vogel, keeping his voice level and his face as expressionless as possible. He’d assumed Clarke would make a formal complaint about his unauthorized
appearance.

‘I’ve supported you, Vogel,’ continued Forest, quivering with rage. ‘I’ve given you a free hand, let you do things your own way. And this is how you repay
me.’

Only because of the results I’ve delivered, only because of what I do for your crime figures, that’s why you support me, you pompous prat, thought Vogel.

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ he said.

Forest grunted. ‘However, it seems you must have been blessed at birth.’

‘What, sir?’ Vogel wasn’t following this.

‘DCI Clarke tells me she was impressed with your knowledge of the case and with your suggestion that there could be a link with two unsolved crimes. “The man’s a
thinker,” she said.’

Forest continued to glower at Vogel, as if he had delivered a thoroughly damning insult rather than passing on a remark most people would take as a compliment. ‘Anyway, she wants you on
her team as Assistant SIO.’

Vogel’s jaw dropped.

‘Seems her usual number two’s just taken early retirement.’ Forest sniffed. ‘Not bloody surprised.’

Vogel waited to see if any further explanation might be forthcoming. It wasn’t.

‘I haven’t got the rank, sir,’ he said eventually.

‘You have now,’ replied Forest with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘As of this moment, you’re Acting Detective Inspector Vogel. Clarke’s already fixed it with the
top brass at the Yard. Moves fast, that one. And what she wants, Nobby Clarke gets. She is the golden girl, after all. Wonderful crime figures . . .’

Forest’s eyes glazed over for a moment, before he came to and shook his head somewhat sorrowfully.

‘I see, sir,’ said Vogel, who wasn’t entirely sure that he did.

He did know that an inspector’s salary, even if it didn’t prove to be permanent, would be extremely useful right now. Although Vogel had never actively sought promotion, nor even
known whether he really wanted it, his personal financial responsibilities had been rising of late. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife. He was only human.

‘Right then, get on with it,’ continued Forest, his usual bluster restored. ‘Clarke wants you hands on, Vogel. She’s given orders for Bertorelli to be arrested straight
away, and she wants you to lead a team of the MIT chaps and bring the bastard in. A squad car’s outside waiting, Vogel. Oh, and from now on you report to her. Right?’

‘Right,’ said Vogel.

Alfonso Bertorelli was not at his grandmother’s home in King’s Cross, as Vogel had hoped he would be. Instead the arresting officers found merely a frightened old
woman who spoke poor English but managed to tell them that her grandson had gone to work.

‘My boy, he say he just want to carry on as normal . . .’

Clarke had simultaneously arranged for a CID man and two uniformed officers from Dagenham nick to go to Bertorelli’s mother’s address. They found nobody at home, perhaps backing up
by default the grandmother’s claim.

Unless Bertorelli had done a runner, thought Vogel. Leaving two officers to search the premises, he asked for more back-up to meet him at the Vine.

It was by now nearly four in the afternoon. As this was a Sunday, the restaurant was still full. Most of the remaining lunchers were on puddings, coffee, and in some cases brandy or liqueurs,
when they became aware of police activity around them.

Alfonso was delivering iced Scandinavian berries with warm chocolate sauce to table fifteen when two uniformed PCs relieved him of the dish and steered him towards the door.

Chocolate sauce slopped onto Alfonso’s pristine white shirt and several berries fell to the floor, which the waiter only wished would open up and swallow him. He tried to shake himself
free of the grasp of the officers.

‘What am I supposed to have done now?’ he asked. ‘I’m an innocent man, do you hear?’

‘Just step outside, please, sir,’ instructed Detective Constable Jones, who was right behind the two PCs. They had positioned themselves on either side of Alfonso and had each firmly
grasped him by the upper arm.

‘At least will you let me walk out of my restaurant without being manhandled?’ asked Alfonso. ‘I’m not going to try to run, am I?’

The two uniformed officers looked at DC Jones, who glanced around the busy room. Outside, several more police officers waited. DC Jones nodded slightly to the PCs, one of whom released his grip
on Alfonso while continuing to steer him to the door. The second officer kept one hand lightly resting on Alfonso’s arm, just in case.

Vogel had remained outside, letting the woodentops and DC Jones do the dirty work. He stood on the pavement opposite the door to the Vine, watchful as ever. When Alfonso emerged, Vogel stared at
him with impassive eyes. Jones and the two PCs stepped away from Alfonso, allowing Vogel to confront him one to one.

‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Miss Marleen McTavish,’ Vogel began. ‘You do not have to say anything—’

Vogel stopped abruptly. He could see he wasn’t going to get to finish the caution until later.

Alfonso looked as if he’d been hit by a truck. His face turned ashen, his eyes glazed over.

‘Marlena,’ he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Marlena . . .’

Alfonso’s body began to sway.

Vogel stepped forward, arms outstretched. Other officers also reached out towards the arrested man. All of them were too slow and too late.

Alfonso dropped like a stone onto the pavement.

They took him to UCH for a check-up. Alfonso came round almost as quickly as he had passed out, and his only injuries appeared to be a grazed hand and a sprained wrist, but
Vogel was taking no chances. Whatever the outcome of the next couple of days, he didn’t want the result undermined by some technicality that would create a legal loophole through which a
killer could escape.

While waiting to be given the all-clear to detain Alfonso for interviews, Vogel learned that the officers searching the grandmother’s home at King’s Cross had found a pair of
bloodstained Adidas trainers in one of the bins outside the back door of her block. Size nine. The same size apparently as the small collection of shoes in Alfonso’s bedroom.

This was a potentially highly incriminating discovery. Vogel had little doubt that the blood on the shoes would prove to be Marlena’s. He did, however, as when Alfonso had previously been
arrested, have doubts about the location and manner of the discovery of the trainers. Alfonso Bertorelli didn’t strike him as unintelligent. Would anyone, having committed murder, dump a pair
of incriminating bloodstained trainers in the bin at his place of residence? Or one of his places of residence. It would seem to be an act of total stupidity. Particularly when the perpetrator in
question had already been arrested on suspicion of previous, doubtless connected, offences.

On the other hand, Vogel was well aware how those responsible for criminal acts could panic when the enormity of their actions overwhelmed them. Particularly where crimes of violence were
concerned. And most particularly when it came to murder. Any murder. But surely all the more so when the murder had been as brutal as this one.

However, to question Bertorelli’s guilt for no other reason than the sheer weight of evidence against him would be perverse, even by Vogel’s standards.

Nobby Clarke and her MIT had installed themselves at Charing Cross police station and a cell had been made ready for Alfonso by the time Vogel was able to return there with the arrested man.