Friends to Die For (37 page)

‘Fifteen years is a hell of a long interval. Chances are, whoever was responsible is either dead or got taken out of general circulation in some other way, maybe locked up for another
crime. Even so, make sure the team keep an eye out for any connections between our boys and what went down in King’s Cross. You never know . . .’

Back in the MIT’s incident room, Vogel assigned one of the sharpest young DCs, Steve Parlow, the task of following up on the Carla Karbusky lead – if indeed it was
a lead and not another dead end. There continued to be no answer from the contact number George Kristos had supplied for her, which had turned out to be a pay-as-you-go phone. This made tracing the
owner more difficult, but Vogel was confident that Parlow would eventually succeed. He wanted the young woman found, if only to give him some respite from wracking his brain trying to figure out
why her face seemed so familiar.

Meanwhile, he drew up a list of known associates of the friends and ordered that they be brought in for questioning. This included, of course, Johnny the piano-playing boss of Johnny’s
Place, Cathy the maître d’, and several other Johnny’s staff, some colleagues of Alfonso’s from the Vine, including his immediate boss Leonardo, Justin from Shannon’s,
Pete the caretaker at Chatham Towers, and Paddy Morgan, the caretaker at Sampford House who had found Marlena’s body. There was nothing as yet to indicate the direct involvement of any of
these, and the usual procedure would have been to conduct informal interviews elsewhere or invite them to attend Charing Cross police station by appointment. But Vogel had them picked up and
brought in for formal questioning. He’d taken his kid gloves off and thrown them away.

There was one exception. Tony Kwan. Vogel wasn’t yet ready to summon the Triad boss to the police station, and he certainly wasn’t going to send a load of plods to pick Kwan up.
Apart from any other consideration, if you started something with a man like Kwan, if you appeared to be taking him on, then you had better be prepared to finish it. Or else. And Vogel didn’t
like to think about the ‘or else’.

A few years previously a couple of Met detectives based at West End Central had been investigating an upmarket protection racket centring on some of the major Oxford Street stores. They found
evidence of blackmail, coercion and the use of extreme aggression, all of it pointing to Kwan. Somehow, Kwan got wind of the fact they were closing in on him. Threats were made; the detectives were
warned that their families’ lives would be in danger if they didn’t back off. And fast. One of them, DC Leonard Smith, even claimed to have spotted a man armed with a sniper rifle on a
roof overlooking the Savile Row entrance of the Mayfair police station. The top brass had dismissed the detective’s claims as pure fantasy, and ultimately both men had taken early retirement
from the force. Vogel knew that Len Smith, with whom he’d been friendly, had suffered a nervous breakdown from which he had never recovered. The case was ultimately closed due to lack of
evidence. To Vogel it seemed the Met had done what it had been told to do. Backed off. The whole matter had left a nasty taste in his mouth.

It was hard to blame those within the force who had taken the decision not to proceed. Kwan’s reputation was such that he was generally regarded as untouchable. Vogel did not know whether
that was true. He did not operate at that kind of level within the Met. He did know that he was afraid of Tony Kwan. Very afraid. Anyone with half a brain would be. Vogel was a family man. He had a
wife and a daughter. A vulnerable daughter. He wasn’t the gung-ho, have-a-go-hero type. He would have liked nothing better than to forget about that particular entry in Greg Walker’s
phone, to accept Walker’s glib explanation of a simple purchase of whisky. But he couldn’t. As was often the case, he found himself resolved to follow a course of action he knew he
might live to regret. Or did he just hope he might live to regret it? Vogel told himself off for letting his imagination run riot.

He was going to Soho to see Tony Kwan, and that was that.

It was almost 10 p.m. when he arrived, alone, at the Zodiac gambling club. Like Greg, he knew that Tony Kwan operated out of an office in the club. Unlike Greg, Vogel had never set foot inside
the building. But he knew enough about Kwan to be confident that he would still be in his office. According to the legend that meandered its way around the bevied echelons of the Met, there was a
sumptuous bedroom at the rear of the private office where Kwan frequently entertained whichever of the acquiescent young women who surrounded him might currently be taking his fancy. Kwan only
returned to the gated complex at Virginia Water – his official residence and that of his wife, his sons and his daughters-in-law and their children – a couple of nights a week, and for
Sunday lunches when he presided over a veritable banquet of dim sum and played at being the benevolent and doting head of his personal dynasty.

The two dinner-jacketed heavies on the door stepped forward and blocked Vogel’s way when he approached the entrance. With his horn-rimmed glasses, crumpled cords, and diffident manner,
Vogel might not have looked much like most people’s idea of a policeman, but these men were trained to spot a copper.

Vogel introduced himself and asked very politely if he might see Mr Kwan.

The smaller of the heavies spoke in a high-pitched voice which somehow added to his menace, as did his distinctly London accent.

‘The boss don’t see no one without an appointment,’ he announced.

‘I wonder if you could ask him if he might make an exception in my case,’ said Vogel, obsequious now. There was, however, an edge to his next remark: ‘We have matters to
discuss which may be of mutual interest.’

The heavy subjected him to careful scrutiny, then stepped back into the doorway and began to speak quietly into the radio mike clipped to his lapel.

There was considerable noise in the street and coming from inside the club. Vogel couldn’t make out what the man was saying. The result, however, was that the doors opened and Vogel was
escorted through the club to the private door at the back, then up the rickety staircase to Kwan’s private offices on the third floor. The same route that Greg had taken just days before.

Vogel should not have been surprised by the lavishly appointed interior, having been forewarned by colleagues. Nevertheless his jaw dropped.

The ever-courteous Kwan got up from behind his desk and came towards Vogel. He stopped a few feet away and bowed his head very slightly. Vogel did the same.

‘And so, Mister Vogel, we meet at last,’ said Kwan.

Obviously the doorman would have supplied his name, but Kwan’s choice of greeting implied that he already knew about Vogel.

‘Indeed,’ he replied.

He’d often wondered what it would be like to meet Tony Kwan. He had wondered if he would be intimidated. Particularly on the man’s own territory. Oddly, he felt no fear. So far, at
any rate, he remained intent on his mission.

As if aware of Vogel’s thoughts, Kwan continued: ‘And how is your dear wife, and your daughter? In better health, I hope?’

Vogel felt something then, all right. He hadn’t expected Kwan to know anything about his personal life, especially given the fact he’d arrived unannounced, so Kwan had not had the
opportunity to do any homework. A chill ran down Vogel’s spine. He was especially sensitive to any reference to his daughter. How did Kwan know she was anything other than entirely well? Was
this just his way of displaying the depth of his knowledge of the Met in general and Acting Detective Inspector Vogel in particular, or was it a veiled threat? Only one thing was certain, thought
Vogel: it was not a simple enquiry after the welfare of his family. Nonetheless he responded as if he had taken it that way.

‘They are both quite well, thank you, Mr Kwan,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

‘To what do I owe this great pleasure?’ enquired Kwan softly.

‘I understand you know Greg Walker,’ responded Vogel, making a huge effort to put all other considerations out of his mind.

Kwan nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I believe you are heading the inquiry into the recent murder of two women in this area, both of whom have a connection with Mr Walker, I understand.’

‘Indeed,’ said Vogel again.

Then he waited, aware that Kwan was taking control of their meeting. Vogel didn’t mind. All he wanted was to find out what Kwan knew. And he sensed that the Triad boss had every intention
of telling him.

Kwan cut right to the chase.

‘You did not come here this evening to enquire whether I or my people had any involvement in this?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Vogel.

‘Of course not,’ repeated Kwan. ‘We do not cut up old women and remove their reproductive organs.’

Vogel didn’t speak. The gruesome details of Marlena’s killing had not been released to the media. Miraculously, they hadn’t even been leaked on the net. If anyone else had
divulged such knowledge, it would have aroused his suspicions. In Tony Kwan’s case, however, it was only to be expected. Both Marlena and Michelle had died within Kwan’s domain. The
Triad leader was protective of his territory. He kept himself informed of any villains unconnected with him who were bold enough to operate on his patch. He would want to know who was behind such
brutality, and why. Or that’s what Vogel was banking on.

Vogel waited for Kwan to continue. The Triad took his time.

‘My people have been making enquiries, on my instructions,’ said Kwan eventually. ‘We have our contacts, people you may not necessarily have dealings with, Mr Vogel . .
.’

Kwan stroked his sleek black hair with the manicured fingers of one hand. Vogel thought he might be wearing clear nail varnish. His face revealed nothing. Vogel tried to appear equally
inscrutable. He suspected he did not do it terribly well.

‘We also, Mr Vogel, have our own methods. Methods that are neither appropriate nor available to the Metropolitan Police.’

Kwan stretched his lips back from his teeth. Vogel assumed the man was trying to smile. He made his own attempt in response, but his mouth was so dry he feared he was unsuccessful.

Kwan turned and walked back to his desk. Suddenly he raised a clenched fist and smashed it down on the glass with such force that Vogel flinched, fearing the glass might break. It
didn’t.

Kwan raised his fist again and held it up towards Vogel almost in a fascist-style salute. The part of his hand that had struck the desk was already beginning to swell. Still Kwan gave no sign of
discomfort, but his face contorted in anger.

‘I have learned nothing! My people have found nothing!’ he shouted. ‘I know no more than the police. Nothing!’

Kwan spat out the word ‘police’, loading it with contempt. Vogel winced.

Then as abruptly as he had flown into a rage, Kwan sat down. Vogel could see the man was making a supreme effort to compose himself. He swallowed nervously, hoping that his anxiety didn’t
show.

Kwan held out both his hands, palms upwards, as if in resignation.

‘I know nothing, Mr Vogel,’ he repeated, but this time in his usual quiet and courteous voice. ‘I have heard nothing. Neither have my people. It seems we may have a madman on
the loose. You and I are on the same side here, Mr Vogel, I assure you. I am in business. I understand business, and the unpleasant necessities it sometimes brings. But this is something different.
Something is happening under my nose, yet I cannot see it. Do you appreciate what I am saying?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Kwan, I most certainly do,’ said Vogel.

Tony Kwan saw these crimes as a violation of his domain. Moreover, people feared him in part because they thought him omnipotent, that nothing escaped his attention. Yet his efforts to identify
the person responsible had been no more successful than Vogel’s. This was an intolerable personal affront.

Vogel, too, was a proud man. He had no illusions about his own omnipotence, but his failure to identify the killer had delivered a severe blow to his pride and he felt it keenly.

‘I am not happy, Mr Vogel, I am not happy at all,’ said Kwan.

‘And neither, Mr Kwan,’ replied Vogel, ‘am I.’

In their respective homes, the various friends struggled to come to terms with the aftermath of arrest and incarceration.

Tiny and Billy clung to each other, mentally and physically, seeking comfort.

Suddenly, Billy broke free of his partner’s embrace and asked: ‘Why did you go looking at puppies without telling me, darling?’

‘I told you, I told you as soon as we left the police station,’ Tiny replied. ‘You’d said you weren’t ready yet for another dog. You were quite definite about that.
I had this crazy idea that if I found some gorgeous little puppy, and maybe showed you a photograph or something, you wouldn’t be able to resist. I don’t just
want
another dog,
sweetheart, I feel like I
need
a dog about the place again. Surely you understand?’

Billy pulled away from him.

‘Look, Tiny, I’m sorry, but this has been on my mind all evening,’ he said. ‘You did go to Uxbridge, darling, didn’t you?’

Tiny stared at him for several seconds. Tears formed in his big brown eyes.

‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that, Billy,’ he said. ‘Not you, you of all people.’

Murder creates many victims. There are grieving friends and relations of the deceased, the neighbours, colleagues and casual acquaintances shocked by the proximity of such violence. Then there
are the suspects, not only those arrested and questioned as part of the official investigation, but those who fall under suspicion from their own family members and friends. And even if they have
no doubts about each other’s innocence, there is always the question of blame. Would the young woman murdered after a night out with a group of mates still be alive if one of them had taken
the trouble to walk her home? Could a child’s life have been saved if the parent or sibling or friend who was supposed to be looking after them had been more vigilant? Should we somehow be
able to spot the paedophile, the rapist, the psychopath in our midst before they commit some terrible crime?