Friends to Die For

Nine

It didn’t matter to me who was in charge of the police investigation. This man Vogel had a reputation for being clever, at least among his colleagues. But the average policeman’s concept of cleverness falls well short of mine.

I am in a different class. I have always been in a different class. And when I am intent upon a course of action there is nothing, and no one, that can stop me.

My one regret was the dogs. I was sorry about that. Genuinely sorry. I am a lover of animals and it pained me to end the lives of two creatures who had done me no harm. But the success of my mission called for drastic and unpalatable measures. It was vital that this entire group of so-called friends would now become not only suspects but also suspicious of one another on a whole new level. I needed to shock and confuse, to bring distress and hurt to them all. I wanted each and every one of them to be consumed by doubt, facing every day with a sense of trepidation as to what horror it might hold. Particularly the one I could never forgive, the one who had destroyed my life. The one I was determined to annihilate, totally and utterly.

There was more to come. So much more to come. I found that I was actually beginning to enjoying the challenge. There was satisfaction, pleasure almost, to be derived from manipulating those around me.

I was in control, there was no doubt about that. I had already proved it to myself. And also, I suspected, to the Metropolitan Police. They were deaf and blind to my machinations. They had failed to see the footprints that I had left. Neither had they heard my song of death.

I did not believe that I was a monster, nor that I had ever been a monster. But I knew that, whenever it was necessary, whenever I so desired, I could divorce myself from the kind of human responses generally regarded as normal. Whatever normal might purport to be in a cataclysmic world.

I was not a monster, but almost certainly a freak. Indeed, I knew I was a freak. But not a freak of nature. I had been made into what I was by the actions of another, my life shattered by a deed which had too long gone unpunished, an act of unspeakable evil.

I was a freak, and I was a victim. But I was also strong. My suffering had made me stronger than anyone I had ever encountered.

And I was clever. So very much cleverer than I appeared to be. So much cleverer than those around me. I’d learned to live by my wits. My brain was my engine, the instrument of the destruction I must deploy. I needed nothing more than that which was within me in order to claim my just retribution.

And what will you do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far? To whom will ye flee for help? And where will ye leave your glory?

Vogel was in an unusually good mood when he arrived at Charing Cross the following morning.

He’d won the previous evening’s backgammon tournament with rare ease. He had done so without having to meet his bête noire, the luck of the draw having gone his way. Or, in Vogel’s mind, perhaps the only thing that hadn’t gone his way. If anything, it had taken a little of the shine off his triumph, not having had the opportunity to overcome the opponent he most feared. Vogel believed that fears were there to be conquered.

His prize had been £400, two-thirds of the sum of the £50 entrance fee paid by each of the twelve entrants. The money, in cash of course, sat untouched in his inside jacket pocket. Vogel had won much more than he’d lost over his years of playing backgammon, but that was irrelevant to him. Except in as much as it represented victory. And that alone gave him satisfaction as he occasionally touched the bulge in his jacket with the fingers of one hand.

There was something else. He had immediately recognized one of the younger competitors, from the police mugshot he’d so recently studied, as Sunday Clubber Ari Kabul. This had given Vogel opportunity to watch, and perhaps learn, without his own identity being revealed. Kabul was knocked out in the first round and retreated to the bar where, Vogel noticed, he downed two or three large shots of a clear spirit and began chatting to a young woman. After a few minutes the pair disappeared from the room in the general direction of the toilets. The young woman was already unsteady upon her feet. They returned wrapped around each other and talking in loud animated voices. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the purpose of their lavatorial visit had been the ingestion of certain substances rather than the fulfilment of other more basic bodily functions. Something the bar manager seemed also to have noticed. He approached Ari and murmured in his ear. Ari shook his head and appeared to protest. Then he led his companion to the door. It was obvious that both of them had been asked to leave. Vogel was not surprised. It was no secret that Harpo’s had almost lost its licence the previous year because of allegations of drug use and dealing on the premises. As a result, the club was cracking down on any such indiscretions.

Vogel was still thinking about Ari Kabul’s behaviour when he arrived at Charing Cross more than an hour early for his shift, as was often his way. He had certainly learned something about the young Asian, albeit remaining as yet unsure of its significance, assuming it had any significance.

Kabul’s brush with the law the previous year had obviously not stopped his usage of illicit substances, almost certainly cocaine. And judging from the alacrity with which the Harpo’s bar manager had acted the previous evening, Vogel suspected that his habit was well known. He was only surprised that Ari was allowed in Harpo’s at all. But then again, this was an extremely rich and privileged young man whose inherited position in life would frequently open doors and rarely close them.

Vogel logged in to his computer and wrote a full report of the previous day’s events, including his visit to Greg and Karen Walker and his unexpected encounter with Ari Kabul. This he emailed to his immediate superior, along with a note saying that he wished to continue with his inquiries that day.

He did not wait for sanction from those above him. Instead he set off back into Covent Garden. It was not often that he took unilateral action. Usually cases came his way via the appropriate chain of command, but if something caught his attention, then he was confident his superiors would allow him to pursue it. This was not only because of his exceptional results, but also because of his detailed chronicling of everything that he did. No one was ever left out of the loop. No superior officer ever had the embarrassment of being forced to admit they didn’t know what Vogel was up to, because he always told them. But that was exactly what he did. He told them, he didn’t ask. And by and large he got away with it and was allowed to proceed unhindered.

At forty-one, Vogel was older than the average detective sergeant. In view of his crime-solving success rate, it was surprising that he remained in this lowly rank; whether this was his choice or that of his superiors was something of a grey area. Certainly Vogel gave little sign of being ambitious, and were he to rise up the chain of command his uniquely independent modus operandi may well have been curtailed. As things stood, it was debatable who benefited most from his highly individual situation, Vogel or his superiors.

He took a number 9 double-decker along the Strand. So far as he was concerned, an unmarked CID car was more trouble than it was worth in central London, on routine enquiries anyway. And although he had £400 in cash in his pocket, it was not Vogel’s habit to waste his money on taxis, nor indeed on anything else, and taxi fares were not submissible expenses for Metropolitan Police sergeants. On another day he would have walked all the way, but on this occasion he was in too much of a hurry.

Vogel was convinced that if he did not achieve a result swiftly in this case then more people could be hurt. Perhaps even killed. And, as usual, he believed that if he didn’t crack it, nobody else would.

He alighted from the bus at Aldwych, then walked up Wellington Street and Bow Street into the heart of the Garden, to the converted warehouse behind the opera house where Marlena lived. He now had a list of people he wanted to see and locations he wanted to check out, and Marlena was next on that list. After all, the incident involving her had been the most serious, as it remained the only one to have presented a direct threat to human life.

The woman, balanced precariously on her crutches, let him into her flat with some reluctance.

‘I’ve already been through this again and again,’ she said, wincing as she lowered herself into a chair in the small sitting room.

She was obviously struggling to cope with her injuries. Yet in spite of that, and even though he had called unannounced and she appeared to be alone, Vogel could not help noticing that Marlena was immaculately dressed and wearing full makeup, including, he was almost sure, false eyelashes, beneath the fringes of which she peered at him with some hostility.

‘First the two uniformed chaps and then Michelle,’ Marlena continued. ‘You know PC Monahan, I assume?’

Yes, I know her.’

‘Well, she was so eager to get every tiny detail from me she came rushing round late at night as soon as she got back from the training course she’d been on in Belfast — diplomatic protection or something, I think — but then I assume you know all that.’

‘More or less,’ said Vogel. He paused only briefly before pushing on with the purpose of his visit. ‘But I would appreciate it, Miss McTavish, if—’

‘Please don’t call me that,’ interrupted Marlena sharply, glaring at him.

‘But it is your name, I understand, madam,’ responded Vogel. ‘Although I must admit that it doesn’t seem to fit very well. You certainly don’t sound Scottish.’

And that, Vogel thought, was an understatement. The woman was what an actor pal of his would have called theatre grand. She sounded a bit like Donald Sinden in drag.

‘I am not Scottish,’ intoned Marlena. ‘My father was, but he and my mother, who was English, parted soon after I was conceived. I was both born and brought up on this side of the border. Thank God. I’m only just beginning to realize I should have changed that bloody name legally, instead of just dropping it. Please call me Marlena. Everyone else does.’

‘Very well,’ said Vogel, trying again. ‘So, Marlena, I would appreciate it if you would go through everything again with me. Tell me exactly what happened to you, what you told the police constables and what you told Michelle. I shall be handling this case from now on, and I want to be absolutely sure that nothing has been overlooked.’

With a theatrical sigh, Marlena told her story yet again.

When she had finished, it was a thoughtful Vogel who took the lift to the ground floor of Sampford House. He had already decided to change his plans. Instead of visiting other members of the group as he’d intended, Vogel retraced his steps down Bow Street and Wellington Street and took another number 9 bus back to Charing Cross.

There was something he had to check. Something that had been niggling at the back of his mind from the beginning of his meeting with Marlena. Something he hadn’t expected and had found extremely disturbing.

Back at the station he got himself a coffee from a vending machine then logged in to his computer. A few minutes later he leaned back in his chair, the paper cup of coffee standing neglected on his desk. His mind was racing.

As he had suspected, there had been no Belfast training course in diplomatic protection that week, nor indeed any other training course, as far as he could ascertain. It was a matter of record that Michelle was looking for a transfer out of Traffic, and the Ulster police did run such courses for officers based elsewhere, as, for obvious historical reasons, they were regarded as leaders in the field. But not on this occasion.

In any case, Vogel soon discovered that Michelle had reported sick for the two days she had been absent from work. That too was a matter of record.

So where had she been during the period between her Sunday-evening supper at Johnny’s Place and her arrival at Marlena’s flat late on Tuesday evening clutching an overnight bag? It seemed highly unlikely that she had been genuinely sick. What had she been doing? Why did she lie to her friends, and presumably to her employers?

Vogel had no idea. But he planned to find out.

Neither Billy nor Tiny had returned to work since receiving the news that Daisy had died. And how she’d died.

Instead they mooched around their flat in their pyjamas alternating between floods of tears and shouting at each other.

Billy said he couldn’t understand why Tiny hadn’t been watching Daisy properly. Everyone knew that London parks were deceptively dangerous for dogs.

‘Are you fucking blaming me for what happened?’ Tiny yelled at him.

‘Yes, I fucking am,’ Billy yelled back. ‘Our dog has probably been tortured to death and it’s all your stupid fault.’

He didn’t really blame Tiny though, and later, when they’d both calmed down, Billy apologized profusely and told his partner that.

‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying, honestly I don’t. I just can’t believe what’s happened, that’s all.’

Then he took the big man in his arms and told him how much he loved him.

Ten minutes later they were at each other’s throats again.

‘Oh yeah, you love me all right,’ stormed Tiny. ‘So bloody much you keep me a bloody great secret.’

‘If you were me, you’d keep you a secret too,’ shouted Billy, though even he wasn’t sure what he meant by that.

‘Yeah? And what other fucking secrets are you keeping from me?’ Tiny continued. ‘Sometimes I don’t think I know you at all.’

‘Nor me you. Seems I couldn’t even trust you with our Daisy.’

Tiny couldn’t take it any more. He exploded. For the first time in their relationship he hit out physically at his partner. He rocked back on his heels and threw a punch. But thankfully for Billy, although Tiny was built like an ox and threw a punch that was a bolt of steel, he wasn’t fast. Billy saw the punch coming and flung himself to one side. Instead of hitting Billy’s chin, Tiny’s punch landed on his partner’s right shoulder. But Billy went down like a sack of potatoes. He caught the side of his face on the edge of a low table. The skin split and blood ran freely. Billy cried out in pain as he hit the ground and lay for a few moments whimpering.

The very sight of him, injured and bleeding, caused Tiny to fall to his knees beside Billy, take him in his arms and beg forgiveness.

‘You’ve hurt me, you stupid bastard, you’ve really hurt me,’ said Billy. ‘And it makes me wonder what else you are capable of.’

‘Don’t say that, please don’t say that,’ begged Tiny.

All the anger had left him now. His eyes were filled with tears again and he looked totally broken. Billy loved Tiny too much not to feel compassion for him, even as he lay on the ground wiping the blood from his face with one hand and gingerly twitching his sore shoulder muscles.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, darling, I know I went too far. I know what good care you always took of Daisy.’

‘Not good enough, it seems,’ said Tiny grimly. ‘You will never be able to make me feel more guilty than I already do.’

And so it went on, as the two men continued to express their grief and their anger. One minute they were being loving and supportive of each other, and the next hitting out. Although neither did so physically because they both feared the consequences — Billy because he was the weaker and Tiny because he knew he was so much stronger.

At some time during the day Michelle phoned; to see how they were, she said. Tiny took the call. He asked if there was any news of a post-mortem examination on Daisy and Chump.

‘I’m sorry, Tiny, but apparently the powers that be have decided there’s no point,’ Michelle replied. ‘They say it’s obvious how the dogs died. And there’s all this stuff going on about not wasting public money...’

Tiny ended the call and told Billy what Michelle had said.

‘Not wasting public money,’ he repeated. ‘How dare they?’

‘Don’t worry, darling,’ said Billy, putting a consoling arm around his partner. ‘We’ll get the dogs’ remains returned to us and ask our vet to do a private post-mortem. The bastards can’t stop us doing that.’

A couple of times they spoke to George on the phone. After all, he was going through the same thing they were going through, wasn’t he? Or rather, they tried to speak to George. He seemed to be in an even worse state than either of them. He couldn’t stop crying long enough to formulate words.

It was a black day for all the friends. Seven of them had now been directly touched by some mysterious or at least unexplained event, ranging from the seemingly innocent and vaguely amusing to the malevolent, the malicious, and the downright evil. Only Michelle, Ari and Alfonso had not been the victim of either some kind of prank or worse.

‘So far,’ said Alfonso, when Ari had called him that morning.

‘Yes, well, for myself I wouldn’t mind something happening — something small and inconsequential that is,’ said Ari. ‘I think the others are beginning to suspect us three.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Alfonso, who didn’t believe anyone could ever seriously suspect him of wrong-doing. ‘I know it’s not me, and I don’t believe it could be you or Michelle either. You’d have to be crazy to cut up two dogs like that. As for deliberately setting out to harm Marlena, we both adore her. And why would anyone want to do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ari. ‘I’m bewildered by all of this. But it looks as though someone did set out to harm Marlena. And did you know the police have finally sat up and taken notice? Some CID buddy of Michelle’s called Vogel, supposed to be a bit of a genius, he’s already been to see Greg and Karen and Marlena.’

‘I heard,’ said Alfonso. ‘Well, all I can say is I hope he sorts this mess out before, before...’

‘Before what, Fonz?’ asked Ari.

‘Nothing.’

‘You were going to say before someone dies, weren’t you, mate?’

‘Of course not,’ said Alfonso.

Vogel spent the next couple of hours going over the data he had compiled thus far. He was like that. Methodical. Painstaking.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Michelle and whether or not she could be involved in the unpleasant series of events he was investigating. He’d been fretting about her ever since Marlena had made that reference to the policewoman having been away on a training course he now knew had not existed.

He told himself there were a million reasons why Michelle might have fibbed to her friends. Friends told each other white lies like that all the time. If they wanted to get out of an engagement, if they felt they’d been remiss about something. Or if they didn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.

But he was unable to shake off the little niggle at the back of his mind. And Vogel was a man who couldn’t proceed with an investigation, or indeed anything much else in life, until he had dealt with anything that niggled at him. What were the odds against a group of friends finding themselves on the receiving end of a series of random incidents of this nature? No, either someone was targeting them or one of the group was the perpetrator, which meant that anyone whose behaviour was not entirely straightforward had to be suspect. And that included PC Michelle Monahan.

Vogel checked his watch. Michelle was on point duty and would not be returning to the station until late afternoon. He decided to fill in the time by interviewing Ari Kabul. As he was uncertain where to find him, Vogel checked the list of numbers for the group which Michelle had supplied and dialled Ari’s mobile.

He was unsurprised to be diverted to voicemail and left a message asking Ari to call him back as soon as possible concerning the incident involving Marlena. He was, however, somewhat surprised by how promptly Ari returned his call and the way in which he so readily agreed to come into Charing Cross — ‘for a chat’, as Vogel put it.

‘Anything I can do to help clear up what happened to poor Marlena,’ said Ari. ‘Not that I think I have any information for you, but I’ll help in any way I can.’

Vogel was struck by the highly educated Englishness of Kabul’s voice. He promptly gave himself a telling-off for indulging in stereotyping verging on a kind of racism. What had he expected, for God’s sake? Peter Sellers doing ‘Goodness Gracious Me’?

Ari duly arrived within the hour and was escorted to an interview room. Vogel noted that the young man was not only handsome and well turned out, he was also extremely self-assured and displayed no obvious signs of drug or drink abuse, nor of suffering from a hangover. Just because he had been arrested under the influence of alcohol and in possession of cocaine, did not, of course, necessarily mean that Ari Kabul had a drink problem and was a regular drug user. The sequence of events Vogel had witnessed at Harpo’s the previous evening could merely have been a one-off occurrence from which Kabul had, apparently, swiftly recovered. However that wasn’t how it had seemed. And, Vogel reminded himself, the effects of cocaine could be deceptive.

He stared hard at Ari, looking for dilated pupils, or even an unnatural brightness in the eyes. There was nothing, and if Ari noticed Vogel’s close scrutiny he passed no comment.

He also gave no indication of recognizing Vogel. But then, in spite of his impressively swift recovery, the previous evening’s excesses must surely have dulled Kabul’s senses to some extent.

He answered most of Vogel’s questions easily and satisfactorily enough. Was he speaking any more quickly than might be normal? Did he seem overexcited or overactive? Vogel didn’t think so. Ari Kabul appeared to be quite calm and in control.

There was one question he could not answer satisfactorily. He had no verifiable alibi for the time of Marlena’s incident.

‘I’m afraid I was on my own, at home in bed, Mr Vogel,’ said Kabul. ‘I had some sort of tummy bug. I didn’t go into work that day. My father was in his office as usual and my mother was out most of the day. In any case, my flat in the basement is completely separate from their part of the house, and has its own entrance, so they rarely know for certain whether I’m in or not.’

‘Did you contact your doctor?’ asked Vogel.

Kabul shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, Detective Sergeant. I just put it down to some dodgy grub at Johnny’s the night before.’

Other than, perhaps, the absence of an alibi, there was nothing in Kabul’s response to raise any suspicions in Vogel.

Ari seemed genuinely eager to help and concerned about the misfortunes, albeit that at least two cases were mere pranks, which had now befallen seven of the ten Sunday Club friends.

‘If I think of anything that might throw any light on any of this, anything at all, I’ll call you right away, Mr Vogel,’ said Ari, when the policeman indicated that he had no further questions.

Vogel waited until the young man had reached the door before calling after him.

‘You got home all right last night, then,’ he commented.

Ari suddenly didn’t look quite so self-assured. Which had been Vogel’s intention.

‘Were you at Harpo’s?’ he asked, perhaps a little apprehensively.

Obviously he had no memory of Vogel being there, but that was hardly surprising, thought the detective.

‘Playing backgammon,’ he said.

Ari grinned disarmingly.

‘We didn’t play each other, did we?’ he enquired. ‘Surely I couldn’t have forgotten that.’

Vogel shook his head.

‘Did you win?’ asked Ari.

Vogel reckoned the other man was a good recoverer in more ways than one.

‘I did, as a matter of fact,’ he said. ‘Did you?’

Ari looked puzzled. Presumably even he could remember that he’d been knocked out in the first round.

‘The young woman, the one you left the club with,’ said Vogel, by way of explanation.

‘Ah, the lovely Kylie,’ said Ari, grinning again. ‘Oh yes. I won.’

Vogel remained sitting at the interview-room table for a few minutes after Ari left, pondering their dialogue. Ari was disconcertingly likeable, and obviously had a way with women, probably whether or not he was coked up. Vogel wondered fleetingly if the young man had been too helpful. But he reckoned he could drive himself crazy with that sort of thinking. And in any case Michelle Monahan was due back from point duty any minute.

Vogel couldn’t help feeling a reluctance to confront his colleague. He certainly could not bring himself to do so formally, not at this stage anyway. So he hovered at the coffee machine conveniently situated in the corridor just outside the Traffic department’s offices in order to contrive an apparently accidental encounter. In fact, when he saw Michelle approaching he moved so fast he almost tripped over his own feet, lurched forward and bumped into her, spilling much of the black coffee he had already acquired, but fortunately over himself rather than her. She looked surprised and a tad alarmed.

‘Cup of coffee?’ he enquired, dabbing ineffectively at the stained front of his faded beige corduroy jacket, but otherwise making a fairly good recovery.

Michelle nodded her assent.

‘White, no sugar,’ she instructed.

Vogel had been confident she would take the opportunity to spend a few minutes with him. He knew she liked him — well, possibly more than that, although he had no intention of taking advantage. He also suspected she would want to know what progress he was making on the matter she had brought to his attention, although she was probably not yet sure whether he was actively investigating it.

He told her that he had already interviewed Greg, Karen, Ari and Marlena, and that he was planning to talk to the remaining members of the group over the next day or two.

‘Does that include me?’ Michelle asked levelly.

‘Oh, come on,’ said Vogel.

‘No. There’s something else you want to ask me, isn’t there?’

Michelle was looking him straight in the eye, her manner absolutely direct. She might once have made a pass at him but that didn’t make her any kind of pushover professionally, he reminded himself. He also, either because of or in spite of the pass, remained disconcertingly fond of the young policewoman.

She spoke again before he had time to fully marshal his thoughts.

‘You’d better get on with it,’ she said.

Vogel felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t like it when his usually clinical approach was tainted, as he saw it, by even a hint of emotion. That was when mistakes were made.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Vogel said.

‘For God’s sake, shoot,’ said Michelle.

‘W-well,’ Vogel stumbled. ‘Marlena told me you said you’d just come back from a course when you visited her the other night. That you’d been with the Diplomatic Protection boys in Belfast. There was no such course in Belfast.’ Vogel paused. ‘Indeed, as far as I can discover, there was no such course at that time anywhere, and although you have made an application to Diplomatic Protection you’ve not been interviewed yet, let alone sent on a course. And apparently you called in sick those two missing days.’

Michelle stared at him.

‘You really have been checking up on me, haven’t you?’

Vogel felt the flush in his cheeks deepening. He didn’t reply.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Michelle, the impatience clear in her voice. ‘I took a sickie to go back to Dorset to see Phil. The tart he left me for has dumped him, which serves him right. Trouble is, I still love the rotten bastard. He called me in a dreadful state in the middle of the night on Sunday and I upped sticks and took off straight away. It was too late to apply for leave so I just went sick. And I didn’t want Marlena or any of the rest of our lot to know, because I’ve done nothing but slag Phil off to them all. So I lied. I couldn’t bear the thought of them knowing that I went running back to him at the first opportunity. I can’t believe you picked me up on that, Vogel.’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Vogel.

Michelle managed an ironic laugh. ‘No, you can’t, can you? You pick everyone up on everything. You dissect every detail. And that’s why I asked you to look into this. So serves me right you’re currently dissecting me, I suppose.’

‘Sorry,’ said Vogel.

‘That’s all right,’ said Michelle. She downed the last of her coffee and binned the paper cup. Vogel was still holding his cup even though it was already empty. After all, he’d spilt most of it. Michelle turned on her heel and headed on to Traffic HQ. For a second or two Vogel watched her go. Then he called after her.

‘So are you two getting back together again, then?’ he asked.

Michelle glowered at him. ‘I don’t want the whole fucking world to know about this,’ she said.

‘There’s no one else here,’ said Vogel reasonably, gesturing with his free hand at the empty corridor. ‘Are you?’ he persisted.

‘I don’t know,’ said Michelle. ‘And in any case it’s none of your fucking business.’

She seemed extremely angry. If she did still carry a torch for him, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Or perhaps that merely added to her anger. Vogel wasn’t sure. Vaguely wishing he hadn’t got involved in the first place, he headed back to his desk. The trouble was that now he’d started his investigation he wouldn’t be able to stop. He knew that much about himself. He wished he could but he couldn’t.

He had a new email from his superior asking him to look into a couple of queries concerning his report on the fraud case. He decided to deal with that straight away, but his mind kept wandering.

Finally he gave in to temptation. He had to reassure himself about Michelle, he just had to. He called a colleague with Dorset police, Ben Parker, a man he’d trained with at Hendon many years previously whom he knew was a sergeant at the same station as Phil Monahan.

Only when he’d successfully completed that call did he feel able to return to finalizing his part of the fraud case. After that he considered himself free to return to the matter which was now constantly nagging away at him. He checked out his contact details for the rest of the friends and began to set up interviews for that evening and the next day. He arranged to meet Alfonso a little later on during the waiter’s break from duty at the Vine. Bob agreed to come to the station the following morning at 10 a.m. He decided to visit the three men, whose dogs had died so horribly, in their own homes and made appointments to call on both Tiny and George the following afternoon. Billy, it seemed, was planning to return to work the next day but offered to come to Charing Cross police station as soon as he left his office.

Vogel wanted to speak to each of the friends individually, just in case there were contradictions or even minor variations in their stories which might give him some sort of lead.

He also wanted to interview Greg and Karen again, this time separately. He remained convinced that both had something on their minds which they weren’t telling him, particularly Greg.

He had mobile numbers for the Walkers, but neither answered, so he left messages asking them to contact him, and wondered how long it would take them to do so.

Then he began to pack up his desk ready to leave for his appointment with Alfonso, who had suggested they meet in a Costa café just across the street from the Vine. Vogel logged out of his computer and closed it down. He cleared his desk of any bits and pieces that he didn’t carry in his pocket, like his calculator and his desk diary, and locked them in a drawer. Vogel was naturally tidy and as meticulous with objects as he was awkward with people. His desk always looked as if nobody used it. There was never any personal paraphernalia, no photographs, no loose notes. Nothing.

He was just leaving the building when his mobile rang.

It was Ben Parker in Dorchester.

‘You were right to be suspicious,’ Ben began. ‘I’m having a pint with Phil Monahan. I’ve just stepped out of the pub to call you. He’s not seen or spoken to Michelle in over a year.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well yes, I think so. I enquired about Michelle as casually as I could. Phil has no reason to lie to me.’

‘No, I suppose he doesn’t,’ murmured Vogel thoughtfully.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Parker went on. ‘The new bird’s pregnant.’

‘So she’s not dumped him, then?’

‘Seems not. She phoned while we were in the pub. I wouldn’t say it’s a match made in heaven, but there’s no doubt he’s over the moon about having a kid. Something he always wanted, apparently.’

Vogel was disturbed by what Ben Parker had told him. Apart from anything else, Michelle Monahan seemed to have left herself without an alibi for the time of the Marlena incident, although Vogel still found it hard to accept that she needed one. But her husband surely had no reason to lie. Certainly not to Parker.

Vogel wondered if Michelle was aware that the new woman in her husband’s life was pregnant. Either way, what was she playing at? She had asked him to investigate after all, so surely she had nothing to hide. But maybe that was double bluff. He still couldn’t believe that the young policewoman could be responsible for any part of the unpleasant sequence of events he was investigating. Nonetheless he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit.