Friends to Die For

Ten

Greg, of course, did not really believe that the unpleasant incidents concerning his family were random acts of vandalism. Not at all. Not the slashing of the tyres on his van, nor the brick through the window of his apartment.

And he shared none of the professed doubts of the other Sunday Club members concerning who may or may not have been responsible. The other episodes, the pranks, the Marlena incident, the horrible attack on the two little dogs, they were one thing. What had happened to his van and to his home, the danger his whole family now seemed to be in, was entirely another. Greg knew who was responsible. Absolutely. He had no doubts at all.

He also knew that he had to do something about it. Fast. Unless he wanted to wait until someone he loved was hurt. And he knew exactly what he had to do. He had no choice.

Later that evening he made excuses to Karen, who was still furious with him, and set off for that Chinatown gambling club again. Karen thought she knew about Greg’s past. She really didn’t have a clue. And he could not share it with her. If she ever found out, he dreaded what the knowledge would do to their relationship. He also did not want his wife to live in fear. It didn’t matter about him. Greg had sold out to the devil many years previously, and was prepared to take the consequences. He’d learned to live with fear over the years. Once in a while he almost allowed himself to forget. But only ever almost, in spite of it having been so long since he’d been given any real cause to remember. Although he’d become expert at concealment even from those closest to him, there had always been an abiding dread in his heart. And now, it seemed, he must face his demons again.

The same security doormen, in their dark suits and dicky bows, stood outside the Zodiac. Or if they weren’t the same ones, then they were clones. Hard-faced and dangerous-looking.

But on this occasion Greg did not shuffle by and lurk around while desperately seeking the courage to go in. He knew that he must fulfil his intentions. If the latest events were anything to go by, he was probably running out of time.

So, attempting a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel, he walked straight up to the door of the Zodiac and addressed the nearest of the two doormen, explaining briefly why he was there and who he hoped to see. The man turned his back on Greg and spoke into a mike clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He was also wearing an earpiece. Greg knew he would be carrying, probably in a belt holster, a standard security-industry Motorola two-way radio linked to other security staff within the building and, most importantly, to the upstairs offices of Zodiac Enterprises.

‘All right, you can go through,’ the doorman said after a minute or two. ‘I understand you know the way?’

Greg nodded. It had been years since he’d visited the Zodiac, but he knew the way all right. It was one of those things you never forgot. He moved swiftly through the main rooms of the club, past the usual roulette tables, the blackjack, and the fruit machines. There was also a fanton table, the traditional Chinese version of roulette involving placing bets on the number of buttons to be left beneath a bowl. Few of the clientele looked up as he passed. Intent upon their gambling, they were not interested in him, and he certainly was not interested in them. At the back was a door marked private, outside which stood a third dinner-jacketed heavy. He invited Greg to pass through, into a dimly lit hallway, then frisked him with brisk efficiency before indicating the rickety flight of stairs ahead.

Greg duly climbed to the third floor, pacing himself, hoping he was fit enough not to arrive out of breath. The walls on either side were distinctly grubby and greasy, the carpet was stained and fraying, and the door off the third-floor landing, with its peeling paint and ill-assorted door furniture, appeared to have seen far better days. But appearances can be deceptive, and almost always were in this other, secret world. The door, which was actually steel-plated beneath its layer of bad decoration, possessed all the benefits of modern technology, including a camera eye. As Greg approached, as if by magic, it opened smoothly to reveal the sumptuously appointed rooms within. Greg stepped inside. His feet sank into plush carpet in the richest shade of purple. Opulent leather furniture and banks of computers lined the walls, one of which bore a massive flat-screen TV.

Across the room the man Greg had come to see sat behind a gleaming steel-and-glass desk. Obsequious minions, male and female, Oriental and Caucasian, flitted about the place.

Tony Kwan, third generation of a redoubtable family of Hong Kong immigrants, described himself as a businessman. But Greg knew him to be rather more than that. And quite disconcertingly so.

Kwan was one of the latest in a long line of Soho Chinese who were both frighteningly powerful and powerfully frightening. His office, like everything else in his world, was a hidden-away place, a casually concealed oasis of style and luxury from which this one man ran a terrifying empire.

Kwan, taller than the average Chinese, very thin, immaculately coiffured and Savile Row tailored, rose from his desk, strode across the carpet, and, bowing his head slightly, took Greg’s hand and shook it warmly.

‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I am most pleased to see you again, Gregory. It has been far too long. Welcome.’

Kwan was well known for his unfailing courtesy. Unlike Greg, and the inner-city kids who remained the bedrock of his organization. Kwan had been educated at a top English public school, and he invariably displayed the manners which perfectly complimented the accent. There were those, however, who believed that the more polite Tony Kwan was, the more dangerous he was.

‘Thank you,’ said Greg, licking dry lips in order to be able to speak. He hoped his voice was steady. ‘I am most pleased to see you too, Mr Kwan.’

Kwan had always called Greg by his full given name — chosen by a mother who’d formed an adolescent crush on Gregory Peck which had lasted until her death — and was now the only person who did so. It still took Greg by surprise, but he responded in the manner that he knew was expected. With equal courtesy and also with formality. He was well aware that he should always address the Chinese gang boss as mister, if he knew what was good for him, just like everyone else did, even though he had first met the other man when they were both little more than boys. It was about respect. And respect was everything in this frightening other world. The world of the Triads, the Chinese gangs with international networks on a scale which made the Mafia look like the small family business Greg knew the Triad bosses more or less regarded it as. Kwan was a very important Triad boss. Greg had always been aware of that, even though it was never mentioned. Indeed, Greg had never heard Kwan or any of his associates utter the word ‘Triad’.

Kwan called to one of his minions for tea, which was duly brought by a pretty young woman wearing an elegant silk cheongsam. She kept her head bowed as, with traditional ceremony, she poured the pale beverage into exquisite small bowls of finest porcelain. Greg couldn’t help wondering what her other duties were.

Kwan asked Greg about the welfare of his wife and children, to which Greg responded evenly, although his nerves were on edge. He didn’t like to hear the other man mention his family.

‘So, Gregory, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ asked Mr Kwan eventually.

Greg had known better than to attempt to lead their conversation.

‘I just wanted to pay my respects,’ said Greg, keeping his face as expressionless as he could and his voice level. ‘And to assure you, Mr Kwan, that if there is anything I can do for you, you only have to ask.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Kwan stared at Greg. He didn’t seem to blink like other men. Greg was still trying not to allow his body language to give anything away, certainly no indication of the knot of fear that was tightening like a vice around his lower abdomen. But he knew he had no answer to Tony Kwan’s unnerving Oriental inscrutability.

‘And is there any reason, Gregory, any particular reason for you to come to me now, I wonder?’ asked Kwan.

‘No, of course not, Mr Kwan,’ lied Greg. ‘Like I said, I just thought it was time I paid my respects.’

‘Ah yes,’ Mr Kwan repeated. ‘We appreciate it, Gregory. We want you to know that. We sincerely appreciate it.’

Greg nodded. It was not unusual for Tony Kwan to adopt the royal ‘we’; no doubt he saw himself as a monarch of sorts. And although he kept a lower profile, he wielded more power than most modern monarchs.

Greg waited. He understood the ways of the Triad. So much remained unspoken.

‘Thank you, Gregory,’ Kwan continued eventually. ‘We may well be in touch. Meanwhile, please don’t worry about anything, will you?’

Greg shook his head. In spite of the fact he was worried sick about almost everything.

Mr Kwan took him by the hand and bade him farewell. But as Greg turned towards the door, Kwan spoke again.

‘If there is anything I can help you with, Gregory, you will let me know, won’t you?

Hard intelligent eyes stared at Greg. Kwan’s voice was heavy with an inference the Englishman didn’t quite understand.

He thanked the Chinese and fled.

Once outside the building he realized he was sweating profusely even though it was a cool night. And he was shaking. He bought more cigarettes from a late-night shop and lit one as he walked home, inhaling greedily, just to calm his nerves he told himself.

The meeting with Kwan had not gone the way he had expected, but then the Chinese gang boss was always full of surprises. That was part of his mystique, part of the way he maintained his power. Never the direct attack; when Kwan came at you he came from left of centre, always had done, Greg reminded himself.

Nonetheless the offer of help at the end of the meeting had been totally unexpected, as had the manner in which it was delivered. The Triads always looked after their own, and were proud of doing so. Just as they dispensed their own retribution when they deemed it necessary. But Kwan had given the impression he believed Greg needed help with something, and that he was available to assist, which indicated that Kwan and his people were not responsible for the incidents that had so unnerved Greg. Or did it?

Greg gave himself a telling-off for being naive. It was just another smokescreen, surely?

Kwan was responsible all right. He had to be.

Greg’s big regret in life was that he had ever become involved with Tony Kwan. It had all been long ago, and since then Kwan had left Greg alone, or more or less alone, for years. Until very recently.

When Greg married Karen, Kwan had told him that he respected his decision to back off and become a family man. He’d even sent round an ornate congratulatory bouquet of flowers to Karen. The gesture had thoroughly disconcerted Greg, as it had reminded him of the elaborate floral tributes prevalent at Mafia funerals. After that, there had been no contact aside from an occasional visit from one of Tony Kwan’s men, just popping in for a chat. Lest Greg should forget that he would always remain beholden to the Soho gang boss, and that Mr Kwan retained the right to call on him at any time. And also a reminder of all that Kwan had on Greg. Stuff Karen had no idea about.

Greg had been a fifteen-year-old schoolboy when he’d agreed to join the Woo Sang Wu youth Triad, of which Kwan had then been leader. Like many other pupils at inner-city comprehensives in the early to mid nineties, Greg was recruited at the school gates, lured to sign up to WSW by the promise of adventure, training in martial arts and participation in mysterious secret ceremonies. He quickly became immersed in a subculture of controlled violence and intimidation, accepting without question the orders of his leader, even when this meant pursuing courses of action, always unscrupulous and sometimes quite horrible, that he would otherwise never have considered.

The involvement of WSW in the killing of head teacher Philip Lawrence in 1995, just a year or so after his recruitment, brought Greg to his senses. Ultimately it would lead to a reduction in the scale and influence of the youth Triad, but it did not impede the rise of Tony Kwan; Greg’s Triad mentor ascended to a position of startling power within the worldwide network of these secret gangs. Much as Greg wanted out, that was not an option. He had a Triad past, and although he backed off to the best of his ability he’d always known he would never be able to get out. Not entirely.

Kwan had not called upon Greg to become actively involved again until around the time the Sunday Club incidents began. Two of Kwan’s boys had delivered a message from the Triad boss. He had a little job he’d like Greg to do. Braver than he’d thought himself capable of being, Greg had declined. He’d sent his thanks to Tony Kwan for the offer, but said he had to think of his family now and he knew Mr Kwan would understand.

Kwan’s boys had seemed relaxed about it and told him not to worry. If anything, they’d been a little too relaxed for Greg’s liking. He’d been on edge from the moment he closed the door behind them. And when, a couple of weeks later, he’d discovered his vandalized vehicle there was no question in his mind as to who had been responsible.

Until his fellow Sunday Clubbers had made the suggestion, it hadn’t occurred to Greg that there could be a connection between his slashed tyres and those comparatively playful incidents. And he remained unconvinced that the more serious matter of Marlena being injured and the two dogs being killed could be anything other than unpleasant coincidences.

No, Greg was quite sure the events were unconnected. There was no element of prank about the tyre-slashing and the brick thrown through his window. That had been payback for turning down Tony Kwan’s proposal, a reminder that Greg could not escape his Triad past.

Over the years, Greg had thought about going to the law and coming clean about his past. As if in doing so he could erase not only the hold Kwan had over him but the memories that haunted him. But he knew it would only make matters worse. Even assuming Kwan didn’t get to hear about it from his informers within the police force and silence Greg before he had a chance to testify, there was the fact that for all he was still a schoolboy at the time Greg had been over the age of criminal responsibility. The crimes he had participated in merited a lengthy jail sentence. And Greg couldn’t stand that. Plus the Triads would probably see to it that he didn’t survive long in prison. Either way, his kids would grow up without him being around. Like Karen, Greg knew what that was like for a child. And it wasn’t going to happen to his kids.

Thus Tony Kwan’s hold over Greg remained as strong as ever. And Greg now had no choice but to accept that and to act accordingly. It seemed ridiculous that Kwan still wanted him on side. But Greg understood the pride and protocol of the Triads. As with the Mafia, the big boys never let the little ones go — that was the source of the organization’s power. Once they had you, you were theirs for life.

Kwan’s henchmen hadn’t mentioned a specific job. It was possible there was no job. Kwan may have simply decided the time had come to remind Greg that he was still a Triad and must jump when he was told to.

Sooner or later — probably sooner — Kwan would demand Greg’s services. That was a racing certainty now. And whatever he was asked to do, however dangerous, however unsavoury, Greg would have to comply.

There was no alternative.

That same evening Alfonso waited for Vogel in the pleasantly appointed coffee shop he’d suggested. He had already bagged two squashy armchairs in a discreet corner when the detective came in, ordered himself a double espresso and joined him.

It struck Vogel that Alfonso Bertorelli, who spoke English with a slight Essex accent, having been brought up and probably born in the UK, was nevertheless unmistakably Italian. He was also extremely personable and answered questions fluently, as one might expect from a senior waiter at the Vine. After all, the staff there were presumably required to make conversation with all sorts of people. But Vogel suspected that, beneath his smooth facade, Alfonso was jumpy. He even slopped some cappuccino into his saucer, something of a giveaway surely, for a man at the top of his profession.

It was understandable, thought Vogel. Taking the traditional presumption of innocent until proven guilty and assuming that Alfonso was a potential victim rather than a perpetrator, it was only natural that he would be nervy, given the circumstances.

Only three members of Sunday Club had escaped falling victim to these increasingly distressing incidents. One of those was Michelle Monahan, whose involvement Vogel found both puzzling and disturbing. On the way to the coffee shop his mind had been turning over various strategies to tackle his fellow police officer, but he had yet to come up with one that he was happy with. He forced himself to set those thoughts to one side and focus on Alfonso.

The detective began by asking about the incident the waiter had witnessed. He made Alfonso go over and over what he had seen, and questioned how he happened to be walking along the road at the exact time Marlena was struck by the hooded cyclist.

‘I was going to work, for God’s sake!’ said Alfonso. ‘How many more times?’

Vogel studied the other man carefully. The Vine restaurant was just a street away from the scene of the crime. It was not out of the question that Alfonso should just happen to be passing at the right moment. Indeed, it was a perfectly reasonable and easily explicable coincidence that he would be doing so. But Vogel didn’t believe in coincidences. And there were already far too many of them in this case.

‘Do you always take that route to work?’ asked the detective.

He saw Alfonso hesitate for the briefest beat, before replying.

‘It depends where I’m coming from,’ Alfonso said guardedly.

Vogel raised his eyebrows. And where were you coming from that morning, sir?’ he enquired.

Alfonso glowered at him. ‘Home.’

‘I see, sir.’ Vogel glanced down at his notebook. ‘The only contact details I seem to have for you are care of the Vine restaurant. Oh, and your mobile number. Could I have your home address, Mr Bertorelli, please?’

Alfonso looked down at his hands resting on the table before him, and wrapped them around his coffee cup.

He mumbled something.

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘I’m sort of between homes,’ he said. That was, after all, his habitual reply to questions concerning his living arrangements. But Vogel didn’t know that.

‘I see. So you have no proper home at the moment?’

Alfonso fidgeted.

‘Shall I put you down as being of no fixed abode then, sir?’ enquired Vogel.

He looked the other man up and down. Alfonso was the epitome of what Vogel’s mother would have described as debonair. His slicked-back black hair was stylishly cut, his olive skin glowed with well-being, the collar of his pristine white shirt protruded just an inch or two over the lapels of his expensive black overcoat. You could see your face in the shine on his shoes. The corners of Vogel’s mouth twitched. It was simply too ridiculous to describe the man as being of no fixed abode, as if he were some unemployable wino.

Perhaps the same thought occurred to Alfonso.

‘Number 5, Parson Crescent, Dagenham,’ he suddenly blurted out.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Vogel, in whose world the kind of people who worried about their image could only ever be peripheral, was puzzled. So what was wrong with Dagenham? he wondered.

‘And that’s your permanent address, is it, sir?’ he persisted.

Alfonso looked most uncomfortable.

‘Yes. Well, it’s my mother’s house, really. I spend a lot of time staying over in town...’ Eyes downcast, he let his voice tail off.

‘On that particular morning, sir, were you travelling to work from your...’

Something stopped Vogel from saying ‘from your home’ as he had intended. After all, he wanted to keep on the right side of Alfonso, for the time being at any rate. He certainly didn’t want the man to clam up.

‘. . from Dagenham,’ he finished.

Alfonso nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I only stay there when I’m on days. If I’m on the late shift, I usually stay in town,’ he added, as if he needed an excuse for living at the place which he’d indicated was, at the very least, the nearest he had to a permanent address.

‘So were you travelling to work along your usual route that day, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what is that route, exactly?’

‘I take the tube from Dagenham East to Embankment — it’s straight through on the District Line — then I walk up Villiers Street to the Strand, and cut through to Charing Cross Road.’

Vogel thought for a moment. He had the kind of mind which, if he knew a place, enabled him to see the streets laid out as if he kept a book of maps in his brain. And he knew central London well. He was certainly no habitué of the Vine, but the restaurant was a famous landmark and he was aware of its location.

‘In order to have been able to see the incident, or any part of it, and then to realize that Marlena was involved, and to get to her, you would have had to carry on up Charing Cross Road past the alleyway which leads to your place of work, would you not, Mr Bertorelli?’ he asked.

‘Only just past it,’ replied Alfonso. ‘Look, when I’m on earlies I often run into Marlena on Monday mornings. Well, close enough to wave to, anyway. She goes to that deli in Old Compton Street. Same time every week. Didn’t she tell you any of that?’

Vogel half nodded, and thought for a moment. Marlena had indeed told him that she was on her way to Soho when she’d been injured. He further recalled from Perkins’ and Brandt’s report that Marlena had indicated to them it was not the first time she had encountered Alfonso whilst on her regular shopping trip. But Vogel hadn’t pursued it. Maybe he should have done. He thought he’d probably been too preoccupied with Michelle Monahan.

‘Once or twice we’ve even had a quick coffee together,’ Alfonso continued, ‘so long as it isn’t that bugger Leonardo’s shift.’

Vogel raised an enquiring eyebrow.

‘He’s the senior maître d’. Should be in the bloody army, except they probably wouldn’t have him.’

Vogel obliged with a small smile.

‘And on Monday last?’

‘Like I said, I was about to turn off Charing Cross Road when I heard a scream. I hadn’t seen Marlena. But I think I may have subconsciously recognized her voice. I don’t know, to tell the truth. Anyway, the scream caught my attention. I looked up the road and saw this bus about to hit a woman. I heard it screech to a halt, and I saw a hooded cyclist pedalling off like mad down Shaftesbury Avenue. I was chilled to the marrow, honest I was. Something told me I had to be there. I ran up the street. And it was then that I realized it was Marlena lying in the road, so I rushed to her side.’

Vogel checked back over his notes. He was silent for a long time. Alfonso started to look more and more uncomfortable. Vogel wondered if there was a particular reason for this, but he knew better than to read too much into it. He was aware that he sometimes had that effect on totally innocent people.

‘I believe you told my colleagues that you were a witness to the incident?’

‘Yes,’ said Alfonso.

‘But from what you have just said, you did not actually see the cyclist hit your friend?’

Alfonso did a double take.

‘Well, no, I suppose I didn’t, but it was obvious what had happened. Quite obvious.’

‘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...