Friends to Die For

Twelve

When George tried to call Alfonso later that morning he got no reply from his mobile. George was unaware, of course, that the other man was in custody at Charing Cross nick.

After several attempts to contact his friend, and having had no success by mid-afternoon, George called the Vine on the staff number. Another waiter George knew vaguely told him that Alfonso hadn’t turned up for his lunchtime shift. Neither had he contacted the restaurant.

‘Leonardo is fucking furious,’ said the waiter. ‘If you hear from Fonz, tell him to get his arse over here pronto — and he’d better have a good excuse ready.’

Alfonso never skipped work. Everyone knew the Vine was his life. George was at a loss as to what he should do next. Then Tiny called, apparently even more distraught, if that were possible, than he’d been over Daisy. His words came tumbling out in a muddle.

‘George, did you know Michelle was mugged last night? Alfonso’s been arrested. They think he did it. He’s locked up in Charing Cross nick, and he phoned Billy, but Billy’s not that kind of lawyer, it’s all right though, he’s trying to get him a criminal lawyer to sort everything out. Oh, what are we going to do, George? What the heck’s happening, I mean who’s going to be—’

‘Hey, calm down,’ interrupted George, sounding none too calm himself. ‘Has Alfonso actually been charged with anything?’

‘Yes,’ said Tiny. ‘I mean no. “Arrested on suspicion of” — that’s different, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ said George. ‘I’m no expert. But if that is the case, presumably we should be able to get the Fonz out on police bail. You know, like all those journos mixed up in that phone hacking thing. That’s what happened to them, wasn’t it? They were on police bail for months before it was even decided whether to charge them or not.’

‘But, George, what if he did it? What if Fonz mugged Michelle and attacked Marlena? What if he was the one who killed Daisy and Chump? Billy says the police found Michelle’s handbag at his place, and a bike he claims isn’t his. But what if it is? What if he’s guilty?’

‘Tiny, for a start you don’t believe Alfonso would ever harm Marlena, do you? He idolizes the woman. I’ve always thought he was a bit in love with her. Getting on for obscene, given the fact that she’s an old—’

‘Oh don’t, George, please.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’ve been trying to call Fonz all day. Wanted to know if he’d come with me to see Marlena, ’cos I didn’t want to go on my own... It never occurred to me... Wow, I’m just in shock, I suppose.’

‘I know that feeling. But the fact is, someone hurt Marlena. And Michelle. I called her right after Billy told me about Fonz. She’s just out of hospital. She answered her phone, but she could hardly speak. Apparently her nose has been smashed to bits and she’ll need to have an operation to reconstruct it. Maybe more than one op. George, what is happening to us? You didn’t even ask how Michelle was.’

George did an audible double take. ‘No. Oh fuck. I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know why, I assumed from the way you were talking that she hadn’t been hurt at all. I just thought her handbag was snatched. That’s terrible, what you’re saying. And she’s so pretty too.’

‘Do you want to come with me to visit her later?’

‘Yes, of course. But are you sure she’ll want visitors if her face is in that sort of state? I know I wouldn’t.’

Tiny said he’d call Michelle first.

On his arrival at the custody suite of Charing Cross police station Alfonso had been searched, his fingerprints and a DNA sample taken, his clothes, his watch and the contents of his pockets taken away in sealed bags as evidence. Dressed in the white paper suit he had been given to replace his clothes, Alfonso felt as if he was living a nightmare. In between interviews he was detained in a police cell. There was no natural light in the small room, which was furnished only with a blue plastic-covered bench bed and a lavatory in one corner. He didn’t know how long he’d been in there. He was so shaken by the whole experience that he’d completely lost track of time. But despite his confused state, his story did not vary.

‘I know it’s another coincidence, I’m not surprised you don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘But I’m telling the truth. I was just walking home to my nan’s place. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I went to help Michelle, didn’t I? You’ve taken my clothes away. What’s the point? It’s obvious they’re going to be covered in Michelle’s DNA. There was blood everywhere. She was screaming with pain. I held her in my arms.’

As always, Vogel listened carefully. On the one hand, Bertorelli’s story made sense. And on the other hand it made no sense at all.

It was, as his suspect pointed out, quite obvious that Michelle’s DNA would be found on the clothes Alfonso had been wearing. But the grey hoody had been thoroughly washed and was therefore unlikely to yield any traces of forensic evidence. Despite both items having been found at his grandmother’s flat, Alfonso continued to maintain that he had never seen the hoody or the bicycle before, unless they were, as seemed likely, the property of the cyclist he had caught only a fleeting glimpse of both when Marlena was injured and Michelle mugged. So far as he could recollect, he had never touched Michelle’s handbag.

‘So why did we find these items at your grandmother’s?’ Vogel asked.

‘I have no idea,’ said Alfonso. ‘Someone must have planted them. If I were guilty I wouldn’t have left all that stuff lying around to incriminate myself, would I? Surely you can see that?’

‘My understanding is that it is not generally known that you stay with your grandmother. So who among your colleagues and friends and acquaintances would know where she lives?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I was followed. And maybe I was followed when Michelle was mugged too. Someone waited until I was nearby, then attacked her. To set me up. That’s all I can think of.’

‘Mr Bertorelli, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched?’

Alfonso lowered his head into his hands, and spoke through his fingers.

‘Why would I hurt Michelle?’ he asked. ‘Or Marlena. Why would I want to harm them? They’re my friends.’

And that, thought Vogel, was the million-dollar question: Why? What possible motive could Alfonso Bertorelli have? Indeed, if these crimes were linked, as they surely must be, what motive could anyone have?

Shortly after midday, Christopher Margolia, a Nigerian-born criminal lawyer recommended by Billy, arrived at Charing Cross police station fully prepared to intervene on behalf of his new client, Alfonso Bertorelli.

The Eton- and Oxford-educated Margolia was, Alfonso realized straight away, a very good man to have on your side.

Margolia pointed out calmly but forcefully to Vogel that his client’s claims were quite plausible. He could well have been followed and the incriminating evidence planted at his grandmother’s house. All other evidence against him was circumstantial, the lawyer said.

‘We are proceeding with our inquires, Mr Margolia,’ responded Vogel doggedly. ‘The items removed from the home of your client’s grandmother are being forensically examined and we are awaiting laboratory reports on those items, along with the clothes your client was wearing at the time of his arrest.’

Margolia was persistent. ‘You may have the right to keep my client overnight, Detective Sergeant Vogel, but unless you charge him, which I very much doubt you will be in a position to do, your time will be up tomorrow morning and I shall insist upon his release.’

Around mid-afternoon Vogel extricated himself from a further interview with Alfonso, which seemed to be getting nobody anywhere, and retreated to his desk in an attempt to think things through. Yet again. There was a lot to think about. He wanted to go over every statement, every jot of evidence again and again. He had to make absolutely sure nothing had been overlooked. It was his way.

He had no sooner started than he was interrupted by Detective Inspector Tom Forest. Vogel didn’t like to be interrupted when he was thinking, but as Forest was his superior officer he didn’t have a lot of say in the matter. Particularly as it was Forest who had ordained that Vogel was to be permitted to have his own way, so long as he continued to deliver results. Improving the department’s clear-up rate was paramount, even though it secretly irked Forest to deal with a subordinate whose emails and reports he struggled to comprehend. For his part, Vogel thought Forest unintelligent and pedantic, but he knew that it was largely because of Forest’s attitude, which even went to the extent of the Detective Inspector covering for Vogel on occasion to his own superiors, that he retained the possibly unique freedom he enjoyed within the Met.

Fired up both by his eternal obsession with targets and the desire to swiftly bring to justice the perpetrator of a violent crime against a fellow police officer, Forest appeared to be taking, true to form Vogel thought, an overly simplistic approach.

‘Well done, old man,’ said Forest. ‘Got it sorted, then. Seems you were quite right about those incidents being linked, and now you’ve got the bastard, eh? Damn good show.’

Vogel stared at Forest through red-rimmed eyes. This had already been a long, hard, and mentally taxing day. Vogel was running on empty. Being woken at 4 a.m. and deprived of his full seven or eight hours’ sleep did not suit him.

‘I’m not so sure about that, sir,’ he said mildly.

‘What do you mean?’ bristled Forest. ‘Bang to rights, I heard.’

‘We’re still waiting for the forensic results. We’ve fast-tracked fingerprinting but the DNA will take days,’ Vogel reminded his superior.

‘But that’s all just a formality, surely,’ continued Forest. ‘I mean, you can’t seriously think all that stuff was planted. The bike, the handbag, and that hoody?’

‘The suspect says so.’

As if on cue, DC Jones walked into the room. A large chunk of her longish brown hair had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck demanded by police regulations. She looked flustered.

‘We’ve just got the fingerprint results,’ she said. ‘No match for Bertorelli’s prints on either the bike or Michelle’s handbag.’

Vogel frowned. Forest caught him at it.

‘For goodness’ sake, man, he wiped his damn prints off, didn’t he? The bike and the bag were found on his grandmother’s property — the place he had returned to after the mugging.’

‘Yes, sir, and the bag was covered with Michelle’s blood,’ responded Vogel. ‘How did he clean off his prints yet leave the blood behind?’

‘He must have worn gloves so that there’d be no prints. And what about the washing machine — running in the middle of the night with the hoody in it. Evidence was being deliberately destroyed. Bertorelli has to be guilty.’

‘Perhaps, sir.’

‘Perhaps?’ Forest was turning puce. ‘Vogel, your own report stated that Bertorelli told no one about living with his mother and grandmother. That being the case, how would anyone have known where to plant evidence, let alone actually have done so?’

‘He told us he must have been followed to his grandmother’s home, sir.’

‘Of course he bloody did, Vogel. And what about the coincidence, yet again, of his conveniently timed arrival at the scene of the crime?’

‘He said that was a set-up too, sir.’ Even as he spoke, Vogel was aware how ridiculous it sounded.

‘Every bloody criminal claims they’ve been set up! It’s the oldest line in the book,’ blustered Forest. ‘Look, we’re talking about a violent attack on a police officer here. And a woman officer at that. Do you not understand? This is one of our own, Vogel. We have to act and we have to act fast. Otherwise it looks damned bad, both to the public and within the force. So get this joker bloody charged as soon as, will you?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I really need to think it through.’

‘You know what your trouble is, Vogel?’

‘No, sir,’ said Vogel.

‘You do far too much bloody thinking,’ roared Forest.

It turned out that the bicycle found in Alfonso’s nan’s storeroom had been stolen from outside the Royal Opera House the previous evening, the chain attaching it to a lamppost having been effectively severed. It was just possible that Alfonso had finished his shift at the Vine, somehow discovered that Michelle would be walking home from Marlena’s, stolen the bike, pursued her to Southampton Row where he attacked her and then stashed the bike somewhere, only to return for it upon leaving the hospital and, for some inexplicable reason, riding it to his nan’s place. Vogel thought it highly unlikely.

And so did the Crown Prosecution Service.

Early the following morning Vogel presented the facts in painstaking detail to Forest, and also to a CPS representative. The CPS man shared Vogel’s doubts, agreeing that the very presence of so much unsubstantiated evidence was in itself suspicious. Having crossed swords with Christopher Margolia in the past, he was also of the opinion that every piece of evidence and every witness would be subjected to rigorous cross-examination, and the prosecution would collapse at the first hurdle if they were foolish enough to bring a case against Mr Bertorelli on the existing evidence.

Ultimately, in spite of what Alfonso feared was such strong evidence against him, and regardless of DI Forest’s blustering, it was decided not to charge him with any offence. Not yet, anyway.

Eventually a furious Forest agreed that Alfonso should be released. Under habeas corpus they could, as Margolia had pointed out, keep him for only thirty-six hours.

And so at 11.30 a.m. Alfonso was told he was free to leave, and his paper suit was replaced with clean but used clothes from the police store since his were still being forensically examined.

Full of fear and uncertainty, and smarting from the indignity of wearing someone else’s clothes, an ill-fitting tracksuit at that, he began to wander the streets aimlessly.

How long would it be before the police might come to get him again? he wondered. How long would it be before all the forensic and DNA tests came through, and would they make things better or worse? It was obvious that his clothes would be covered in Michelle’s DNA, considering he’d held her in his arms until the ambulance got there. Unaware that the results of the fingerprinting of Michelle’s bag had already been delivered, and that no prints of his had been found, he wondered whether he had unknowingly touched Michelle’s bag, either at the scene of her attack or on some previous occasion. Could he have moved it across the table while in Johnny’s, picked it up from the floor or off the back of a chair, or merely handed it to Michelle? If so, it might bear his prints. Though the innocent possibilities were endless, there was no telling what the police would make of one more piece of evidence stacked against him.

He felt weak. Almost too weak to continue walking. He was right outside a pub. The Dunster Arms, according to the sign Alfonso didn’t even glance at. Maybe what he needed was a strong drink. Or several. Alfonso opened the door and entered. The Dunster was an unpromisingly shabby hostelry in need of a coat of paint outside and some major refurbishment inside, although Alfonso barely noticed that either. Despite its drab appearance, it provided better service and refreshment than he might have expected, even boasting a fancy coffee machine. The Dunster Arms was, by virtue of its close proximity, the hostelry favoured by staff of Charing Cross police station, but Alfonso didn’t know that or he would have avoided the place. An old-fashioned television set was tuned to a cricket match somewhere sunny. Alfonso registered that the players were wearing rather garish outfits, then looked away. He was not interested in cricket or indeed anything much else right then.

There was, at that hour of a Saturday, only one other drinker in attendance, and he neither looked like nor indeed was a police officer.

Alfonso ordered a double espresso and a large brandy, which he downed in one swallow. Although he liked his wine he was not a big drinker and the neat fiery alcohol went straight to his head. The sensation was extremely pleasant, given the ordeal he had just endured and the muddled state of his brain. So he ordered another, which he also drank straight down. And then a third.

‘Gotta bit of a thirst, mate?’ enquired his sole fellow drinker. The man was propped on a bar stool to Alfonso’s left. He had a sallow complexion, bad teeth, and one of those bulbous noses which come from years of alcoholic overindulgence. He was the sort of character Alfonso would normally have run a mile from.

On that day, his head spinning, he took a step closer, ignoring the stale sweaty smell the man exuded, and climbed with some difficulty onto the bar stool alongside him. The alcohol had loosened Alfonso’s tongue and his need for human companionship, any human companionship, was overwhelming.

‘I’m not thirsty, I just want to get drunk,’ he said.

The man with bad teeth looked him up and down. ‘You’re not the only one,’ he said.

‘What are you having?’ enquired Alfonso.

‘Just a small Scotch,’ the man with bad teeth replied.

Alfonso ordered him a large one and himself another large brandy. His new best friend returned the favour. Then Alfonso ordered yet another round. He had never drunk that much brandy in his life before, certainly not all in one sitting and in the middle of the day.

After only a short time the bar began to rotate around him and he would probably have fallen to the floor were it not for his new companion grabbing him in the nick of time. A waft of sour breath engulfed Alfonso. He didn’t even notice. Leaning heavily against the bar he managed somehow to lift his brandy glass to his lips. The double espresso remained untouched.

‘You all right, mate?’ asked the man, in the manner of someone not really expecting an answer.

‘Dush it look like I’m bloody all right?’ replied Alfonso.

The man didn’t respond.

‘I’ve been framed, I’ve been bloody framed, I’ve just spent a day and a night in the nick and I’m bloody innocent, I tell you, bloody well innocent.’

‘Aren’t we all, mate?’ said the man with bad teeth.

Later that day, around mid-evening, Marlena answered her intercom. A familiar voice enquired after her well-being and asked if she would like a visitor.

Marlena was pleased. She’d been feeling depressed. Her foot hurt and her head was full of unwelcome thoughts. Obviously she realized she might be in danger, given the recent attacks on the friends. But while Marlena had her reasons for fearing spectres from her past, she could see no reason why anyone currently in her life would wish to harm her.

She invited her caller up and buzzed the front door open.

The visitor had brought a bottle of rather good champagne, already nicely chilled, and after Marlena, still hobbling on crutches, led the way into her sitting room, opened the bottle at once and poured generous measures into a pair of crystal glasses standing on the sideboard.

The visitor then carried one of the glasses across the room to where Marlena was sitting in her usual chair by the window, and placed it on the table by her side. Marlena picked up the glass and took a long leisurely sip.

‘Lovely, darling,’ she said, a broad smile stretching across her face. Then she raised her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You’re not drinking, sweetheart — don’t you want any?’

‘Later.’

‘Well, you’d better be quick.’ Marlena mischievously wiggled her glass, which was already half-empty. ‘You know vintage Bolly is my favourite.’

She smiled up at her visitor, who remained standing and was still wearing a full-length raincoat and gloves.

‘Oh, do make yourself at home. Sit down and take your coat off. It’s not raining, is it?’ She glanced towards the window.

‘I thought it might, that’s all,’ said the visitor, making no move either to remove the coat or to sit.

Marlena took another drink. ‘Please sit down and have a drink, you’re making me feel uncomfortable,’ she said.

‘In a minute. Aren’t you enjoying the champagne?’

‘Yes, darling...’ Marlena paused mid-sip, looking thoughtful. ‘Though it seems a little drier than usual. But it’s wonderful. A real treat.’

‘Good. I’m very glad. I think it’s important that the last drink one has should be a special one, don’t you?’

‘I should say so—’ Marlena stopped abruptly as the words sank in. Her smile froze on her face.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know, as an alternative to a last supper I suppose there’s nothing better than a bottle of decent bubbly. I knew you’d appreciate it.’

Marlena was sitting very still, unable to believe her ears. This couldn’t be serious, surely? It just couldn’t be.

‘Stop it,’ she instructed. ‘I realize you are making some sort of joke. A very bad joke under the circumstances, but a joke all the same. It’s not funny though, so just—’

‘I’m not joking.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Marlena spoke with a lot more certainty and authority than she actually felt.

‘Please don’t call me ridiculous.’

The familiar voice no longer sounded the way it usually did. There was steel in it.

Marlena felt a chill run down her spine. Was this for real? The eyes staring at her across the room were cold as ice, their gaze unblinking and full of hatred.

She glanced desperately around the room, looking for her phone. Stupidly she’d left it on the table in the hall when she’d hobbled out there to open the front door. The horrible thought occurred to her that even if it were here by her side it was highly unlikely that she would be allowed to make a call. She thought she would try though. Maybe she could get out into the communal lobby, picking up her phone on the way, and even if she wasn’t given time to use it, perhaps someone might hear her if she shouted for help.

Grabbing a crutch, which she waved at her visitor in as threatening a manner as she could muster, she launched herself on one leg across the room, heading for the hallway.

She didn’t make it.

Her visitor moved towards her in an almost leisurely fashion. An extended foot cracked into the front of her one good leg, tripping her with easy efficiency.

Marlena crashed to the floor, the crutch flying out of her grasp. Her head collided with the corner of the sideboard, cutting open her forehead. Blood gushed from the wound, but Marlena seemed more concerned that her elaborate blonde wig had been knocked to one side, revealing a head bearing only a scant growth of wispy grey hair. Nobody ever saw Marlena without her wig. She tugged at it with one hand. It was an automatic response. Her attacker leaned forward, pulled the wig off entirely, and tossed it carelessly aside.

‘Don’t, please don’t,’ she begged.

Marlena knew what she must look like. A pathetic, bald old woman pleading as much for the last vestiges of her pride as for any other kind of mercy.

‘It’s an improvement,’ said her attacker, as if reading her mind. ‘You don’t look like a drag queen any more. I really thought you would have a little more hair, though.’

Marlena’s humiliation was almost as great as her fear. She realized she was crying. Tears mixed with blood ran down her face. Angry at this loss of dignity, she struggled to push herself upright. Her limbs refused to obey her. What little strength she possessed had disappeared. She knew now that she would not escape, yet still she couldn’t stop trying. By force of will she managed to get on one knee, and was groping for support from the sideboard in order to pull herself upright when the punch came.

A fist hit her straight in the face, smashing her nose. Just like Michelle, she thought, as she fell back to the ground, blood and goo from her shattered nose now mingling with the blood from her injured head.

Again she tried to rise to her feet. But this time her attacker had no need to intervene. She quickly collapsed, her head spinning alarmingly. With surprising clarity, she realized that this was not due to the blow she had taken to the head.

She slumped, spreadeagled on the ground, a blubbering wreck. Though her mind remained lucid, her limbs failed to respond when she tried to move. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her. She remembered the taste of the champagne. Drier than usual, she’d said. She of all people should have detected that there’d been something wrong with it, something added. But perhaps she had merely tasted what she expected to taste.

She looked up into the eyes of her attacker and saw only emptiness. No compassion, obviously. No pity. But it was worse than that. There really was nothing there but emptiness.

It was at that moment that she knew for certain she was going to die. But even as the awful fear gripped her, she could not possibly have guessed how. Not then. Not yet.

She tried to speak. It was hard to get the words out. Her attacker kicked her in the ribs. Casually. For the hell of it, she thought. She tried to scream but no sound came. Then a second kick, this one totally winding her.

She managed to gasp just one word.

‘Why?’ she asked.

Her attacker crouched down over her, smiling. The most terrifying smile she had ever seen.

‘Don’t you know?’

Marlena shook her head, her poor bloodied, almost bald head. She hadn’t the faintest idea.

‘Well, I think everyone has the right to know why they are going to die, don’t you?’

The voice was mild, almost conversational. The story it then related came as a total shock. For several minutes the voice wafted over her, reminding her of something she had done many years ago.

Her attacker, it seemed, had been the victim of her actions. Unwitting actions, she wanted to explain. She had been stupid, reckless and irresponsible. But she’d meant no harm. In her panic, she hadn’t stopped to think about the hurt she’d inflicted. Her attacker had not come here to listen to her explanation, her pleas for forgiveness. The drug she’d been given made it impossible for her to speak. Her mind remained clear though. She realized that what was happening to her was revenge. The ultimate act of revenge. She saw now that one of the hands which rested lightly, almost gently, on her upper body, held a knife with a long, slightly curved blade.

‘You should prepare yourself to say goodbye, darling,’ said her attacker, placing a heavily sarcastic inflection on the term of endearment Marlena always used so freely. ‘But it will be a prolonged goodbye, so take your time.’

A terrible shudder ran through Marlena’s body. She so wished she could lose consciousness now. Just slip away.

Her attacker used the knife to cut a strip of material from the hem of the silk blouse she was wearing, forced open her mouth, slotted the strip of material between her teeth and tied it tightly in a knot behind her head.

‘There, we don’t want you making a noise and disturbing the neighbours, do we?’

The voice was soft and all the more menacing for it. Marlena, half-choking on the makeshift gag, virtually incapable of movement, could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror as the devil loomed over her and, using the knife again to cut into the fabric, tore her skirt and undergarments from her body.

‘I will discover thy skirts upon thy face. I will show the nations thy nakedness, and the kingdoms thy shame,’ said her attacker, hissing out the words. ‘I will cast abominable filth upon thee, and make thee vile, and will set thee as gazing stock.’

Marlena’s eyes had become fixed only on the shimmering point of the knife, which was directed at her lower abdomen.

She was sure by then that she knew what was about to happen.

Yet when her legs were thrust apart and the vicious blade entered her there, brutally invading her most intimate parts, the sense of shock as the steel sliced through her flesh and thrust upwards deep into her inner being, was every bit as overwhelming as the physical agony. And that was unspeakable.

The drug which had been added to Marlena’s champagne is sometimes used to lessen pain in childbirth. It could do little to combat the terrible suffering she endured at the hands of her assailant before death finally claimed her.