Friends to Die For

Thirteen

It was the Sampford House caretaker who found Marlena’s body.

Paddy Morgan, a tiny sinewy man who in his youth had been a national hunt jockey until a bad fall in his first Irish National put paid to a promising future, had been in the habit of calling on Marlena every morning since she’d been injured. He took her a newspaper, along with any other necessities she required: milk for her tea, the occasional loaf of bread or whatever small snack she might request.

He usually left it until after eleven before ringing her doorbell. Marlena was a night bird, and even in the state she was in, still in pain, and unable to go out at night, Paddy knew that she was likely to be up until the small hours reading, listening to the radio or watching TV. And she wouldn’t open her front door to anyone, not even Paddy, until she was fully made up and properly dressed.

So on this tragic Sunday morning Paddy at first felt no particular sense of alarm when he couldn’t raise Marlena. He checked his watch and saw it was not yet quarter to eleven. Paddy was in the habit of having a pint or two at the Nag’s Head of a Sunday lunchtime. And he wanted to get to the bookies in time to put a fiver on a mare he fancied in the 2.30 at Plumpton and then watch the race on the betting shop TV. But he had a load of stuff to get through first. That’s why he’d called on Marlena a little earlier than usual. He liked to make sure she was OK before finishing his routine chores, putting out the rubbish, cleaning the main hall, and so on, which he was required to do every day of the week, Sundays included, by the management of Sampford House. He almost always spared the time for a bit of a chat, which he knew Marlena appreciated, particularly since she’d been more or less housebound. Besides, she was interesting. A good story-teller. And Paddy had the Irishman’s congenital delight in sharing a decent yarn.

When Marlena failed to respond to her doorbell, Paddy decided to complete his chores first. After he’d finished, he came back and rang Marlena’s doorbell again. When there was still no response he called her name several times. Becoming increasingly anxious that she might have fallen and further injured herself, he decided to use his pass key.

Paddy was half-expecting some kind of crisis as he stepped into the flat. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight which greeted him.

The door to the sitting room stood wide open. At first Paddy was so stunned he could not quite register what he was seeing. Involuntarily he moved forward into the room. As he did so, he slipped and went down on one knee. He used his hands to stop himself falling further but the wood laminate floor was covered in a kind of wet slime. His hands slid along out of control and Paddy ended up lying full length on the floor, his face just inches from Marlena’s.

It was her blood that had caused him to fall. And Marlena’s face, covered in the stuff, bruised and swollen from the blow she had received to the nose, bore an expression that was to haunt Paddy for the rest of his life. Her lips were drawn back, in spite of the gag between her teeth, into a dreadful gaping leer. Her eyes were wide open and even in death Paddy could see the agony and sheer unadulterated terror in them. He tried to move away, but his gaze was drawn down over Marlena’s body. Her clothes had been shredded, and there seemed to be hardly anything left where her lower abdomen should have been. Her legs were apart, and scattered across the floor between them were pieces of what appeared to be internal organs. Obliquely, somewhere in the back of his mind, Paddy was reminded of the offal tray at the butcher’s.

Somehow he managed to scramble to his feet, involuntarily lifting his hands to cover his face. As he did so, he realized that they were coated with blood. Whimpering in fright, he dropped them to his side and backed out of the room.

By the time he reached the front door he had started to retch. He threw up in the doorway but didn’t stop running. He ran down the stairs, out into the street, possibly moving faster than he had since the racing accident that had injured his back and twisted the ligaments in his right knee beyond repair. All he knew was that he had to get away from the nightmare he’d stumbled into. He was past realizing that, as he ran, he was screaming. Screaming uncontrollably and at the top of his voice.

At the sight of the screaming man, covered in blood and vomit, passers-by crossed to the other side of the street. They either dismissed him as some sort of lunatic or were simply afraid to come near. Or maybe a bit of both.

Still retching, Paddy stood on the pavement outside Sampford House, desperately trying to control himself enough to use his mobile phone. He knew he ought to raise the alarm, but he couldn’t stop retching and clutching at his chest. It was another Sampford House resident, returning from church to find Paddy apparently drunk on the doorstep, who finally extracted from him a brief, if hysterical, account of what had happened.

Two uniformed constables arrived at the scene within minutes, having been on patrol nearby when Dispatch put out the call. The older, Fred Martin, was a career bobby intent on giving the impression he’d seen it all, although he turned absolutely ashen when he first saw Marlena. The younger of the pair, PC Brad Porter, took one look, fled outside and, like Paddy, was unable to stop himself vomiting, though he did at least manage to reach the street.

The two constables were soon joined by a team of scenes of crime officers. Suited and booted in head-to-toe Tyvek coveralls, they set about erecting the usual crime scene defences and taking photographs of the body and its surroundings.

Vogel was at his desk when Forest delivered the news. So long as PC Michelle Monahan’s attacker remained at large, even those who normally took Sunday off, like Tom Forest, were on duty. And the DI was not in a good mood.

‘The bastard’s done it again,’ he stormed. ‘And this time he’s killed.’

Vogel was momentarily puzzled. Then the penny dropped.

‘Who’s been killed? Is it one of the Sunday Club group?’ he enquired.

DI Forest tersely related the circumstances of Marlena’s death, as reported by Constables Martin and Porter.

‘Damned nasty, by all accounts,’ he said. ‘Poor woman had been butchered, absolutely butchered. The caretaker who found the body was covered in blood, head to foot. Apparently he fell over...’

Forest paused.

‘So much blood he slipped on the floor.’

His voice was matter of fact, but Vogel could tell that Forest had been shocked by what he’d been told. He felt his own stomach start to churn.

‘Anyway, plods on the scene have arrested the poor bastard. Right thing to do, of course. State he’s in, he has to be treated as a suspect. Can’t have him wandering off when he feels like it. He didn’t bloody do it, though, we both know that, don’t we?’ Forest was seething with anger now.

Vogel grabbed his coat and was heading for the door before his superior had finished speaking.

‘Get back here, Vogel!’ shouted Forest. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

‘Shouldn’t I be at the scene, sir?’

‘I said get back here!’ roared Forest.

Vogel decided he’d better do as he was told. For once. He returned to his desk, tossed his coat over the back of his chair and sat down again.

‘But I know more about what may have led to this than anyone else, sir,’ he persisted.

‘So why did you let it lead to this? You should never have let that bastard Bertorelli go.’

Vogel noted the choice of words. One thing was already clear: Forest was not about to accept the blame if it turned out that Alfonso Bertorelli had committed murder within hours of his release from police custody. Already Vogel was being set up to carry the can.

‘We didn’t have any choice, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘We didn’t have enough hard evidence to charge him.’

‘Yes, well, it looks as if he wasted no time in striking again. The press are going to be all over this like a rash. I simply cannot believe—’

Vogel interrupted what he considered to be unnecessary rhetoric. ‘Whoever did this must have blood all over him, sir,’ he said. ‘If we check all the CCTV in the area, we should be able—’

This time Forest interrupted Vogel.

‘Not we, and certainly not you, Detective Sergeant,’ he announced. ‘This is murder. I’ve called in an MIT. DCI Nobby Clarke is on the way from the Yard.’ Forest paused. ‘Met Nobby Clarke, have you, Vogel?’ he asked.

Vogel shook his head.

‘Right, well, latest in a long line of high-fliers,’ muttered Forest. He smiled fleetingly as if at some private joke, then continued: ‘The DCI will want to interview you. Make sure you’re available to answer questions, but other than that, keep out of it, do you hear?’

Forest was no longer smiling. He shouted the last few words then turned around sharply and stomped off in the direction of his office. He’d been happy to support Vogel while he was getting results, but that support had clearly been withdrawn in light of what he considered to be a fatal blunder on the detective’s part.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vogel quietly, addressing Forest’s retreating back.

Murder Investigation Teams were the force’s specialist homicide squads. There were thirty-one MITs operating in the London area, consisting of between thirty and forty staff, both police and civilian, led by a detective chief inspector.

It was standard procedure for an MIT to be called in to take charge of a murder investigation such as this, even if there was no question of mishandling by officers who had been previously involved in events that may have led to the murder. In this case, Vogel feared, questions would be asked about the handling of such events. In particular, the arrest and release of Alfonso Bertorelli. And those questions would primarily be directed at him.

He didn’t care. Neither, at that moment, did he care about Forest’s instruction to leave well alone. He had every intention of disobeying the direct order of his superior officer. He was going to visit the scene of the crime, regardless of any possible consequences. And that was that.

Vogel’s hands were trembling and he had broken into a sweat by the time he arrived at Marlena’s flat. He had visited several murder scenes in his time and seen more than his share of dead bodies. It never got any easier for him. He didn’t experience nausea like some police officers he knew. He was in no danger of being sick, like young PC Porter. Vogel’s reaction was almost entirely mental, but it had physical repercussions in that he so dreaded his own response he felt like a gibbering wreck even before he’d come face to face with the reality.

In this case he feared he was about to confront the worst case of violent death he had ever encountered. And he was right. The sight which greeted him through the open door of the sitting room, as he stepped into the hallway of Marlena’s apartment, was far beyond anything he’d ever seen before. Almost before he had time to react, he found himself marvelling that the human body could contain so much blood. And he automatically registered that the dead woman’s indescribably horrific wounds had almost certainly been sustained while she was still alive, otherwise the projectile bleeding would surely have been significantly less. It looked as if the entire sitting room was splattered with blood, and in some places, on parts of the floor, there were puddles of the stuff.

Vogel stood very still, making himself breathe rhythmically. The distinctive stench of death had hit him straight away. And something else. He looked down. He’d only just avoided stepping in the pile of vomit deposited by Paddy Morgan.

He turned his attention back to the scene before him. He took in that the SOCOs were already at work, and this helped because it lent a certain air of normality even to this most abnormal and aberrant circumstance.

Few of Vogel’s colleagues, if any, knew of the demons he had to overcome, for he displayed no obvious reaction to dealing with deceased human beings. His head was swimming and his stomach had begun to churn. He still didn’t reckon he was going to vomit, but as he surveyed the remains of Marlena McTavish it crossed his mind that if ever there was going to be a first time, this would be it. He’d never passed out at a crime scene either, but a wave of light-headedness warned him that this might be the first time for that too. He rested a hand against the wall just in case.

One of the SOCOs looked up at him with weary eyes.

‘If you’re going to touch anything, Vogel, put your damn gloves on, will you?’ he instructed. ‘And don’t you dare come any further into this crime scene without getting suited up.’

‘Sorry,’ said Vogel, feeling like a complete idiot.

He stepped back into the doorway and almost collided with the Home Office pathologist, Dr Patricia Fitzwarren, almost unrecognizable in her crime scene coveralls.

‘Out the way, Vogel,’ she commanded.

Vogel obeyed, suddenly conscious of how the entire Metropolitan Police Service seemed to regard him as a nuisance, forever getting in the way, until they wanted something that only his particular talents could deliver. Would they still require his services after this? If Forest’s attitude was anything to go by, the blame for Marlena’s murder would be laid at his door. After all, it was his failure to gather sufficient evidence that had resulted in Alfonso Bertorelli being released.

Vogel looked at the cruelly mutilated body in front of him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, bowing his head.

He watched as Dr Fitzwarren knelt at the side of the victim and began her preliminary examination. The SOCOs, meanwhile, were busying themselves collecting samples of blood, searching drawers and cupboards, photographing the scene. There was almost total silence in the room. Vogel realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d been badly affected by this murder. There was none of the usual banter between the SOCOs. It was as if the barbarity of the crime had struck them dumb.

Before taking his leave, he surveyed the room one last time. The shockwaves that had been surging through his body seemed mercifully to have subsided, allowing his brain to function at something approaching its normal capacity.

There was a lot to be learned from studying a crime scene. Not just in terms of forensics, but in building a picture of what had taken place in that setting. He started by studying the front door. It didn’t look as though the killer had made a forced entry to the apartment. Vogel’s gaze shifted to the room in which Marlena’s body lay. There seemed to be at least one clear footprint in the blood on the floor. Careless, he thought, as he studied the room. In spite of the manner of the death, little seemed to have been disturbed in the apartment itself. No furniture had been overturned, and there was no obvious sign of a struggle. All of this indicated that the woman had known her attacker. But that was what he and everyone else, including Forest and probably by now DCI Clarke, had expected, was it not?

A bottle of Bollinger champagne, about two-thirds full, stood on the sideboard. Alongside it was a crystal glass, almost full of what must now be flat champagne. It looked untouched. A second glass, nearly empty, stood on a little table next to the armchair by the window. Judging by the worn appearance of the seat and cushions, this had almost certainly been the chair most often used by the dead woman.

Vogel backed out towards the communal hall, registering as he did so an entryphone just inside the door to the flat.

There were people in the corridor he hadn’t noticed before. But then, on his arrival, he had been far too preoccupied with thoughts of what he might be confronted with at the scene of the crime. PCs Porter and Martin, the two officers who had been first to respond to the 999 call, were standing alongside a man Vogel presumed to be the caretaker who’d found the body. This man, grey-faced and trembling, sat slumped on the floor leaning against the wall. His face, hands and clothes were covered in blood and vomit.

He confirmed that he was Paddy Morgan and that he had indeed discovered Marlena’s body.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,’ said Paddy.

‘I know, I know,’ said Vogel. And he did know, more than Paddy Morgan could have guessed.

‘Now they tell me I’ve been arrested. Why? I never hurt anybody, I’ve not done anything.’

Vogel made soothing noises. ‘We have to eliminate you from our inquiries, Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘I am sure it will prove to be just a formality. You’re covered in the dead woman’s blood and—’

The caretaker gasped. His eyes filled with tears. His head lolled forward onto his chest. Vogel could have kicked himself. He needed the man lucid.

‘What I mean is, you are carrying evidence on your clothes and hands,’ explained Vogel. ‘We need to have you checked out. As soon as that’s done, we’ll get you taken care of. A doctor will take a look at you to make sure you’re OK. You’ve had the most terrible shock.’

Paddy agreed weakly that he had.

Vogel uttered a few more reassuring platitudes, then tried to elicit some information that might help with his inquiries.

‘What’s the security like here?’ he asked.

Morgan looked up, startled, as if he feared he might be held responsible for the killer gaining access.

Vogel tried to reassure him. ‘What I really want to know is how difficult would it be for an intruder to get into one of these flats?’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be easy,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m not always here — it’s only a part-time job — but I’m here every morning, and the front door is permanently locked with a double Balham. The glass is armoured. And there’s an entryphone linked to every flat. There’s been no interference — you’ll have seen that yourself on your way in. Sometimes people, particularly delivery men if they can’t get a response from the flat they have a delivery for, use the intercom to ring others for access to the building. But the residents know better than to let anyone in they don’t know. And even if someone did manage to get into the building, all the flats have front doors with peepholes, security chains, double locks — you name it.’

Vogel nodded. It was much as he’d thought. ‘So the only way to get into one of these flats is to have the householder invite you in, is that it?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘You don’t think it likely then,’ Vogel continued, ‘that an intruder could have broken into Marlena McTavish’s apartment?’

‘Well, no. Like I said, there’s no sign of a break-in. I’m sure I would have noticed.’

Vogel glanced round, looking for cameras.

‘Is there any CCTV here?’ he asked. ‘Outside the front door perhaps?’

The caretaker shook his head. ‘It’s been talked about but a lot of residents didn’t want it. They like their privacy too much.’

Vogel nodded. There were CCTV cameras all over Covent Garden, of course, but none would probably be of much help if it were not possible to identify suspects actually entering Sampford House.

Vogel thanked the man. Then he stuck his head back through the door of the flat.

‘Any idea of time of death yet, Dr Fitzwarren?’ he enquired.

‘I’ve only just got here, Vogel. What do you think I am — a miracle worker?’

‘That’s exactly what I think,’ replied Vogel hopefully.

The pathologist grunted.

‘I just want to know if it’s likely the deceased was murdered more than twenty-four hours ago,’ Vogel persisted. ‘It’s important. We may need to act fast to prevent the killer striking again.’

‘Ummm. Well, Vogel, she’s certainly not been dead for more than a day, judging from her body temperature, but I need to get her back to the lab before I can tell you anything exact, as you very well know.’

‘Thank you all the same,’ said Vogel. ‘And the manner of death?’

Dr Fitzwarren looked at him as if he were a moron.

‘I think she may have been stabbed, don’t you, Vogel?’ she asked.

‘What about the murder weapon?’ enquired Vogel, ignoring the sarcasm heavy in her voice.

‘A long-bladed knife, I should think, in light of what seems to have been done to the poor woman.’

‘And what exactly has been done to her?’ persisted Vogel.

Fitzwarren gestured to the bloodied masses on the floor between Marlena’s legs, the stuff Paddy hadn’t been able to help himself comparing to an offal tray at the butcher’s.

‘The internal organs have been roughly hacked out of the body. Can’t be certain, given the damage, but I suspect we’re talking reproductive organs.’

She pointed at a small lump of dark red tissue, sliced partially open, lying by Marlena’s left knee.

‘That looks like her womb to me,’ she said.

Vogel felt his knees buckle.

Again he fought for control. There was another question he needed to ask, even though he could hardly bear to hear the answer.

He gestured at the blood all around the room.

‘Am I to assume from all this that the organs were removed while the victim was still alive?’

Dr Fitzwarren paused in her examination and looked up at Vogel.

‘Oh yes, Sergeant Vogel. When it started anyway. This woman was alive when the knife cut into her. She bled to death. Not much doubt about that.’

Vogel could take no more. He headed for the door. Outside, the caretaker was now standing more or less upright, handcuffed to a still-green PC Porter.

‘You should get this man back to the station. Have him processed, then arrange for him to see a doctor,’ said Vogel.

‘I’m just waiting for MIT, Sarge,’ said Porter. ‘DI Forest said I had to stay here till they arrived. I can’t wait to get out of this place, I can tell you. If I—’

‘Yes, that’s enough, Constable. You have a man in custody, right?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Vogel glanced towards Paddy. He didn’t think there was the slightest chance that the Irishman was guilty of anything more than muddying a crime scene. At least he looked a little calmer now. He might even be up to thinking more clearly.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me, Paddy?’ he asked.

The caretaker shook his head.

A thought occurred to Vogel, a question he should probably have asked earlier.

‘When did you last see Marlena alive?’

‘Oh, that would be yesterday morning,’ Paddy replied at once. ‘I came round with her paper as usual, just gone eleven. She answered the door and we had a little chat like we always do.’

‘And there was no sign of anything wrong?’

‘Oh no, there was nothing amiss, then, I’m sure. She invited me in. I had a quick cup of tea.’

‘So what time did you leave her?’

‘I suppose it must have been half past eleven, maybe a bit later.’

Vogel walked slowly along the corridor towards the lift. He had a great deal to think about.

If Marlena had been lying dead in her flat for more than a day, Alfonso Bertorelli could not have been responsible for her death because he had been detained at Charing Cross police station.

But now it seemed, even before a full post-mortem examination had been conducted, that the caretaker could confirm Marlena had been alive at 11.30 a.m., or thereabouts, the previous day. Alfonso Bertorelli had been released from custody at 11.23 a.m. Vogel had signed the release papers and he remembered the time exactly. He always remembered figures exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clarke grunted.

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

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

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

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

Vogel coughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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