Friends to Die For

Sixteen

Back in her little studio flat Michelle went to bed, even though it was not long after eight o’clock, and cried herself to sleep. She was still under the influence of her earlier excess of whisky and prescription drugs, and both her mind and body felt empty and exhausted. Fortunately, sleep came with merciful ease and speed.

However in the cold early hours Michelle woke with a start. Her head was no longer woozy. Her thoughts were suddenly crystal clear. She hadn’t been around the table with the others for long, but it had been long enough. The policewoman in her had picked up on something during that brief conversation, and now it was seriously troubling her.

As she went over it in her mind, she began to think again about what had happened to her. She had total recall, the events of that night still vivid in her mind. As she replayed the scene, re-examining each detail, a new train of thought was beginning to form. She found herself questioning whether it really had been Alfonso who’d attacked her.

Her eyes turned to the digital clock on her bedside table, its luminous numbers flickering slightly in the gloom. It was 2 a.m. She lay for a while, quite still, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Alfonso Bertorelli had been charged with Marlena’s murder and her assault because of the weight of evidence against him. That was what she had told the group around the table. The police don’t make mistakes with murder charges, she’d insisted. And most of the time that was true. But sometimes mistakes did occur. Could it be that this was one of those sometimes?

Greg had asked her whether she’d thought at the time that it was Alfonso who’d punched her in the face.

She hadn’t answered the question. The truth was, she didn’t have a clue.

Her head was buzzing. She should leave this to Vogel and his team. Michelle knew she was too involved. She was a victim. If you were a victim, you could not detach yourself. You couldn’t sift through the facts with anything like the required objectivity. The way Vogel always did. She trusted Vogel, didn’t she? No one was more meticulous than him, no one less likely to leap to conclusions. She had to trust Vogel.

Although she was so very wide awake Michelle still felt exhausted. She told herself she should try to get back to sleep. That if she could only sleep until dawn, things might straighten themselves out. Her doubts might resolve themselves without her doing anything about them.

She turned over on her side and shut her eyes. But sleep was not to come. Instead of the oblivion she craved, she lay in her bed tossing and turning, thoughts racing through her mind. After what seemed like a very long time, though it was actually only twenty minutes or so, she gave up. Sleep was not going to come, and there was nothing she could do about it, except perhaps repeat the previous day’s overgenerous doses of whisky and prescription drugs. But now that this idea had taken over her brain, she doubted that such measures would have any effect.

She climbed out of bed, wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders, made herself tea in the little kitchen and took it to the window at the far end of her room, the one that overlooked Theobalds Road. She glanced at her watch. It was just gone three now. Still the middle of the night. But there was an intermittent flow of traffic on the street below her. Central London never sleeps. A couple of black cabs, one with its light on, rolled by. A motorist in a four-wheel drive sounded his horn at a cyclist who stuck two fingers up at the retreating vehicle and hollered some incomprehensible abuse.

Michelle’s nose was beginning to throb again. She wondered how long it would be before that throbbing began to ease. The numbing effects of the painkillers had totally worn off, and the pain was back with a vengeance. Aside from being distressing in its own right, the throbbing was a constant reminder of the sorry state of her face and the horrible reality of her injuries having been caused by someone she cared about.

She made her way into her tiny bathroom, removed the bottle of painkillers from the mirrored cabinet on the wall, and swallowed two of them, the correct dose this time, filling her tooth mug with tap water to wash them down.

She hoped they would do the job well enough, because she was determined not to deaden her brain for the second day in a row. She needed all her wits about her if she was going to make sense of the thoughts buzzing around inside her head.

It could be nothing. The brief snippet of conversation probably didn’t mean anything, she told herself. If it had, surely it would have triggered an immediate reaction from her the moment the words were uttered? But then, sitting there in the restaurant surrounded by the unscathed faces of her friends, she’d been oblivious to anything beyond her own misery. Moreover she’d been far too befuddled by drink and painkillers to react immediately to what she’d heard. Maybe she wasn’t too bad a cop after all, even if she was stuck in Traffic, because something had filtered through, something had lodged in her subconscious. And now it had shifted from the back of her mind to lodge firmly at the forefront.

She wandered back to her chair by the window, switching on the radio on the way. As usual it was tuned to BBC Radio 2. Michelle liked Radio 2. She knew it was a bit naff to admit to enjoying something so middle of the road, but she didn’t care. There was something wonderfully unchallenging and restful about Radio 2.

The kind of music somebody at the BBC had chosen as suitable for the early hours wafted over her as she gazed out of the window. She recognized the distinctive notes of Acker Bilk’s trombone playing ‘Stranger on the Shore’. It had been a favourite of her father’s. Michelle’s eyes filled with tears. She so wished her police officer father, the inspiration behind Michelle’s choice of career, were still alive. He would know what to do. He had always known what to do.

Outside, a group of migrating clubbers, three young men and two girls, made their way noisily along the pavement, laughing and talking loudly. Bizarrely, Michelle was reminded of the good old days of Sunday Club. At first glance the little troop sashaying its way along Theobalds Road, so much younger, so much dafter, and no doubt popping E and God knows what else to keep themselves awake, could not have been more different from her old group of friends. But it was the way these kids were with each other, their obvious closeness, their ease in each other’s company, verbally and physically, as they joshed and teased, linked arms and patted backs and shoulders. Surely that was the way she and the other Sunday Clubbers had once been, before everything went wrong.

She ran through them all in her mind: Marlena dead; Alfonso in jail; Ari, seemingly desperate to restore what could never be restored; Greg, no longer able to maintain his upmarket-barrow-boy act; Karen, frightened for Greg, as she probably always had been, missing the way he’d been in the past, anxious about their future, and that of their children; Bob, always inclined to be depressive, now sinking irrevocably into his own malcontent; Tiny and Billy, mourning their lost dog and a lost way of life, but still with each other to cling to; George, unfathomable as ever, but with despair in those dark handsome eyes.

And her? Where did she stand in all of this? Michelle made another mug of tea, pouring boiling water and cold milk over a solitary tea bag, muttering disconsolately to herself as she did so. So far as the group were concerned, Michelle Monahan had been striving to rebuild her life in the wake of her divorce, and young enough and pretty enough and ambitious enough to make a success of it. Wasn’t that the way they’d seen her? The truth was, she’d been far more broken by sorrow than anyone realized. Except, ironically, the husband who had betrayed and then deserted her.

All Michelle had ever wanted was to be a mother. But her attempts to conceive a child had ended in false alarms, an ectopic pregnancy and three miscarriages. And then came the diagnosis of early-stage cervical cancer. She’d been forced to have a hysterectomy in order to survive. Her bosses and colleagues in the force had no idea; she’d told them that she was in hospital for something entirely different, and begged her husband never to reveal the truth. It seemed to Michelle that the loss of her womb had robbed her not only of the chance of becoming a mother but also of her womanhood. And she couldn’t bear to be an object of pity. Her husband had promised it would be their secret, their sad secret. As far as she knew, he had at least kept that promise, the only one of all that he had made. After he left her, she’d questioned whether he’d ever been faithful to her. Whatever the case, she doubted he would have walked out if she had been able to give him a child. Now she’d learned that he was expecting a baby with the new woman in his life. While she, all alone, battered and beaten in more ways than one, would never have a child of her own. With her shattered face and shattered dreams, it was doubtful she would ever again have a man of her own either. Not one she wanted, anyway.

She shivered. It was the beginning of the second week in April, but the days were cool and wet and the nights still very cold. The heating in her flat continued to play up. Sitting for so long by the window, with only a light dressing gown over her Marks and Spencer’s pyjamas, she was thoroughly chilled, although she’d only just noticed her discomfort because she was so preoccupied. With Marlena, and the rest of them, and with her own fractured state, both physically and mentally.

She switched on the small electric fire she’d bought the last time the heating had broken down, carried her mug of tea over to the sleeping area and put it down on the bedside table while she pulled on jeans, thick socks, a T-shirt, a shirt over it, and a warm sweater.

Even before her face had been wrecked, Michelle had come to the conclusion that the only thing she had left in life was the job. In Dorset she’d been a detective constable, but after the divorce there was no way she could face working alongside the husband who’d abandoned her. She’d never have taken the job in Traffic, but it was all that was on offer at the time. Plus it was the Met, and she’d been promised it wouldn’t be long before an opportunity would present itself for her to return to CID. That was two years ago, and here she was, still stuck in the department she loathed. Even a switch to mainstream uniform would do. Anything but Traffic.

And then Vogel had started delving into her affairs, doubting her explanation as to why she had pulled a sickie. Checking her out as if he wasn’t sure what she might have done or might be capable of. She knew then that not only would her hope of a transfer be destroyed but with it any hope she had of rebuilding her life.

And so she’d lied to him. Lying to the Sunday Club crowd had been one thing. She hadn’t thought that it would matter. She hadn’t known that there was someone out there determined to hurt them. She hadn’t considered for one moment that she too might become a victim. At that stage it had still been possible that Marlena’s accident was just that, that the earlier incidents had been childish pranks. With each new incident, even the abduction and killing of the two dogs, she’d tried to tell herself that this was just a chain of random, unconnected events, the sort of thing that could only happen in a place the size of London.

Michelle had lied to Vogel and to Sunday Club for reasons, deeply personal reasons, that had nothing to do with the frightening chain of events unfolding around her. She’d lied because of the lengths to which her longing for a child had driven her.

She and Phil had been about to adopt a child when he dropped the bombshell that he was leaving her. The adoption authorities had immediately withdrawn their support. Michelle had pleaded with them, pointing out that single-parent adoptions were no longer uncommon. Their response had been that her new status as a single parent wasn’t the problem. It was the turmoil surrounding her marriage break-up that was the issue.

In desperation she’d turned to the Internet, researching every possible avenue to getting a child. That was how she’d learned about a ground-breaking operation, still largely experimental, that might make it possible for her to give birth: a womb transplant. Her own doctor had advised that, in her case, such an operation would not only be exceedingly unlikely to succeed, or certainly not to the extent that would allow her to safely carry a child to full term, but, with particular regard to the effect of the hysterectomy that had been forced upon her, would also be highly dangerous. He’d refused to forward her for any such treatment under the National Health Service. Refusing to admit defeat, she had sought out a Harley Street consultant who was an expert in the field. Though she had no idea how she would finance such a major medical procedure, she’d been determined to find a way. However, the Harley Street man had delivered the same prognosis, advising her that no reputable doctor would be prepared to undertake such an operation on a woman with her medical history.

So Michelle had gone back to the Internet and found a dodgy Indian surgeon who was as famous for his lack of scruples as for his undoubted brilliance. He’d originally trained in London but had been struck off the UK medical register following a high-profile case that had resulted in the death of a patient. Since then, the surgeon’s maverick approach had led to him being banned from practising not only in Britain but throughout most of Europe, and many other parts of the world. Apparently he was motivated not so much by financial gain as a sincere belief that the type of operation he was performing, while still in its infancy at the moment and therefore subject to a degree of trial and error, would ultimately revolutionize obstetric surgery. In his eyes, that justified the use of human guinea pigs. Even the manner in which he acquired the wombs that he used in his transplant operations had come, rather chillingly, under scrutiny. Michelle knew all this, and yet she was prepared to take the risk. He was, after all, her only hope.

Aside from the obvious danger she would be exposing herself to if she allowed him to operate on her, a risk which she considered to be her business and no one else’s, there was the question of legality. As a serving police officer, she was jeopardizing her career as well as her life. She hadn’t cared though. The moment she’d learned that the surgeon had travelled incognito to Switzerland where he was preparing to examine potential patients, she had dropped everything and jumped on a plane to Zurich. So far as her bosses were concerned, she was absent through illness. So far as her friends were concerned, she was on a training course.

Ironically, it had all been for nothing. Even that notorious renegade of the medical profession had refused to operate on Michelle. Then, after her meeting with him, she had returned to her Zurich hotel room, switched on her phone, and found a series of voicemails from her friends about the attack on Marlena. From that point on the horrors just kept on coming: the abduction and killing of the two little dogs, Vogel’s suspicions about her, the attack that had left her face in ruins, and finally Marlena’s murder.

Now there could be no doubt that the Sunday Clubbers were being viciously targeted. Most likely by one of their own.

Until last night, Michelle had been convinced that Alfonso was the culprit. Guilty as charged. Vogel was a meticulous man, Michelle reminded herself for the umpteenth time. He did not make mistakes. And he certainly didn’t make mistakes in a murder inquiry.

Oblivious to Vogel’s doubts about the case, she found she was beginning to harbour doubts of her own. In an effort to shrug them off, she took another sip of her tea, then lay down, fully clothed, on her unmade bed. In spite of her anxiety she drifted off to sleep. It was a fretful, restless sleep, but when she woke she was surprised to see bright wintery sunshine streaming through the east-facing window above her kitchen sink. Her digital alarm clock told her that it was now 8.05 a.m.

Her first impulse was to reach for the phone to call Vogel. Then she changed her mind. How could she discuss the case with him, share her doubts with him, when he continued to harbour suspicions about her? Nor could she tell him the one thing that would lay those suspicions to rest: the truth. Even now, there was no way she could bring herself to reveal the details of her trip to Zurich. Aside from the dubious legality of what she had planned, it was all too intimate, too personal, too likely to invoke pity.

No, she could not expose herself to that. In any case, she had probably got it all wrong. The case against Alfonso seemed rock-solid, she couldn’t be certain that what she’d learned the previous evening would make any difference. True, it raised questions about another member of the group, but did it undermine the evidence against Alfonso?

She had replayed the attack on her over and over again in her mind and was certain that her assailant had been male. Though the features had been hidden behind glasses and a scarf, the sheer power of the punch told her it had to be a man. Besides, assuming that the perpetrator was a member of Sunday Club, there were only three women in the group. One was dead, one was her — and she was guilty of nothing except desperation — and the third was Karen. Michelle could not, even in her wildest nightmares, consider Karen capable of such extremes of violence — nor did she have the strength. Thanks to her colleagues at Charing Cross nick, Michelle was aware of details concerning Marlena’s death that had not been made public; the force with which the murder weapon had been driven into her friend’s body indicated a degree of physical strength that was beyond most women.

No, it was definitely a man, it was almost certainly one of the friends, and her suspicions were beginning to focus on one particular friend. Although, as with Alfonso, Michelle had no idea what possible motive he could have.

It was too soon to share her suspicions with anyone. There was too little to go on at this stage. She needed to know more, to confirm to her own satisfaction that she was on the right track. The only way to do that would be to conduct her own inquiries. She knew it was unwise, but that wasn’t going stop her, just as it hadn’t stopped her flying to Zurich to meet her dodgy doctor. Michelle wanted to talk to this man. Even if Vogel were to take her seriously, he didn’t know this man the way she did. Faced with a policeman, his answers would be guarded, careful. She on the other hand was a friend; he wouldn’t even realize he was being questioned. What’s more, she had the first-hand knowledge to trip him up in any lies. No one was better placed to force him to incriminate himself. If indeed he were guilty.

For the first time since her hopes were dashed in Zurich, she felt buoyant and confident of her abilities. She realized she might be putting herself in danger, but planned to reduce the risk by arranging to meet him in a public place. A breakfast meeting in Costa or Starbucks, perhaps; somewhere he would not dare to attack.

An involuntary shiver ran through her at the memory of the cyclist bearing down on her in his hoody and dark glasses. That had been a public place; even late at night there had been cars and pedestrians in the vicinity, and still it hadn’t saved her from that punch in the face. It had all happened too fast for anyone to react.

Michelle did try, momentarily, to talk herself out of her own plan. One half of her urged caution, but the other declared that she was in any case battered and broken and probably eternally childless, so what did it matter if she lived or died?

She checked her watch. Just after 8.30. She picked up her phone then put it down again. To hell with it. Better to arrive without warning. More dangerous, perhaps, but surely more likely to bring results. She doubted he would have left home yet. With luck, she would catch him as he made his way out, invite him for coffee. That way she wouldn’t have to actually step inside his place. She’d better hurry though, because there was one other visit she needed to make before she confronted him.

She hurried to the bathroom, and covered her battered face with a thick layer of pancake make-up. Then she put on dark glasses and a baseball hat with a long peak which she pulled down over her forehead. She hesitated for just a moment before removing from the cupboard by the front door a small leather case, which she slipped into her coat pocket, then hurried downstairs.

Vogel had been at his desk in Charing Cross police station for a couple of hours, still battling to come to terms with his doubts. He had MIT chaps all over the place trying to build a stronger case against Bertorelli, but nothing they’d come up with so far seemed to quell his misgivings.

His peace of mind was further shaken by a call that came through shortly after nine. It was his old friend Ben Parker in Dorset.

‘Look, mate, I’ve been mulling this over ever since I heard about that woman who’s been murdered on your patch,’ he began. ‘It’s probably nothing, and I’m hating myself for this, but I guess I just can’t keep shtum any longer...’

‘For God’s sake, Ben, spit it out. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry here.’

‘OK, OK, look, that night I got wasted with Phil Monahan on your behalf, he let it slip that Michelle’d had a hysterectomy. He said she’d been knocked sideways, was never the same afterwards, knowing she couldn’t have a baby. Anyway, he swore me to secrecy, because he’d promised her he wouldn’t let anyone know. Said it was the least he could do. But, well, when it came through the old grapevine how that poor bloody woman had been cut up... Oh, I know it’s ridiculous. Just shoot me down in flames, will you?’

Vogel thought it was ridiculous, but was unnerved nonetheless. He ended the call and cursed silently. It was obvious what Ben Parker had been getting at. Michelle Monahan might have become so unhinged that she’d developed a lethal grudge against women with the necessary biological equipment to produce the children she could not have.

But Parker didn’t know about the mugging that had left Michelle far too badly beaten up to have launched an attack on anyone. Even if she hadn’t been injured, Vogel could not believe she would be crazy enough or vicious enough to butcher another human being the way Marlena’s killer had. And why, if envy was the motive, would she have chosen a victim way beyond child-bearing years, a woman who had no children? Surely her target would have been Karen, the only mother in the group.

No, he did not for one moment think that Michelle Monahan could be guilty of Marlena’s murder, but Parker’s call had stirred up his misgivings about her furtive behaviour, the lies she’d told to cover her absence from work. There had to be a rational explanation. Colleagues who’d been in touch with her said she was still in a bad way after the mugging, so he’d put off having another talk with her. Once she was recovered, though, Vogel would talk to her again. Make her tell him the truth.

In the meantime, his focus had to be the case against Alfonso Bertorelli. If he could only find a more damning piece of evidence, something that would silence those niggling doubts that kept troubling him...

The results of Michelle’s first call, at a Covent Garden address not far from her eventual destination, made her all the more determined to follow through with her plan. She had the bit between her teeth now and was in no mood to let concerns about her safety stand in the way. If she started thinking like a victim, worrying about danger all the time, she might as well kiss her career in the police goodbye. The only way to conquer fear was to push yourself through whatever barriers it tried to throw up, consequences be damned.

The communal front door to the apartment block where he lived had been propped open, presumably by the driver of a courier van who was busily loading parcels onto a trolley ready to wheel them into the entrance hall. She flitted through unnoticed and quickly climbed the stairs. There was no response when she knocked on the door of his flat. She waited, knocked a second time. Again, no reply. He must be out already.

Seeing an opportunity she had not previously anticipated, she hesitated only a moment before coming to a decision. Fresh out of training college, she’d learned one of the most valuable lessons of her career from a soon-to-retire copper of the old school. The illicit art of lock-picking wasn’t a skill the force looked favourably on, but her instructor insisted it would stand her in good stead. He’d been so impressed with her natural talent for the task that on his retirement he’d presented her with a gift: the small leather case in her pocket, packed with a selection of the best tools for the job. Michelle had seldom made use of it, but she remained rather proud of her ability to crack simple locks without leaving a trace.

The lock on the closed door which faced her was an elderly Yale. She set to work. It took her less than a minute to successfully open the door. She stepped inside and looked around, wondering where to begin her search. After all, she didn’t even know what she was looking for. And a part of her still held out that there was nothing to be found.

Noticing a desk on the far side of the room, she crossed to it, opened one of the drawers, and began to rummage through.

Then she heard a noise behind her. A door opening. A footstep. She turned to see him standing, half naked, just inside the room, dripping water everywhere. He must have just emerged from the bath; if it had been a shower, she would surely have heard it. As he lurched towards her, his face contorted with rage, the small towel he had draped around his waist fell to the ground, leaving him naked. For a second or two they both froze. The look on his face told her he was every bit as shocked and confused as she was, and just as frightened.

As she stared at him, transfixed, Michelle knew with absolute clarity that her suspicions had been right. This was the man who had killed Marlena, who would kill her if she did not get out of here this minute. So she turned, heading for the front door as fast as she could. He hurled himself sideways, making a grab for her, but he managed only to grasp her new shoulder bag. He tore it from her, breaking the strap. Then he seemed to step back, almost as if allowing her to escape. She half threw herself down the stairs, sprinted through the main door out onto the street and took off at a run, as fast as she could, her baseball hat falling unnoticed onto the pavement beneath her feet. She put a couple of blocks between herself and the apartment building before pausing to look back. She couldn’t phone anyone. Not easily anyway. Her new phone had been in her bag. She thought about approaching a passer-by for help, but decided her best option would be to head for Charing Cross police station, a couple of streets away. There couldn’t be a much safer place than that.

Nobody seemed to be following her. But then, he had been naked. He wouldn’t come after her without first pulling on some clothes, would he?

She leaned, panting, against a wall on the corner of St Martin’s Lane and Brydges Place, struggling to catch her breath. Her damaged nose made it difficult for her to breathe while running.

Brydges Place is a narrow pedestrian alleyway, overshadowed on either side by tall buildings, and surprisingly little used at the St Martin’s Lane end. It offered an effective shortcut to the police station. While Michelle was wondering if this was a shortcut she dared use, or if she should take the safer albeit longer option of the main drag, she felt a blow in the small of her back. A gloved hand was clamped over her mouth. Unable to make a sound, she found herself being pulled into Brydges Place. She could see people just a few feet away, but he’d been so quick and strong and assertive that nobody seemed to have noticed what was happening.

She began to struggle, but her strength was no match for his. The hand over her mouth was half smothering her. Why didn’t someone come into the alleyway? If someone didn’t come right this minute it would be too late for her; unless she could remove the hand that was blocking her airway, she’d soon lose consciousness. Her mind was extraordinarily lucid — just as Marlena’s had been, though she didn’t know that. So this is it, she thought. I’m going to die at his hands.

Strangely, the worst part was knowing that she would die without learning the answer to the question that had plagued her all night.

Why? Why had any of this happened? She knew now what he was, and had seen in his eyes how he must see himself. But why had he suddenly turned on his friends, inflicting such sadistic cruelty on people who had trusted and cared about him? Why?

It was her last thought. She felt an almighty blow to the back of her head. A searing pain cut through her body. Strong hands gripped her neck, squeezing the life from her. Then she was gone. Dead in his arms.

At last, too late, a pair of chattering office girls turned into the alleyway, heading for their place of work.

He shifted her weight, twisting her round so that she faced him, her dead body pressed close to his deadly one. Then he buried her face in his shoulder and lowered his hooded head, careful that his flesh did not touch hers, so that her features were concealed.

The two girls passed by without giving him, or poor dead Michelle, a second glance. She and her murderer looked every bit like a pair of lovers locked in a clinch.

He watched the girls retreat, their backs silhouetted against the brightness beyond the alley. There was a kind of alcove to his right, formed by the entrance to an old fire escape. He let Michelle’s body fall softly into a heap against its graffiti-covered yellow doors.

Then, he walked calmly away, his footsteps quiet and unhurried, until he was lost in the anonymous hubbub of the city.