Friends to Die For

Twenty

Vogel spent most of the latter part of the afternoon in the evidence room. The teams searching the homes of the friends had seized a considerable selection of items including computer equipment, cameras and assorted paperwork. Specialist officers were in the process of checking the contents of hard drives and memory sticks, but so far nothing of significance to the case had been found.

Tiny and Billy had a penchant for gay porn, nothing heavy duty though. Bob had signed on to a lonely hearts site, but had engaged in little activity, not even arranging a single date. George’s computer contained a considerable number of photographs of attractive young women, but the pictures were innocent enough.

The personal possessions removed from the group in the custody unit had also been bagged and filed. These included phones, wallets, notebooks and even a couple of non-electronic diaries.

Vogel paid particular attention to the contacts directories in the phones and diaries, and the contents of the wallets.

On each phone Vogel picked the first few numbers from the list of numbers most frequently called and checked them out. The recipient of the first call he made from the numbers on Greg’s list sounded most disconcerted to hear from a police officer. That, however, did not surprise Vogel. He’d already checked the number against the police database and discovered that it belonged to an importer of goods whose shipments were often dubious in origin. While distinctly shifty, it seemed unlikely that these dealings had any connection with the case under investigation.

Similarly, Ari’s list of favourites included a well-known drug dealer. That held no interest for Vogel either.

Calls to numbers on the favourites lists of the other five detainees revealed nothing of obvious interest. Vogel planned to put a team onto a more thorough examination of all seven phones and their records, but before handing over had a quick glance down the full contacts directories just in case anything leapt out at him. Something did. It was an entry on Greg’s phone for a Tony K. Vogel realized he might be jumping to conclusions, but there was an 0207 287 prefix, which he knew identified it as a Soho number. He hesitated for a moment then pressed dial. An educated voice with just the hint of an indefinable accent answered on the second ring.

‘Zodiac Enterprises.’

Vogel ended the call. So Greg had Tony Kwan’s office number listed on his phone. It was difficult to imagine what connection Kwan would have with the friends, or, indeed, with all that had befallen them. But Greg knew him well enough, or had at least had sufficient dealings with Kwan, to include him on his contacts list. That might just be the most interesting piece of information so far.

Kwan was a notorious gangland figure, and although nothing had ever been proven he’d been implicated in murders in the past. Even so, Vogel considered him an unlikely suspect. Tony Kwan was ruthless, a deadly adversary who would eliminate a rival or enemy without compunction, but he went about his business efficiently, taking care to ensure that it was conducted without attracting the attention of the authorities. This was not his style. If he’d been behind these killings, the bodies would never have been found.

However, the fact that Kwan was listed on Greg’s phone was enough for Vogel to recall Greg for interview. He asked him how he knew Tony Kwan.

‘I don’t,’ said Greg quickly. Rather too quickly, Vogel thought.

‘Mr Walker, Tony Kwan’s phone number is listed on your phone,’ said Vogel wearily.

‘Is it?’ asked Greg. ‘Oh yes, I remember now. I sold him a few crates of malt whisky a while back. They like their whisky, the Chinese.’

‘And that was enough for you to enter his phone number in your personal contacts list?’

‘More business than personal. I like to be able to keep in touch with my customers, never know when they might want to place another order.’

‘And you have had no other dealings with Mr Kwan?’

‘No. Why would I?’

I have no idea, thought Vogel, but I’d stake this year’s backgammon winnings that you bloody well have, big time.

‘Mr Walker, you do know who Tony Kwan is, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘’Course I do, Chinese businessman, ain’t he?’ said Greg ingenuously.

Too irritated to argue, Vogel sent Greg back to his cell. Then he recalled Karen Walker for interview. This could be interesting, he thought.

‘Mrs Walker, did you know that your husband has an association with a man called Tony Kwan who is believed to be a high-ranking member of the Triad crime organization?’ Vogel asked.

Karen looked shocked to the core.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘No, no, of course I didn’t know.’

Then she burst into tears yet again.

After that Vogel turned his attention to the wallets, diaries, notebooks, and other pocket and bag paraphernalia belonging to the arrested seven. The contents of George’s wallet proved of interest to Vogel. Tucked into the flat section at the back was a photograph of a striking young woman with cropped white-blonde hair. Vogel removed it and studied it carefully. He held it to the light from the window. The face triggered some memory that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed familiar, yet he had no recollection of her name or where he had encountered her. Had he come across her in the course of a police investigation, either as a perpetrator or a victim? Vogel screwed up his eyes and concentrated hard. Try as he might, the answer eluded him. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to create connections where none existed. It had happened in the past, in investigations where the lack of a breakthrough had left him feeling as if he was clutching at straws.

Nonetheless, he decided it was cause enough to reinterview George Kristos.

He placed the photograph which had caught his attention on the interview-room table so that it faced George.

‘Could you please tell me who this is?’ Vogel asked.

George looked irritated rather than uneasy.

‘It’s my girlfriend,’ he said.

‘I see, sir. Would you mind telling me her name?’

‘Carla. She’s called Carla. What the heck does she have to do with any of this? She’s never even met any of the Sunday Clubbers.’

‘All the same, I should very much like to talk to her.’ Vogel opened his notepad. ‘I’ll need her full name and address.’

‘Carla Karbusky. I don’t have her address.’

Vogel’s antennae wiggled, instantly on the alert.

‘Are you telling me you don’t have your girlfriend’s address?’

George shifted in his chair. He looked uncomfortable.

‘She’s Polish, she’s not been in the country very long. She stays with friends.’

‘I see. Does she work?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. She wants to study over here, as a mature student, only she hasn’t got a college place yet.’

‘You don’t know very much about this girlfriend of yours, Mr Kristos, do you?’ Vogel persisted.

George blushed. ‘I know all I need to know,’ he muttered.

Then he attempted what seemed to be a sort of knowing leer, as if indicating that his comment was a reference to matters sexual. Vogel didn’t think it worked very well.

‘Where did you meet her?’ he persisted.

‘I just bumped into her in the street,’ said George. Then, as if realizing that he sounded wary and defensive, he switched gear and became effusive: ‘Literally. We collided. She dropped her bag. I picked it up and asked her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee. One thing led to another.’

George leered again.

Vogel stared at him.

He reached for the padded envelope on the table in front of him and tipped out George’s phone, still in its polythene evidence bag. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Vogel removed the phone and held it out towards George.

‘Presumably you have Carla’s phone number?’ he enquired.

George frowned.

‘Naturally.’

‘And so you have it listed in your phone?’

George hesitated for a split second. Or did he? Vogel wasn’t sure of anything any more. Then George nodded.

Vogel searched for an entry for Carla. There did not appear to be one. He frowned and held out the phone across the table again.

‘Then perhaps you would point her number out to me, Mr Kristos,’ Vogel instructed.

‘Scroll down,’ said George. ‘Go to G.’

Vogel did so. George pointed at an entry. Vogel was puzzled by what he saw.

‘Mr Kristos, this number is not listed under the name of Carla or Karbusky. It is simply listed as GF. Could you explain that to me, please?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said George chippily. ‘GF for girlfriend.’

‘I see, and is there any particular reason for that manner of listing?’

‘I’d have thought that was obvious too,’ said George. ‘When you get through girlfriends at the rate I do, it’s easier to list ’em that way. I just change the number. Don’t have to bother with a new name or anything like that.’

He looked pleased with himself.

Vogel didn’t know what to make of him. Was the man being serious? And was his behaviour suspicious or was it simply a display of rather unpleasant bravado?

‘So you consider yourself to be something of a ladies’ man, do you, Mr Kristos?’

‘Obvious again,’ said George, this time smiling what he presumably thought was his charming smile.

He might be a good-looking bastard, thought Vogel, but he wondered that any woman would be interested in someone who appeared to be so lacking in charm, manners and any kind of respect for women.

While continuing to stare at George, Vogel dialled the number for GF. The call immediately switched to voicemail. Vogel tried again. Same result.

‘All right, Mr Kristos, you can go back to your cell. But rest assured we will continue to check out your Carla Karbusky.’

George just carried on smiling. It seemed to Vogel the kind of smile that indicated that the bearer reckoned he knew something you didn’t.

He was beginning to wonder about George Kristos. But he reminded himself that just because the man was an arrogant ratbag it didn’t necessarily follow that he was a murderer too.

Vogel was determined to keep the seven for as long as possible. Certainly for the full thirty-six hours allowed without a court appearance. And so they were detained in police cells overnight.

Potential evidence submitted for forensic examination had been fast-tracked, and Clarke had drafted in extra computer forensic officers to fully examine the impounded technical equipment.

Vogel suspected it was rather too much to hope for that his double killer might be not only a sadist but also the kind of sicko who took photographs of his victims or kept an electronic diary of his activities. However, a copper could dream. At the very least they might turn up a fresh lead. Because Vogel was fast running out of leads.

He made his way down to the interview room to start a second day of interviews feeling thoroughly disheartened. He’d hoped by this time to have narrowed down his list of suspects. Instead, he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t widen the field, work further on the possibility that the killer was not one of the seven friends.

One by one, he reinterviewed the seven suspects. In reality, he was playing for time, keeping the group in custody while the search teams and forensic experts combed through their homes and belongings, desperately trying to find some scrap of useful evidence.

That ploy came to an end with the arrival of Christopher Margolia, now acting on behalf of Billy and Tiny, and May Newman, a headline-grabbing criminal lawyer with a penchant for suing the police for wrongful arrest, who’d been hired, apparently to Ari’s surprise, by his father.

While Mustaf Kabul was more than happy to allow his son to face the music unaided when confronted by drug-related charges, when a murder charge loomed it seemed he was prepared to bring in the best lawyer his money could buy.

Margolia, who’d also agreed to act for the other four detainees, and Newman made a formidable team. Newman cited just about every human rights act since Habeas Corpus, or so it seemed to Vogel, and promised dire consequences if her client was not released forthwith. Margolia followed her lead, as indeed he had in court on numerous occasions.

Vogel ultimately had no choice but to comply. The six men and one woman who had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Michelle Monahan were released on police bail at 5 p.m. precisely that afternoon.

‘Looks as if we’re going to have to cast the next wider,’ said Clarke. ‘Get the team out interviewing friends, associates, contacts — the works. Tell them I want no stone left unturned.’

Vogel could see she was getting twitchy. He was too. A double murderer remained on the loose, while the best MIT team in London, led by a DCI with an exceptional reputation, appeared to be achieving little beyond running around in circles.

‘Did you get any hits from HOLMES — homicides matching the MO of Marlena’s murder?’

The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had been set up in the wake of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation to allow rapid and accurate cross-referencing of information between regional police forces. Details of Marlena’s murder had been fed into the system, but the only matches had been the two women murdered in King’s Cross fifteen years earlier.

‘Just the two cases we already knew about,’ Vogel told her. ‘I dug out the files again and it was as I remembered: the reproductive organs of both victims had been hacked out, and unlike Marlena they had been strangled beforehand. Ari Kabul would have been eleven years old in 1998, which effectively rules him out, but the others could still be in the frame.’

‘Fifteen years is a hell of a long interval. Chances are, whoever was responsible is either dead or got taken out of general circulation in some other way, maybe locked up for another crime. Even so, make sure the team keep an eye out for any connections between our boys and what went down in King’s Cross. You never know...’

Back in the MIT’s incident room, Vogel assigned one of the sharpest young DCs, Steve Parlow, the task of following up on the Carla Karbusky lead — if indeed it was a lead and not another dead end. There continued to be no answer from the contact number George Kristos had supplied for her, which had turned out to be a pay-as-you-go phone. This made tracing the owner more difficult, but Vogel was confident that Parlow would eventually succeed. He wanted the young woman found, if only to give him some respite from wracking his brain trying to figure out why her face seemed so familiar.

Meanwhile, he drew up a list of known associates of the friends and ordered that they be brought in for questioning. This included, of course, Johnny the piano-playing boss of Johnny’s Place, Cathy the maître d’, and several other Johnny’s staff, some colleagues of Alfonso’s from the Vine, including his immediate boss Leonardo, Justin from Shannon’s, Pete the caretaker at Chatham Towers, and Paddy Morgan, the caretaker at Sampford House who had found Marlena’s body. There was nothing as yet to indicate the direct involvement of any of these, and the usual procedure would have been to conduct informal interviews elsewhere or invite them to attend Charing Cross police station by appointment. But Vogel had them picked up and brought in for formal questioning. He’d taken his kid gloves off and thrown them away.

There was one exception. Tony Kwan. Vogel wasn’t yet ready to summon the Triad boss to the police station, and he certainly wasn’t going to send a load of plods to pick Kwan up. Apart from any other consideration, if you started something with a man like Kwan, if you appeared to be taking him on, then you had better be prepared to finish it. Or else. And Vogel didn’t like to think about the ‘or else’.

A few years previously a couple of Met detectives based at West End Central had been investigating an upmarket protection racket centring on some of the major Oxford Street stores. They found evidence of blackmail, coercion and the use of extreme aggression, all of it pointing to Kwan. Somehow, Kwan got wind of the fact they were closing in on him. Threats were made; the detectives were warned that their families’ lives would be in danger if they didn’t back off. And fast. One of them, DC Leonard Smith, even claimed to have spotted a man armed with a sniper rifle on a roof overlooking the Savile Row entrance of the Mayfair police station. The top brass had dismissed the detective’s claims as pure fantasy, and ultimately both men had taken early retirement from the force. Vogel knew that Len Smith, with whom he’d been friendly, had suffered a nervous breakdown from which he had never recovered. The case was ultimately closed due to lack of evidence. To Vogel it seemed the Met had done what it had been told to do. Backed off. The whole matter had left a nasty taste in his mouth.

It was hard to blame those within the force who had taken the decision not to proceed. Kwan’s reputation was such that he was generally regarded as untouchable. Vogel did not know whether that was true. He did not operate at that kind of level within the Met. He did know that he was afraid of Tony Kwan. Very afraid. Anyone with half a brain would be. Vogel was a family man. He had a wife and a daughter. A vulnerable daughter. He wasn’t the gung-ho, have-a-go-hero type. He would have liked nothing better than to forget about that particular entry in Greg Walker’s phone, to accept Walker’s glib explanation of a simple purchase of whisky. But he couldn’t. As was often the case, he found himself resolved to follow a course of action he knew he might live to regret. Or did he just hope he might live to regret it? Vogel told himself off for letting his imagination run riot.

He was going to Soho to see Tony Kwan, and that was that.

It was almost 10 p.m. when he arrived, alone, at the Zodiac gambling club. Like Greg, he knew that Tony Kwan operated out of an office in the club. Unlike Greg, Vogel had never set foot inside the building. But he knew enough about Kwan to be confident that he would still be in his office. According to the legend that meandered its way around the bevied echelons of the Met, there was a sumptuous bedroom at the rear of the private office where Kwan frequently entertained whichever of the acquiescent young women who surrounded him might currently be taking his fancy. Kwan only returned to the gated complex at Virginia Water — his official residence and that of his wife, his sons and his daughters-in-law and their children — a couple of nights a week, and for Sunday lunches when he presided over a veritable banquet of dim sum and played at being the benevolent and doting head of his personal dynasty.

The two dinner-jacketed heavies on the door stepped forward and blocked Vogel’s way when he approached the entrance. With his horn-rimmed glasses, crumpled cords, and diffident manner, Vogel might not have looked much like most people’s idea of a policeman, but these men were trained to spot a copper.

Vogel introduced himself and asked very politely if he might see Mr Kwan.

The smaller of the heavies spoke in a high-pitched voice which somehow added to his menace, as did his distinctly London accent.

‘The boss don’t see no one without an appointment,’ he announced.

‘I wonder if you could ask him if he might make an exception in my case,’ said Vogel, obsequious now. There was, however, an edge to his next remark: ‘We have matters to discuss which may be of mutual interest.’

The heavy subjected him to careful scrutiny, then stepped back into the doorway and began to speak quietly into the radio mike clipped to his lapel.

There was considerable noise in the street and coming from inside the club. Vogel couldn’t make out what the man was saying. The result, however, was that the doors opened and Vogel was escorted through the club to the private door at the back, then up the rickety staircase to Kwan’s private offices on the third floor. The same route that Greg had taken just days before.

Vogel should not have been surprised by the lavishly appointed interior, having been forewarned by colleagues. Nevertheless his jaw dropped.

The ever-courteous Kwan got up from behind his desk and came towards Vogel. He stopped a few feet away and bowed his head very slightly. Vogel did the same.

‘And so, Mister Vogel, we meet at last,’ said Kwan.

Obviously the doorman would have supplied his name, but Kwan’s choice of greeting implied that he already knew about Vogel.

‘Indeed,’ he replied.

He’d often wondered what it would be like to meet Tony Kwan. He had wondered if he would be intimidated. Particularly on the man’s own territory. Oddly, he felt no fear. So far, at any rate, he remained intent on his mission.

As if aware of Vogel’s thoughts, Kwan continued: ‘And how is your dear wife, and your daughter? In better health, I hope?’

Vogel felt something then, all right. He hadn’t expected Kwan to know anything about his personal life, especially given the fact he’d arrived unannounced, so Kwan had not had the opportunity to do any homework. A chill ran down Vogel’s spine. He was especially sensitive to any reference to his daughter. How did Kwan know she was anything other than entirely well? Was this just his way of displaying the depth of his knowledge of the Met in general and Acting Detective Inspector Vogel in particular, or was it a veiled threat? Only one thing was certain, thought Vogel: it was not a simple enquiry after the welfare of his family. Nonetheless he responded as if he had taken it that way.

‘They are both quite well, thank you, Mr Kwan,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice level.

‘To what do I owe this great pleasure?’ enquired Kwan softly.

‘I understand you know Greg Walker,’ responded Vogel, making a huge effort to put all other considerations out of his mind.

Kwan nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I believe you are heading the inquiry into the recent murder of two women in this area, both of whom have a connection with Mr Walker, I understand.’

‘Indeed,’ said Vogel again.

Then he waited, aware that Kwan was taking control of their meeting. Vogel didn’t mind. All he wanted was to find out what Kwan knew. And he sensed that the Triad boss had every intention of telling him.

Kwan cut right to the chase.

‘You did not come here this evening to enquire whether I or my people had any involvement in this?’

‘Of course not,’ lied Vogel.

‘Of course not,’ repeated Kwan. ‘We do not cut up old women and remove their reproductive organs.’

Vogel didn’t speak. The gruesome details of Marlena’s killing had not been released to the media. Miraculously, they hadn’t even been leaked on the net. If anyone else had divulged such knowledge, it would have aroused his suspicions. In Tony Kwan’s case, however, it was only to be expected. Both Marlena and Michelle had died within Kwan’s domain. The Triad leader was protective of his territory. He kept himself informed of any villains unconnected with him who were bold enough to operate on his patch. He would want to know who was behind such brutality, and why. Or that’s what Vogel was banking on.

Vogel waited for Kwan to continue. The Triad took his time.

‘My people have been making enquiries, on my instructions,’ said Kwan eventually. ‘We have our contacts, people you may not necessarily have dealings with, Mr Vogel...’

Kwan stroked his sleek black hair with the manicured fingers of one hand. Vogel thought he might be wearing clear nail varnish. His face revealed nothing. Vogel tried to appear equally inscrutable. He suspected he did not do it terribly well.

‘We also, Mr Vogel, have our own methods. Methods that are neither appropriate nor available to the Metropolitan Police.’

Kwan stretched his lips back from his teeth. Vogel assumed the man was trying to smile. He made his own attempt in response, but his mouth was so dry he feared he was unsuccessful.

Kwan turned and walked back to his desk. Suddenly he raised a clenched fist and smashed it down on the glass with such force that Vogel flinched, fearing the glass might break. It didn’t.

Kwan raised his fist again and held it up towards Vogel almost in a fascist-style salute. The part of his hand that had struck the desk was already beginning to swell. Still Kwan gave no sign of discomfort, but his face contorted in anger.

‘I have learned nothing! My people have found nothing!’ he shouted. ‘I know no more than the police. Nothing!’

Kwan spat out the word ‘police’, loading it with contempt. Vogel winced.

Then as abruptly as he had flown into a rage, Kwan sat down. Vogel could see the man was making a supreme effort to compose himself. He swallowed nervously, hoping that his anxiety didn’t show.

Kwan held out both his hands, palms upwards, as if in resignation.

‘I know nothing, Mr Vogel,’ he repeated, but this time in his usual quiet and courteous voice. ‘I have heard nothing. Neither have my people. It seems we may have a madman on the loose. You and I are on the same side here, Mr Vogel, I assure you. I am in business. I understand business, and the unpleasant necessities it sometimes brings. But this is something different. Something is happening under my nose, yet I cannot see it. Do you appreciate what I am saying?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Kwan, I most certainly do,’ said Vogel.

Tony Kwan saw these crimes as a violation of his domain. Moreover, people feared him in part because they thought him omnipotent, that nothing escaped his attention. Yet his efforts to identify the person responsible had been no more successful than Vogel’s. This was an intolerable personal affront.

Vogel, too, was a proud man. He had no illusions about his own omnipotence, but his failure to identify the killer had delivered a severe blow to his pride and he felt it keenly.

‘I am not happy, Mr Vogel, I am not happy at all,’ said Kwan.

‘And neither, Mr Kwan,’ replied Vogel, ‘am I.’