Friends to Die For

Twenty-three

Two hours later, just as he was considering having another crack at George, Vogel heard that Karen Walker had been killed.

The first report was that she’d thrown herself in front of a train at Leicester Square tube station and had died instantly.

PC Jessica Harding in Command and Dispatch phoned Vogel with the news as soon as the response team first on the scene called in their report. Karen’s body had been identified by the contents of the wallet removed from her handbag. The body itself, Harding told Vogel, was in a condition which would have made any other immediate identification almost impossible.

Vogel was stunned. He did not believe for one moment that Karen had committed suicide. His immediate reaction was that she too had been murdered, presumably by the same individual who killed Marlena and Michelle Monahan.

‘When did this happen?’ he asked PC Harding. ‘Presumably as Karen Walker went under a train, we have a precise time of death?’

‘Yes, guv,’ answered Jessica Harding. ‘Transport police have logged the incident at 10.25 a.m. this morning.’

Vogel leaned over his desk and buried his face in his hands. Had he really got everything so wrong? He and Parlow had arrested George Kristos at 9 a.m., and he was still in custody. Kristos could not possibly have pushed Karen Walker under a train at 10.25 a.m. For the second time a suspect would have to be released because he was in police custody when a murder occurred. The investigation seemed to be going round in circles.

Vogel reconsidered the possibility of suicide. Karen Walker had been extremely distressed by recent events, not least by her own and her husband’s arrest the previous day on suspicion of murder. Even so, she’d seemed so devoted to her children that he could not imagine her leaving them motherless. And in spite of the anger she was feeling towards her husband after discovering that he’d had dealings with Tony Kwan, Greg and Karen had previously enjoyed a good and solid marriage.

No. The detective still did not believe that Karen Walker had committed suicide.

As Vogel saw it, he’d failed once more. The killer had claimed a third victim. And that victim was female, like the previous two — or four, if you counted the 1998 murders. The removal of the reproductive organs certainly indicated that gender was a factor. Should he have arranged for Karen Walker to stay at a safe house instead of returning home?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Nobby Clarke. She told him to get himself to the scene, leaving her to handle the deployment of the rest of her MIT. Vogel ordered Parlow to commandeer a CID car, for the second time that morning, in order to rush them both to Leicester Square.

In the car he steeled himself for the task ahead. He had once before attended the scene of a train death, and the sight which had presented itself, that time on an over-ground line, remained with him still.

As Vogel had expected, Karen Walker’s body was in a horrific state. Both legs had been removed from her body when the train hit her. Worse still, she had been decapitated.

Her body had already been tented off by the time Vogel arrived at Leicester Square station, and the platform closed. It seemed that the British Transport Police were accustomed to such events and handled them with an efficiency born of tragic familiarity. Three BTP officers were on sentry duty stoically preserving the scene. The Home Office pathologist was not yet there, but the SOCOs, who had apparently arrived just before Vogel, were already beginning to go about their business.

The first thing Vogel saw inside the tented area was Karen Walker’s head, distorted and discoloured, like a watermelon on a bloodied stem. It lay several feet from the torso to which it had once been attached. And its bulging eyes seemed to be staring at Vogel.

The detective felt his stomach lurch. His head began to spin and he felt sure that this time he would pass out and fall over onto the railway, or maybe onto a bit of the body. The more he tried to fight the disorientating giddiness rising within him, the more consuming it became.

He decided he had no choice but to beat a fast retreat. He backed quickly out of the tent and hoisted himself up onto the platform, trying to breathe deeply and evenly. It was probably half a minute or so before his head stopped spinning, and only then did he become aware of Parlow standing alongside him. The detective constable had obviously taken the opportunity to emulate his superior officer’s exit. His skin was a sickly shade of green, and Vogel noticed that he was wiping his mouth with a paper tissue. He glanced down at the grey concrete. Parlow had been sick.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the DC.

‘Not to worry,’ Vogel told the embarrassed officer. ‘Could have been much worse. I knew a rookie PC once who, first time on a murder, threw up right over the corpse. SOCOs weren’t at all pleased.’

‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Parlow.

Vogel smiled. ‘Right, let’s go back in and get this over with,’ he said, just as Dr Fitzwarren arrived.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. Everything under control?’ she asked, glancing pointedly at the mess on the ground by Parlow’s feet.

Vogel waited ’til she was out of earshot then told Parlow to take no notice.

And it was with some satisfaction that, as they returned to the tented area, this time following the pathologist, he became aware that even her detachment and iron control seemed to falter when she took in the scattered parts of Karen Walker’s body spread across the track.

‘First impressions?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vogel,’ she replied.

‘Things are not always as they seem,’ said Vogel.

‘How very cryptic,’ responded Patricia Fitzwarren. ‘Have you ever considered compiling crosswords for a living?’

‘Yes,’ said Vogel.

He didn’t know why they were indulging in banter in the face of such horror. But perhaps it was because of it. This kind of behaviour was a common reaction among police officers, doctors, and indeed the staff of all emergency services.

‘I bet you have, too,’ responded the pathologist. ‘Look, we don’t need to ponder too much on the cause of death, do we? It’s more a question of did she jump or was she pushed — and looking at the state of the poor woman I doubt we’ll be able to throw much light on that. But I’ll do what I can here, then we’ll complete the post-mortem back at the morgue. D’you want to come?’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ responded Vogel, who found post-mortem examinations even more disturbing than crime scenes and preferred to avoid attending. ‘I’ll wait to hear.’

He left then, Parlow at his heels, wondering why he’d rushed to Leicester Square tube station in the first place. He wasn’t sure he had learned anything, and he’d certainly been of no assistance at all.

There was another even more unpleasant task to be performed for which he had absolutely no appetite. The one every copper dreads. The death call.

‘Right, Parlow, we’d better go see Greg Walker,’ he said. ‘Break the news.’

Unless he already knows, Vogel pondered to himself but did not add. For he could not yet rule out the possibility that Greg Walker had been the one who’d killed her.

Greg was in no danger of finding out anything. After his wife had left he’d gone back to his makeshift bed on the sofa and laid there, enveloped in misery. He supposed it was his own fault that she’d walked out on him and left him in this state. He should have entrusted Karen with the truth about his past when they’d first met. But he hadn’t been able to. And as the years had passed it had become more and more impossible to do so. He’d told her he’d messed about with gangs and been involved in the odd punch-up down the market, and that his pal Wiz had died following an accidental fall. The reality had been far worse. The punch-ups down the market had been knife fights. Wiz, another young Triad recruit, had been shot by a couple of Kwan’s henchmen after being caught out in some act of betrayal or disloyalty. Greg had never been told the details. But because it was known that he was Wiz’s friend, he had been ordered to help dispose of the body. Kwan’s heavies had stood over him giving orders as he dismembered Wiz’s corpse and placed the body parts in bin bags. He’d then delivered the remains to an East End pet-food factory run by Kwan’s uncle. As Kwan intended, the horrific experience had proved a most effective warning, one Greg had never forgotten. His participation had given Kwan a hold on him, and made him terrified of the consequences if he ever tried to break free.

Karen’s anger and frustration when she learned of Greg’s association with Kwan had been understandable. But she had no idea what Kwan was capable of, so it was incomprehensible to her that Greg couldn’t just turn his back on the man. The miracle in Greg’s life was that he’d been allowed to move on as much as he had. Yet the shadow of the Triads had never really gone away, and it never would. How could he explain that to Karen without telling her everything, forcing her to share with him the dreadful burden of what he had done?

Unable to face going to work or even getting up off the sofa, Greg had stared up at the ceiling trying to figure out a way to salvage his marriage. His phone rang twice shortly after Karen’s departure. He checked the display panel just in case it was her who was calling. Or, heaven forbid, Tony Kwan. But the first call turned out to be from his dodgy whisky supplier and the second from Bob. He had no wish to speak to either of them, particularly Bob, so he ignored both calls. He supposed later that he had heard the whine of police sirens and the noise of ambulances arriving at the tube station a couple of streets away, but such sounds were a normal part of city life. He paid them no heed. After an hour or two of torturing himself about both his past and his now uncertain future, the sleep Greg had denied himself in the night finally overcame him and he drifted into blissful nothingness.

He was woken by the entryphone. With a start, he sat bolt upright on the sofa. Maybe Karen had come back. She had her own keys, but she could have forgotten them. Especially given the state she’d been in. He hurried to the phone and spoke into it hopefully.

He was disappointed to hear Vogel’s voice.

‘We need to come up and see you, please, Mr Walker. I’m afraid there is something we have to speak to you about.’

Greg felt no particular sense of foreboding. He was merely irritated. He assumed the detective had more questions, and that was the last thing he needed right now.

But he opened the door to find Vogel grim-faced. And an equally grim-faced CID man accompanying him.

‘I think you’d better go and sit down, Mr Walker,’ said Vogel.

Greg led the two policemen into the living room and perched himself on an upright chair at the table by the window. It was obvious that Vogel had something important to say, but the policeman seemed to be having difficulty finding the words. Alarm bells were now ringing loud and clear in Greg’s head. This was serious, he thought, very serious. Yet it did not occur to him that this latest police visit concerned his wife until Vogel spoke again.

‘I am afraid I have some bad news, Mr Walker,’ said Vogel.

It was like being struck by a bolt of lightning. Suddenly Greg knew. Beyond any doubt, he knew.

‘Karen,’ he said. ‘Karen. She’s dead.’

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t need to ask a question. It was a statement.

Vogel nodded. ‘I am afraid she is, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘And I am so sorry to be bringing you this—’

‘How?’ Greg interrupted, his voice unnaturally high. ‘Was she murdered? If she was, I’m going to get the bastard. You lot can’t do it, that’s bloody obvious. But I will. I’ll get the bastard.’

‘Mr Walker, we do not know yet whether your wife was murdered, not for sure anyway.’

‘What happened? Just tell me, will you. Tell me exactly what happened to my Karen.’

Vogel did so. He explained that while the cause of death seemed clear, it was not known exactly how Karen came to fall under the wheels of a train, that inquiries were ongoing, CCTV footage was being checked, and so on.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know how she came to fall? She must have been bloody pushed. I mean, after what happened to Marlena and Michelle it’s obvious she’s been murdered. It’s not fucking rocket science, is it?’

‘Clearly we are investigating that possibility,’ said Vogel.

Greg stared hard at him. He sensed that the policeman believed Karen had been murdered. All this business about keeping an open mind was just Vogel playing it by the book.

‘We can’t rule out at this stage that Mrs Walker’s fall was accidental. And then again, it could have been...’ Vogel paused to take a very deep breath. ‘It has to be possible, I’m afraid, Mr Walker, that your wife may have taken her own life.’

‘What? My Karen? Top herself? No fucking way, mate,’ said Greg.

Vogel glanced pointedly at the sofa. There was a pillow at one end and a crumpled blanket tossed carelessly across the middle. It was obvious someone had been sleeping there.

‘May I ask if you and your wife had a recent disagreement, Mr Walker?’ Vogel asked.

‘Oh my God,’ said Greg. ‘You seriously think my Karen went and topped herself because we had some bloody silly row? Is that what you’re saying? That’s rubbish. Rubbish, do you hear?’

Vogel seemed to take pity on him. Certainly his reply was uncharacteristic in that it revealed more information about his own attitude than might have been prudent at that stage.

‘Actually, that isn’t what I think, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘I believe, in all probability, and given the circumstances involving other recent incidents with which you and your wife have connections, that Mrs Walker was murdered. But our inquiries are still proceeding, and I must say again that we do have to investigate all possibilities.’

Greg simply nodded. He felt drained. For the moment, it didn’t matter how Karen had died. All that mattered was that she was dead.

‘And I am afraid I need to ask where you were this morning, at 10.25 a.m., when your wife died?’

Greg wanted to scream at Vogel. No one in their right mind would believe he was capable of killing his own wife, the only woman he’d ever loved. But he couldn’t summon up the energy. He had no fight left in him.

‘I was here, just lying on the sofa most of the time,’ he said.

‘On your own, sir?’

‘Yes, on my own.’ Greg spoke wearily rather than in anger. He had gone beyond anger.

Vogel glanced again at the sofa, with its pillow and blanket.

‘Were you sleeping?’

Greg shrugged. ‘Some of the time. Not at first. But I hadn’t slept for most of the night, so yes, I did drop off eventually. I was asleep when you—’

Greg stopped speaking abruptly. He supposed he might be arrested again now. On suspicion of his wife’s murder. He stared apprehensively at Vogel, waiting for the detective to speak again. To issue a caution, perhaps.

Instead Vogel asked, ‘Do you have anyone you could contact, someone who could be with you, Mr Walker? You’ve had a terrible shock, you shouldn’t be on your own.’

Greg shook his head. He supposed he was relieved that he wasn’t going to be arrested. But he didn’t care what happened to him. Not now.

Vogel continued, ‘I could arrange for someone—’

‘No,’ Greg cut him off. ‘I don’t want anyone with me. Not family, not friends, and certainly not a copper.’

‘As you wish, sir, but—’ Vogel began.

‘I want to see her,’ Greg said suddenly. ‘Will you take me to see her?’

‘Mr Walker, your wife was hit by a train. Her injuries are... They are extensive...’

‘Look, doesn’t she have to be formally identified? Isn’t that what happens?’

‘Yes, but not necessarily by you, Mr Walker. You may prefer to remember her as she was.’

‘No,’ Greg insisted. ‘She’s my wife. I should be the one to identify her. And I want to see her. You can’t stop me.’ He looked at Vogel questioningly. ‘You can’t, can you?’

Vogel shook his head. ‘I can’t stop you, Mr Walker,’ he said gently. ‘Nor would I wish to, if that is what you want. But I must warn you that you may find it upsetting. Upsetting in the extreme.’

Greg drew himself up, visibly steeling himself for whatever lay in store.

‘I have to say goodbye to my Karen,’ he said. ‘I have to. For her. For me. And for our kids.’

Back at Charing Cross police station minor pandemonium awaited Vogel in the shape of a rampant Christopher Margolia. Nobby Clarke had instructed the front office staff to make him wait for Vogel’s return, and the lawyer wasn’t best pleased. Neither was Vogel. His workload seemed to be growing with every passing minute, and he needed to focus all his powers of concentration on the three violent deaths he was dealing with, not waste his precious time fending off angry lawyers.

Somehow Margolia had learned of Karen Walker’s death, and he seemed to think this meant George Kristos should be released at once. Vogel sighed to himself as the lawyer pontificated as if he were grandstanding in front of a crowded courtroom instead of one unimpressed detective. Kristos had been very much Vogel’s own personal prime suspect, so he supposed it was fair enough that Nobby Clarke had delegated this tiresome business to him. All the same, he could have done without it.

‘You had no cause whatsoever to re-arrest my client in the first place,’ stormed Margolia. ‘How Mr Kristos cares to conduct his personal life is not a police matter. And now it emerges that while he was detained in police custody another murder was committed. In light of the fact that Karen Walker was the only surviving female member of Sunday Club, there is every reason to suppose her death was the work of the same person who killed Michelle Monahan and Marleen McTavish. Is that not so, Acting Detective Inspector Vogel?’ Margolia put emphasis on the word ‘acting’. ‘Or are you one of those police officers who ignores the overwhelming evidence against him and tries to pass it off as a coincidence?’

Vogel did not reply to that. He wasn’t one of those police officers. Nor was he one of those officers who was led by hunches rather than hard facts. But he had been so sure that Kristos was guilty. He’d honestly believed it would be only a matter of time before some genuine incriminatory evidence was revealed. Unfortunately, it appeared he was running out of time.

‘Mr Margolia, we are still investigating your client and we wish to continue questioning him. We have thirty-six hours, as you well know, and then we can if we wish apply to a court for an extension.’

‘Well, you certainly won’t get it,’ snorted Margolia.

Vogel thought the lawyer was probably right, but he said: ‘That would be for a court to decide, and would obviously depend on how our inquiries are proceeding.’

‘I am asking for my client to be released immediately on police bail,’ insisted Margolia.

‘No, sir,’ said Vogel, quite forcibly for him. ‘I intend to keep your client in custody for as long as I am legally allowed.’

And with that he turned his back on the lawyer and marched off in the direction of the MIT room.

Much as they would have preferred to devote their energies to building a case against Kristos, Clarke and Vogel knew they had no option but to pursue other avenues of inquiry. They immediately set about assigning teams of officers to question the rest of the friends as to their whereabouts at the time of Karen Walker’s death.

Bob had returned to work, trying to carry on as normal. A pair of MIT detectives tracked him down to a boutique hotel off Covent Garden’s Broad Court, where he was attending to the small garden and window boxes. He seemed stunned by the news of Karen’s death. But he was once more able to satisfactorily account for his movements. He had arrived at the hotel just before nine and had remained there ever since. There were a number of witnesses who could vouch for this. He was not re-arrested.

A second team found Ari, near comatose on cocaine, at his home. It proved impossible to ascertain his movements earlier in the day. They therefore arrested him on two accounts, the second as instructed by Vogel before they paid their visit. Suspicion of murder and possession of class-A drugs.

‘If he’s got any coke on him, then let’s do him for it,’ Vogel had said. ‘Sticking a drug charge on him will allow us to keep him in custody, whether his lawyer likes it or not.’

Alfonso had not returned to his job at the Vine, having been told by the management to stay away until the matter was cleared up. In any case, he would have been in no fit state to walk let alone wait on tables. Previously only a moderate drinker, he was now hell-bent on drinking his way to oblivion. He was found in an alcoholic stupor at his mother’s home in Dagenham. His mother affirmed sadly that he had been drunk all day, and had not left his bedroom except for calls of nature. She had taken him breakfast and then sandwiches at lunchtime, but he was not interested in food, she’d said. Just alcohol.

Alfonso was not rearrested.

Billy, who had been suspended by Geering Brothers until, or unless, he was formally cleared, and Tiny, who was so distressed he couldn’t even think about work, and in any case whose duties were almost exclusively nocturnal, were both at home when two detectives arrived. They claimed to have been at home at the time Karen Walker died, and indeed to have been at home together all day. But their only alibi was each other.

They were re-arrested. And along with Ari they were detained at Charing Cross overnight.

Around noon on the day after Karen Walker’s death Greg was finally escorted to the morgue at University College Hospital to see his wife’s remains and to formally identify her body. DC Parlow, as a recently qualified family liaison officer, had been assigned to support and monitor the bereaved man.

Greg couldn’t get over the fact that his last words to her had been ‘fuck off. He hadn’t told the police that. They were already investigating the possibility that Karen had topped herself. But Greg knew better. He hated himself, though, almost as much as he hated the man he believed had murdered his Karen.

The previous evening, Greg had visited his children, who were still staying with Karen’s mother. He’d come away feeling, if possible, even worse than before, having been unable to answer their questions or to provide any comfort. He couldn’t begin to think about how his little family was going to face a future without Karen. He couldn’t think about anything but the fact she was dead and the person responsible was still living.

The staff in the morgue had made Karen Walker look as presentable as possible, her amputated limbs and decapitated head had been arranged in such a way that the body appeared intact underneath the white sheet. The orderly who pulled the sheet back so that Greg could see his wife’s face was careful to reveal nothing below chin level.

Greg knew though. He had guessed from Vogel’s reaction, and the way the detective and his team had tried to persuade him not to see his wife’s body, that she had been decapitated. It had seemed obvious somehow.

The head, in spite of the attentions of the morgue staff, was in any case shocking to look at. Discoloured and distorted. But it was his Karen lying there so horribly mutilated. Greg didn’t flinch. He leaned forward and kissed her poor bloated forehead. Then he left, declining all offers of assistance from DC Parlow, and refusing to allow the officer to accompany him further. But it wasn’t grief that was consuming Greg now, it was anger.

After breaking the news to his children and Karen’s mother he had returned to the home they’d once shared and spent a long sleepless night formulating a plan to deal with the man he held responsible Karen’s death. The prospect of taking revenge was the only thing keeping him going.

The police might think that Karen had been killed by the same individual who murdered Michelle and Marlena, but he knew better. He’d said all along those acts of vandalism directed at him and his family had nothing to do with the attacks on the other Sunday Club members, but no one would listen to him. They were all too scared of Tony Kwan. The police had wasted no time hauling Greg and his friends to Charing Cross nick, throwing them in cells and questioning them for hours on end, but you could bet they wouldn’t try that with Kwan. It would be like every other police investigation into his activities: the case would be dropped due to lack of evidence. Well, Greg didn’t need bloody evidence. He knew it was Kwan. The bastard had picked up that voicemail Karen made him leave, refusing to work for him. The message which said he was sure Kwan would understand, being a family man. Kwan had understood, all right. Knowing how much Greg’s family meant to him, he’d targeted Karen. No beating, no torture his heavies could have inflicted on Greg would have been worse than losing the woman he loved.

But Kwan had made a fatal mistake. Because Greg was now quite mad with grief.

Greg took a cab from Agar Street to his Waterloo lock-up. He went straight to the workbench at the rear of the building and, using a screwdriver for leverage, began to prise a wooden peg from one section of the bench. The moment the peg was removed, Greg was able to easily push the apparently solid workbench to one side exposing the wall behind. One of the bricks was not cemented in place; Greg pulled it free, revealing a small rectangular hiding place recessed into the wall. He reached inside with one hand and lifted out an object wrapped in a soft oily fabric, which he placed carefully on the bench. Then he unpeeled several layers of protective cloth to expose a handgun which his squaddie father had taken from an Argentinian prisoner and brought home from the Falklands. It was a semi-automatic Browning 9mm Hi-Power, standard international army issue at the time. There was also a box containing magazines and cartridges.

Greg had wondered whether the police who’d searched both his workplace and his home would find his hidey hole and the illegal weapon it contained. Fortunately, they hadn’t.

He picked up the pistol and stroked it. He’d only been four or five when his father first showed him the gun, telling him he must never mention it to anyone, and that he should never touch it. Even now he could clearly remember the way his father used to take the pistol out to clean and oil it before wrapping it in the cloth and hiding it away again.

Greg had hero-worshipped his father. If it hadn’t been for Ted Walker abandoning his family, running off with his wife’s younger sister when Greg was fifteen, he would never have got involved with Kwan. Instead his dad’s departure had marked the beginning of Greg’s wild period and his involvement with the Triads, culminating in Karen’s murder.

Greg hadn’t seen his father since the day he’d walked out. He wasn’t even sure if the old man was still alive. His mother had never got over the betrayal of her husband and sister. She just seemed to pine away, her health gradually declining. Not long after Greg had married Karen, she died. Her heart had given up, the doctors said. Greg knew it hadn’t so much given up as been broken.

While clearing out the family home, Greg had found his father’s gun hidden away at the back of a cupboard. He had no idea why his father hadn’t taken it with him, or why his mother had not disposed of it. Maybe she hadn’t known how to.

For reasons he did not entirely understand, Greg had decided to keep the gun. Perhaps it reminded him of the happy times he’d shared with his dad. It brought back memories of those times whenever he took it out of its hiding place to clean and oil it, just the way his father had shown him.

He picked up the gun and peered into the barrel. It was gleaming. As far as Greg knew, the pistol hadn’t been fired since his father had brought it home. But that was about to change.

He loaded several of the cartridges into a magazine and inserted it into the handle of the pistol, just as he had seen his father do. Greg was quite confident that the gun was up to the task ahead. He only hoped he was too.

Late that afternoon George was released. Vogel had attempted to persuade Nobby Clarke that an appeal should be made to magistrates court for a further period of detention. Under the Police And Criminal Evidence Act, magistrates have the power, when it can be effectively argued that a suspect’s further stay in custody is both necessary and potentially productive, to authorize detention in police cells, without charges being brought, for up to four days. But Clarke and her superintendent at Homicide Command refused even to apply for a magistrates order, saying it would be a waste of time. They had no evidence that could convince the court there was sufficient cause to detain George Kristos a moment longer. Vogel had no choice but to concede defeat. In truth, he knew his superiors were right, but he felt he had to at least make the attempt.

George went straight home. He made no attempt to contact any of the remaining friends. Unaware that some of them would have been unable to take his call in any case because they had been re-arrested, he simply assumed they wouldn’t want to speak to him. Any more than he wanted to speak to them. Besides, the police still had his mobile phone. He did, of course, have a house phone, and it started ringing soon after he returned to his flat. He ignored it. George was in a state of shock. He felt tense and, for perhaps the first time in his adult life, threatened. He needed time to himself. Space to think things through. He was aware that he had become Vogel’s prime suspect, but he had no idea what influence this third violent death would have on the detective’s thinking. After all, there was no way anyone could accuse him of killing Karen Walker. Not when he’d been banged up in a cell at Charing Cross nick when it happened.

There had been times in the past when I felt that God had deserted me, turned his back on me in my hour of need. My faith had been tested, it had weakened, but He had never forsaken me. For the righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.

Despite my best-laid plans, I had made mistakes as I sought to fulfil my mission. Mistakes that had resulted in my being delivered unto my enemies and looked set to allow those enemies to reveal me for what I was. That man Vogel, the one poor little Michelle so revered, thought he had the measure of me. But he’d understood me not at all. He thought he was so clever, and yet he had failed to spot so much.

But neither he nor I could have foreseen the divine intervention that lay in store. For He was watching over me. After all, I am His instrument of destruction. Through my flesh His will is channelled and implemented irrevocably. And so He brought me forth, He delivered me, for He delighted in me. What other explanation could there be?

Thanks to the hand of God, I was now beyond suspicion in the eyes of Vogel and his self-important cohorts in the Murder Investigation Team. And that was how I hoped to remain.

The deed was done. I had been avenged. There would be no more pranks, no acts of vandalism afflicting the shattered and scattered remnants of the ill-fated Sunday Clubbers. There would be no more muggings, no more murders.

It was over. I am a creature apart and will stay that way. A creature it is impossible for others to grasp. I am, it seems, as elusive as ever. My very being is impenetrable. I wonder if they will ever find me now. But in any case, it doesn’t matter. I have triumphed. His power and His glory abide with me.

Not long after George’s release Vogel received the telephone call from Dr Patricia Fitzwarren which changed everything. She had begun the post-mortem examination on Karen Walker immediately after Greg Walker had left the morgue. She now had the results.

‘I’ve checked and double-checked, Vogel,’ she said. ‘It seems quite incredible in view of all that has happened, but there’s no doubt about it: Karen Walker was not pushed and neither did she jump.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ said Vogel.

‘Mrs Walker suffered a massive subarachnoid haemorrhage, caused by an aneurism in the brain,’ Pat Fitzwarren announced. ‘You know what an aneurism is, don’t you, Vogel? A bulge in an artery, a swelling. It can cause headaches but generally there are no symptoms significant enough to cause alarm, no warning signs. Indeed, an aneurism doesn’t cause any trouble worth mentioning unless it bursts. And that’s what happened in this case.’

‘So are you saying she died of natural causes?’

‘No doubt about it. Mrs Walker’s aneurism burst, resulting in a fatal brain haemorrhage, enough to kill her almost instantly even if she hadn’t been unlucky enough to collapse onto the track in the path of an oncoming train. It may not be possible to ascertain whether she was actually dead when the train hit her, but I guarantee she was as near as damn it.’

‘My God,’ said Vogel.

The implications of the pathologist’s verdict were immense. George Kristos had been released from custody not only because of a lack of hard evidence but because it was believed that there had been another murder, one for which he couldn’t have been responsible.

Vogel was still trying to assimilate what it all might mean, when Parlow came into his office.

‘What are you doing here?’ Vogel demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be on family liaison duty with Greg Walker.’

‘I know, guv. But he didn’t want me with him. Said he needed time on his own.’

‘Parlow, for God’s sake, didn’t they teach you anything on that fancy course you went on? What Greg Walker does or doesn’t want isn’t the bloody point. The job’s not just about playing nursemaid to the bereaved. It’s a watching brief. The man’s already threatened to take the law into his own hands. And now it seems his wife wasn’t murdered after all. You’d better go find him. Fast.’ Vogel sprang to his feet and hurried towards the door. ‘First though, let me get Nick Wagstaff — you’re going to need some back-up.’

‘Right, guv.’

Chastened, Parlow followed Vogel into the outer office. Not seeing Wagstaff seated at any of the desks, Vogel shouted his name. A head turned.

‘Yes, guv,’ it said.

Vogel frowned, confused. For a split second he had no idea who was addressing him. Then light dawned. It was Wagstaff. But his former grey hair was now a rather unnatural bright and evenly coloured brown.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Vogel. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

Wagstaff flushed. ‘It’s the missus, guv,’ he said. ‘Reckoned I was looking old.’

‘Right. Well before you retire to your vegetable patch, I need you to team up with Parlow. He’ll fill you in.’

Despite the enormity of unfolding events, Vogel couldn’t help smiling as he turned towards his office. It was hard to believe that a simple change in hair colour could so dramatically change Wagstaff’s appearance.

At the door, Vogel turned suddenly. ‘Wagstaff, don’t you usually wear glasses?’ he asked.

Wagstaff paused, his arms half in and half out of the coat he was pulling on. ‘The missus again, guv,’ he said. ‘Got contact lenses now. Damn things are bloody irritating to wear too, and if you ask me...’

Vogel had nothing more to ask Wagstaff. He had stopped listening.

He returned swiftly to his desk and from the top drawer removed the photograph that had been bothering him. He scanned into his computer the picture of a young woman George Kristos claimed to have found in a magazine, then opened it in Photoshop, where he began to adjust the hair colour from blonde to black, then brown. He played with the colours, darkening and lightening them. He added a touch of red, removed it, and settled, for the moment, on a kind of mousey brown. It looked right somehow. Then he changed the style of the hair, made it less contemporary, longer, with some width. He made it curly. That seemed wrong. Didn’t suit the face. He waved it, just a bit. Added a fringe. Removed it. Put it back in again.

The eyes were blue. He changed their colour too, turning them hazel, then dark brown.

Finally he added spectacles, experimenting with different kinds of frames. Wire ones, round ones, oval, black ones, red ones. Then he tried tortoiseshell.

A frisson of excitement began somewhere in Vogel’s lower abdomen and expanded slowly through his body. His mouth was dry. His fingers were trembling. He had it — or at least part of it. He knew who that woman was. And she certainly wasn’t a Polish wannabe student.

He printed his doctored version of George’s photograph, googled a name, brought up another picture, printed that too, and used the Met’s recently acquired facial recognition software to make the final comparison.

Then he hurried along the corridor to find Nobby Clarke.

The DCI was on the phone when Vogel barged through her door. Clarke looked up, unimpressed. Vogel didn’t give a damn.

‘It’s urgent, boss,’ he said.

Frowning, Clarke ended her call. Vogel slapped the three photographs onto her desk: the original photo taken from George’s wallet, the version he had just photoshopped, and, uncannily similar to the second, the third which he’d just downloaded. He tapped it with an extended forefinger.

‘Alice Turner,’ he said. ‘Remember her?’

Then he pointed to the photograph he had doctored. ‘An amended version of the picture of George Kristos’s alleged girlfriend,’ he said.

Light dawned on Nobby Clarke’s face.

‘Bloody hell!’ she said. ‘I remember Alice Turner. Who doesn’t?’

She glanced down again at the pictures before her.

‘And that photograph. It was iconic. In all the papers. My God, I can’t believe none of us saw this before. These are pictures of the same woman.’

‘Yes, and facial recognition software backs it up. The proportions and so on are identical.’

Vogel would have bet his life that Clarke would remember Alice Turner. There were images that stuck in your mind forever. The criminals evil beyond comprehension. Myra Hindley, half-pouting, staring challengingly at the camera. Fred West, plump-cheeked and boyish. And then there were the innocent victims, their lack of foreboding making their eternal pictorial presence all the more poignant. Little James Bulger, holding the hand of one of his killers. Milly Dowler doing the ironing. Beautiful Anni Dewani, murdered on honeymoon, in her Indian wedding dress. And Alice Turner. Even after twenty-three years, her face was instantly recognizable.

Vogel supposed it was the same for everyone, but he always felt these things meant more to police officers. Maybe they cared that bit more. If not, why would you join the police force? Vogel glanced down at the picture. Alice Turner’s kindly eyes seemed to gaze reproachfully back at him. But what happened to her had not been Vogel’s fault. It hadn’t been anyone’s fault, really, except the young bastard who’d attacked and maimed her.

Alice had somehow survived, but was unable to cope with her terrible injuries. Two years later she committed suicide.

Vogel had been a probationary PC when it happened, a new recruit. He guessed Clarke must be three or four years older than him, in order to have been a contemporary of Forest’s, and therefore almost certainly a serving officer at the time. The Alice Turner story had sent shockwaves through police forces nationwide. People in all walks of life had been shocked, of course, but the general public had been spared the gruesome details.

Alice Turner had been brutally attacked at her Edinburgh home. Her tongue had been hacked off and both her eyes gouged out. Her attacker had pounced in the early hours of the morning while she was asleep in bed. Without the advantage of surprise, he would have struggled to overpower her, for he had little physical strength. He was after all, just a boy. A boy ten years old.

It had been 1990, three years before poor James Bulger was abducted, tortured and murdered by two ten-year-old boys. In 1990 the police and the great British public had found it hard to believe that a ten-year-old child could be capable of such violence. The horror of it had transfixed the nation, and Alice Turner’s photograph had featured on every front page and news bulletin. The ‘before’ photograph, that was. And it was impossible to look at it without imagining what the ‘after’ must resemble.

The press were forbidden by law from revealing the identity of the child responsible. Not only could they not name him, they were prohibited from publishing any details that might lead to him being identified. This meant they could not reveal that the boy in question was Alice Turner’s foster son. But Vogel had known. It had been common knowledge throughout the police forces of the United Kingdom. Even amongst rookies like him.

‘And this picture that none of us can forget, albeit significantly altered, was in George Kristos’s wallet?’ mused Nobby Clarke. ‘Turned into the fictional Carla Karbusky. She looks a bit younger than Alice does in the un-doctored photo.’

Vogel nodded. ‘Alice was forty when she was attacked. I reckon Kristos has deliberately made her look younger and more contemporary. Turned her into someone suitable to be his girlfriend. Also someone you wouldn’t immediately recognize as Alice. But Alice all the same.’

‘Pretty damned twisted,’ muttered Clarke.

‘No doubt about that, boss,’ agreed Vogel.

‘What was the name of the boy? Something Scottish, as I remember... Rory, Rory something?’

‘Rory Burns,’ said Vogel. ‘As I recall, he’d been badly injured in a motor accident when he was very young. His mother had been killed in the crash and his father couldn’t cope, so little Rory was put into care and eventually fostered by Alice Turner and her husband. He’d been with the couple for about six years and seemed quite settled. I don’t think they ever found out what made him turn on her.’

‘“Like a rabid dog” — that was how the prosecution counsel described the boy,’ murmured Clarke. ‘It’s all coming back to me now. Edinburgh High Court, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, boss. Just like Venables and Thompson, the Bulger killers, Rory Burns was tried in an adult court because of the severity of his offence.’

‘Didn’t he say something quite chilling when he was arrested, something biblical? It came up in court and was quoted everywhere.’

Vogel looked down at a report of the trial which he’d just printed out.

‘And thine eye shall not pity, but life shall go for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,’ he recited.

‘Shit,’ said Clarke.

‘After the attack, the boy just stayed in the house waiting for Alice Turner’s husband to get home,’ Vogel continued. ‘He worked shifts, apparently, and she very nearly bled to death. Poor man found her upstairs. Burns was downstairs, covered in Alice’s blood.’

‘The boy was mentally ill, surely?’

‘It was decided that he was sane enough to have known what he was doing and to stand trial,’ said Vogel. ‘But whereas at the close of the trial of Venables and Thompson the judge ruled that their names should be released in spite of their ages, Rory Burns’ anonymity was preserved. It leaked locally, though. He spent eight years at a young offenders’ centre, and when he was released there was a public outcry in Scotland, though nothing like the furore over Venables and Thompson.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked Clarke.

‘He was released on licence and sent to some kind of halfway house in Edinburgh...’ Vogel paused. ‘That was in 1998, the year of the King’s Cross murders.’

Clarke looked thoughtful. ‘So it could have been him. He just had to get himself to London and back.’

Vogel nodded his agreement. He referred again to the printout: ‘For almost a year Burns reported to his parole officer according to the terms of his licence and appeared to behave impeccably. Then he vanished. Completely and utterly. Off the face of the earth.’

‘And he’s never been rediscovered?’

Vogel shook his head. ‘There’s a school of thought across the border that some relative or friend of Alice Turner’s caught up with Burns and knocked him off. She had a brother who’s a bit of a toughie, ex para, always said he’d get him for what he did to his sister.’

‘But you don’t think he’s dead, do you, Vogel?’

Vogel shook his head again.

DCI Clarke stared at her second-in-command.

‘You think George Kristos is Rory Burns.’

It was a statement, not a question. Vogel answered it, nonetheless.

‘Yes, I do, boss,’ he said.

‘Didn’t we check out his background?’

‘Kristos was born in Edinburgh to Greek Cypriot parents. Scottish police told us his family were believed to have returned to Cyprus some years ago. There was nothing to arouse suspicion. He went to school in Scotland and then drama college in Manchester. It all checked out. He has a passport, national insurance number, tax record, driver’s licence — everything. All in the name of Georgios Kristos. And no criminal record, obviously. He’s an Equity member as George Kristos, and is generally known as George. So he’d anglicized his name, but that didn’t seem suspicious either. Particularly not for an actor.’

‘What about his alibi for the time of Michelle Monahan’s murder? Didn’t his neighbour say she was with him?’

‘Yes, boss, but she’s an old lady and she’s not well. I think we should double-check it.’

DCI Clarke nodded. She remained silent for a few seconds. Then she clenched her fist and banged it on the desk in front of her.

‘Go get the bastard, Vogel,’ she said. ‘And this time we’re going to nail ’im.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Vogel, over one shoulder. He was already on the way to the door.

Clarke immediately called in the key members of her team.

‘I want everything there is on Rory Burns and Georgios Kristos,’ she demanded. ‘Every spit and fart. Photographs — I want every available photograph. Tell forensics I need an expert to run photos of Rory Burns through age-progression software. Get on to Scotland: we need the complete court records and the statements of everyone involved. And we need to find Kristos’s parents in Cyprus, or wherever the hell they are.’

George seemed unsurprised when Vogel and a team of officers arrived at his flat to arrest him for the third time, even though he had only recently been released from custody. It was almost as if he had been waiting for them.

He unlocked the door and stood calmly with his arms extended as he was handcuffed.

‘I was half-expecting you to turn up again,’ he told Vogel. ‘But you’re not as bright as you thought you were, are you?’

Vogel ignored that. He formally arrested George on suspicion of two counts of murder.

George’s eyes seemed to glaze over as Vogel cautioned him.

‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence,’ the detective concluded.

‘God is jealous and the Lord revengeth, the Lord revengeth, and is furious,’ said George.

‘I’m sorry, sir?’

‘The Lord will take vengeance on His adversaries, and He reserveth wrath for His enemies.’

‘I see, sir,’ said Vogel, noting that George was now speaking with a distinct Scottish accent.

He and two of the uniforms led George to the waiting squad car and bundled him in. George grabbed Vogel by the arm. His eyes bore into the policeman. Vogel had not noticed previously how cold those eyes were. Maybe they hadn’t been that way before.

‘The Lord will not acquit the wicked, the Lord hath His way in the whirlwind, and in the storm and the clouds are the dust at His feet,’ said George.