Wheel of Fire

Eighteen

Vogel called Det. Supt Clarke just as Saslow turned off the M4 onto the slip road leading towards Hounslow and Brentford. He checked his watch. The time was 10.40 a.m. The traffic had been heavy around Heathrow, heading into central London, as Vogel had expected, it nearly always was nowadays, even past what would normally be regarded as the rush hour.

‘I reckon we’re about twenty minutes away,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at the scene,’ replied Nobby Clarke. ‘Come to the Brewery Tap, in Catherine Wheel Road. It’s right by the canal. The postcode is TW8 8BD. Your satnav should take you straight there. You’ll want to meet the landlord. I’ll get him to open up for us. Seems almost certain he saw George Grey very shortly before he died. May well be the last person to have done so, apart from his murderer — assuming he was murdered, of course.’

Vogel sat up straight in the car seat.

‘Well, that sounds interesting,’ he said.

‘Indeed. And it appears that Grey wasn’t alone either. Look, I’ll tell you when I see you.’

By the time Vogel and Saslow arrived at the Brewery Tap, Nobby Clarke, accompanied by a young black man Vogel did not recognise, was already at a table by the window.

She waved to Vogel and Saslow who made their way to join her. Nobby greeted Saslow warmly. Vogel was glad that there was clearly such mutual liking and respect between the two women. Saslow could only be helped by the support and friendship of a senior officer like Clarke. Vogel was well aware that the events of the previous year, which had had such a profound effect on both he and Saslow, had made the young DC wonder if she would, or even could, remain on the force. He was extremely glad that she had decided to stay on, and now seemed so determined to overcome any disquiet she might still be experiencing.

‘Nice to see you again, DC Saslow,’ said the detective superintendent at once. She didn’t mention that case. But then she wouldn’t. Vogel knew that Nobby Clarke’s philosophy of policing was very simple. The only way to effectively proceed was to move on after every setback. And then move on again.

She greeted Vogel with casual affection, introduced the two officers to DC Lloyd Springer, then turned to Saslow again.

‘What are you drinking?’ she asked. Adding with a grimace and gesturing towards two cups on the table: ‘We’re on the coffee.’

Vogel smiled. Nobby Clarke liked a drink. Malt whisky for preference. But eleven a.m. in the morning was just a tad too early, even for her, it seemed.

He and Saslow also both asked for coffee. Clarke led them to the bar, ordered, then introduced them to the landlord, Peter Forest.

‘Peter, I’m sorry to ask you this,’ she said. ‘But do you think you could go over again with DI Vogel here what you told my DC last night. We believe the deceased man found in the canal was one George Grey, whom Mr Vogel was seeking in connection with a very serious case of arson in the west of England. I think you know that?’

Peter Forest nodded his assent. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘No problem. I’m happy to help. Shall we sit down?’

He gestured to the table where DC Springer remained sitting, then led the way over.

Vogel opened the proceedings. ‘So, I understand Mr Forest, that you think you may have seen the deceased on the day that he died. Indeed, quite possibly very shortly before he died. Is that so?’

‘Yes, I’m pretty sure I did. I’ve seen a photograph of him, and if it wasn’t him it was his double. He came in here about eight o’clock, or thereabouts, the night before last. The football had just started, you see...’

‘Mr Forest, this is a busy pub. What makes you so sure? Was there something that made you particularly notice the man you believe to have been George Grey?’

‘Yes, when he came in I thought he might be already drunk. Or on drugs. I’m careful about that sort of thing. So, I watched him, studied his face. Then I realised it probably wasn’t drink or drugs. Not recreational, anyway. He was ashen. He walked with a limp. He looked ill. I wondered what he was doing out visiting a pub, but that was none of my business. As long as he didn’t die on the premises of course—’

Peter Forest stopped himself abruptly. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean...’

‘That’s quite all right, Mr Forest, I know what you meant. What else can you tell me? How long did George Grey stay? What was he drinking, that sort of thing?’

‘He stayed about an hour I think, maybe more. He was drinking whisky, large ones. But the chap he was with was doing all the buying. George Grey just sat there, same table we’re at now...’

‘Ah yes, the chap he was with?’ queried Vogel, glancing sideways at Clarke.

‘Don’t worry we’re on it,’ said the superintendent quietly. ‘I’ll fill you in later.’

‘So, will you tell me about this other man?’ continued Vogel, looking back at Peter Forest.

‘Yeah, I didn’t take so much notice of him to tell the truth,’ said the landlord. ‘I remember he was bearded and wearing a baseball cap, so I couldn’t see his hair, or his face properly really. Anyway, I was more interested in your George Grey. Didn’t like the look of him at all. Although the other man did seem to be taking care of him. Seemed quite solicitous, and like I said, did all the drink buying. Except the first one. Grey ordered that himself when he came in.’

‘So, you did speak to him?’

‘Barely,’ said Forest. ‘All he said was, large whisky, please. Then he went and sat down over here. So he wasn’t any trouble. I did ask the other man if he was all right. Said I was a bit concerned.’

Forest didn’t look as if he was going to say anything more.

‘What was the reply to that?’ Vogel prompted.

‘Oh, he said your George Grey had just been to the dentist and was a bit wobbly, that he’d be all right after a few drinks.’

‘Didn’t you think that was a bit strange, Mr Forest?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Mr Forest,’ Vogel continued. ‘If someone is a bit wobbly after a visit to the dentist they don’t normally go to a pub and down large whiskies, do they?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, you get all sorts in here.’

‘How many whiskies do you think he had?’

‘At least three. Maybe four.’

‘In an hour or so?’ queried Vogel. ‘Enough to make most people woozy, don’t you think, even someone who didn’t already look ill and unsteady on their feet.’

‘Yes,’ Forest agreed a little reluctantly, ‘I suppose so.’

‘Do you know what time he left the pub?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. Sometime after nine, I would think. But I had to change a barrel, and the connector was playing up. Then my brother phoned me, I was out of the bar for about fifteen minutes or so.’

‘And I take it you didn’t recognise either of the men when they came in to the pub.’

‘Well no, I didn’t. I mean, they certainly weren’t regulars. And they certainly hadn’t been in recently. But, there was this niggle, I did have the feeling I had seen them before. I just couldn’t place them, that’s all. I do have a pretty good memory for faces. Helps in my line of work. Particularly if you have to ban someone.’

Forest grinned. Vogel smiled politely back. Although he was really not interested in amusing asides. He took the conversation straight back to the point.

‘If you had seen them before, do you think it was here, in this pub?’

‘More than likely. I don’t get out much.’

He grinned again. This time Vogel didn’t bother to smile back.

‘Would you say most of your trade is local, Mr Forest?’ he asked. ‘The pub is tucked away a bit.’

‘About fifty-fifty probably. But there’s quite a big rental market in Brentford, in the Dock, in the new developments in the high street and along towards Kew Bridge, and up by Brentford Lock. People come and go hereabouts. Just as you’ve got to know someone, they’re moving on.’

Vogel glanced at Saslow and Clarke. ‘Either of you anything else to ask?’ he enquired.

The two women both said they hadn’t.

Vogel glanced towards Lloyd Springer.

‘Just one thing, did you or anyone else hear what the two men were talking about?’ asked the young DC.

‘They were talking quietly. Most of the time. But your George Grey, he seemed to be asking for something. Asking where something was. I think I heard him say “why haven’t you brought it?” He raised his voice, seemed angry.’

Vogel thanked Peter Forest, and the landlord returned to the bar.

‘So, what about the second man?’ asked Vogel as soon as he’d gone, addressing Clarke. ‘You said you were on it.’

‘Well, yes. We’ve been making door-to-door inquiries. Just to the left of Thames Lock, as you walk toward the Dock, there’s a basin with several residential moorings. Thames Wharf. Houseboats, couple of narrowboats. Seems there’s a barge there which was bought about eighteen months or so ago by a man who could match Forest’s description of George Grey’s companion on the night of his death. Tall, bearded, and bald, but usually seen wearing a baseball cap. We got this from the chap who looks after the wharf. And that’s about it. Not even a guess at age. He said all bald men look the same age.’

Clarke chuckled. ‘He might be right, too,’ she said.

‘What about a name?’ asked Saslow.

Clarke nodded. ‘Yep. Called himself Richard Jones. Not quite as bad as John Smith, but getting there. Anyway, it seems he paid cash for the barge and for two years’ mooring fees in advance. Surprisingly enough, nobody asked too many questions, and all our efforts so far to trace this Richard Jones have come to a dead end.’

‘So, he could well be using a false name and that really does make him suspicious,’ commented Springer.

‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel. ‘We need to find him, that’s for sure. Do I assume there’s been no sign of him around here over the past couple of days since Grey was last seen in the pub?’

‘Absolutely not. In fact, it seems he’s only very rarely been seen since he bought the boat. Nobody got the chance to get to know him or anything about him. Also not surprising. We’ve put out a national alert for him. But there’s not a lot to go on, unfortunately.’

‘No, I don’t suppose there is,’ said Vogel thoughtfully, as he finished his coffee. ‘Wouldn’t mind a look around, before the inquest. Crime scene first perhaps?’

‘I was going to suggest that,’ said Clarke. ‘Let’s get over there shall we.’

Vogel stood up and headed for the door, Saslow at his heels and Nobby Clarke just a step or two behind. Vogel thought he saw her casting a wistful look at the optics behind the bar which seemed to include an extensive range of malts, but he couldn’t be sure.

Clarke then led the way to Thames Lock, which was, of course, still cordoned off, pointing out en route Town Wharf, and the bridge which health and safety didn’t seem to have discovered yet.

‘I see what everyone means about this place,’ muttered Vogel.

Pat Fitzwarren was long gone, along with the corpse. CSI were still at work and a pair of uniforms were protecting the crime scene. There were no barriers on either side of the murkily deep Thames Lock, which, thought the DI, was an accident waiting to happen. Or alternatively, an eerily likely location for a murder.

‘If it wasn’t for George Grey’s recent history, and the fact that we suspect him of arson leading to the death of two people, you’d easily believe he fell in here, wouldn’t you?’ Vogel mused. ‘Certainly, after four large whiskies and the state he was already in. It would have been dark too, and I wouldn’t think the lighting around here would be all that.’

‘Indeed, but this is a possible double murderer, who was with a mysterious companion who seems to have already disappeared on us,’ commented Clarke. ‘We also don’t know why he turned right toward the lock when he left the Brewery Tap, instead of left towards Brentford High Street. The hotels, the station, buses, taxis — all those things are in the other direction. This footpath leads only to the Dock housing estate. Even the entrance to Town Wharf is in the other direction.’

‘So, if his bearded drinking mate was the equally mysterious boat owner, do we assume he wasn’t going back with him, then?’ asked Saslow.

‘Who knows, he could have been so disorientated he didn’t have a clue where he was going,’ said Clarke.

‘Or, perhaps he knew someone who lived in the Dock,’ offered Saslow. ‘Someone who might put him up for the night. Perhaps that’s where he was heading, and he did just fall in the lock. It has to still be a possibility.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel with a certain reluctance. ‘But what about the bearded drinking companion? If he was with him, why didn’t he raise the alarm when George fell? Unless, of course, he pushed him in, which is the theory we all favour, I think. The truth is, though, we don’t even know whether or not the two men left the pub together?’

DS Clarke nodded. ‘No, we don’t. But it would have been so easy; not taken much of a push, from what we hear of George’s condition.’

‘Surely he’d have cried out, screamed or something,’ commented Saslow. ‘Wouldn’t someone have heard something?’

Vogel looked around him. Although more or less surrounded by buildings of one sort or another, Thames Lock was peculiarly isolated. Some of the Dock flats overlooked the canal, but Vogel thought the residents would have had to be either looking out of their windows or standing on their balconies, on a cold wet October evening, in order to have a chance of noticing anything. Even then, in the dark, and with aircraft passing overhead intermittently, it was, he considered, probably unlikely. And the lock in which George Grey’s body had been found was the one furthest away from the flats.

‘You know, I reckon only someone actually walking by would have seen or heard anything,’ he replied, after a moment’s reflection.

He stared into the lock. Deep water. Tall sides. There was just one vertical ladder which would be difficult for anyone to reach and climb in the dark, even if they had been in good condition physically and mentally when they had entered the water, which George Grey reportedly had not.

‘Whether he fell or was pushed he wouldn’t have had much chance of getting out of there, even if he hadn’t been half off his head with booze and medication,’ Vogel commented.

It was starting to rain yet again. Nasty weather in London as well as Somerset. Clarke shivered as she muttered her agreement.

Vogel leaned forward and took a last lingering look into the lock; deep, black and oily.

‘What a truly horrible way to die,’ he murmured, half to himself.