Wheel of Fire

Twenty-Three

Ultimately Freddie checked out of the Sofitel whilst Vogel and Saslow were still ploughing through the heavy late-afternoon traffic on the M4 made even worse than usual by equally heavy rainfall.

What he didn’t know, however, was that Vogel had put a contingency plan into operation as soon as he’d ended his earlier phone conversation with Freddie. There had been four murders, almost certainly, whatever could or could not be proven in a court of law. Not only did Vogel mistrust everyone who was remotely involved with this case, he mistrusted the perennially illusive Freddie Fairbrother more than most. So he’d taken no chances.

He’d asked Nobby Clarke to divert a couple of her people from Brentford, less than half an hour away from Heathrow, where they were still conducting door-to-door and other inquiries into the George Grey affair, and dispatch them to the Sofitel on a watching brief.

They had seen Freddie leave, and followed him onto the Heathrow Express. Vogel and Saslow were still a good twenty minutes away from the Sofitel when Nobby Clarke called with the news.

‘Your bird has flown his nest,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry, Vogel. We’re on his scent. Right up his arse actually.’

‘That’s good,’ said Vogel. ‘Only, don’t let your guys approach him, will you? I’d like to see where he leads us and what he gets up to without alerting him, if that’s possible.’

‘Teach your grandmother,’ said Clarke, ending the call.

Vogel was smiling as he related the exchange to Saslow, albeit without including Nobby’s last remark.

‘So what do we do now, boss?’ asked Saslow.

‘I’m not sure, Saslow,’ replied Vogel. ‘Just give me a moment, will you.’

He now had the footage on his phone of the mystery man arriving at Bella Fairbrother’s apartment block. Almost certainly her killer. And he’d been playing it repeatedly ever since leaving Chelsea.

The niggle at the back of his mind was growing more and more insistent. There really was something, something about the mystery man’s body language which was sending him a signal, a signal that this was somebody he knew, or at the very least had met. He just couldn’t quite get there. Vogel, however, was the most dogged and determined of policemen. His mild manner and equable personality gave little indication of just how stubborn and intractable he could be. He was like a Canadian Mounty, or the Canadian Mounty legend, anyway. He worked on the principle that he would always get his man. And, eventually, he nearly always did. Because no case was ever closed without a result, as far as Vogel was concerned, whatever his superiors might say.

He played the short piece of film again and again. Each time telling himself it would be for the last time. Then he played it again.

And suddenly, suddenly, he remembered what had been bugging him.

‘Oh my God, Saslow,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve got it.’

‘Got what, boss.’

‘I think I know who Bella Fairbrother’s mystery caller was. I may just have identified her killer. And, I have to tell you, Saslow, it defies belief.’

He paused. ‘I could still be wrong. I’ve finally realised what was bothering me. But it could be coincidence, or my memory might be playing tricks on me. Either way, Saslow, we have people to see and questions to ask. Nobby and her lot are all over Freddie Fairbrother. I think we can safely leave that end to them now. You and I need to get ourselves back to West Somerset, smartish.’

‘C’mon boss, put me out of my misery,’ said Saslow. ‘Where exactly are we going and why?’

‘We’re going to the home of the man we saw in that CCTV footage,’ said Vogel. ‘At least, I hope we are.’

‘But he was unidentifiable, boss. You couldn’t see anything really except a shape in a bloody great hooded raincoat. You couldn’t even see his hands because he was wearing gloves. Even the Met’s tech boys have already said there’s little or nothing they can do to make him identifiable.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. Thing is, though, from the start there was something that was bugging me about his body language, something that made me feel he was familiar to me. Did you notice what he was doing with his hands in that CCTV footage?’

‘Not really, boss. They were just loose in front of him, most of the time, from what I recall.’

‘Absolutely spot on, Saslow. But when he was speaking into the entry phone he began to repeatedly rub his hands together, palm to palm. It looked like a kind of nervous mannerism. You know, some people, when they’re under stress rub their chin, or bite their lip, or tap their fingers on something. Whatever. This character, even with gloves on, rubs his hands together. And I reckon he probably always does it. I was sure from the start that I had seen someone do that recently, exactly the same way. But I couldn’t remember who, or under what circumstances. And now, finally, it’s come to me.’

Vogel treated Saslow to a big, somewhat self-satisfied, grin.

‘Oh come on, for God’s sake, boss,’ said Saslow.

‘I think it’s Jack Kivel,’ said Vogel. ‘Kivel rubbed his hands together that way when we first went to his house and quizzed him about the fire and Sir John. Exactly that way. I’m sure of it. I think Jack Kivel killed Bella Fairbrother.’

Saslow whistled long and low. ‘Wow, boss, that’s a heck of a big assumption to make based on someone rubbing their hands together.’

‘Yes. Which is why we’re heading to the Kivel home before alerting anyone else. If Jack’s there, and can prove beyond any reasonable doubt that he’s not been out of the area all day, then he’s in the clear and I’m wrong. But, well, I can just see him in my mind’s eye, at his cottage, rubbing his hands together, perhaps a tad nervously, uncomfortable anyway. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, because clearly the loss of Blackdown Manor and Sir John’s death had been a big shock to the Kivels, even after the way they’d apparently been treated. But our Joe in the CCTV footage does exactly the same thing. And you know how pedantic I am about those sort of details, Saslow.’

Saslow knew. ‘I’d call it anal, boss,’ she said.