Friends to Die For (14 page)

Vogel also made the obvious checks on the implicated men and women. He started with the PNC, the police national computer, and then searched more widely on the web, googling them all and logging
in to the major social networking sites, Facebook and Twitter.

Googling Ari immediately brought up a link to his father and the major multinational companies the family owned. The PNC provided further information. And a police mugshot.

The previous year Ari had been charged with and cautioned for possessing a class-A drug: cocaine. He had been arrested after attracting the attention of a pair of Traffic cops by driving his
Porsche in an erratic manner. He was found to be under the influence of alcohol as well as cocaine, and was banned from driving for eighteen months.

He did not appear to have a Facebook page or a Twitter account.

George Kristos did have a Facebook page, mostly featuring pictures of himself looking handsome. According to Michelle, he was an actor, so Vogel looked him up on the Spotlight website and found
an entry with several references to pantomime performances, and a publicity picture of him dressed as Prince Charming in
Cinderella
at Rhyl over Christmas the previous year.

Tiny, Billy and Bob did not seem to feature on the web, aside from their names being listed on 192.com. Marlena, known throughout Covent Garden as simply that, with no last name, was unlisted,
but did appear on the electoral register under what was presumably her real name: Marleen McTavish – a detail she had apparently supplied to Perkins and Brandt only under considerable
protest. Vogel found himself smiling at that.

He was mildly surprised that Tiny and Billy had no web input. According to Michelle, they were in their mid to late thirties and very much gay men about town. But she’d failed to go into
much further detail about them, apart from giving a job description for them both, so Vogel didn’t know that their relationship wasn’t entirely out in the open, or not as far as
Billy’s family were concerned anyway; certainly reason enough in itself to avoid Facebook.

Alfonso Bertorelli had a Facebook page, but it registered very little activity. Indeed he seemed to have barely returned to it since first compiling it and posting a picture of himself wearing
his waiter’s white shirt and black pencil tie.

Karen Walker was also on Facebook and had by far the busiest entry. There were pictures of her with her husband, Greg, her children and her mother. Every part of her children’s lives
seemed to be chronicled: their progress at school, their sporting activities and so on. She updated her page every few days and had a substantial list of Facebook friends.

The PNC revealed that Greg Walker was the only other member of the group to have a criminal record. And his was an offence of a violent nature.

At the age of eighteen Greg had pleaded guilty at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court to causing an affray. He and a group of other youths had caused a disturbance at the Brunswick shopping
centre. A fight had broken out involving a local shopkeeper who’d ended up in hospital, albeit with only minor injuries. It had been alleged that the youths were part of a gang demanding
protection money in the area, but this had not been proved. Greg had been given a three-month suspended prison sentence.

It was nothing much. A spoiled rich boy behaving true to form, and a son of the inner city falling foul of the law as a teenager and then apparently staying out of trouble ever after and
building a solid family life for himself. Nonetheless, Vogel thought he might begin his inquiries with these two men.

There were already statements from Marlena, the most cruelly afflicted victim, and Alfonso, witness to her misfortune, on record, although Vogel, the master of spotting what others did not,
intended to speak to them both again personally at some stage.

Meanwhile it was a matter of priorities. He had to start somewhere. He chose to visit the Walkers first.

The main gate leading into Bishops Court was unlocked, as it often was. Vogel climbed the stairs to the second floor. As he stepped onto the landing he could hear shouting from
inside number 23.

Vogel moved a little closer, walking softly. He invariably wore slip-on Hush Puppies with rubber soles. Brown suede ones. Comfortable, practical shoes, which did not announce his presence before
he wished it.

The woman’s voice was high-pitched and easy to hear.

‘You know something, Greg, you damned well know something, don’t you? I thought you did when your tyres were slashed. Now I’m sure of it.’

The man’s voice was lower-pitched and not so easy to hear. Vogel could only catch the odd word.

‘Honest, doll . . . there’s nothing . . . I wouldn’t . . .’

Then the woman again: ‘I just hope you’re not up to your old tricks – and don’t you think for one minute I don’t have a damned good idea what you were into before
we got wed.’

Vogel could not catch anything comprehensible when the man replied, all he could hear was the murmur of a low voice.

He rang the doorbell. Immediately a small dog started to bark, then another. The woman answered, shooing to one side a pair of yapping West Highland terriers. There were patches of colour high
on both her cheeks.

‘Mrs Walker?’ he enquired.

Karen nodded, already looking alarmed.

Vogel introduced himself and held out his warrant card.

The woman appeared to be mildly surprised. Vogel had grown accustomed to that. He’d once been told he looked more like an absent-minded professor than a policeman. And he’d actually
been somewhat flattered. But, in truth, it would be hard to be less absent-minded than David Vogel.

Karen led him into the sitting room where the man Vogel assumed to be Greg Walker was standing by the window that overlooked the street.

‘The police are here,’ muttered Karen, glowering at her husband.

‘Right.’ Greg turned towards Vogel. His feet made a crunching sound as he moved.

‘Mr Walker?’ queried Vogel.

Greg didn’t reply directly.

Vogel took in the scene before him, his eyes flitting around the room, registering every detail. It was clean, tidy and attractively furnished. But cold. Almost as cold as outside. He noticed
that the carpet by the window was strewn with broken glass, and the largest pane in the window itself had been smashed. An icy draught gusted into the room. There was a brick in the middle of the
floor.

‘Did you call the police?’ Greg asked Karen. He didn’t sound angry, more resigned.

Vogel answered. ‘No, your wife didn’t call us, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘Or at least, not to my knowledge, she didn’t.’

He glanced at Karen enquiringly. She shook her head, agreeing with him.

‘I am here as part of my investigation into certain incidents that have been reported to us by others with whom I think you are acquainted,’ Vogel went on. ‘I understand there
was an incident concerning your van, which I do not believe you reported.’

Vogel looked down pointedly at the floor.

‘Might this be another such incident?’ he enquired.

Greg shrugged.

‘Yes, it damned well might,’ snapped Karen. ‘Some bastard’s thrown a brick through our window. Less than an hour ago. In broad daylight. Apart from anything else we could
have been killed. If they hadn’t been at school, one of the kids could have been killed.’

‘Do either of you have any idea who might be responsible?’ asked Vogel, mindful of the exchange he had just overheard.

‘Well, I certainly don’t.’ Karen glowered at Greg again.

‘And you, Mr Walker?’

‘No. Look, we live in the middle of the city. These things happen.’

Karen snorted. ‘That’s what he said when the tyres on the van were slashed. You said you know about that, Detective Sergeant?’

Yes, I do. Although I would like to take more details from you, and also about this incident.’

‘Some idiot decided to toss a brick through a window, and our place just happened to be handy,’ said Greg. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

‘For God’s sake, we’re on the second floor,’ said Karen, still obviously very angry. ‘You have to really work at it to get a brick through our window, and this
particular bastard has done just that.’

‘So do I take it that you believe your home has been deliberately targeted?’ asked Vogel.

‘Yes, I damned well do,’ said Karen.

‘I don’t,’ said Greg.

‘Right.’ Vogel decided to change tack abruptly. It was a habit of his. Experience had shown that, when caught off guard, interviewees sometimes divulged more than they otherwise
might.

‘I understand you know Marlena McTavish, is that the case?’ he asked.

Greg looked momentarily puzzled. ‘What. Who? Oh. Yes.’

‘You don’t seem too sure, sir?’

‘Oh no, I am. It’s just, well, I’d never heard her last name. She’s just Marlena around here.’

‘I see, sir. Like Madonna or Cher, or Adele?’

‘Very nearly, yes.’ Karen joined in. ‘Not Marlena McTavish, that’s for sure. Is that really her last name?’

‘I believe so. And it seems that her real first name is Marleen.’

‘Well, that cuts through the mystique, doesn’t it?’ remarked Karen.

‘I’m sorry, madam?’

‘Oh nothing. Of course we know Marlena. Both of us. And we’re appalled by what’s happened to her. Aren’t we, Greg?’

‘Of course.’

Vogel studied the man. He looked like someone under considerable strain. However, a brick had just been thrown through his sitting-room window. And his wife looked strained too. But it was
different, somehow.

‘You also, I believe, know George Kristos, Robert Buchanan, Alfonso Bertorelli, Ari Kabul, Billy Wiseman and Ronald “Tiny” Stephens?’ Vogel continued, putting emphasis on
the nickname.

Greg and Karen agreed that they did.

‘And we know Michelle Monahan,’ said Greg. ‘Or as she’s a cop, doesn’t she even get mentioned?’

Vogel ignored that.

‘So, am I also to assume that you’re aware of the various other incidents concerning some of these people?’ he asked.

Greg and Karen agreed again that they were.

‘Can either of you think of anything that might be significant linking these people, including yourselves, or the various incidents that have occurred?’ Vogel asked.

‘Only that we’re all friends, and that we meet most Sundays for supper at Johnny’s Place,’ replied Karen. ‘But I expect you know that.’

Vogel nodded. ‘Nothing else?’

‘Well, I certainly don’t know anything else,’ said Karen, putting heavy emphasis on ‘I’, and staring pointedly at her husband.

‘And you, sir?’ Vogel asked diffidently.

‘No, nothing,’ said Greg.

‘Were you both here when the brick came through the window?’

‘Just me,’ said Karen. ‘And the dogs. They went mad, naturally. I called Greg and he came home straight away.’

‘Did you look out of the window at all, Mrs Walker? Did you see anything or anyone that seemed suspicious?’

‘I had a quick look out,’ said Karen. ‘Then I thought how bloody stupid I was being. Another brick could have been chucked in. I started to get really scared then. I just ran
into the bathroom, where there aren’t any windows, and called Greg.’

‘So you didn’t see anything?’

‘Nothing, no.’

‘And you didn’t call the police. Can I ask you why you didn’t do that, particularly if you were so scared?’

Karen flushed and glanced at Greg, whose face was giving nothing away.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to get Greg back here, that’s all I could think of.’

‘And where were you, Mr Walker?’

‘I was over at my lock-up, it’s in one of those archways under the railway tracks at Waterloo. I rushed straight home. I’d only been in a few minutes when you
arrived.’

‘I see. Well, you and the other members of your family could have been hurt this afternoon, sir,’ continued Vogel. ‘And hurt quite badly. Do you realize that?’

‘I damned well do,’ said Greg.

‘So I am going to ask you again, sir, do you really think this latest attack was just another random act of vandalism?’

‘Definitely,’ said Greg.

Vogel was puzzled. The three men whose dogs had been stolen had from the beginning made a point of their belief that there had to be a link between the various incidents
befalling this group of friends.

Michelle Monahan had indicated the same. Indeed it was largely because of her suspicions in this regard, her fears even, that she had brought the matter to Vogel’s attention.

Yet Greg Walker was quite insistent that he suspected no such link, and suspected no one particular perpetrator of being guilty of the two acts of vandalism directed at him and his family.

Vogel was deep in thought as he strolled along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Soho on his way to Harpo’s, a club of which he was not a member but to which he was frequently invited because of
his aptitude for backgammon. That night he was due to play in a small tournament there. Vogel had three passions in life: his family, his work and backgammon. Mary, his wife, had been known to
suggest that the order was sometimes reversible.

There were two players in the competition that night who were particular rivals. One of them, a former women’s world champion, had the knack of repeatedly knocking him out in the final
stages. Over the years he had beaten her more often than she’d beaten him, but twice now she’d won in tournament finals.

As he walked, Vogel prepared himself, determined she would not win that night.

He believed that backgammon was the perfect reflection of life. The throw of the dice was entirely down to chance. Sometimes you were lucky, the dice fell well for you. Sometimes you were
unlucky and the dice fell badly. However good a player you were, there was nothing you could do about that.

But what you made of those throws was entirely up to you. Your quick thinking, your assessment of the situation, the way in which you built your board, meant that ultimately, over any designated
period of time and number of games, the good player would always win.

And that was exactly how life was, Vogel believed. Only losers blamed their luck.