Friends to Die For (21 page)

‘Is there anyone else here, Mr Bertorelli?’ asked DC Pam Jones.

‘What?’

It was hard for Alfonso to answer the simplest of questions. Nothing was registering in his brain. There was only thick fog inside his head. He should have been prepared, but he wasn’t.
Not at all.

‘Y-yes,’ he stumbled. ‘My nan. She’s in bed. Asleep.’

‘Right,’ Vogel interjected. ‘Heavy sleeper, is she?’

‘Yes. I suppose so. She’s poorly. The doctor gives her pills. Why?’

‘Because I thought we’d made enough noise to wake most people up, Mr Bertorelli,’ persisted Vogel. ‘Now, perhaps you’d like to rouse your nan and bring her down
here. Might give her less of a shock than one of these chaps bursting in on her.’

Vogel gestured vaguely in the direction of his and DC Jones’ uniformed escort. In their equipment-packed tactical vests they certainly looked frightening to Alfonso. He nodded. Subdued.
Submissive. He began to make his way towards the door that led out to the hall, aware that one of the constables seemed to be planning to accompany him.

Suddenly Vogel ordered them to wait, then took a step towards the second door off the sitting room, which led directly into the kitchen, and pointed at a washing machine in the far corner. It
was running.

‘Doing a wash, are you, Mr Bertorelli?’ queried Vogel. ‘At this hour in the morning?’

Alfonso shook his head. He looked puzzled.

‘Maybe Nan put it on, before she went to bed.’

‘Long cycle, unless your gran keeps extremely late hours,’ said Pam Jones, pointedly checking her watch. The time was 5.10 a.m.

Alfonso shrugged and made his way upstairs, followed as he’d thought he would be by a uniformed PC. When he returned, Vogel was still standing in the kitchen doorway staring at the washing
machine.

‘Nan’s on her way down, she’s just getting dressed,’ Alfonso said.

Vogel didn’t respond. The machine appeared to be in spin mode now. As if on cue, it came to the end of its cycle and stopped. Vogel opened the door and pulled out a small bundle of damp
washing, letting it fall to the floor. He sifted quickly through and pulled out a grey hoody.

‘No DNA left on this, I shouldn’t think,’ he muttered.

Then he held the garment up and showed it to Alfonso.

‘Yours, sir, I assume?’ he said.

‘No,’ Alfonso replied, in a high-pitched voice he didn’t recognize as his own. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’

‘I see, sir. So how do you suppose it got into your grandmother’s washing machine?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Might it belong to your grandmother?’ Vogel’s voice was heavy with irony. ‘Wears hoodies, does she?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Right. So you’ve never seen this hoody before, and yet it’s being washed in your washing machine in the early hours of the morning.’

‘My nan’s washing machine,’ Alfonso responded.

‘Mr Bertorelli, I advise you to think very carefully before you make any remarks that might be regarded as facetious,’ said Vogel. ‘I surely don’t have to remind you what
a serious matter this is.’

‘Look, I’m as bewildered as you are,’ Alfonso began.

Then he stopped. One of the uniformed officers searching the property had entered the room and was whispering something in Vogel’s ear. The detective sergeant looked stern when he spoke
again.

‘Mr Bertorelli, do you remember when we met yesterday I asked if you owned a bicycle?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you reply?’

‘No. No, I don’t own a bicycle.’

‘Mr Bertorelli, PC Sanderson here has just found a black bicycle in your grandmother’s storeroom downstairs. Not only that, the bike is wet, indicating that it has recently been
used, probably within the last few hours as the rain only started shortly before midnight.’

There was no colour left in Alfonso’s face. He didn’t speak.

‘So, are you sure you don’t own a bicycle?’ Vogel repeated.

‘I told you. No.’ Alfonso’s voice was now a barely audible squeak.

‘Then who do you think it might belong to?’

Alfonso shook his head. There were tears in his eyes.

‘How old is your grandmother, Mr Bertorelli?’ asked DC Jones.

‘S-she’s eighty-nine.’ Alfonso stumbled badly over the words.

‘And she’s not in the best of health?’

Alfonso agreed that she wasn’t.

‘So it is unlikely the bike is hers?’

‘It’s definitely not hers.’

‘Definitely not,’ repeated Vogel. He appeared to be on the verge of saying more, but he was interrupted by the return of PC Sanderson, who had left the room again.

Sanderson was holding a black leather handbag in one gloved hand. He passed it to Vogel, who glanced inside, withdrew a small folded case and opened it so that Alfonso could see. The case
contained Michelle Monahan’s warrant card.

Alfonso made an involuntary gulping sound. He looked close to collapse.

Vogel stared at him with icy eyes. ‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am arresting you on suspicion of assault and robbery,’ he said. Then he began to recite the statutory caution: ‘You do
not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

As he spoke, Vogel became aware that Alfonso was not looking at him. Instead his gaze was fixed somewhere beyond Vogel’s left shoulder. The detective turned. An elderly woman, wearing a
thick knitted cardigan over a nylon nightdress, was standing in the doorway. She looked very frail. Her hands were shaking and her face was ashen.

‘What have you done, my boy?’ she asked. ‘Mio caro, mio caro, what in the name of God have you done?’

When George tried to call Alfonso later that morning he got no reply from his mobile. George was unaware, of course, that the other man was in custody at Charing Cross
nick.

After several attempts to contact his friend, and having had no success by mid-afternoon, George called the Vine on the staff number. Another waiter George knew vaguely told him that Alfonso
hadn’t turned up for his lunchtime shift. Neither had he contacted the restaurant.

‘Leonardo is fucking furious,’ said the waiter. ‘If you hear from Fonz, tell him to get his arse over here pronto – and he’d better have a good excuse
ready.’

Alfonso never skipped work. Everyone knew the Vine was his life. George was at a loss as to what he should do next. Then Tiny called, apparently even more distraught, if that were possible, than
he’d been over Daisy. His words came tumbling out in a muddle.

‘George, did you know Michelle was mugged last night? Alfonso’s been arrested. They think he did it. He’s locked up in Charing Cross nick, and he phoned Billy, but
Billy’s not that kind of lawyer, it’s all right though, he’s trying to get him a criminal lawyer to sort everything out. Oh, what are we going to do, George? What the heck’s
happening, I mean who’s going to be—’

‘Hey, calm down,’ interrupted George, sounding none too calm himself. ‘Has Alfonso actually been charged with anything?’

‘Yes,’ said Tiny. ‘I mean no. “Arrested on suspicion of” – that’s different, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ said George. ‘I’m no expert. But if that is the case, presumably we should be able to get the Fonz out on police bail. You know, like all those journos
mixed up in that phone hacking thing. That’s what happened to them, wasn’t it? They were on police bail for months before it was even decided whether to charge them or not.’

‘But, George, what if he did it? What if Fonz mugged Michelle and attacked Marlena? What if he was the one who killed Daisy and Chump? Billy says the police found Michelle’s handbag
at his place, and a bike he claims isn’t his. But what if it is? What if he’s guilty?’

‘Tiny, for a start you don’t believe Alfonso would ever harm Marlena, do you? He idolizes the woman. I’ve always thought he was a bit in love with her. Getting on for obscene,
given the fact that she’s an old—’

‘Oh don’t, George, please.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I’ve been trying to call Fonz all day. Wanted to know if he’d come with me to see Marlena, ’cos I didn’t want to go on my
own . . . It never occurred to me . . . Wow, I’m just in shock, I suppose.’

‘I know that feeling. But the fact is, someone hurt Marlena. And Michelle. I called her right after Billy told me about Fonz. She’s just out of hospital. She answered her phone, but
she could hardly speak. Apparently her nose has been smashed to bits and she’ll need to have an operation to reconstruct it. Maybe more than one op. George, what is happening to us? You
didn’t even ask how Michelle was.’

George did an audible double take. ‘No. Oh fuck. I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know why, I assumed from the way you were talking that she hadn’t been hurt at all. I just
thought her handbag was snatched. That’s terrible, what you’re saying. And she’s so pretty too.’

‘Do you want to come with me to visit her later?’

‘Yes, of course. But are you sure she’ll want visitors if her face is in that sort of state? I know I wouldn’t.’

Tiny said he’d call Michelle first.

On his arrival at the custody suite of Charing Cross police station Alfonso had been searched, his fingerprints and a DNA sample taken, his clothes, his watch and the contents
of his pockets taken away in sealed bags as evidence. Dressed in the white paper suit he had been given to replace his clothes, Alfonso felt as if he was living a nightmare. In between interviews
he was detained in a police cell. There was no natural light in the small room, which was furnished only with a blue plastic-covered bench bed and a lavatory in one corner. He didn’t know how
long he’d been in there. He was so shaken by the whole experience that he’d completely lost track of time. But despite his confused state, his story did not vary.

‘I know it’s another coincidence, I’m not surprised you don’t believe me,’ he said. ‘But I’m telling the truth. I was just walking home to my
nan’s place. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I went to help Michelle, didn’t I? You’ve taken my clothes away. What’s the point? It’s obvious they’re going
to be covered in Michelle’s DNA. There was blood everywhere. She was screaming with pain. I held her in my arms.’

As always, Vogel listened carefully. On the one hand, Bertorelli’s story made sense. And on the other hand it made no sense at all.

It was, as his suspect pointed out, quite obvious that Michelle’s DNA would be found on the clothes Alfonso had been wearing. But the grey hoody had been thoroughly washed and was
therefore unlikely to yield any traces of forensic evidence. Despite both items having been found at his grandmother’s flat, Alfonso continued to maintain that he had never seen the hoody or
the bicycle before, unless they were, as seemed likely, the property of the cyclist he had caught only a fleeting glimpse of both when Marlena was injured and Michelle mugged. So far as he could
recollect, he had never touched Michelle’s handbag.

‘So why did we find these items at your grandmother’s?’ Vogel asked.

‘I have no idea,’ said Alfonso. ‘Someone must have planted them. If I were guilty I wouldn’t have left all that stuff lying around to incriminate myself, would I? Surely
you can see that?’

‘My understanding is that it is not generally known that you stay with your grandmother. So who among your colleagues and friends and acquaintances would know where she lives?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I was followed. And maybe I was followed when Michelle was mugged too. Someone waited until I was nearby, then attacked her. To set me up. That’s all I can
think of.’

‘Mr Bertorelli, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched?’

Alfonso lowered his head into his hands, and spoke through his fingers.

‘Why would I hurt Michelle?’ he asked. ‘Or Marlena. Why would I want to harm them? They’re my friends.’

And that, thought Vogel, was the million-dollar question: Why? What possible motive could Alfonso Bertorelli have? Indeed, if these crimes were linked, as they surely must be, what motive could
anyone have?

Shortly after midday, Christopher Margolia, a Nigerian-born criminal lawyer recommended by Billy, arrived at Charing Cross police station fully prepared to intervene on behalf of his new client,
Alfonso Bertorelli.

The Eton- and Oxford-educated Margolia was, Alfonso realized straight away, a very good man to have on your side.

Margolia pointed out calmly but forcefully to Vogel that his client’s claims were quite plausible. He could well have been followed and the incriminating evidence planted at his
grandmother’s house. All other evidence against him was circumstantial, the lawyer said.

‘We are proceeding with our inquires, Mr Margolia,’ responded Vogel doggedly. ‘The items removed from the home of your client’s grandmother are being forensically
examined and we are awaiting laboratory reports on those items, along with the clothes your client was wearing at the time of his arrest.’

Margolia was persistent. ‘You may have the right to keep my client overnight, Detective Sergeant Vogel, but unless you charge him, which I very much doubt you will be in a position to do,
your time will be up tomorrow morning and I shall insist upon his release.’

Around mid-afternoon Vogel extricated himself from a further interview with Alfonso, which seemed to be getting nobody anywhere, and retreated to his desk in an attempt to think things through.
Yet again. There was a lot to think about. He wanted to go over every statement, every jot of evidence again and again. He had to make absolutely sure nothing had been overlooked. It was his
way.

He had no sooner started than he was interrupted by Detective Inspector Tom Forest. Vogel didn’t like to be interrupted when he was thinking, but as Forest was his superior officer he
didn’t have a lot of say in the matter. Particularly as it was Forest who had ordained that Vogel was to be permitted to have his own way, so long as he continued to deliver results.
Improving the department’s clear-up rate was paramount, even though it secretly irked Forest to deal with a subordinate whose emails and reports he struggled to comprehend. For his part,
Vogel thought Forest unintelligent and pedantic, but he knew that it was largely because of Forest’s attitude, which even went to the extent of the Detective Inspector covering for Vogel on
occasion to his own superiors, that he retained the possibly unique freedom he enjoyed within the Met.