Friends to Die For (22 page)

Fired up both by his eternal obsession with targets and the desire to swiftly bring to justice the perpetrator of a violent crime against a fellow police officer, Forest appeared to be taking,
true to form Vogel thought, an overly simplistic approach.

‘Well done, old man,’ said Forest. ‘Got it sorted, then. Seems you were quite right about those incidents being linked, and now you’ve got the bastard, eh? Damn good
show.’

Vogel stared at Forest through red-rimmed eyes. This had already been a long, hard, and mentally taxing day. Vogel was running on empty. Being woken at 4 a.m. and deprived of his full seven or
eight hours’ sleep did not suit him.

‘I’m not so sure about that, sir,’ he said mildly.

‘What do you mean?’ bristled Forest. ‘Bang to rights, I heard.’

‘We’re still waiting for the forensic results. We’ve fast-tracked fingerprinting but the DNA will take days,’ Vogel reminded his superior.

‘But that’s all just a formality, surely,’ continued Forest. ‘I mean, you can’t seriously think all that stuff was planted. The bike, the handbag, and that
hoody?’

‘The suspect says so.’

As if on cue, DC Jones walked into the room. A large chunk of her longish brown hair had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck demanded by police regulations. She looked flustered.

‘We’ve just got the fingerprint results,’ she said. ‘No match for Bertorelli’s prints on either the bike or Michelle’s handbag.’

Vogel frowned. Forest caught him at it.

‘For goodness’ sake, man, he wiped his damn prints off, didn’t he? The bike and the bag were found on his grandmother’s property – the place he had returned to
after the mugging.’

‘Yes, sir, and the bag was covered with Michelle’s blood,’ responded Vogel. ‘How did he clean off his prints yet leave the blood behind?’

‘He must have worn gloves so that there’d be no prints. And what about the washing machine – running in the middle of the night with the hoody in it. Evidence was being
deliberately destroyed. Bertorelli
has
to be guilty.’

‘Perhaps, sir.’

‘Perhaps?’
Forest was turning puce. ‘Vogel, your own report stated that Bertorelli told no one about living with his mother and grandmother. That being the case, how
would anyone have known where to plant evidence, let alone actually have done so?’

‘He told us he must have been followed to his grandmother’s home, sir.’

‘Of course he bloody did, Vogel. And what about the coincidence, yet again, of his conveniently timed arrival at the scene of the crime?’

‘He said that was a set-up too, sir.’ Even as he spoke, Vogel was aware how ridiculous it sounded.

‘Every bloody criminal claims they’ve been set up! It’s the oldest line in the book,’ blustered Forest. ‘Look, we’re talking about a violent attack on a
police officer here. And a woman officer at that. Do you not understand? This is one of our own, Vogel. We have to act and we have to act fast. Otherwise it looks damned bad, both to the public and
within the force. So get this joker bloody charged as soon as, will you?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I really need to think it through.’

‘You know what your trouble is, Vogel?’

‘No, sir,’ said Vogel.

‘You do far too much bloody thinking,’ roared Forest.

It turned out that the bicycle found in Alfonso’s nan’s storeroom had been stolen from outside the Royal Opera House the previous evening, the chain attaching it to
a lamppost having been effectively severed. It was just possible that Alfonso had finished his shift at the Vine, somehow discovered that Michelle would be walking home from Marlena’s, stolen
the bike, pursued her to Southampton Row where he attacked her and then stashed the bike somewhere, only to return for it upon leaving the hospital and, for some inexplicable reason, riding it to
his nan’s place. Vogel thought it highly unlikely.

And so did the Crown Prosecution Service.

Early the following morning Vogel presented the facts in painstaking detail to Forest, and also to a CPS representative. The CPS man shared Vogel’s doubts, agreeing that the very presence
of so much unsubstantiated evidence was in itself suspicious. Having crossed swords with Christopher Margolia in the past, he was also of the opinion that every piece of evidence and every witness
would be subjected to rigorous cross-examination, and the prosecution would collapse at the first hurdle if they were foolish enough to bring a case against Mr Bertorelli on the existing
evidence.

Ultimately, in spite of what Alfonso feared was such strong evidence against him, and regardless of DI Forest’s blustering, it was decided not to charge him with any offence. Not yet,
anyway.

Eventually a furious Forest agreed that Alfonso should be released. Under habeas corpus they could, as Margolia had pointed out, keep him for only thirty-six hours.

And so at 11.30 a.m. Alfonso was told he was free to leave, and his paper suit was replaced with clean but used clothes from the police store since his were still being forensically
examined.

Full of fear and uncertainty, and smarting from the indignity of wearing someone else’s clothes, an ill-fitting tracksuit at that, he began to wander the streets aimlessly.

How long would it be before the police might come to get him again? he wondered. How long would it be before all the forensic and DNA tests came through, and would they make things better or
worse? It was obvious that his clothes would be covered in Michelle’s DNA, considering he’d held her in his arms until the ambulance got there. Unaware that the results of the
fingerprinting of Michelle’s bag had already been delivered, and that no prints of his had been found, he wondered whether he had unknowingly touched Michelle’s bag, either at the scene
of her attack or on some previous occasion. Could he have moved it across the table while in Johnny’s, picked it up from the floor or off the back of a chair, or merely handed it to Michelle?
If so, it might bear his prints. Though the innocent possibilities were endless, there was no telling what the police would make of one more piece of evidence stacked against him.

He felt weak. Almost too weak to continue walking. He was right outside a pub. The Dunster Arms, according to the sign Alfonso didn’t even glance at. Maybe what he needed was a strong
drink. Or several. Alfonso opened the door and entered. The Dunster was an unpromisingly shabby hostelry in need of a coat of paint outside and some major refurbishment inside, although Alfonso
barely noticed that either. Despite its drab appearance, it provided better service and refreshment than he might have expected, even boasting a fancy coffee machine. The Dunster Arms was, by
virtue of its close proximity, the hostelry favoured by staff of Charing Cross police station, but Alfonso didn’t know that or he would have avoided the place. An old-fashioned television set
was tuned to a cricket match somewhere sunny. Alfonso registered that the players were wearing rather garish outfits, then looked away. He was not interested in cricket or indeed anything much else
right then.

There was, at that hour of a Saturday, only one other drinker in attendance, and he neither looked like nor indeed was a police officer.

Alfonso ordered a double espresso and a large brandy, which he downed in one swallow. Although he liked his wine he was not a big drinker and the neat fiery alcohol went straight to his head.
The sensation was extremely pleasant, given the ordeal he had just endured and the muddled state of his brain. So he ordered another, which he also drank straight down. And then a third.

‘Gotta bit of a thirst, mate?’ enquired his sole fellow drinker. The man was propped on a bar stool to Alfonso’s left. He had a sallow complexion, bad teeth, and one of those
bulbous noses which come from years of alcoholic overindulgence. He was the sort of character Alfonso would normally have run a mile from.

On that day, his head spinning, he took a step closer, ignoring the stale sweaty smell the man exuded, and climbed with some difficulty onto the bar stool alongside him. The alcohol had loosened
Alfonso’s tongue and his need for human companionship, any human companionship, was overwhelming.

‘I’m not thirsty, I just want to get drunk,’ he said.

The man with bad teeth looked him up and down. ‘You’re not the only one,’ he said.

‘What are you having?’ enquired Alfonso.

‘Just a small Scotch,’ the man with bad teeth replied.

Alfonso ordered him a large one and himself another large brandy. His new best friend returned the favour. Then Alfonso ordered yet another round. He had never drunk that much brandy in his life
before, certainly not all in one sitting and in the middle of the day.

After only a short time the bar began to rotate around him and he would probably have fallen to the floor were it not for his new companion grabbing him in the nick of time. A waft of sour
breath engulfed Alfonso. He didn’t even notice. Leaning heavily against the bar he managed somehow to lift his brandy glass to his lips. The double espresso remained untouched.

‘You all right, mate?’ asked the man, in the manner of someone not really expecting an answer.

‘Dush it look like I’m bloody all right?’ replied Alfonso.

The man didn’t respond.

‘I’ve been framed, I’ve been bloody framed, I’ve just spent a day and a night in the nick and I’m bloody innocent, I tell you, bloody well innocent.’

‘Aren’t we all, mate?’ said the man with bad teeth.

Later that day, around mid-evening, Marlena answered her intercom. A familiar voice enquired after her well-being and asked if she would like a visitor.

Marlena was pleased. She’d been feeling depressed. Her foot hurt and her head was full of unwelcome thoughts. Obviously she realized she might be in danger, given the recent attacks on the
friends. But while Marlena had her reasons for fearing spectres from her past, she could see no reason why anyone currently in her life would wish to harm her.

She invited her caller up and buzzed the front door open.

The visitor had brought a bottle of rather good champagne, already nicely chilled, and after Marlena, still hobbling on crutches, led the way into her sitting room, opened the bottle at once and
poured generous measures into a pair of crystal glasses standing on the sideboard.

The visitor then carried one of the glasses across the room to where Marlena was sitting in her usual chair by the window, and placed it on the table by her side. Marlena picked up the glass and
took a long leisurely sip.

‘Lovely, darling,’ she said, a broad smile stretching across her face. Then she raised her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You’re not drinking, sweetheart – don’t you
want any?’

‘Later.’

‘Well, you’d better be quick.’ Marlena mischievously wiggled her glass, which was already half-empty. ‘You know vintage Bolly is my favourite.’

She smiled up at her visitor, who remained standing and was still wearing a full-length raincoat and gloves.

‘Oh, do make yourself at home. Sit down and take your coat off. It’s not raining, is it?’ She glanced towards the window.

‘I thought it might, that’s all,’ said the visitor, making no move either to remove the coat or to sit.

Marlena took another drink. ‘Please sit down and have a drink, you’re making me feel uncomfortable,’ she said.

‘In a minute. Aren’t you enjoying the champagne?’

‘Yes, darling . . .’ Marlena paused mid-sip, looking thoughtful. ‘Though it seems a little drier than usual. But it’s wonderful. A real treat.’

‘Good. I’m very glad. I think it’s important that the last drink one has should be a special one, don’t you?’

‘I should say so—’ Marlena stopped abruptly as the words sank in. Her smile froze on her face.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know, as an alternative to a last supper I suppose there’s nothing better than a bottle of decent bubbly. I knew you’d appreciate it.’

Marlena was sitting very still, unable to believe her ears. This couldn’t be serious, surely? It just couldn’t be.

‘Stop it,’ she instructed. ‘I realize you are making some sort of joke. A very bad joke under the circumstances, but a joke all the same. It’s not funny though, so
just—’

‘I’m not joking.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ Marlena spoke with a lot more certainty and authority than she actually felt.

‘Please don’t call me ridiculous.’

The familiar voice no longer sounded the way it usually did. There was steel in it.

Marlena felt a chill run down her spine. Was this for real? The eyes staring at her across the room were cold as ice, their gaze unblinking and full of hatred.

She glanced desperately around the room, looking for her phone. Stupidly she’d left it on the table in the hall when she’d hobbled out there to open the front door. The horrible
thought occurred to her that even if it were here by her side it was highly unlikely that she would be allowed to make a call. She thought she would try though. Maybe she could get out into the
communal lobby, picking up her phone on the way, and even if she wasn’t given time to use it, perhaps someone might hear her if she shouted for help.

Grabbing a crutch, which she waved at her visitor in as threatening a manner as she could muster, she launched herself on one leg across the room, heading for the hallway.

She didn’t make it.

Her visitor moved towards her in an almost leisurely fashion. An extended foot cracked into the front of her one good leg, tripping her with easy efficiency.

Marlena crashed to the floor, the crutch flying out of her grasp. Her head collided with the corner of the sideboard, cutting open her forehead. Blood gushed from the wound, but Marlena seemed
more concerned that her elaborate blonde wig had been knocked to one side, revealing a head bearing only a scant growth of wispy grey hair. Nobody ever saw Marlena without her wig. She tugged at it
with one hand. It was an automatic response. Her attacker leaned forward, pulled the wig off entirely, and tossed it carelessly aside.

‘Don’t, please don’t,’ she begged.

Marlena knew what she must look like. A pathetic, bald old woman pleading as much for the last vestiges of her pride as for any other kind of mercy.