Friends to Die For (24 page)

‘Yes, sir,’ said Vogel quietly, addressing Forest’s retreating back.

Murder Investigation Teams were the force’s specialist homicide squads. There were thirty-one MITs operating in the London area, consisting of between thirty and forty staff, both police
and civilian, led by a detective chief inspector.

It was standard procedure for an MIT to be called in to take charge of a murder investigation such as this, even if there was no question of mishandling by officers who had been previously
involved in events that may have led to the murder. In this case, Vogel feared, questions would be asked about the handling of such events. In particular, the arrest and release of Alfonso
Bertorelli. And those questions would primarily be directed at him.

He didn’t care. Neither, at that moment, did he care about Forest’s instruction to leave well alone. He had every intention of disobeying the direct order of his superior officer. He
was going to visit the scene of the crime, regardless of any possible consequences. And that was that.

Vogel’s hands were trembling and he had broken into a sweat by the time he arrived at Marlena’s flat. He had visited several murder scenes in his time and seen more
than his share of dead bodies. It never got any easier for him. He didn’t experience nausea like some police officers he knew. He was in no danger of being sick, like young PC Porter.
Vogel’s reaction was almost entirely mental, but it had physical repercussions in that he so dreaded his own response he felt like a gibbering wreck even before he’d come face to face
with the reality.

In this case he feared he was about to confront the worst case of violent death he had ever encountered. And he was right. The sight which greeted him through the open door of the sitting room,
as he stepped into the hallway of Marlena’s apartment, was far beyond anything he’d ever seen before. Almost before he had time to react, he found himself marvelling that the human body
could contain so much blood. And he automatically registered that the dead woman’s indescribably horrific wounds had almost certainly been sustained while she was still alive, otherwise the
projectile bleeding would surely have been significantly less. It looked as if the entire sitting room was splattered with blood, and in some places, on parts of the floor, there were puddles of
the stuff.

Vogel stood very still, making himself breathe rhythmically. The distinctive stench of death had hit him straight away. And something else. He looked down. He’d only just avoided stepping
in the pile of vomit deposited by Paddy Morgan.

He turned his attention back to the scene before him. He took in that the SOCOs were already at work, and this helped because it lent a certain air of normality even to this most abnormal and
aberrant circumstance.

Few of Vogel’s colleagues, if any, knew of the demons he had to overcome, for he displayed no obvious reaction to dealing with deceased human beings. His head was swimming and his stomach
had begun to churn. He still didn’t reckon he was going to vomit, but as he surveyed the remains of Marlena McTavish it crossed his mind that if ever there was going to be a first time, this
would be it. He’d never passed out at a crime scene either, but a wave of light-headedness warned him that this might be the first time for that too. He rested a hand against the wall just in
case.

One of the SOCOs looked up at him with weary eyes.

‘If you’re going to touch anything, Vogel, put your damn gloves on, will you?’ he instructed. ‘And don’t you dare come any further into this crime scene without
getting suited up.’

‘Sorry,’ said Vogel, feeling like a complete idiot.

He stepped back into the doorway and almost collided with the Home Office pathologist, Dr Patricia Fitzwarren, almost unrecognizable in her crime scene coveralls.

‘Out the way, Vogel,’ she commanded.

Vogel obeyed, suddenly conscious of how the entire Metropolitan Police Service seemed to regard him as a nuisance, forever getting in the way, until they wanted something that only his
particular talents could deliver. Would they still require his services after this? If Forest’s attitude was anything to go by, the blame for Marlena’s murder would be laid at his door.
After all, it was his failure to gather sufficient evidence that had resulted in Alfonso Bertorelli being released.

Vogel looked at the cruelly mutilated body in front of him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, bowing his head.

He watched as Dr Fitzwarren knelt at the side of the victim and began her preliminary examination. The SOCOs, meanwhile, were busying themselves collecting samples of blood, searching drawers
and cupboards, photographing the scene. There was almost total silence in the room. Vogel realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d been badly affected by this murder. There was none
of the usual banter between the SOCOs. It was as if the barbarity of the crime had struck them dumb.

Before taking his leave, he surveyed the room one last time. The shockwaves that had been surging through his body seemed mercifully to have subsided, allowing his brain to function at something
approaching its normal capacity.

There was a lot to be learned from studying a crime scene. Not just in terms of forensics, but in building a picture of what had taken place in that setting. He started by studying the front
door. It didn’t look as though the killer had made a forced entry to the apartment. Vogel’s gaze shifted to the room in which Marlena’s body lay. There seemed to be at least one
clear footprint in the blood on the floor. Careless, he thought, as he studied the room. In spite of the manner of the death, little seemed to have been disturbed in the apartment itself. No
furniture had been overturned, and there was no obvious sign of a struggle. All of this indicated that the woman had known her attacker. But that was what he and everyone else, including Forest and
probably by now DCI Clarke, had expected, was it not?

A bottle of Bollinger champagne, about two-thirds full, stood on the sideboard. Alongside it was a crystal glass, almost full of what must now be flat champagne. It looked untouched. A second
glass, nearly empty, stood on a little table next to the armchair by the window. Judging by the worn appearance of the seat and cushions, this had almost certainly been the chair most often used by
the dead woman.

Vogel backed out towards the communal hall, registering as he did so an entryphone just inside the door to the flat.

There were people in the corridor he hadn’t noticed before. But then, on his arrival, he had been far too preoccupied with thoughts of what he might be confronted with at the scene of the
crime. PCs Porter and Martin, the two officers who had been first to respond to the
999
call, were standing alongside a man Vogel presumed to be the caretaker who’d found the body.
This man, grey-faced and trembling, sat slumped on the floor leaning against the wall. His face, hands and clothes were covered in blood and vomit.

He confirmed that he was Paddy Morgan and that he had indeed discovered Marlena’s body.

‘To tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,’ said Paddy.

‘I know, I know,’ said Vogel. And he did know, more than Paddy Morgan could have guessed.

‘Now they tell me I’ve been arrested. Why? I never hurt anybody, I’ve not done anything.’

Vogel made soothing noises. ‘We have to eliminate you from our inquiries, Mr Morgan,’ he said. ‘I am sure it will prove to be just a formality. You’re covered in the dead
woman’s blood and—’

The caretaker gasped. His eyes filled with tears. His head lolled forward onto his chest. Vogel could have kicked himself. He needed the man lucid.

‘What I mean is, you are carrying evidence on your clothes and hands,’ explained Vogel. ‘We need to have you checked out. As soon as that’s done, we’ll get you
taken care of. A doctor will take a look at you to make sure you’re OK. You’ve had the most terrible shock.’

Paddy agreed weakly that he had.

Vogel uttered a few more reassuring platitudes, then tried to elicit some information that might help with his inquiries.

‘What’s the security like here?’ he asked.

Morgan looked up, startled, as if he feared he might be held responsible for the killer gaining access.

Vogel tried to reassure him. ‘What I really want to know is how difficult would it be for an intruder to get into one of these flats?’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be easy,’ said Morgan. ‘I’m not always here – it’s only a part-time job – but I’m here every morning, and the front door
is permanently locked with a double Balham. The glass is armoured. And there’s an entryphone linked to every flat. There’s been no interference – you’ll have seen that
yourself on your way in. Sometimes people, particularly delivery men if they can’t get a response from the flat they have a delivery for, use the intercom to ring others for access to the
building. But the residents know better than to let anyone in they don’t know. And even if someone did manage to get into the building, all the flats have front doors with peepholes, security
chains, double locks – you name it.’

Vogel nodded. It was much as he’d thought. ‘So the only way to get into one of these flats is to have the householder invite you in, is that it?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘You don’t think it likely then,’ Vogel continued, ‘that an intruder could have broken into Marlena McTavish’s apartment?’

‘Well, no. Like I said, there’s no sign of a break-in. I’m sure I would have noticed.’

Vogel glanced round, looking for cameras.

‘Is there any CCTV here?’ he asked. ‘Outside the front door perhaps?’

The caretaker shook his head. ‘It’s been talked about but a lot of residents didn’t want it. They like their privacy too much.’

Vogel nodded. There were CCTV cameras all over Covent Garden, of course, but none would probably be of much help if it were not possible to identify suspects actually entering Sampford
House.

Vogel thanked the man. Then he stuck his head back through the door of the flat.

‘Any idea of time of death yet, Dr Fitzwarren?’ he enquired.

‘I’ve only just got here, Vogel. What do you think I am – a miracle worker?’

‘That’s exactly what I think,’ replied Vogel hopefully.

The pathologist grunted.

‘I just want to know if it’s likely the deceased was murdered more than twenty-four hours ago,’ Vogel persisted. ‘It’s important. We may need to act fast to prevent
the killer striking again.’

‘Ummm. Well, Vogel, she’s certainly not been dead for more than a day, judging from her body temperature, but I need to get her back to the lab before I can tell you anything exact,
as you very well know.’

‘Thank you all the same,’ said Vogel. ‘And the manner of death?’

Dr Fitzwarren looked at him as if he were a moron.

‘I think she may have been stabbed, don’t you, Vogel?’ she asked.

‘What about the murder weapon?’ enquired Vogel, ignoring the sarcasm heavy in her voice.

‘A long-bladed knife, I should think, in light of what seems to have been done to the poor woman.’

‘And what exactly has been done to her?’ persisted Vogel.

Fitzwarren gestured to the bloodied masses on the floor between Marlena’s legs, the stuff Paddy hadn’t been able to help himself comparing to an offal tray at the
butcher’s.

‘The internal organs have been roughly hacked out of the body. Can’t be certain, given the damage, but I suspect we’re talking reproductive organs.’

She pointed at a small lump of dark red tissue, sliced partially open, lying by Marlena’s left knee.

‘That looks like her womb to me,’ she said.

Vogel felt his knees buckle.

Again he fought for control. There was another question he needed to ask, even though he could hardly bear to hear the answer.

He gestured at the blood all around the room.

‘Am I to assume from all this that the organs were removed while the victim was still alive?’

Dr Fitzwarren paused in her examination and looked up at Vogel.

‘Oh yes, Sergeant Vogel. When it started anyway. This woman was alive when the knife cut into her. She bled to death. Not much doubt about that.’

Vogel could take no more. He headed for the door. Outside, the caretaker was now standing more or less upright, handcuffed to a still-green PC Porter.

‘You should get this man back to the station. Have him processed, then arrange for him to see a doctor,’ said Vogel.

‘I’m just waiting for MIT, Sarge,’ said Porter. ‘DI Forest said I had to stay here till they arrived. I can’t wait to get out of this place, I can tell you. If
I—’

‘Yes, that’s enough, Constable. You have a man in custody, right?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Vogel glanced towards Paddy. He didn’t think there was the slightest chance that the Irishman was guilty of anything more than muddying a crime scene. At least he looked a little calmer
now. He might even be up to thinking more clearly.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me, Paddy?’ he asked.

The caretaker shook his head.

A thought occurred to Vogel, a question he should probably have asked earlier.

‘When did you last see Marlena alive?’

‘Oh, that would be yesterday morning,’ Paddy replied at once. ‘I came round with her paper as usual, just gone eleven. She answered the door and we had a little chat like we
always do.’

‘And there was no sign of anything wrong?’

‘Oh no, there was nothing amiss, then, I’m sure. She invited me in. I had a quick cup of tea.’

‘So what time did you leave her?’

‘I suppose it must have been half past eleven, maybe a bit later.’

Vogel walked slowly along the corridor towards the lift. He had a great deal to think about.

If Marlena had been lying dead in her flat for more than a day, Alfonso Bertorelli could not have been responsible for her death because he had been detained at Charing Cross police station.

But now it seemed, even before a full post-mortem examination had been conducted, that the caretaker could confirm Marlena had been alive at 11.30 a.m., or thereabouts, the previous day. Alfonso
Bertorelli had been released from custody at 11.23 a.m. Vogel had signed the release papers and he remembered the time exactly. He always remembered figures exactly.