Friends to Die For (27 page)

‘Yeah. No wonder they call him the Geek. He prefers problems to solutions. And if there aren’t any he invents them.’

The two men continued to grumble cheerily as they made their way back to the station.

Meanwhile, at the Dunster Arms, Jim Marshal was hoping he would never see either detective again. Because the stand-in landlord had not been behind the bar the previous day. He had deliberately
lied to the police officers.

Marshal, something of a serial philanderer, was in the middle of an extremely messy divorce. The previous morning his neighbour at the marital home in Ealing, from which Marshal had been barred
for several months, had phoned to say that his wife was in the process of dumping all his personal belongings into a skip on the driveway. Clothes, books, his stamp collection, and his fishing
gear. The missus had warned him that was what she was going to do if he didn’t move his stuff out pronto, but Marshal, reduced to sleeping on the sofa of an old friend whose patience was
beginning to run out, had nowhere else to keep it. In any case, he still owned half the marital home, and he hadn’t really believed his wife would carry out her threat.

More fool him, he reflected. Anyway, upon getting the bad news he had called on a Dunster Arms regular, already in attendance as usual, to step behind the bar while he rushed to Ealing in an
attempt to salvage his belongings. He’d promised the man double money if he would run the bar until his return. The man knew what he was about, having managed a number of pubs in his time. He
had also been sacked from at least two of them for putting his hand in the till. Marshal knew that the Dunster’s landlord would never leave him in charge again if it were revealed that
he’d let such a character run the bar, however pressing his reasons. Particularly on a Saturday. And Marshal needed the money, desperately. He was unlikely at his age ever to get a proper
full-time job again, and he had lawyers to pay.

Marshal, basically an honest man except in his dealings with women, didn’t feel comfortable about what he’d done. But he’d not had a choice, he told himself. He’d had to
lie.

The first results obtained from forensic examination of the trainers found in the rubbish bin outside Alfonso’s nan’s house, which had been fast-tracked in view of
the seriousness of the crime, came back the following day just before noon. They were much as expected. Alfonso’s fingerprints were all over the shoes. There were no other prints. And the
size and tread of the trainers matched exactly the footprint that Vogel had spotted at the crime scene.

The DNA results from the blood spattered on the shoes would not be delivered for several days, but Vogel had little doubt that it would prove to be Marlena’s blood.

Vogel had decided not to mention the bloody shoes to Alfonso until he’d received the fingerprint results. Then, along with DC Jones, he interviewed Alfonso for the second time, and
challenged him strongly.

This time Alfonso, appearing even more agitated after a night in the cells, was accompanied by Christopher Margolia, his lawyer of choice, who had returned late the previous night from his trip
to Prague.

‘It seems certain that the trainers found in the bin at your nan’s are yours. They match a footprint found at the murder scene, and we are confident that the blood on them will prove
a match with that of the victim,’ Vogel said.

Alfonso looked bemused.

‘I didn’t put any trainers or shoes of any kind in the bin,’ he said. ‘At my nan’s? Why would I? If I were guilty of anything I’d dump the shoes I’d
been wearing as far away as possible from my nan’s or anywhere else I stayed, wouldn’t I?’

There were obvious similarities with the circumstances of Alfonso’s earlier arrest. And his last remark echoed Vogel’s own thoughts, but that wasn’t nearly enough to prevent
what was fast becoming inevitable. Vogel said nothing. This time Alfonso did fill the silence.

‘What makes you think they’re my shoes anyway?’ he asked.

‘They’re the right size, and they were found at your place of residence,’ Vogel recited patiently.

He placed a photograph on the table at which Alfonso was sitting.

‘But why don’t you tell me,’ he said. ‘Are these your trainers?’

Alfonso looked down at the picture. His face had been pale before, now it was like parchment.

‘They l-look like mine,’ he said eventually. ‘An old pair of Adidas I’ve had for years. I don’t wear them very often. I should have thrown them out really . .
.’

Vogel put another photograph on the table. This time a shot of the footprint clearly marked in the blood on the floor of Marlena’s sitting room.

Only the side of the woman’s head was in the picture. Nonetheless Vogel saw the other man flinch away from the image before him.

‘You may or may not be aware that this is a footprint from an Adidas trainer,’ said Vogel. ‘It’s rather distinctive, is it not?’

‘Is it? I don’t know. I don’t go around looking at the bottom of people’s feet too often.’

Again a flash of what Vogel was beginning to realize was Alfonso’s natural sharpness. His customary mild wit and deftness of speech had been pretty much stamped out by then, but Vogel
could still detect something remaining of the more usual Alfonso Bertorelli.

It was time to fire the next broadside.

‘You should also know that we’ve had the results of the fingerprint check made on these trainers,’ Vogel continued. ‘They are covered in your prints.’

‘B-but, if they’re my trainers they would be,’ Alfonso stumbled. ‘Somebody must have stolen them. I’ve told you: I’m being framed. You have to see that now.
Whoever dumped all that stuff on me before – the bike, the hoody, Michelle’s bag – they must have taken my trainers then returned them. I’m being set up again.
Someone’s out to get me. It’s obvious . . .’

Alfonso’s bottom lip began to tremble. For one awful moment Vogel thought the man was going to cry. He so hated it when that happened.

‘I think my client needs a break,’ interjected Margolia.

Vogel addressed the lawyer directly. ‘Look, let’s just see if we can clear all this up as quickly as possible, for everybody’s sake, shall we?’ he asked.

‘Please proceed with care, then, Mr Vogel,’ murmured Margolia.

Vogel inclined his head very slightly. He didn’t want any more interruptions. He had further questions to ask, to which answers were urgently required. He made his voice as gentle as
possible.

‘Mr Bertorelli, when you were previously arrested at your grandmother’s home you were asked to check if anything had been stolen, either belonging to you or your grandmother, were
you not?’

‘Well, yes, but . . .’

‘And you said that nothing was missing, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’d forgotten about those old trainers. I didn’t even know they were at my nan’s. I can’t remember when I last wore them even.’

‘It would seem that you wore them on Saturday evening, Mr Bertorelli, when you visited your old friend.’

Alfonso’s lower lip was trembling again, and this time he lost control. He began to cry, his shoulders shook, an animallike wail filled the room. Briefly, Vogel looked away.

‘For the record, you do not know that, Mr Vogel,’ said Margolia.

Vogel ignored the lawyer and made himself stare straight at Alfonso, trying to keep his face expressionless.

‘Mr Bertorelli, how do you feel about women?’ he asked, remembering the man’s reaction when he’d suggested he was gay.

Bertorelli stopped crying. ‘I like women,’ he said.

‘Do you?’ A sudden thought had occurred to Vogel.

‘Yes. I’d never hurt a woman, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘I was rather more interested in your relationships with women. Have you ever had a real relationship with a woman, Mr Bertorelli?’

‘What? Of course I have.’

‘Have you ever actually had sex with a woman?’ Vogel continued mercilessly.

‘That’s enough, Mr Vogel,’ thundered Christopher Margolia.

Bertorelli looked horrified. Shocked to the core. But in spite of his lawyer’s intervention, he answered the question.

‘Of course I have,’ he said again, and once more started to weep hysterically.

Vogel was not convinced. Could Bertorelli be the oldest virgin in town? Was that one of his secrets? And, if so, how relevant was it? Had the man grown to hate women because he’d never had
a woman of his own, never had an intimate relationship? Was that what had led him to kill? But why Marlena?

There could be no doubt that Marlena had invited her killer into her home. And she’d been drinking champagne with him, or her; champagne which the murderous visitor almost certainly
brought along as a gift. A fatal gift.

Forensics had reported that substantial traces of gamma hydroxybutyrate had been found in Marlena’s almost empty glass at the crime scene. GHB is a central nervous system depressant, not
unlike the more common date rape drug Rohypnol, but it comes in a clear liquid form, thus making its presence in a translucent drink like champagne less detectable, in spite of its slightly salty
taste.

Alfonso Bertorelli was not a big man. Vogel considered that he would not be a particularly strong man. But a dose of GHB would render a much younger and fitter woman than Marlena incapable of
resisting assault. She would have been unable to do much more than watch as unspeakable atrocities were committed on her, until, mercifully, her life finally ebbed away . . .

Vogel realized that he had drifted off. He turned his attention back to the present, and to the man sitting opposite him, who had started to weep again.

Alfonso had no verifiable alibi for the approximate time, or for any time after 11.30 a.m. on the day Marlena had met such a vicious and violent death. The team had been unable to confirm that
he had visited a public house, and even if it were to be proved that he’d been drinking in a pub he may well still have had time to murder Marleen McTavish. He may not have been as drunk as
he’d suggested, or indeed, not drunk at all.

The evidence against Bertorelli in connection with this and the other incidents seemed to be growing day by day. Vogel might still think some of it a little too neat, a bit too convenient, but
if someone was framing Alfonso Bertorelli then they were making an extremely good fist of it.

And Bertorelli, who’d lived in London or thereabouts all his life and might well have been staying in King’s Cross with his nan at the time of the two murders there fifteen years
earlier, really wasn’t helping himself. He just kept repeating that he had no idea where he’d been during the period when Marlena was killed.

Vogel could no longer prevent the inevitable. DCI Nobby Clarke was very different to his previous boss, DI Tom Forest. She did not bluster. It was hard to imagine that she would ever rush
proceedings or cut corners in order to obtain a conviction that might later prove to be unsafe. Clarke was thoughtful and highly intelligent. It was no accident that she was the golden girl of the
Homicide and Serious Crime Squad. But she had, understandably, started to push Vogel. The evidence against Bertorelli was substantial and further forensic reports were likely to add more weight.
Indeed, Vogel could not even explain to himself why he was still reluctant to charge the man. Ultimately, Clarke told Vogel she could see no reason for further delay. Unless Vogel could come up
with a damned good reason why not, she wanted Bertorelli charged.

Wearily Vogel got to his feet and looked down at the quivering wreck of a man before him. A man for whom, whatever the outcome of the chain of events Vogel was about to put into motion, life
would never be the same again.

‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am charging you with the murder of Marleen McTavish,’ he began, his voice very soft.

Alfonso stopped crying again for a moment. He focused red-rimmed eyes on the policeman.

‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I’m innocent.’

Then he collapsed onto the table, his shoulders heaving, great noisy sobs filling the room.

The friends had learned of Marlena’s horrific murder the previous afternoon. Tiny had spent much of Sunday morning trying to call her to see if she fancied Sunday Club,
and to offer to get her to Johnny’s Place, but, of course, he received no reply – until around 2 p.m. when DCI Nobby Clarke answered Marlena’s phone.

The terrible truth quickly became apparent. Tiny and Billy between them called the rest of the group. Everyone expressed shock and disbelief. They were even more shocked to learn that Alfonso
had again been arrested, this time on suspicion of murdering Marlena.

Then on Monday afternoon came the official announcement that Alfonso had been charged.

Tiny and Billy saw it on Sky News and again phoned around the other Sunday Clubbers.

‘If it wasn’t so fucking serious, I’d think it was an April fool,’ George told Tiny.

‘What?’ responded the big man.

‘It is the first of April,’ replied George.

‘For fuck’s sake, mate,’ remonstrated Tiny.

‘All right, all right. But how could anyone believe the Fonz would harm his beloved Marlena.’

Tiny ended the call. None of their group wanted to believe Alfonso would have harmed Marlena. But somebody damn well had. She was dead. And although the details were not yet known, she had
apparently been killed in a particularly horrific way.

A disjointed and disturbing week followed, during which Alfonso appeared at Westminster Magistrates’ Court and could be seen in press photos and on the TV news, head bowed, being loaded
into a police van en route to Brixton Prison, where he was to be remanded in custody.

It was towards the end of the week that Ari, the only member of the group other than the arrested Alfonso not to have suffered from some kind of incident or attack, decided he wanted to see the
others, that it might help if they got together again to talk. So he set about trying to organize supper at Johnny’s Place for the following Sunday.

Previously there had never been any need for organization. There had always been an easy relaxed air about their gathering; the table at the far end of the basement restaurant would be laid and
waiting for however many of the group turned up.