Friends to Die For (31 page)

Her first impulse was to reach for the phone to call Vogel. Then she changed her mind. How could she discuss the case with him, share her doubts with him, when he continued to harbour suspicions
about her? Nor could she tell him the one thing that would lay those suspicions to rest: the truth. Even now, there was no way she could bring herself to reveal the details of her trip to Zurich.
Aside from the dubious legality of what she had planned, it was all too intimate, too personal, too likely to invoke pity.

No, she could not expose herself to that. In any case, she had probably got it all wrong. The case against Alfonso seemed rock-solid, she couldn’t be certain that what she’d learned
the previous evening would make any difference. True, it raised questions about another member of the group, but did it undermine the evidence against Alfonso?

She had replayed the attack on her over and over again in her mind and was certain that her assailant had been male. Though the features had been hidden behind glasses and a scarf, the sheer
power of the punch told her it had to be a man. Besides, assuming that the perpetrator was a member of Sunday Club, there were only three women in the group. One was dead, one was her – and
she was guilty of nothing except desperation – and the third was Karen. Michelle could not, even in her wildest nightmares, consider Karen capable of such extremes of violence – nor did
she have the strength. Thanks to her colleagues at Charing Cross nick, Michelle was aware of details concerning Marlena’s death that had not been made public; the force with which the murder
weapon had been driven into her friend’s body indicated a degree of physical strength that was beyond most women.

No, it was definitely a man, it was almost certainly one of the friends, and her suspicions were beginning to focus on one particular friend. Although, as with Alfonso, Michelle had no idea what
possible motive he could have.

It was too soon to share her suspicions with anyone. There was too little to go on at this stage. She needed to know more, to confirm to her own satisfaction that she was on the right track. The
only way to do that would be to conduct her own inquiries. She knew it was unwise, but that wasn’t going stop her, just as it hadn’t stopped her flying to Zurich to meet her dodgy
doctor. Michelle wanted to talk to this man. Even if Vogel were to take her seriously, he didn’t know this man the way she did. Faced with a policeman, his answers would be guarded, careful.
She on the other hand was a friend; he wouldn’t even realize he was being questioned. What’s more, she had the first-hand knowledge to trip him up in any lies. No one was better placed
to force him to incriminate himself. If indeed he were guilty.

For the first time since her hopes were dashed in Zurich, she felt buoyant and confident of her abilities. She realized she might be putting herself in danger, but planned to reduce the risk by
arranging to meet him in a public place. A breakfast meeting in Costa or Starbucks, perhaps; somewhere he would not dare to attack.

An involuntary shiver ran through her at the memory of the cyclist bearing down on her in his hoody and dark glasses. That had been a public place; even late at night there had been cars and
pedestrians in the vicinity, and still it hadn’t saved her from that punch in the face. It had all happened too fast for anyone to react.

Michelle did try, momentarily, to talk herself out of her own plan. One half of her urged caution, but the other declared that she was in any case battered and broken and probably eternally
childless, so what did it matter if she lived or died?

She checked her watch. Just after 8.30. She picked up her phone then put it down again. To hell with it. Better to arrive without warning. More dangerous, perhaps, but surely more likely to
bring results. She doubted he would have left home yet. With luck, she would catch him as he made his way out, invite him for coffee. That way she wouldn’t have to actually step inside his
place. She’d better hurry though, because there was one other visit she needed to make before she confronted him.

She hurried to the bathroom, and covered her battered face with a thick layer of pancake make-up. Then she put on dark glasses and a baseball hat with a long peak which she pulled down over her
forehead. She hesitated for just a moment before removing from the cupboard by the front door a small leather case, which she slipped into her coat pocket, then hurried downstairs.

Vogel had been at his desk in Charing Cross police station for a couple of hours, still battling to come to terms with his doubts. He had MIT chaps all over the place trying to
build a stronger case against Bertorelli, but nothing they’d come up with so far seemed to quell his misgivings.

His peace of mind was further shaken by a call that came through shortly after nine. It was his old friend Ben Parker in Dorset.

‘Look, mate, I’ve been mulling this over ever since I heard about that woman who’s been murdered on your patch,’ he began. ‘It’s probably nothing, and
I’m hating myself for this, but I guess I just can’t keep shtum any longer . . .’

‘For God’s sake, Ben, spit it out. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry here.’

‘OK, OK, look, that night I got wasted with Phil Monahan on your behalf, he let it slip that Michelle’d had a hysterectomy. He said she’d been knocked sideways, was never the
same afterwards, knowing she couldn’t have a baby. Anyway, he swore me to secrecy, because he’d promised her he wouldn’t let anyone know. Said it was the least he could do. But,
well, when it came through the old grapevine how that poor bloody woman had been cut up . . . Oh, I know it’s ridiculous. Just shoot me down in flames, will you?’

Vogel thought it was ridiculous, but was unnerved nonetheless. He ended the call and cursed silently. It was obvious what Ben Parker had been getting at. Michelle Monahan might have become so
unhinged that she’d developed a lethal grudge against women with the necessary biological equipment to produce the children she could not have.

But Parker didn’t know about the mugging that had left Michelle far too badly beaten up to have launched an attack on anyone. Even if she hadn’t been injured, Vogel could not believe
she would be crazy enough or vicious enough to butcher another human being the way Marlena’s killer had. And why, if envy was the motive, would she have chosen a victim way beyond
child-bearing years, a woman who had no children? Surely her target would have been Karen, the only mother in the group.

No, he did not for one moment think that Michelle Monahan could be guilty of Marlena’s murder, but Parker’s call had stirred up his misgivings about her furtive behaviour, the lies
she’d told to cover her absence from work. There had to be a rational explanation. Colleagues who’d been in touch with her said she was still in a bad way after the mugging, so
he’d put off having another talk with her. Once she was recovered, though, Vogel would talk to her again. Make her tell him the truth.

In the meantime, his focus had to be the case against Alfonso Bertorelli. If he could only find a more damning piece of evidence, something that would silence those niggling doubts that kept
troubling him . . .

The results of Michelle’s first call, at a Covent Garden address not far from her eventual destination, made her all the more determined to follow through with her plan.
She had the bit between her teeth now and was in no mood to let concerns about her safety stand in the way. If she started thinking like a victim, worrying about danger all the time, she might as
well kiss her career in the police goodbye. The only way to conquer fear was to push yourself through whatever barriers it tried to throw up, consequences be damned.

The communal front door to the apartment block where he lived had been propped open, presumably by the driver of a courier van who was busily loading parcels onto a trolley ready to wheel them
into the entrance hall. She flitted through unnoticed and quickly climbed the stairs. There was no response when she knocked on the door of his flat. She waited, knocked a second time. Again, no
reply. He must be out already.

Seeing an opportunity she had not previously anticipated, she hesitated only a moment before coming to a decision. Fresh out of training college, she’d learned one of the most valuable
lessons of her career from a soon-to-retire copper of the old school. The illicit art of lock-picking wasn’t a skill the force looked favourably on, but her instructor insisted it would stand
her in good stead. He’d been so impressed with her natural talent for the task that on his retirement he’d presented her with a gift: the small leather case in her pocket, packed with a
selection of the best tools for the job. Michelle had seldom made use of it, but she remained rather proud of her ability to crack simple locks without leaving a trace.

The lock on the closed door which faced her was an elderly Yale. She set to work. It took her less than a minute to successfully open the door. She stepped inside and looked around, wondering
where to begin her search. After all, she didn’t even know what she was looking for. And a part of her still held out that there was nothing to be found.

Noticing a desk on the far side of the room, she crossed to it, opened one of the drawers, and began to rummage through.

Then she heard a noise behind her. A door opening. A footstep. She turned to see him standing, half naked, just inside the room, dripping water everywhere. He must have just emerged from the
bath; if it had been a shower, she would surely have heard it. As he lurched towards her, his face contorted with rage, the small towel he had draped around his waist fell to the ground, leaving
him naked. For a second or two they both froze. The look on his face told her he was every bit as shocked and confused as she was, and just as frightened.

As she stared at him, transfixed, Michelle knew with absolute clarity that her suspicions had been right. This was the man who had killed Marlena, who would kill her if she did not get out of
here this minute. So she turned, heading for the front door as fast as she could. He hurled himself sideways, making a grab for her, but he managed only to grasp her new shoulder bag. He tore it
from her, breaking the strap. Then he seemed to step back, almost as if allowing her to escape. She half threw herself down the stairs, sprinted through the main door out onto the street and took
off at a run, as fast as she could, her baseball hat falling unnoticed onto the pavement beneath her feet. She put a couple of blocks between herself and the apartment building before pausing to
look back. She couldn’t phone anyone. Not easily anyway. Her new phone had been in her bag. She thought about approaching a passer-by for help, but decided her best option would be to head
for Charing Cross police station, a couple of streets away. There couldn’t be a much safer place than that.

Nobody seemed to be following her. But then, he had been naked. He wouldn’t come after her without first pulling on some clothes, would he?

She leaned, panting, against a wall on the corner of St Martin’s Lane and Brydges Place, struggling to catch her breath. Her damaged nose made it difficult for her to breathe while
running.

Brydges Place is a narrow pedestrian alleyway, overshadowed on either side by tall buildings, and surprisingly little used at the St Martin’s Lane end. It offered an effective shortcut to
the police station. While Michelle was wondering if this was a shortcut she dared use, or if she should take the safer albeit longer option of the main drag, she felt a blow in the small of her
back. A gloved hand was clamped over her mouth. Unable to make a sound, she found herself being pulled into Brydges Place. She could see people just a few feet away, but he’d been so quick
and strong and assertive that nobody seemed to have noticed what was happening.

She began to struggle, but her strength was no match for his. The hand over her mouth was half smothering her. Why didn’t someone come into the alleyway? If someone didn’t come right
this minute it would be too late for her; unless she could remove the hand that was blocking her airway, she’d soon lose consciousness. Her mind was extraordinarily lucid – just as
Marlena’s had been, though she didn’t know that. So this is it, she thought. I’m going to die at his hands.

Strangely, the worst part was knowing that she would die without learning the answer to the question that had plagued her all night.

Why? Why had any of this happened? She knew now what he was, and had seen in his eyes how he must see himself. But why had he suddenly turned on his friends, inflicting such sadistic cruelty on
people who had trusted and cared about him? Why?

It was her last thought. She felt an almighty blow to the back of her head. A searing pain cut through her body. Strong hands gripped her neck, squeezing the life from her. Then she was gone.
Dead in his arms.

At last, too late, a pair of chattering office girls turned into the alleyway, heading for their place of work.

He shifted her weight, twisting her round so that she faced him, her dead body pressed close to his deadly one. Then he buried her face in his shoulder and lowered his hooded head, careful that
his flesh did not touch hers, so that her features were concealed.

The two girls passed by without giving him, or poor dead Michelle, a second glance. She and her murderer looked every bit like a pair of lovers locked in a clinch.

He watched the girls retreat, their backs silhouetted against the brightness beyond the alley. There was a kind of alcove to his right, formed by the entrance to an old fire escape. He let
Michelle’s body fall softly into a heap against its graffiti-covered yellow doors.

Then, he walked calmly away, his footsteps quiet and unhurried, until he was lost in the anonymous hubbub of the city.

The sight of a fellow human being slumped against a doorway in central London is sadly an everyday occurrence. The homeless, the drunk and the drugged, refugees and runaways,
the mentally unstable, the physically infirm, the temporarily embarrassed and the permanently hopeless, are eternally attracted to the capital’s heaving melting pot. They seek refuge in the
archways that surround our major railway stations, beneath bridges and viaducts, in the doorways of office and apartment blocks; they lie on the pavement by heating outlets, and are to be found
sheltering in alleyways and dark corners throughout the metropolis. Their presence, frequently comatose, attracts little or no attention. And so it was that upwards of forty or fifty pedestrians,
some using Brydges Place as a shortcut and some heading for the Two Brydges members’ club and the old pub next to it at the Bedfordbury and Chandos Place end of the alley, made their way past
Michelle’s body without giving her a second glance, let alone stopping to investigate.