Friends to Die For (35 page)

Vogel was inclined to agree. Stoically he carried on with his questioning.

‘What about when you went into the various flats to work on the private terraces? Pete wouldn’t have been with you then, would he? Presumably he wouldn’t have even known which
flat you were supposed to be in.’

‘What do you mean “supposed to be”?’ asked Bob, showing a bit of spirit. ‘Anyway, I was in and out of my van all morning, wasn’t I? They let me park it in the
courtyard round the back. I’m forever shifting plants about, fresh topsoil, fertilizer, tools and stuff, aren’t I? And I have to pass Pete’s desk every time, don’t
I?’

Vogel watched as Bob was escorted back to his cell. It wasn’t like him to feel so confused. He was also becoming frustrated. Every one of the seven appeared to have a
solid alibi for the period during which Michelle was killed. And this left the policeman no further forward.

He felt as if he were groping his way through a thick and impenetrable fog. And he was getting nowhere fast. Just as Bob had implied.

Vogel sat for a moment, staring into space, aware of DC Jones watching him anxiously. Then he pulled himself together and marched into the MIT room, trying to look purposeful. Perhaps there
would be news from the search teams or forensics. Also there might be word from the officers looking through CCTV footage, starting with the streets around Brydges Place, where Michelle’s
body was found, and then moving further afield.

Two murders had been committed and the murderer must have left clues. That was Vogel’s simple logic. Criminals make mistakes. Eventually. Sadistic killers leave a trail. It was up to him
to uncover that trail and to follow it to its conclusion.

In between my turns in the interview room I waited quietly in my cell. I could not believe they had not yet discovered me. Wasn’t it obvious by now that I was the
perpetrator? Many times throughout my life I’d wondered if I was the only person in the world who wasn’t stupid. This was just another example. I could always manipulate people, make
them believe what I wanted them to and do what I wanted them to do. It was as if God had given me some rare and dangerous talent, a genuine sixth sense, in exchange for what he had taken
away.

But nothing could ever make up for that.

I have experienced guilt. I am not a sociopath. I have feelings, not just for myself, but for others too. I’d even felt a certain sense of remorse when I had to dispense with Michelle
Monahan. Not much, it’s true. She’d always annoyed me. At first it had amused me to be wining and dining with a police officer, and her so blissfully unaware of my history. But she was
just too pretty and perky, too bright and vivacious. It made me want to slap her. I was jealous. Boy, was I jealous. She had everything going for her, yet after she’d had a few drinks she
would start to moan about her wicked ex-husband and her ruined life. There was nothing wrong with her life. She had a career. And her looks. Men seemed to fall at her feet. Even I’d found her
attractive, and that was the most annoying thing of all.

Nonetheless I regretted her passing. Strange, really, that I found myself almost mourning her death, as if I hadn’t been responsible for it.

It had been quite different with the bitch. I felt no regret for her passing. I’d carved into her and removed her organs much as a butcher would clean out the insides of a pig, leaving
little more than a bare gaping cavity. It pleased me that I had been efficient, quite casually efficient. I’d felt nothing for her. Indeed, as I’d watched the bitch’s life blood
flow, spilling across the floor, puddling at my feet, I experienced only a sense of release.

I had lusted after vengeance for so long, never imagining that it would one day come within my reach. So, when I severed the bitch’s genitalia and plucked out her womb, I had felt,
more than anything else, triumphant. I had finally been avenged.

Once it was done, and the bitch was dead, I considered, then, taking my own life. After all, thanks to her, it had always been a total disappointment to me. When I was younger I would
sometimes wake up in the mornings and feel a fleeting moment of hope at the thought of a new day. Then I would remember my own reality. Every day is the first day of the rest of your life, they
say. It could never be like that for me. Every day of my life I had to bear the legacy of what the bitch had done, what she had turned me into – a wretched apology for a human being, a
damaged, empty shell.

Marlena. So wonderful, so funny, such a character. Everyone loved Marlena. Even I had loved Marlena, hadn’t I? Before I’d learned the bitter truth.

My one regret was that I hadn’t killed her sooner. It offended me that she had lived so long, unscarred by what she had done. She’d claimed, in her dying agony, sputtering
through the gag I had made for her, that she hadn’t realized the damage she had done. Begging for mercy – she who had shown none! She’d thrown me aside, leaving me to suffer, not
just then but for the rest of my life. Self-preservation had been her only concern. She’d had no thought for me – until the day I finally caught up with her.

Oh, I had given her exactly what she deserved. I took my time, let her know what it was to feel pain as I sliced into her skin. My God had ordained that she be delivered unto his faithful
servant. He guided my hand as I hacked out her womb, the very symbol of motherhood, which had no place within her.

I had destroyed her just as she had destroyed me.

Michelle, on the other hand, met a quick and relatively painless death. She brought it on herself. If she hadn’t invaded my privacy, sneaking into places where she was not welcome, it
wouldn’t have happened. But she left me with no alternative. Had I not acted, she would have revealed me – for what I am, as well as for what I had done. And it was the prospect of the
former which distressed me far more than the latter. There are worse things than being branded a murderer. A prison sentence would be as nothing compared to what I had endured. But to have the
world know what lay behind the facade I had spent so many years crafting and constructing? I could not face that. No, that I could not allow. Therefore Michelle had to die. I knew I shouldn’t
reproach myself for what she had forced me to do. She had got what she deserved.

Now I must wait, as I have waited in the past, careful to give nothing away. That detective, Vogel, he was supposed to be clever, wasn’t he? I half expected him to burst into my cell
at any moment and declare that he was ready to charge me with double murder. If he were really clever, possibly other murders too. But time passed. I knew that, if no charge was brought, I could
only be kept in custody for thirty-six hours. Unless a magistrates’ court allowed a brief extension. And therein lies a most curious aspect of British law. In order to protect the innocent,
the guilty share all manner of privileges.

I knew that while I sat in my cell, Vogel’s minions would invade my home, sifting through my belongings, trying to find evidence against me. Their search would be in vain. I had
covered my tracks well. I’d had to move fast, thanks to Michelle Monahan sticking her nose in. I could have detained her when I surprised her in my flat, and dispatched her there. But that
would inevitably have left evidence. I was too clever for that. Instead I snatched her bag, knowing it would contain her phone. I didn’t want her dialling 999 or summoning help from any other
quarter. It took me a matter of seconds to pull on a hooded tracksuit and gloves and run after her. On the way out I had the presence of mind to snatch up the iron I had been using earlier and
throw it, along with Michelle’s handbag, into my sports bag which hung on a hook by the front door.

I caught up with Michelle easily. The damage I’d done to her nose made it difficult for her to breathe, which in turn prevented her running as fast as she otherwise might. Her home was
too far to run to in her condition, so I’d calculated that she would head for her place of work, thinking she would be safe there. Driven by fear, prey will instinctively scramble for the
lair. And so I had set my course accordingly, aiming to intercept her at the entrance to the narrow alleyway, trusting in the Lord to deliver her to me and to ensure that we would be alone. And He
did. But I’d had to be fast. One blow with the iron and she fell back into my arms. It had been so easy then to place my gloved hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her.

My skin had not touched her skin. The point of the iron must have dug into her skull as it was tinged red with her blood. I took it away with me in the sports bag. I was certain I had left
no traces on her body, no DNA and certainly no fingerprints. It was possible that a microscopic thread or two from my tracksuit could have adhered itself to her clothes, and that modern forensics
might detect this. But that tracksuit was about to disappear, along with the iron. The meticulous planning I had done in preparation for Marlena’s demise stood me in good stead now. I had a
mental checklist already in place, means of disposal already worked out.

The fact that this was a cleaner kill simplified matters. After I dispatched Marlena, my outer garment – the raincoat buttoned to the neck which had puzzled Marlena, though not for
long – had been covered with blood. Before leaving her apartment I’d removed it and placed it, along with Alfonso’s trainers, now covered in Marlena’s blood, into a sturdy
plastic bag that I then dropped into a sports bag. Even in central London, someone wearing a blood-soaked coat would attract notice. Underneath my raincoat I’d been wearing a hooded
tracksuit. Hoodies are God’s gift to the criminally inclined. There may be CCTV on every street corner in London, but in a hoody your anonymity is guaranteed. I’d walked for some time,
in ever increasing circles, until I came to the pub by the river, not far from Southwark Bridge. An insalubrious hostelry, but perfect for my present needs, being unprotected by video security and
with a gents’ toilet that can be accessed from a side hallway without going through the bar. There I changed into the clothes I’d been carrying. Alfonso’s incriminating trainers
went into a plastic carrier so that I could return them to him later. Everything else I had worn when I killed Marlena was now in the sports bag, along with three bricks. I left the pub, walked to
the middle of the bridge and leaned over the parapet as if looking down into the water. It was dark by this time, but I took the time to make sure no one was watching and that no vessels were
passing below. Then I dropped my bag into the water.

I didn’t have a change of clothes on hand when I dispatched Michelle Monahan, but fortunately my credit card was in the pocket of the tracksuit pants. I drew £200 from a cash
machine so I would not leave a trail of plastic. Then I bought a T-shirt from one of the tourist stalls on Trafalgar Square, a hoody – naturally – from another store, jeans from
somewhere else, and so on and so on until I had everything I needed.

Then I made my way to the public toilets near Embankment tube station. It wasn’t an ideal venue because there were bound to be CCTV cameras in the area, but I hadn’t the luxury
of time on this occasion. Keeping my hooded head lowered, I entered the cubicle and dressed in the new clothes. The old clothes went into my sports bag, along with Michelle’s handbag, the
plastic bags that had contained my new purchases, and the iron, which would make a most effective weight.

I pulled up the hood of the sweatshirt and walked to the middle of Waterloo Bridge. There was no time to go further afield or to wait until dark, which made it a risky undertaking, but no
one seemed to pay any attention as I dropped the incriminating evidence into the Thames, where it was immediately swallowed by the fast-flowing current.

It was a shame that, thanks to Michelle, all the meticulous work that had gone into framing Alfonso would now be wasted. When I thought of the hours I’d put in, all for nothing, I
found myself wishing Michelle were still alive so I could punish her for the nuisance she’d caused. Knowing that Marlena and Alfonso usually crossed paths on a Monday morning –
you’d think it was his idol Madonna or some celebrity, the way he gushed about their weekly ‘chance’ encounter – I had pedalled along Marlena’s route through Covent
Garden for three successive Mondays until finally the timing came together and Alfonso appeared just as she made to cross the road at Cambridge Circus. I hadn’t bargained on a bus approaching
the junction just at the moment I’d ridden my stolen bicycle straight at her, but it had turned out well in the end. The ‘coincidence’ of Alfonso being first on the scene had
aroused the suspicions of both Marlena and the police.

I had thought to frame him for the first attack on Michelle by leaving her handbag at his grandmother’s flat. Provided the ‘mugging’ occurred after he finished his shift at
the Vine, I was confident he would have no alibi. Ironically, Michelle’s comings and goings were so unpredictable that I was still struggling to devise a way to keep track of her when by
chance I saw her emerging from Marks and Spencer’s in Long Acre and followed her to Marlena’s place. While I waited for her to emerge I scoured the surrounding streets for another bike
to steal, then lay in wait. When I slammed my fist into her face as she reached the junction of Theobalds Road, I had no idea Alfonso was so close at hand. Truly, God was with me that night. He
stands by my shoulder in all that my adversity has driven me to. And he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.

While Alfonso toddled off to the hospital with Michelle, I had all the time in the world to plant the evidence that would guarantee his arrest. Not his conviction – not at this stage.
If he hadn’t been released from custody as soon as the requisite thirty-six hours had passed, I would have had to defer my plans for Marlena. But no, everything proceeded as He had
ordained.

Until Michelle ruined everything with her prying and probing, leaving me no option but to dispose of her at a time when Alfonso, locked up in a police cell, had the most impeccable of
alibis.