Friends to Die For (36 page)

After disposing of the bag of clothes off Waterloo Bridge I’d gone home and cleaned the place thoroughly, wiping every surface Michelle might have touched. Not that it would have been
a disaster if I missed the odd print. After all, we were friends, what could be more natural than Michelle having visited my flat?

There was nothing in my flat to arouse suspicion, nothing to indicate to the police that I was not the man I claimed to be.

For if they were to discover my true identity, even that bumbling Detective Vogel would be capable of piecing it all together.

Vogel spent most of the latter part of the afternoon in the evidence room. The teams searching the homes of the friends had seized a considerable selection of items including
computer equipment, cameras and assorted paperwork. Specialist officers were in the process of checking the contents of hard drives and memory sticks, but so far nothing of significance to the case
had been found.

Tiny and Billy had a penchant for gay porn, nothing heavy duty though. Bob had signed on to a lonely hearts site, but had engaged in little activity, not even arranging a single date.
George’s computer contained a considerable number of photographs of attractive young women, but the pictures were innocent enough.

The personal possessions removed from the group in the custody unit had also been bagged and filed. These included phones, wallets, notebooks and even a couple of non-electronic diaries.

Vogel paid particular attention to the contacts directories in the phones and diaries, and the contents of the wallets.

On each phone Vogel picked the first few numbers from the list of numbers most frequently called and checked them out. The recipient of the first call he made from the numbers on Greg’s
list sounded most disconcerted to hear from a police officer. That, however, did not surprise Vogel. He’d already checked the number against the police database and discovered that it
belonged to an importer of goods whose shipments were often dubious in origin. While distinctly shifty, it seemed unlikely that these dealings had any connection with the case under
investigation.

Similarly, Ari’s list of favourites included a well-known drug dealer. That held no interest for Vogel either.

Calls to numbers on the favourites lists of the other five detainees revealed nothing of obvious interest. Vogel planned to put a team onto a more thorough examination of all seven phones and
their records, but before handing over had a quick glance down the full contacts directories just in case anything leapt out at him. Something did. It was an entry on Greg’s phone for a Tony
K. Vogel realized he might be jumping to conclusions, but there was an 0207 287 prefix, which he knew identified it as a Soho number. He hesitated for a moment then pressed dial. An educated voice
with just the hint of an indefinable accent answered on the second ring.

‘Zodiac Enterprises.’

Vogel ended the call. So Greg had Tony Kwan’s office number listed on his phone. It was difficult to imagine what connection Kwan would have with the friends, or, indeed, with all that had
befallen them. But Greg knew him well enough, or had at least had sufficient dealings with Kwan, to include him on his contacts list. That might just be the most interesting piece of information so
far.

Kwan was a notorious gangland figure, and although nothing had ever been proven he’d been implicated in murders in the past. Even so, Vogel considered him an unlikely suspect. Tony Kwan
was ruthless, a deadly adversary who would eliminate a rival or enemy without compunction, but he went about his business efficiently, taking care to ensure that it was conducted without attracting
the attention of the authorities. This was not his style. If he’d been behind these killings, the bodies would never have been found.

However, the fact that Kwan was listed on Greg’s phone was enough for Vogel to recall Greg for interview. He asked him how he knew Tony Kwan.

‘I don’t,’ said Greg quickly. Rather too quickly, Vogel thought.

‘Mr Walker, Tony Kwan’s phone number is listed on your phone,’ said Vogel wearily.

‘Is it?’ asked Greg. ‘Oh yes, I remember now. I sold him a few crates of malt whisky a while back. They like their whisky, the Chinese.’

‘And that was enough for you to enter his phone number in your personal contacts list?’

‘More business than personal. I like to be able to keep in touch with my customers, never know when they might want to place another order.’

‘And you have had no other dealings with Mr Kwan?’

‘No. Why would I?’

I have no idea, thought Vogel, but I’d stake this year’s backgammon winnings that you bloody well have, big time.

‘Mr Walker, you do know who Tony Kwan is, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘’Course I do, Chinese businessman, ain’t he?’ said Greg ingenuously.

Too irritated to argue, Vogel sent Greg back to his cell. Then he recalled Karen Walker for interview. This could be interesting, he thought.

‘Mrs Walker, did you know that your husband has an association with a man called Tony Kwan who is believed to be a high-ranking member of the Triad crime organization?’ Vogel
asked.

Karen looked shocked to the core.

‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘No, no, of course I didn’t know.’

Then she burst into tears yet again.

After that Vogel turned his attention to the wallets, diaries, notebooks, and other pocket and bag paraphernalia belonging to the arrested seven. The contents of George’s wallet proved of
interest to Vogel. Tucked into the flat section at the back was a photograph of a striking young woman with cropped white-blonde hair. Vogel removed it and studied it carefully. He held it to the
light from the window. The face triggered some memory that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She seemed familiar, yet he had no recollection of her name or where he had encountered her.
Had he come across her in the course of a police investigation, either as a perpetrator or a victim? Vogel screwed up his eyes and concentrated hard. Try as he might, the answer eluded him. Perhaps
his mind was playing tricks on him, trying to create connections where none existed. It had happened in the past, in investigations where the lack of a breakthrough had left him feeling as if he
was clutching at straws.

Nonetheless, he decided it was cause enough to reinterview George Kristos.

He placed the photograph which had caught his attention on the interview-room table so that it faced George.

‘Could you please tell me who this is?’ Vogel asked.

George looked irritated rather than uneasy.

‘It’s my girlfriend,’ he said.

‘I see, sir. Would you mind telling me her name?’

‘Carla. She’s called Carla. What the heck does she have to do with any of this? She’s never even met any of the Sunday Clubbers.’

‘All the same, I should very much like to talk to her.’ Vogel opened his notepad. ‘I’ll need her full name and address.’

‘Carla Karbusky. I don’t have her address.’

Vogel’s antennae wiggled, instantly on the alert.

‘Are you telling me you don’t have your girlfriend’s address?’

George shifted in his chair. He looked uncomfortable.

‘She’s Polish, she’s not been in the country very long. She stays with friends.’

‘I see. Does she work?’

‘Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. She wants to study over here, as a mature student, only she hasn’t got a college place yet.’

‘You don’t know very much about this girlfriend of yours, Mr Kristos, do you?’ Vogel persisted.

George blushed. ‘I know all I need to know,’ he muttered.

Then he attempted what seemed to be a sort of knowing leer, as if indicating that his comment was a reference to matters sexual. Vogel didn’t think it worked very well.

‘Where did you meet her?’ he persisted.

‘I just bumped into her in the street,’ said George. Then, as if realizing that he sounded wary and defensive, he switched gear and became effusive: ‘Literally. We collided.
She dropped her bag. I picked it up and asked her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee. One thing led to another.’

George leered again.

Vogel stared at him.

He reached for the padded envelope on the table in front of him and tipped out George’s phone, still in its polythene evidence bag. Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, Vogel removed the
phone and held it out towards George.

‘Presumably you have Carla’s phone number?’ he enquired.

George frowned.

‘Naturally.’

‘And so you have it listed in your phone?’

George hesitated for a split second. Or did he? Vogel wasn’t sure of anything any more. Then George nodded.

Vogel searched for an entry for Carla. There did not appear to be one. He frowned and held out the phone across the table again.

‘Then perhaps you would point her number out to me, Mr Kristos,’ Vogel instructed.

‘Scroll down,’ said George. ‘Go to G.’

Vogel did so. George pointed at an entry. Vogel was puzzled by what he saw.

‘Mr Kristos, this number is not listed under the name of Carla or Karbusky. It is simply listed as GF. Could you explain that to me, please?’

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said George chippily. ‘GF for girlfriend.’

‘I see, and is there any particular reason for that manner of listing?’

‘I’d have thought that was obvious too,’ said George. ‘When you get through girlfriends at the rate I do, it’s easier to list ’em that way. I just change the
number. Don’t have to bother with a new name or anything like that.’

He looked pleased with himself.

Vogel didn’t know what to make of him. Was the man being serious? And was his behaviour suspicious or was it simply a display of rather unpleasant bravado?

‘So you consider yourself to be something of a ladies’ man, do you, Mr Kristos?’

‘Obvious again,’ said George, this time smiling what he presumably thought was his charming smile.

He might be a good-looking bastard, thought Vogel, but he wondered that any woman would be interested in someone who appeared to be so lacking in charm, manners and any kind of respect for
women.

While continuing to stare at George, Vogel dialled the number for GF. The call immediately switched to voicemail. Vogel tried again. Same result.

‘All right, Mr Kristos, you can go back to your cell. But rest assured we will continue to check out your Carla Karbusky.’

George just carried on smiling. It seemed to Vogel the kind of smile that indicated that the bearer reckoned he knew something you didn’t.

He was beginning to wonder about George Kristos. But he reminded himself that just because the man was an arrogant ratbag it didn’t necessarily follow that he was a murderer too.

Vogel was determined to keep the seven for as long as possible. Certainly for the full thirty-six hours allowed without a court appearance. And so they were detained in police
cells overnight.

Potential evidence submitted for forensic examination had been fast-tracked, and Clarke had drafted in extra computer forensic officers to fully examine the impounded technical equipment.

Vogel suspected it was rather too much to hope for that his double killer might be not only a sadist but also the kind of sicko who took photographs of his victims or kept an electronic diary of
his activities. However, a copper could dream. At the very least they might turn up a fresh lead. Because Vogel was fast running out of leads.

He made his way down to the interview room to start a second day of interviews feeling thoroughly disheartened. He’d hoped by this time to have narrowed down his list of suspects. Instead,
he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t widen the field, work further on the possibility that the killer was not one of the seven friends.

One by one, he reinterviewed the seven suspects. In reality, he was playing for time, keeping the group in custody while the search teams and forensic experts combed through their homes and
belongings, desperately trying to find some scrap of useful evidence.

That ploy came to an end with the arrival of Christopher Margolia, now acting on behalf of Billy and Tiny, and May Newman, a headline-grabbing criminal lawyer with a penchant for suing the
police for wrongful arrest, who’d been hired, apparently to Ari’s surprise, by his father.

While Mustaf Kabul was more than happy to allow his son to face the music unaided when confronted by drug-related charges, when a murder charge loomed it seemed he was prepared to bring in the
best lawyer his money could buy.

Margolia, who’d also agreed to act for the other four detainees, and Newman made a formidable team. Newman cited just about every human rights act since Habeas Corpus, or so it seemed to
Vogel, and promised dire consequences if her client was not released forthwith. Margolia followed her lead, as indeed he had in court on numerous occasions.

Vogel ultimately had no choice but to comply. The six men and one woman who had been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Michelle Monahan were released on police bail at 5 p.m. precisely that
afternoon.

‘Looks as if we’re going to have to cast the next wider,’ said Clarke. ‘Get the team out interviewing friends, associates, contacts – the works.
Tell them I want no stone left unturned.’

Vogel could see she was getting twitchy. He was too. A double murderer remained on the loose, while the best MIT team in London, led by a DCI with an
exceptional reputation, appeared to be achieving little beyond running around in circles.

‘Did you get any hits from HOLMES – homicides matching the MO of Marlena’s murder?’

The Home Office Large Major Enquiry System had been set up in the wake of the Yorkshire Ripper investigation to allow rapid and accurate cross-referencing of information between regional police
forces. Details of Marlena’s murder had been fed into the system, but the only matches had been the two women murdered in King’s Cross fifteen years earlier.

‘Just the two cases we already knew about,’ Vogel told her. ‘I dug out the files again and it was as I remembered: the reproductive organs of both victims had been hacked out,
and unlike Marlena they had been strangled beforehand. Ari Kabul would have been eleven years old in 1998, which effectively rules him out, but the others could still be in the frame.’