Friends to Die For (47 page)

Vogel’s wife, Mary, greeted the DCI warmly and ushered her into the living room of the Pimlico apartment.

Clarke took in the abundance of pink, the floral wallpaper and curtains, and the predominantly feminine air of the place. For some reason, Vogel, sitting on an ornately covered settee with
luxuriously deep cushions, seemed to fit in perfectly – but then, why shouldn’t he, in his own home?

Next to him was a young girl, in her early teens, Clarke thought, holding a purple Nintendo Game Boy. She waved one arm awkwardly. All her movements seemed awkward.

Vogel stood up and shook Nobby Clarke’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming, boss,’ he said. Then he gestured to the girl.

‘This is my daughter, Rosamund,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ said Rosamund. She spoke in rather a slow, stilted way, but her smile was captivating.

Clarke found herself smiling back. Then she returned her attention to Vogel. He was wearing, or half wearing, a large white cotton shirt, the sleeve hanging loose over his left arm and
shoulder.

‘How’re you doing, David?’ she asked.

‘OK, the antibiotics appear to be doing their stuff,’ Vogel replied.

‘Good,’ said the DCI. ‘You know you’re bloody lucky to still be in the job, don’t you? Blundering into a gunfight as if you’re a sheriff in a very bad
western. Against every damn regulation.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Vogel.

‘Anyway, I managed to bring the brass round. They’re convinced you’re some kind of hero now.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘Must say, I never expected this sort of trouble from you, Vogel. Thought they called you the Geek?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Vogel was staring at Nobby Clarke with a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘But names can be very inappropriate, can’t they?’

‘Don’t even go there, Vogel,’ growled the DCI.

‘No, boss,’ said Vogel, just as his wife walked into the room carrying a tray bearing teapot, cups and saucers, and a large round fruit cake, yet to be cut.

‘Any further news about Kristos?’ Vogel asked, changing the subject and getting on to the topic he was really interested in.

‘No more than you know already,’ said Clarke, accepting a cup of tea. ‘Kristos and Burns checked out to be the same person. There was a load of stuff found in Kristos’s
flat that none of the idiots searching it previously had thought important – hair dye, medication, jockstraps, that sort of thing. And, of course, the original photo of Alice Turner was on
his hard drive, along with the one he’d doctored, the one that was supposed to be his girlfriend Carla. All circumstantial, as evidence goes. So perhaps it was a good job he topped
himself.’

‘Surely nobody could doubt his guilt?’ said Vogel.

‘A bloody court of law could,’ muttered Clarke. ‘We have, however, officially closed the investigations into the King’s Cross murders, the two Sunday Club murders, and
all the other Sunday Club crimes, major and minor.’

Vogel had expected that. ‘What about Amsterdam?’ he asked.

He might have been on sick leave, but contacts within MIT had told him about the murder of a prostitute in the notorious red-light district of De Wallen in 2007. It had not previously been
linked with the 1998 King’s Cross murders, even though the young woman found dead in the cabin she rented in order to ply her trade had been strangled and then repeatedly stabbed and
mutilated in the same manner as the London victims. The Internet had still been in its infancy in 1998, in Europe at least, and information, both official and unofficial, did not cross
international boundaries as freely back then.

‘Well, we were able to inform the Dutch police that Kristos/Burns was in Amsterdam at the appropriate time,’ said Clarke. ‘Filming a walk-on role in a commercial for a budget
airline, it seems.’

‘Don’t think they’ll be repeating it then,’ murmered Vogel.

‘No. Anyway, we just heard that the Dutch have officially closed their murder investigation.’

‘What else could they do?’ Vogel asked. ‘It all seems so unfair on the victims and their families though. No proper closure.’ He looked Clarke in the eye. ‘And
speaking of unfair, it seems very hard on Greg Walker. If only I’d been quicker off the mark, I might have stopped that shooting.’

‘Hmmm, and if you’d been a bit slower, Walker would be dead. I know it doesn’t seem fair that he’s facing a murder charge, and I don’t give a damn about
Kwan’s goon, but there’s no alternative, is there? Walker set out with a loaded handgun, intent on killing a man – and that’s just what he did, albeit the wrong
man.’

‘So what about Kwan and his mob?’

‘The goon who shot you and Walker is being done for GBH. I’m trying to get Kwan on a conspiracy charge, but the bastard’s wriggling like a maggot on a fish-hook.’

‘Well, if anyone can make it stick, boss, it’ll be you,’ said Vogel.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Vogel,’ said DCI Clarke. ‘But there’s really no need to arse-lick . . .’

She stopped, remembering Vogel’s daughter was in the room.

‘Sorry,’ she said, to nobody in particular.

‘She’s heard worse,’ said Vogel.

‘Anyway,’ Clarke went on. ‘What I mean is, I’ve already fixed it for you to drop the “acting” and become DI on a permanent basis. And, even though
you’ve caused me so much trouble, I’d like to keep you on my MIT. I always have been perverse.’

Vogel grinned broadly.

‘Thanks, boss,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated.’

He glanced almost imperceptibly towards his daughter.

Nobby Clarke ate two slices of fruit cake, which was extremely good, and drank two cups of tea before leaving.

Mary Vogel showed her out. The DCI noticed a wheelchair in a corner of the hall. She must have walked straight past it on the way in.

As she opened the front door, Mary paused. ‘Rosamund adores her dad,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what she’d have done if he’d got himself properly shot. I’ve
given him a right telling-off.’

‘Me too,’ said Nobby Clarke.

Vogel’s wife smiled. ‘He’ll never say, but for the first time in his life he really wanted this promotion. He’s not one to think much about money, you see. But
Rosamund’s getting to an age when she needs all sorts of things. Her dad wants to be able to do a bit more for her . . .’

‘I understand, and I’m delighted it’s worked out,’ said DCI Clarke. ‘You do know your husband is an exceptional officer, don’t you, Mrs Vogel?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mary Vogel, beaming with pride. ‘I know.’

Nobby Clarke was preoccupied as she wandered off in the general direction of Pimlico tube station. She was almost certain Rosamund Vogel suffered from cerebral palsy. Clarke had a friend with a
son who had CP. Yet there’d been no mention in Vogel’s file of his having a disabled child, and she’d never heard it mentioned. Typical, she thought.

David Vogel wouldn’t want anybody to know anything about his personal life, if he could avoid it. He was the most private of men. And a rather surprising one too, it seemed.

About a month later the remaining Sunday Clubbers met for what they all knew would be the last time.

Marlena, Michelle, Karen and George were dead. Greg was out of hospital, but had been remanded in custody until his trial.

The five who were able to do so gathered at Tiny and Billy’s flat. None of them could face Johnny’s Place, even though Johnny had made a point of calling them to say they would
always be welcome. So Tiny and Billy had offered to lay on a light supper at their home – and on a Saturday evening, not a Sunday. The boys were still together, and still living in the same
Covent Garden flat. But they had not acquired another dog, and didn’t intend to. They were, however, the proud owners of a large silver cat.

Alfonso was drunk when he arrived and immediately announced that he was leaving the country.

‘I can’t face this fucking city any more,’ he said. ‘The Vine don’t want me back. I’m going to Italy. I have a cousin with a restaurant in Naples. He’s
taking me on.’

‘And your mother?’ asked Billy. Tiny kicked him under the table.

‘Oh sherrup,’ said Alfonso, pouring himself a large glass of wine.

The other friends wondered sadly if he would ever sober up enough to be able to hold down a job. Particularly in catering.

Bob too was planning to emigrate. But his was a happier story.

‘I’m going to New Zealand to be with my boy,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left for me here now. Danny heard about what happened because it was all on the Internet. He
phoned me out of the blue. Said he was sorry we’d fallen out of touch. I have a granddaughter now, as well as a grandson. My Dan’s doing brilliant. Lives in Auckland in a big house with
a chalet in the garden. Said I could have it, if I liked, and there’s a lot of people he knows want gardens looked after – including him! So I’m going. What the hell,
eh!’

‘Glad shumbody’s got a happy fucking ending,’ muttered Alfonso.

‘That’s great news, Bob,’ said Ari, glowering at Alfonso. ‘I’m delighted for you.’

Alfonso turned towards Ari.

‘And what about our poor little rich boy?’ he asked, not very pleasantly.

‘I’ve got some news too,’ responded Ari levelly. ‘I’m getting married.’

‘Jeshus Christ,’ said Alfonso.

‘Congratulations, mate,’ said Bob.

‘Yes, congratulations,’ echoed Tiny and Billy.

‘Hope she likes the white stuff,’ said Alfonso.

‘Shut up, Fonz,’ said Bob.

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Ari. ‘She’s a good Muslim girl. She doesn’t do drugs, and neither do I. Not any more. Dad said I had to sort myself out or else.
And I knew he was right.’

‘I give it five minutes,’ said Alfonso. ‘The coke
and
the marriage.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Bob again.

‘Let’s keep it cool, guys,’ said Tiny. ‘We’ve been through enough, haven’t we? All of us.’

The large silver cat was sitting on his lap, as she had been through most of the evening.

Bob reached to stroke her neck. He’d known this reunion of the surviving Sunday Clubbers was always going to be tricky. Alfonso, drunk and somewhat belligerent, was making it worse.

‘What’s the cat’s name?’ Bob asked, seeking any sort of diversion.

‘Lola,’ replied Tiny.

‘Isn’t that what the cops told us Marlena was called in her other life?’ asked Ari.

‘Yep,’ Billy replied. ‘Madame Lola, after the Marlene Dietrich song, we reckon.
Lola, Lola, they call me naughty Lola.
Dietrich was Marlena’s heroine, after all.
Lola is our tribute to Marlena.’

‘I see,’ said Bob, looking as if he didn’t.

There was an awkward silence, filled eventually by Ari.

‘Look, we can’t get over George, can we?’ he said. ‘I mean, he seemed so normal, one of us. How did he keep that act up for so long?’

‘He was a trained actor,’ said Tiny.

‘He was also a raving lunatic and a psychopath,’ said Bob. ‘And none of us noticed. Ari’s right. I’ll never get over it. Never.’

‘Four of our little group dead, two horribly murdered, and poor Greg banged up for taking the law into his own hands.’ Billy blinked rapidly. ‘How can any of us ever get over
it?’

Alfonso poured more wine, slopping some of it on the table.

‘I think we should raise our glasses in a toast,’ he said. ‘To absent friends.’

The five stood up, Alfonso rather unsteadily.

‘To absent friends,’ they repeated,

‘All except one,’ said Tiny.

Hilary Bonner is a full-time author and former chairman of the Crime Writers’ Association. Her published work includes ten previous novels, five non-fiction books: two
ghosted autobiographies, one biography, two companions to TV programmes, and a number of short stories. She is a former Fleet Street journalist, Show Business Editor of three national newspapers
and Assistant Editor of one. She now lives primarily in the West of England where she was born and brought up and where most of her novels are set, and partly in Covent Garden, the location of this
book and a place she has grown to love.

BY HILARY BONNER

Fiction

The Cruelty of Morning

A Fancy to Kill For

A Passion So Deadly For Death Comes Softly

A Deep Deceit

A Kind of Wild Justice

A Moment of Madness

When the Dead Cry Out

No Reason to Die

The Cruellest Game

Friends to Die For

Non-fiction

René and Me
(with Gorden Kaye)

Benny: The True Story
(with Dennis Kirkland)

It’s Not a Rehearsal
(with Amanda Barrie)

Journeyman
(with Clive Gunnell)

Heartbeat: The Real Life Story

acknowledgements

With grateful thanks to various members of the Metropolitan Police Service, including the desk staff at Charing Cross station – you were all great; former Detective
Sergeant Frank Waghorn, as ever; Terry Freeman for his help and wonderful stories of being a bouncer (sorry, ‘security doorman’); Lt Colonel John Pullinger, OBE, formerly of The
Parachute Regiment; Wayne Brookes, Anne O’Brien and everyone at Pan Macmillan for their hard work and continuing belief and support; my agent Tony Peake; and my partner Amanda, for yet again
putting up with me in writing mode. Also, of course, enormous thanks to the real life Sunday Clubbers, Alan St Clair, Chris Clarke, Amanda etc., and a certain restaurant called Joe Allen and all
its staff – for the inspiration and for many wonderful Sunday nights without a murderer to be seen. As far as we know . . .