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.’
‘Fifteen years is a hell of a long interval. Chances are, whoever was responsible is either dead or got taken out of general circulation in some other way, maybe locked up for another crime. Even so, make sure the team keep an eye out for any connections between our boys and what went down in King’s Cross. You never know . . .’
Back in the MIT’s incident room, Vogel assigned one of the sharpest young DCs, Steve Parlow, the task of following up on the Carla Karbusky lead – if indeed it was a lead and not another dead end. There continued to be no answer from the contact number George Kristos had supplied for her, which had turned out to be a pay-as-you-go phone. This made tracing the owner more difficult, but Vogel was confident that Parlow would eventually succeed. He wanted the young woman found, if only to give him some respite from wracking his brain trying to figure out why her face seemed so familiar.
Meanwhile, he drew up a list of known associates of the friends and ordered that they be brought in for questioning. This included, of course, Johnny the piano-playing boss of Johnny’s Place, Cathy the maître d’, and several other Johnny’s staff, some colleagues of Alfonso’s from the Vine, including his immediate boss Leonardo, Justin from Shannon’s, Pete the caretaker at Chatham Towers, and Paddy Morgan, the caretaker at Sampford House who had found Marlena’s body. There was nothing as yet to indicate the direct involvement of any of these, and the usual procedure would have been to conduct informal interviews elsewhere or invite them to attend Charing Cross police station by appointment. But Vogel had them picked up and brought in for formal questioning. He’d taken his kid gloves off and thrown them away.
There was one exception. Tony Kwan. Vogel wasn’t yet ready to summon the Triad boss to the police station, and he certainly wasn’t going to send a load of plods to pick Kwan up. Apart from any other consideration, if you started something with a man like Kwan, if you appeared to be taking him on, then you had better be prepared to finish it. Or else. And Vogel didn’t like to think about the ‘or else’.
A few years previously a couple of Met detectives based at West End Central had been investigating an upmarket protection racket centring on some of the major Oxford Street stores. They found evidence of blackmail, coercion and the use of extreme aggression, all of it pointing to Kwan. Somehow, Kwan got wind of the fact they were closing in on him. Threats were made; the detectives were warned that their families’ lives would be in danger if they didn’t back off. And fast. One of them, DC Leonard Smith, even claimed to have spotted a man armed with a sniper rifle on a roof overlooking the Savile Row entrance of the Mayfair police station. The top brass had dismissed the detective’s claims as pure fantasy, and ultimately both men had taken early retirement from the force. Vogel knew that Len Smith, with whom he’d been friendly, had suffered a nervous breakdown from which he had never recovered. The case was ultimately closed due to lack of evidence. To Vogel it seemed the Met had done what it had been told to do. Backed off. The whole matter had left a nasty taste in his mouth.
It was hard to blame those within the force who had taken the decision not to proceed. Kwan’s reputation was such that he was generally regarded as untouchable. Vogel did not know whether that was true. He did not operate at that kind of level within the Met. He did know that he was afraid of Tony Kwan. Very afraid. Anyone with half a brain would be. Vogel was a family man. He had a wife and a daughter. A vulnerable daughter. He wasn’t the gung-ho, have-a-go-hero type. He would have liked nothing better than to forget about that particular entry in Greg Walker’s phone, to accept Walker’s glib explanation of a simple purchase of whisky. But he couldn’t. As was often the case, he found himself resolved to follow a course of action he knew he might live to regret. Or did he just hope he might live to regret it? Vogel told himself off for letting his imagination run riot.
He was going to Soho to see Tony Kwan, and that was that.
It was almost 10 p.m. when he arrived, alone, at the Zodiac gambling club. Like Greg, he knew that Tony Kwan operated out of an office in the club. Unlike Greg, Vogel had never set foot inside the building. But he knew enough about Kwan to be confident that he would still be in his office. According to the legend that meandered its way around the bevied echelons of the Met, there was a sumptuous bedroom at the rear of the private office where Kwan frequently entertained whichever of the acquiescent young women who surrounded him might currently be taking his fancy. Kwan only returned to the gated complex at Virginia Water – his official residence and that of his wife, his sons and his daughters-in-law and their children – a couple of nights a week, and for Sunday lunches when he presided over a veritable banquet of dim sum and played at being the benevolent and doting head of his personal dynasty.
&nbs
p; The two dinner-jacketed heavies on the door stepped forward and blocked Vogel’s way when he approached the entrance. With his horn-rimmed glasses, crumpled cords, and diffident manner, Vogel might not have looked much like most people’s idea of a policeman, but these men were trained to spot a copper.
Vogel introduced himself and asked very politely if he might see Mr Kwan.
The smaller of the heavies spoke in a high-pitched voice which somehow added to his menace, as did his distinctly London accent.
‘The boss don’t see no one without an appointment,’ he announced.
‘I wonder if you could ask him if he might make an exception in my case,’ said Vogel, obsequious now. There was, however, an edge to his next remark: ‘We have matters to discuss which may be of mutual interest.’
The heavy subjected him to careful scrutiny, then stepped back into the doorway and began to speak quietly into the radio mike clipped to his lapel.
There was considerable noise in the street and coming from inside the club. Vogel couldn’t make out what the man was saying. The result, however, was that the doors opened and Vogel was escorted through the club to the private door at the back, then up the rickety staircase to Kwan’s private offices on the third floor. The same route that Greg had taken just days before.
Vogel should not have been surprised by the lavishly appointed interior, having been forewarned by colleagues. Nevertheless his jaw dropped.
The ever-courteous Kwan got up from behind his desk and came towards Vogel. He stopped a few feet away and bowed his head very slightly. Vogel did the same.
‘And so, Mister Vogel, we meet at last,’ said Kwan.
Obviously the doorman would have supplied his name, but Kwan’s choice of greeting implied that he already knew about Vogel.
‘Indeed,’ he replied.
He’d often wondered what it would be like to meet Tony Kwan. He had wondered if he would be intimidated. Particularly on the man’s own territory. Oddly, he felt no fear. So far, at any rate, he remained intent on his mission.
As if aware of Vogel’s thoughts, Kwan continued: ‘And how is your dear wife, and your daughter? In better health, I hope?’
Vogel felt something then, all right. He hadn’t expected Kwan to know anything about his personal life, especially given the fact he’d arrived unannounced, so Kwan had not had the opportunity to do any homework. A chill ran down Vogel’s spine. He was especially sensitive to any reference to his daughter. How did Kwan know she was anything other than entirely well? Was this just his way of displaying the depth of his knowledge of the Met in general and Acting Detective Inspector Vogel in particular, or was it a veiled threat? Only one thing was certain, thought Vogel: it was not a simple enquiry after the welfare of his family. Nonetheless he responded as if he had taken it that way.
‘They are both quite well, thank you, Mr Kwan,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice level.
‘To what do I owe this great pleasure?’ enquired Kwan softly.
‘I understand you know Greg Walker,’ responded Vogel, making a huge effort to put all other considerations out of his mind.
Kwan nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I believe you are heading the inquiry into the recent murder of two women in this area, both of whom have a connection with Mr Walker, I understand.’
‘Indeed,’ said Vogel again.
Then he waited, aware that Kwan was taking control of their meeting. Vogel didn’t mind. All he wanted was to find out what Kwan knew. And he sensed that the Triad boss had every intention of telling him.
Kwan cut right to the chase.
‘You did not come here this evening to enquire whether I or my people had any involvement in this?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Vogel.
‘Of course not,’ repeated Kwan. ‘We do not cut up old women and remove their reproductive organs.’
Vogel didn’t speak. The gruesome details of Marlena’s killing had not been released to the media. Miraculously, they hadn’t even been leaked on the net. If anyone else had divulged such knowledge, it would have aroused his suspicions. In Tony Kwan’s case, however, it was only to be expected. Both Marlena and Michelle had died within Kwan’s domain. The Triad leader was protective of his territory. He kept himself informed of any villains unconnected with him who were bold enough to operate on his patch. He would want to know who was behind such brutality, and why. Or that’s what Vogel was banking on.
Vogel waited for Kwan to continue. The Triad took his time.
‘My people have been making enquiries, on my instructions,’ said Kwan eventually. ‘We have our contacts, people you may not necessarily have dealings with, Mr Vogel . . .’
Kwan stroked his sleek black hair with the manicured fingers of one hand. Vogel thought he might be wearing clear nail varnish. His face revealed nothing. Vogel tried to appear equally inscrutable. He suspected he did not do it terribly well.
‘We also, Mr Vogel, have our own methods. Methods that are neither appropriate nor available to the Metropolitan Police.’
Kwan stretched his lips back from his teeth. Vogel assumed the man was trying to smile. He made his own attempt in response, but his mouth was so dry he feared he was unsuccessful.
Kwan turned and walked back to his desk. Suddenly he raised a clenched fist and smashed it down on the glass with such force that Vogel flinched, fearing the glass might break. It didn’t.
Kwan raised his fist again and held it up towards Vogel almost in a fascist-style salute. The part of his hand that had struck the desk was already beginning to swell. Still Kwan gave no sign of discomfort, but his face contorted in anger.
‘I have learned nothing! My people have found nothing!’ he shouted. ‘I know no more than the police. Nothing!’
Kwan spat out the word ‘police’, loading it with contempt. Vogel winced.
Then as abruptly as he had flown into a rage, Kwan sat down. Vogel could see the man was making a supreme effort to compose himself. He swallowed nervously, hoping that his anxiety didn’t show.
Kwan held out both his hands, palms upwards, as if in resignation.
‘I know nothing, Mr Vogel,’ he repeated, but this time in his usual quiet and courteous voice. ‘I have heard nothing. Neither have my people. It seems we may have a madman on the loose. You and I are on the same side here, Mr Vogel, I assure you. I am in business. I understand business, and the unpleasant necessities it sometimes brings. But this is something different. Something is happening under my nose, yet I cannot see it. Do you appreciate what I am saying?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Kwan, I most certainly do,’ said Vogel.
Tony Kwan saw these crimes as a violation of his domain. Moreover, people feared him in part because they thought him omnipotent, that nothing escaped his attention. Yet his efforts to identify the person responsible had been no more successful than Vogel’s. This was an intolerable personal affront.
Vogel, too, was a proud man. He had no illusions about his own omnipotence, but his failure to identify the killer had delivered a severe blow to his pride and he felt it keenly.
‘I am not happy, Mr Vogel, I am not happy at all,’ said Kwan.
‘And neither, Mr Kwan,’ replied Vogel, ‘am I.’
twenty-one
In their respective homes, the various friends struggled to come to terms with the aftermath of arrest and incarceration.
Tiny and Billy clung to each other, mentally and physically, seeking comfort.
Suddenly, Billy broke free of his partner’s embrace and asked: ‘Why did you go looking at puppies without telling me, darling?’
‘I told you, I told you as soon as we left the police station,’ Tiny replied. ‘You’d said you weren’t ready yet for another dog. You were quite definite about that. I had this crazy idea that if I found some gorgeous little puppy, and maybe showed you a photograph or something, you wouldn’t be able to resist. I don’t just want another dog, sweetheart, I feel like I need a dog about the p
lace again. Surely you understand?’
Billy pulled away from him.
‘Look, Tiny, I’m sorry, but this has been on my mind all evening,’ he said. ‘You did go to Uxbridge, darling, didn’t you?’
Tiny stared at him for several seconds. Tears formed in his big brown eyes.
‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that, Billy,’ he said. ‘Not you, you of all people.’
Murder creates many victims. There are grieving friends and relations of the deceased, the neighbours, colleagues and casual acquaintances shocked by the proximity of such violence. Then there are the suspects, not only those arrested and questioned as part of the official investigation, but those who fall under suspicion from their own family members and friends. And even if they have no doubts about each other’s innocence, there is always the question of blame. Would the young woman murdered after a night out with a group of mates still be alive if one of them had taken the trouble to walk her home? Could a child’s life have been saved if the parent or sibling or friend who was supposed to be looking after them had been more vigilant? Should we somehow be able to spot the paedophile, the rapist, the psychopath in our midst before they commit some terrible crime?
In the face of such guilt and recrimination, relationships that hitherto seemed rock-solid suddenly slide into a quagmire of doubt, fear and grief. Successful careers flounder. Men and women who have held down demanding jobs, led productive lives, cease to function. Children and young people who have previously been promising students, happy and fun-loving, lose the ability to learn or play. Decent human beings of all ages go off the rails, dropping out, running away, turning to violence. Those who have only dabbled in drink or recreational drugs, lose the ability to keep their habit in check.
Lives are wrecked, beyond all hope of retrieval.
Bob spent the evening alone, unable to eat, drink or sleep. He wanted to pick up the phone, to at least speak to another human being, to call a friend. But he couldn’t trust his friends any more, could he? He wanted to phone his son, only it had been so long since he’d spoken to Danny that he couldn’t just call him, out of the blue, and pour his heart out. And his friends, the little group in which he had once been so grateful to be included, were murder suspects, who, just like him, stood accused of killing one of their own. Bob felt totally alone. What had been done could not be undone. He could see no reason to carry on living. If he had the courage, he thought, he would find a way to end what passed for his life. But he didn’t have the courage. So instead he paced the perimeters of his cramped flat and the terrace which usually brought him solace but offered him none tonight. Only at dawn did he fall into a fitful sleep on his sofa.
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