Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘Clearly we are investigating that possibility,’ said Vogel.

Greg stared hard at him. He sensed that the policeman believed Karen had been murdered. All this business about keeping an open mind was just Vogel playing it by the book.

‘We can’t rule out at this stage that Mrs Walker’s fall was accidental. And then again, it could have been...’ Vogel paused to take a very deep breath. ‘It has to be possible, I’m afraid, Mr Walker, that your wife may have taken her own life.’

‘What? My Karen? Top herself? No fucking way, mate,’ said Greg.

Vogel glanced pointedly at the sofa. There was a pillow at one end and a crumpled blanket tossed carelessly across the middle. It was obvious someone had been sleeping there.

‘May I ask if you and your wife had a recent disagreement, Mr Walker?’ Vogel asked.

‘Oh my God,’ said Greg. ‘You seriously think my Karen went and topped herself because we had some bloody silly row? Is that what you’re saying? That’s rubbish. Rubbish, do you hear?’

Vogel seemed to take pity on him. Certainly his reply was uncharacteristic in that it revealed more information about his own attitude than might have been prudent at that stage.

‘Actually, that isn’t what I think, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘I believe, in all probability, and given the circumstances involving other recent incidents with which you and your wife have connections, that Mrs Walker was murdered. But our inquiries are still proceeding, and I must say again that we do have to investigate all possibilities.’

Greg simply nodded. He felt drained. For the moment, it didn’t matter how Karen had died. All that mattered was that she was dead.

‘And I am afraid I need to ask where you were this morning, at 10.25 a.m., when your wife died?’

Greg wanted to scream at Vogel. No one in their right mind would believe he was capable of killing his own wife, the only woman he’d ever loved. But he couldn’t summon up the energy. He had no fight left in him.

‘I was here, just lying on the sofa most of the time,’ he said.

‘On your own, sir?’

‘Yes, on my own.’ Greg spoke wearily rather than in anger. He had gone beyond anger.

Vogel glanced again at the sofa, with its pillow and blanket.

‘Were you sleeping?’

Greg shrugged. ‘Some of the time. Not at first. But I hadn’t slept for most of the night, so yes, I did drop off eventually. I was asleep when you—’

Greg stopped speaking abruptly. He supposed he might be arrested again now. On suspicion of his wife’s murder. He stared apprehensively at Vogel, waiting for the detective to speak again. To issue a caution, perhaps.

Instead Vogel asked, ‘Do you have anyone you could contact, someone who could be with you, Mr Walker? You’ve had a terrible shock, you shouldn’t be on your own.’

Greg shook his head. He supposed he was relieved that he wasn’t going to be arrested. But he didn’t care what happened to him. Not now.

Vogel continued, ‘I could arrange for someone—’

‘No,’ Greg cut him off. ‘I don’t want anyone with me. Not family, not friends, and certainly not a copper.’

‘As you wish, sir, but—’ Vogel began.

‘I want to see her,’ Greg said suddenly. ‘Will you take me to see her?’

‘Mr Walker, your wife was hit by a train. Her injuries are... They are extensive...’

‘Look, doesn’t she have to be formally identified? Isn’t that what happens?’

‘Yes, but not necessarily by you, Mr Walker. You may prefer to remember her as she was.’

‘No,’ Greg insisted. ‘She’s my wife. I should be the one to identify her. And I want to see her. You can’t stop me.’ He looked at Vogel questioningly. ‘You can’t, can you?’

Vogel shook his head. ‘I can’t stop you, Mr Walker,’ he said gently. ‘Nor would I wish to, if that is what you want. But I must warn you that you may find it upsetting. Upsetting in the extreme.’

Greg drew himself up, visibly steeling himself for whatever lay in store.

‘I have to say goodbye to my Karen,’ he said. ‘I have to. For her. For me. And for our kids.’

Back at Charing Cross police station minor pandemonium awaited Vogel in the shape of a rampant Christopher Margolia. Nobby Clarke had instructed the front office staff to make him wait for Vogel’s return, and the lawyer wasn’t best pleased. Neither was Vogel. His workload seemed to be growing with every passing minute, and he needed to focus all his powers of concentration on the three violent deaths he was dealing with, not waste his precious time fending off angry lawyers.

Somehow Margolia had learned of Karen Walker’s death, and he seemed to think this meant George Kristos should be released at once. Vogel sighed to himself as the lawyer pontificated as if he were grandstanding in front of a crowded courtroom instead of one unimpressed detective. Kristos had been very much Vogel’s own personal prime suspect, so he supposed it was fair enough that Nobby Clarke had delegated this tiresome business to him. All the same, he could have done without it.

‘You had no cause whatsoever to re-arrest my client in the first place,’ stormed Margolia. ‘How Mr Kristos cares to conduct his personal life is not a police matter. And now it emerges that while he was detained in police custody another murder was committed. In light of the fact that Karen Walker was the only surviving female member of Sunday Club, there is every reason to suppose her death was the work of the same person who killed Michelle Monahan and Marleen McTavish. Is that not so, Acting Detective Inspector Vogel?’ Margolia put emphasis on the word ‘acting’. ‘Or are you one of those police officers who ignores the overwhelming evidence against him and tries to pass it off as a coincidence?’

Vogel did not reply to that. He wasn’t one of those police officers. Nor was he one of those officers who was led by hunches rather than hard facts. But he had been so sure that Kristos was guilty. He’d honestly believed it would be only a matter of time before some genuine incriminatory evidence was revealed. Unfortunately, it appeared he was running out of time.

‘Mr Margolia, we are still investigating your client and we wish to continue questioning him. We have thirty-six hours, as you well know, and then we can if we wish apply to a court for an extension.’

‘Well, you certainly won’t get it,’ snorted Margolia.

Vogel thought the lawyer was probably right, but he said: ‘That would be for a court to decide, and would obviously depend on how our inquiries are proceeding.’

‘I am asking for my client to be released immediately on police bail,’ insisted Margolia.

‘No, sir,’ said Vogel, quite forcibly for him. ‘I intend to keep your client in custody for as long as I am legally allowed.’

And with that he turned his back on the lawyer and marched off in the direction of the MIT room.

Much as they would have preferred to devote their energies to building a case against Kristos, Clarke and Vogel knew they had no option but to pursue other avenues of inquiry. They immediately set about assigning teams of officers to question the rest of the friends as to their whereabouts at the time of Karen Walker’s death.

Bob had returned to work, trying to carry on as normal. A pair of MIT detectives tracked him down to a boutique hotel off Covent Garden’s Broad Court, where he was attending to the small garden and window boxes. He seemed stunned by the news of Karen’s death. But he was once more able to satisfactorily account for his movements. He had arrived at the hotel just before nine and had remained there ever since. There were a number of witnesses who could vouch for this. He was not re-arrested.