Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

He picked up the gun and peered into the barrel. It was gleaming. As far as Greg knew, the pistol hadn’t been fired since his father had brought it home. But that was about to change.

He loaded several of the cartridges into a magazine and inserted it into the handle of the pistol, just as he had seen his father do. Greg was quite confident that the gun was up to the task ahead. He only hoped he was too.

Late that afternoon George was released. Vogel had attempted to persuade Nobby Clarke that an appeal should be made to magistrates court for a further period of detention. Under the Police And Criminal Evidence Act, magistrates have the power, when it can be effectively argued that a suspect’s further stay in custody is both necessary and potentially productive, to authorize detention in police cells, without charges being brought, for up to four days. But Clarke and her superintendent at Homicide Command refused even to apply for a magistrates order, saying it would be a waste of time. They had no evidence that could convince the court there was sufficient cause to detain George Kristos a moment longer. Vogel had no choice but to concede defeat. In truth, he knew his superiors were right, but he felt he had to at least make the attempt.

George went straight home. He made no attempt to contact any of the remaining friends. Unaware that some of them would have been unable to take his call in any case because they had been re-arrested, he simply assumed they wouldn’t want to speak to him. Any more than he wanted to speak to them. Besides, the police still had his mobile phone. He did, of course, have a house phone, and it started ringing soon after he returned to his flat. He ignored it. George was in a state of shock. He felt tense and, for perhaps the first time in his adult life, threatened. He needed time to himself. Space to think things through. He was aware that he had become Vogel’s prime suspect, but he had no idea what influence this third violent death would have on the detective’s thinking. After all, there was no way anyone could accuse him of killing Karen Walker. Not when he’d been banged up in a cell at Charing Cross nick when it happened.

There had been times in the past when I felt that God had deserted me, turned his back on me in my hour of need. My faith had been tested, it had weakened, but He had never forsaken me. For the righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.

Despite my best-laid plans, I had made mistakes as I sought to fulfil my mission. Mistakes that had resulted in my being delivered unto my enemies and looked set to allow those enemies to reveal me for what I was. That man Vogel, the one poor little Michelle so revered, thought he had the measure of me. But he’d understood me not at all. He thought he was so clever, and yet he had failed to spot so much.

But neither he nor I could have foreseen the divine intervention that lay in store. For He was watching over me. After all, I am His instrument of destruction. Through my flesh His will is channelled and implemented irrevocably. And so He brought me forth, He delivered me, for He delighted in me. What other explanation could there be?

Thanks to the hand of God, I was now beyond suspicion in the eyes of Vogel and his self-important cohorts in the Murder Investigation Team. And that was how I hoped to remain.

The deed was done. I had been avenged. There would be no more pranks, no acts of vandalism afflicting the shattered and scattered remnants of the ill-fated Sunday Clubbers. There would be no more muggings, no more murders.

It was over. I am a creature apart and will stay that way. A creature it is impossible for others to grasp. I am, it seems, as elusive as ever. My very being is impenetrable. I wonder if they will ever find me now. But in any case, it doesn’t matter. I have triumphed. His power and His glory abide with me.

Not long after George’s release Vogel received the telephone call from Dr Patricia Fitzwarren which changed everything. She had begun the post-mortem examination on Karen Walker immediately after Greg Walker had left the morgue. She now had the results.

‘I’ve checked and double-checked, Vogel,’ she said. ‘It seems quite incredible in view of all that has happened, but there’s no doubt about it: Karen Walker was not pushed and neither did she jump.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ said Vogel.

‘Mrs Walker suffered a massive subarachnoid haemorrhage, caused by an aneurism in the brain,’ Pat Fitzwarren announced. ‘You know what an aneurism is, don’t you, Vogel? A bulge in an artery, a swelling. It can cause headaches but generally there are no symptoms significant enough to cause alarm, no warning signs. Indeed, an aneurism doesn’t cause any trouble worth mentioning unless it bursts. And that’s what happened in this case.’

‘So are you saying she died of natural causes?’

‘No doubt about it. Mrs Walker’s aneurism burst, resulting in a fatal brain haemorrhage, enough to kill her almost instantly even if she hadn’t been unlucky enough to collapse onto the track in the path of an oncoming train. It may not be possible to ascertain whether she was actually dead when the train hit her, but I guarantee she was as near as damn it.’

‘My God,’ said Vogel.

The implications of the pathologist’s verdict were immense. George Kristos had been released from custody not only because of a lack of hard evidence but because it was believed that there had been another murder, one for which he couldn’t have been responsible.

Vogel was still trying to assimilate what it all might mean, when Parlow came into his office.

‘What are you doing here?’ Vogel demanded. ‘You’re supposed to be on family liaison duty with Greg Walker.’

‘I know, guv. But he didn’t want me with him. Said he needed time on his own.’

‘Parlow, for God’s sake, didn’t they teach you anything on that fancy course you went on? What Greg Walker does or doesn’t want isn’t the bloody point. The job’s not just about playing nursemaid to the bereaved. It’s a watching brief. The man’s already threatened to take the law into his own hands. And now it seems his wife wasn’t murdered after all. You’d better go find him. Fast.’ Vogel sprang to his feet and hurried towards the door. ‘First though, let me get Nick Wagstaff — you’re going to need some back-up.’

‘Right, guv.’

Chastened, Parlow followed Vogel into the outer office. Not seeing Wagstaff seated at any of the desks, Vogel shouted his name. A head turned.

‘Yes, guv,’ it said.

Vogel frowned, confused. For a split second he had no idea who was addressing him. Then light dawned. It was Wagstaff. But his former grey hair was now a rather unnatural bright and evenly coloured brown.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Vogel. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

Wagstaff flushed. ‘It’s the missus, guv,’ he said. ‘Reckoned I was looking old.’

‘Right. Well before you retire to your vegetable patch, I need you to team up with Parlow. He’ll fill you in.’

Despite the enormity of unfolding events, Vogel couldn’t help smiling as he turned towards his office. It was hard to believe that a simple change in hair colour could so dramatically change Wagstaff’s appearance.

At the door, Vogel turned suddenly. ‘Wagstaff, don’t you usually wear glasses?’ he asked.

Wagstaff paused, his arms half in and half out of the coat he was pulling on. ‘The missus again, guv,’ he said. ‘Got contact lenses now. Damn things are bloody irritating to wear too, and if you ask me...’

Vogel had nothing more to ask Wagstaff. He had stopped listening.

He returned swiftly to his desk and from the top drawer removed the photograph that had been bothering him. He scanned into his computer the picture of a young woman George Kristos claimed to have found in a magazine, then opened it in Photoshop, where he began to adjust the hair colour from blonde to black, then brown. He played with the colours, darkening and lightening them. He added a touch of red, removed it, and settled, for the moment, on a kind of mousey brown. It looked right somehow. Then he changed the style of the hair, made it less contemporary, longer, with some width. He made it curly. That seemed wrong. Didn’t suit the face. He waved it, just a bit. Added a fringe. Removed it. Put it back in again.