Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘Yeah, we need those armed response boys,’ Carlisle called after the DI.

Vogel ignored them both. The door at the back of the club which led to Kwan’s private offices was closed but unlocked. Vogel pushed the door and it opened, but not completely. He squeezed himself through the gap, his pulse quickening as he saw the dead doorman lying at his feet. He stepped over the body and ran upstairs.

The third-floor door to Kwan’s office was also open. Having been decimated by the blast of gunfire administered by Greg Walker, it would no longer close.

Vogel burst through. He just had time to take in Tony Kwan, still sitting at his desk, a bleeding Greg Walker slumped on the floor, and a Kwan henchman holding a handgun stepping threateningly towards him. Thanks to his police firearm training, Vogel registered that the gun, doubtless illegal, was a revolver of the type favoured by bodyguards and so-called security staff because, although it could not be fired as rapidly as a semiautomatic, it didn’t jam.

The henchman fired. The revolver didn’t jam. Vogel felt a burning sensation in his left shoulder.

He staggered but managed to stay upright.

‘Put that gun away, you fool!’ Tony Kwan shouted at his henchman. He was almost screaming, apoplectic with rage. ‘You’ve shot a cop!’

Vogel’s knees were beginning to buckle. His legs felt like jelly, and the burning sensation in his left shoulder had become a searing pain. His mind remained absolutely lucid. He’d behaved like a fool, but perhaps the consequences were not entirely without merit.

‘Yes, indeed Mr Kwan,’ he said, managing a small smile. ‘Your goon has shot a policeman. And in your own office. Looks as if we’ve got you bang to fucking rights at last.’

Then he fell to the ground alongside Greg Walker.

Parlow and Wagstaff, who were making their way up the rickety staircase, heard the shot that had felled Vogel and instinctively stopped climbing.

‘Shit,’ said Parlow.

Wagstaff, still fired up from his manic drive, recovered fastest. ‘Come on,’ he said, taking another step upwards. ‘We gotta get our guvnor.’

Parlow grabbed his fellow DCs arm.

‘No,’ he said. ‘We could have a dead copper up there. Nobody wants another one. An ARU should be here any minute.’

As if on cue, a tall Chinese heavy with a gun in his hand stepped out of Tony Kwan’s office onto the third-floor landing and peered down the stairwell at the two detectives. He looked as if he was thinking of making a run for it.

Parlow gulped.

‘Fuck,’ said Wagstaff.

Fortuitously for both men, the henchman seemed to change his mind and retreated back into the office. And armed response did arrive within minutes.

Wagstaff and Parlow were ordered out of the building. The ARU boys proceeded cautiously upstairs. No further shots were fired. Kwan was arrested, along with the security man who had shot Greg Walker and Vogel, two of Kwan’s sons, another security man, and the three young women who were found cowering in the bedroom.

Once the premises had been cleared and declared safe, a paramedic team was allowed in. Greg Walker, who’d lost so much blood he was by then barely conscious, was swiftly loaded into an ambulance.

Vogel turned out not to have been seriously injured. After the paramedics had removed his jacket and cut away the sleeve of his shirt it was revealed that he’d suffered only a flesh wound. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his shoulder at the top of his arm, avoiding any bone or major ligaments. It hurt like hell, but Vogel refused point-blank to be dispatched to A and E.

‘I’m in the middle of something that won’t wait,’ he said. ‘I have work to do.’

He seemed more worried about his horn-rimmed spectacles than his injured shoulder. The glasses had fallen off when he’d collapsed after being shot. They were duly retrieved and handed to him.

‘Thank God for that. Thought I was going fucking blind,’ Vogel muttered.

He then draped his damaged jacket over the temporary dressing on his shoulder, wincing as he did so, then ignored the protests of the paramedics as he walked out of the building.

Wagstaff and Parlow, still hovering outside in Lisle Street, were mighty relieved to see him.

‘Thank God you’re all right, guv,’ said Parlow.

Vogel grunted. ‘Take me back to Charing Cross,’ he instructed Wagstaff.

As he reached to open the door of the CID car his jacket slipped off his injured shoulder, revealing the recently applied dressing through which blood was already seeping.

Wagstaff hesitated.

‘Get on with it, man!’ Vogel ordered.

Once in the car, he examined his jacket. It was corduroy and had seen better days, but now the left sleeve was stained with blood and there was a hole in it.

As they all climbed out of the car at Charing Cross, Vogel turned to Wagstaff.

‘Take your jacket off and give it to me,’ he ordered.

Wagstaff hesitated.

‘Give me your coat, man,’ said Vogel. ‘I have interviews to conduct. I can hardly turn up with blood all over me, like some fucking Casualty extra, can I?’

Somewhat reluctantly Wagstaff handed over his light grey suit jacket and helped Vogel put it on. Parlow watched as the necessary manoeuvring of Vogel’s arms and upper body caused the DI to turn even paler than he had been before. Wagstaff was about the same height and of similar build to Vogel, but he was very slightly slimmer. The jacket was a tight fit, which did not help matters.

‘Are you sure you shouldn’t go to hospital, guv?’ Parlow asked.

‘Shut up, Steve,’ said Vogel.

He led the way into the station. DCI Clarke was waiting for him.

Vogel, I know this case is your baby, but you belong in hospital,’ she said.

Vogel glowered at her. ‘So everyone keeps telling me,’ he replied. ‘And I will go there, boss, as soon as this is over.’

Nobby Clarke studied him for a moment and gave a resigned shake of the head. ‘All right, Vogel, against my better judgement, you can carry on,’ she said. ‘But you’re going to the hospital later, whether everything’s sorted or not.’

‘Thanks, boss,’ said Vogel, thinking he’d argue about that ‘later’ if necessary.

‘Bob Buchanan’s come in, but Alfonso Bertorelli was so pissed when Carlisle spoke to him on the phone there was no point in even trying to get him here,’ Clarke continued. ‘I’ve got Buchanan and the three Sunday Clubbers we already had in custody waiting in the big interview room. Best to talk to them all together this time, I reckon. Might jog each other’s memories.’

Vogel made his way there, pausing to ask Parlow to go get him some paracetamol. Not that it would do much good. The pain in his shoulder was beyond the remit of non-prescription drugs.

DS Jones took the chair next to Vogel. Bob, Tiny, Billy and Ari were sitting in a row of upright chairs like a bunch of kids in detention, Vogel thought. Not one of them had asked for a solicitor to be present.

‘I want to know if any of you are aware of Marlena ever having owned or ridden a motorcycle,’ Vogel asked.

Ari glanced towards Bob. ‘She did say something,’ he said. ‘Didn’t she, Bob?’

‘Yeah, the last time we played The Game. It would have been—’

‘What game?’ interrupted Vogel.

‘Our version of the truth game,’ said Ari. ‘One of the group would ask a question of the others. The idea was to get everyone talking, to have a laugh...’

‘Only that wasn’t how it panned out that particular Sunday,’ said Billy. ‘It all got a bit too serious, for some reason.’

‘“What was your biggest life-changing moment?”’ said Tiny. ‘That was the question. Karen was the one who asked it.’