Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘Yes,’ agreed Billy. ‘And we nearly had a domestic, Michelle ended up in tears—’

‘I got maudlin about my boy,’ Bob cut in.

‘And Marlena told us her life-changing moment was when she had an accident riding her motorbike,’ said Ari. ‘It made her grow up, she said. Seemed a bit strange to me, now I think of it, but Marlena always came up with something unexpected.’

‘That was it though: a motorbike accident, a long time ago,’ confirmed Bob. ‘And I remember that she said it was a pink motorbike. Well, you wouldn’t forget that, would you?’

The hairs on the back of Vogel’s neck were standing on end. This was it. This was really it, he thought. Marlena on her pink motorbike — little Rory Burns’ pink lady. She had to be. No doubt about it.

‘Was that the first time any of you had heard about Marlena’s motorcycling days, the first time she had spoken of it?’ Vogel asked.

‘I think so,’ said Billy. ‘It certainly came as a surprise to me.’

‘Can you all remember when this took place? You said it was the last time you played that game?’ Vogel continued.

‘It was the end of February, wasn’t it, when the weather was so cold?’ offered Tiny.

‘I can tell you exactly,’ said Bob grimly. ‘It was my son’s birthday: February twenty-fourth.’

‘And that was well before any of the incidents, wasn’t it?’ enquired Vogel.

‘Oh yes,’ said Billy. ‘The Mr Tickle thing with George happened in mid-March. I remember because he didn’t come to Sunday Club right afterwards, and that was the weekend we went to your mate’s wedding on the Saturday, Tiny...’

Billy paused. A thought had obviously struck him.

‘Where is George, anyway?’ he asked. ‘We know Alfonso’s on the sauce, but where’s George?’

Vogel did not answer the question.

‘And where’s Greg?’ asked Bob. ‘Though he must be half out of his mind, poor bastard.’

Vogel passed no comment on that, either.

‘Can any of you tell me if George Kristos was present at Sunday Club the night Marlena talked about her motorbike and the accident which changed her life?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ said Bob. ‘He was there. We all were, which was unusual...’

His voice tailed off. Then he spoke again.

‘What’s happened to George?’

Vogel thought for a moment. He decided to tell them the bald facts.

‘Mr Kristos has been arrested on suspicion of the murder of Marleen McTavish and Michelle Monahan,’ he said. ‘And we expect to charge him, probably within the next few hours.’

Four shocked faces stared at him. Nobody spoke.

Then Bob pointed at Vogel’s shoulder.

‘You’re bleeding, Mr Vogel,’ he said, looking even more shocked.

Vogel glanced down. Blood was seeping through Nick Wagstaff’s jacket. Flipping thing would be pale grey, Vogel thought, wondering if he’d end up having to buy Wagstaff a new suit, and if so, whether he’d be allowed to claim it on expenses.

‘Don’t worry about that, it’s nothing,’ he said dismissively.

Without further explanation he told the four men that he had more questions for them, several points he needed to clarify, and he would be grateful for their continued assistance.

They had questions for him too, once they’d recovered from their initial shock, but he could not provide answers. All four men would be called as witnesses in due course, and the last thing he wanted was to see the case thrown out of court because something he’d divulged had prejudiced the defendant’s right to a fair trial. He did tell them that Greg had been injured, but avoided the details.

He spent half an hour or so going over what the men knew about George, and what they knew about Marlena, the meetings between them and so on, and then there was a knock on the door and Parlow stuck his head in.

‘The doc’s here, guv,’ he said, discreetly passing Vogel a packet of paracetamol.

‘About time too,’ said Vogel, checking his watch. ‘Right, get him set up and go fetch Kristos.’

He returned his attention to the four.

Five minutes later Parlow burst through the door without knocking. His face was flushed and he was in a state of panic.

‘You’d better come quick, guv,’ he gulped.

Vogel immediately got to his feet and hurried to the door. Whatever had spooked Parlow, he didn’t want him blurting it out in front of the four witnesses.

As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, he turned to Parlow. The younger man was trembling.

‘It’s Kristos,’ he said. ‘Looks like he’s topped himself.’

Vogel raced to the cell block, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He pushed through the crowd of police officers who’d gathered in the custody suite and stopped in the cell doorway. George Kristos was lying on the bed, covered in blood. It was obvious that his throat had been cut. A stunned Sergeant Andy Pierce stood over him.

Vogel stared in horror. Then he thought he heard a gurgling sound. That surely meant the man was still breathing, didn’t it?

He leaned forward and felt George’s pulse. Was there a flicker of life? He wasn’t sure.

‘Get that doctor in here, for fuck’s sake,’ Vogel shouted to nobody in particular.

‘I’ve sent Jenkins to fetch him, sir,’ said the custody officer.

Vogel turned to him.

‘How could this happen, Pierce?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you guys check prisoners?’

‘I looked in every half-hour, I swear it,’ replied Pierce. ‘The prisoner was lying down, wrapped in his blanket. I couldn’t actually see him because the blanket was pulled up over his head. I just assumed he was sleeping.’

‘You assumed,’ growled Vogel. He turned his attention to the prisoner.

‘How did he do it? What did he use to cut his own fucking throat? You did search him, I presume?’

The custody officer ignored the last remark. Instead he pointed to the bloodied half of a razor blade which lay alongside George on the bunk.

‘Seems he smuggled it in, guv,’ said Sergeant Pierce.

Again he pointed. This time to a small cylindrical object with some sticky tape attached to it. Vogel recognized it as the curved end of a cigar container. He didn’t need to ask how George had smuggled the half-razor in. He had inserted it in his anus, and an anal search is not a routine part of custody procedure at British police stations.

‘He must’ve had that damned thing up his arse when we arrested him,’ muttered Vogel. ‘He had it all planned. He knew exactly what he was going to do if we came to get him. He was one step ahead of us, the bastard. Just as he’s been all along.’ Vogel shook his head angrily. ‘How can a man cut his own throat?’

George’s eyes were closed. Vogel moved closer and lifted one eyelid. A pale blue eye stared at him, presumably the man’s natural iris colour. Having decided to end his life, Burns had finally abandoned all pretence and removed the tinted contact lenses that had been part of his George Kristos disguise. The cold blue eye was full of hatred. Vogel stared into it. He could see a kind of triumph there too, he was sure of it.

Then Burns’ entire body convulsed and he spewed black blood from his open mouth. Vogel let go of the eyelid and stepped back.

At the same moment the doctor arrived in the cell and rushed to Vogel’s side, bending over the blood-covered man.

After a couple of minutes he stood up and turned to face Vogel.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid your prisoner is dead.’

Vogel’s gaze remained fixed on the prisoner. Who had beaten who? Vogel was not sure. He did wonder, however, how many questions would remain unanswered. All hope of a confession was gone. There would be no cross-examination in a court of law. They could only guess at what had motivated him, and they might never be able to determine exactly how many victims he had claimed.