Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

Vogel allowed his eyes to wander around the cell, taking in the volume of blood and the crumpled blanket, which he assumed had been pulled off the dying man by the custody officer.

Kristos had removed his police-issue paper suit and folded it neatly on the bottom of the bunk. He lay now with his nakedness exposed, which presumably had been his intention. His body was almost hairless, presumably because of his emasculation. Between his legs there were no recognizable genitalia. No testes and no penis. Just a jagged scar and an almost vaginal opening which had presumably been fashioned in order for him to urinate.

Vogel shuddered. What a secret to keep, he thought.

Then the piece of cylindrical cigar casing caught his eye. Was there something in it still? Vogel thought so. He reached for it carefully. Using only the tips of one forefinger and thumb he removed a neatly folded piece of paper.

It bore an inked message, rather beautifully handwritten and resembling medieval biblical script, Vogel thought.

Thus saith the Lord: Though I have afflicted thee, I will afflict thee no more.

DCI Nobby Clarke waited until seven days had passed before visiting Vogel at his home. He was on mandatory sick leave. His upper arm and shoulder had become infected, almost certainly due to his refusal to undergo proper treatment until several hours after he was shot.

Vogel’s wife, Mary, greeted the DCI warmly and ushered her into the living room of the Pimlico apartment.

Clarke took in the abundance of pink, the floral wallpaper and curtains, and the predominantly feminine air of the place. For some reason, Vogel, sitting on an ornately covered settee with luxuriously deep cushions, seemed to fit in perfectly — but then, why shouldn’t he, in his own home?

Next to him was a young girl, in her early teens, Clarke thought, holding a purple Nintendo Game Boy. She waved one arm awkwardly. All her movements seemed awkward.

Vogel stood up and shook Nobby Clarke’s hand.

‘Thanks for coming, boss,’ he said. Then he gestured to the girl.

‘This is my daughter, Rosamund,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ said Rosamund. She spoke in rather a slow, stilted way, but her smile was captivating.

Clarke found herself smiling back. Then she returned her attention to Vogel. He was wearing, or half wearing, a large white cotton shirt, the sleeve hanging loose over his left arm and shoulder.

‘How’re you doing, David?’ she asked.

‘OK, the antibiotics appear to be doing their stuff,’ Vogel replied.

‘Good,’ said the DCI. ‘You know you’re bloody lucky to still be in the job, don’t you? Blundering into a gunfight as if you’re a sheriff in a very bad western. Against every damn regulation.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Vogel.

‘Anyway, I managed to bring the brass round. They’re convinced you’re some kind of hero now.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘Must say, I never expected this sort of trouble from you, Vogel. Thought they called you the Geek?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Vogel was staring at Nobby Clarke with a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘But names can be very inappropriate, can’t they?’

‘Don’t even go there, Vogel,’ growled the DCI.

‘No, boss,’ said Vogel, just as his wife walked into the room carrying a tray bearing teapot, cups and saucers, and a large round fruit cake, yet to be cut.

‘Any further news about Kristos?’ Vogel asked, changing the subject and getting on to the topic he was really interested in.

‘No more than you know already,’ said Clarke, accepting a cup of tea. ‘Kristos and Burns checked out to be the same person. There was a load of stuff found in Kristos’s flat that none of the idiots searching it previously had thought important — hair dye, medication, jockstraps, that sort of thing. And, of course, the original photo of Alice Turner was on his hard drive, along with the one he’d doctored, the one that was supposed to be his girlfriend Carla. All circumstantial, as evidence goes. So perhaps it was a good job he topped himself.’

‘Surely nobody could doubt his guilt?’ said Vogel.

‘A bloody court of law could,’ muttered Clarke. ‘We have, however, officially closed the investigations into the King’s Cross murders, the two Sunday Club murders, and all the other Sunday Club crimes, major and minor.’

Vogel had expected that. ‘What about Amsterdam?’ he asked.

He might have been on sick leave, but contacts within MIT had told him about the murder of a prostitute in the notorious red-light district of De Wallen in 2007. It had not previously been linked with the 1998 King’s Cross murders, even though the young woman found dead in the cabin she rented in order to ply her trade had been strangled and then repeatedly stabbed and mutilated in the same manner as the London victims. The Internet had still been in its infancy in 1998, in Europe at least, and information, both official and unofficial, did not cross international boundaries as freely back then.

‘Well, we were able to inform the Dutch police that Kristos/Burns was in Amsterdam at the appropriate time,’ said Clarke. ‘Filming a walk-on role in a commercial for a budget airline, it seems.’

‘Don’t think they’ll be repeating it then,’ murmered Vogel.

‘No. Anyway, we just heard that the Dutch have officially closed their murder investigation.’

‘What else could they do?’ Vogel asked. ‘It all seems so unfair on the victims and their families though. No proper closure.’ He looked Clarke in the eye. ‘And speaking of unfair, it seems very hard on Greg Walker. If only I’d been quicker off the mark, I might have stopped that shooting.’

‘Hmmm, and if you’d been a bit slower, Walker would be dead. I know it doesn’t seem fair that he’s facing a murder charge, and I don’t give a damn about Kwan’s goon, but there’s no alternative, is there? Walker set out with a loaded handgun, intent on killing a man — and that’s just what he did, albeit the wrong man.’

‘So what about Kwan and his mob?’

‘The goon who shot you and Walker is being done for GBH. I’m trying to get Kwan on a conspiracy charge, but the bastard’s wriggling like a maggot on a fish-hook.’

‘Well, if anyone can make it stick, boss, it’ll be you,’ said Vogel.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Vogel,’ said DCI Clarke. ‘But there’s really no need to arse-lick...’

She stopped, remembering Vogel’s daughter was in the room.

‘Sorry,’ she said, to nobody in particular.

‘She’s heard worse,’ said Vogel.

‘Anyway,’ Clarke went on. ‘What I mean is, I’ve already fixed it for you to drop the “acting” and become DI on a permanent basis. And, even though you’ve caused me so much trouble, I’d like to keep you on my MIT. I always have been perverse.’

Vogel grinned broadly.

‘Thanks, boss,’ he said. ‘Much appreciated.’

He glanced almost imperceptibly towards his daughter.

Nobby Clarke ate two slices of fruit cake, which was extremely good, and drank two cups of tea before leaving.

Mary Vogel showed her out. The DCI noticed a wheelchair in a corner of the hall. She must have walked straight past it on the way in.

As she opened the front door, Mary paused. ‘Rosamund adores her dad,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what she’d have done if he’d got himself properly shot. I’ve given him a right telling-off.’

‘Me too,’ said Nobby Clarke.

Vogel’s wife smiled. ‘He’ll never say, but for the first time in his life he really wanted this promotion. He’s not one to think much about money, you see. But Rosamund’s getting to an age when she needs all sorts of things. Her dad wants to be able to do a bit more for her...’