Hilary Bonner - Friends to Die For

‘I understand, and I’m delighted it’s worked out,’ said DCI Clarke. ‘You do know your husband is an exceptional officer, don’t you, Mrs Vogel?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mary Vogel, beaming with pride. ‘I know.’

Nobby Clarke was preoccupied as she wandered off in the general direction of Pimlico tube station. She was almost certain Rosamund Vogel suffered from cerebral palsy. Clarke had a friend with a son who had CP. Yet there’d been no mention in Vogel’s file of his having a disabled child, and she’d never heard it mentioned. Typical, she thought.

David Vogel wouldn’t want anybody to know anything about his personal life, if he could avoid it. He was the most private of men. And a rather surprising one too, it seemed.

About a month later the remaining Sunday Clubbers met for what they all knew would be the last time.

Marlena, Michelle, Karen and George were dead. Greg was out of hospital, but had been remanded in custody until his trial.

The five who were able to do so gathered at Tiny and Billy’s flat. None of them could face Johnny’s Place, even though Johnny had made a point of calling them to say they would always be welcome. So Tiny and Billy had offered to lay on a light supper at their home — and on a Saturday evening, not a Sunday. The boys were still together, and still living in the same Covent Garden flat. But they had not acquired another dog, and didn’t intend to. They were, however, the proud owners of a large silver cat.

Alfonso was drunk when he arrived and immediately announced that he was leaving the country.

‘I can’t face this fucking city any more,’ he said. ‘The Vine don’t want me back. I’m going to Italy. I have a cousin with a restaurant in Naples. He’s taking me on.’

‘And your mother?’ asked Billy. Tiny kicked him under the table.

‘Oh sherrup,’ said Alfonso, pouring himself a large glass of wine.

The other friends wondered sadly if he would ever sober up enough to be able to hold down a job. Particularly in catering.

Bob too was planning to emigrate. But his was a happier story.

‘I’m going to New Zealand to be with my boy,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left for me here now. Danny heard about what happened because it was all on the Internet. He phoned me out of the blue. Said he was sorry we’d fallen out of touch. I have a granddaughter now, as well as a grandson. My Dan’s doing brilliant. Lives in Auckland in a big house with a chalet in the garden. Said I could have it, if I liked, and there’s a lot of people he knows want gardens looked after — including him! So I’m going. What the hell, eh!’

‘Glad shumbody’s got a happy fucking ending,’ muttered Alfonso.

‘That’s great news, Bob,’ said Ari, glowering at Alfonso. ‘I’m delighted for you.’

Alfonso turned towards Ari.

‘And what about our poor little rich boy?’ he asked, not very pleasantly.

‘I’ve got some news too,’ responded Ari levelly. ‘I’m getting married.’

‘Jeshus Christ,’ said Alfonso.

‘Congratulations, mate,’ said Bob.

‘Yes, congratulations,’ echoed Tiny and Billy.

‘Hope she likes the white stuff,’ said Alfonso.

‘Shut up, Fonz,’ said Bob.

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Ari. ‘She’s a good Muslim girl. She doesn’t do drugs, and neither do I. Not any more. Dad said I had to sort myself out or else. And I knew he was right.’

‘I give it five minutes,’ said Alfonso. ‘The coke and the marriage.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Bob again.

‘Let’s keep it cool, guys,’ said Tiny. ‘We’ve been through enough, haven’t we? All of us.’

The large silver cat was sitting on his lap, as she had been through most of the evening.

Bob reached to stroke her neck. He’d known this reunion of the surviving Sunday Clubbers was always going to be tricky. Alfonso, drunk and somewhat belligerent, was making it worse.

‘What’s the cat’s name?’ Bob asked, seeking any sort of diversion.

‘Lola,’ replied Tiny.

‘Isn’t that what the cops told us Marlena was called in her other life?’ asked Ari.

‘Yep,’ Billy replied. ‘Madame Lola, after the Marlene Dietrich song, we reckon. Lola, Lola, they call me naughty Lola. Dietrich was Marlena’s heroine, after all. Lola is our tribute to Marlena.’

‘I see,’ said Bob, looking as if he didn’t.

There was an awkward silence, filled eventually by Ari.

‘Look, we can’t get over George, can we?’ he said. ‘I mean, he seemed so normal, one of us. How did he keep that act up for so long?’

‘He was a trained actor,’ said Tiny.

‘He was also a raving lunatic and a psychopath,’ said Bob. ‘And none of us noticed. Ari’s right. I’ll never get over it. Never.’

‘Four of our little group dead, two horribly murdered, and poor Greg banged up for taking the law into his own hands.’ Billy blinked rapidly. ‘How can any of us ever get over it?’

Alfonso poured more wine, slopping some of it on the table.

‘I think we should raise our glasses in a toast,’ he said. ‘To absent friends.’

The five stood up, Alfonso rather unsteadily.

‘To absent friends,’ they repeated,

‘All except one,’ said Tiny.

With grateful thanks to various members of the Metropolitan Police Service, including the desk staff at Charing Cross station — you were all great; former Detective Sergeant Frank Waghorn, as ever; Terry Freeman for his help and wonderful stories of being a bouncer (sorry, ‘security doorman’); Lt Colonel John Pullinger, OBE, formerly of The Parachute Regiment; Wayne Brookes, Anne O’Brien and everyone at Pan Macmillan for their hard work and continuing belief and support; my agent Tony Peake; and my partner Amanda, for yet again putting up with me in writing mode. Also, of course, enormous thanks to the real life Sunday Clubbers, Alan St Clair, Chris Clarke, Amanda etc., and a certain restaurant called Joe Allen and all its staff — for the inspiration and for many wonderful Sunday nights without a murderer to be seen. As far as we know...