Хилари Боннер - Deadly Dance

Vogel paused, waiting for the response of his fellow officers.

Saslow was the first to speak.

‘Well, our man has certainly unleashed a hurricane and he may not have finished,’ she said. ‘It’s crazy all right, boss, but I reckon you might be on to something.’

‘S-so you actually think the bastard believes he is three different people, boss?’ Willis enquired haltingly.

‘I think we are probably dealing with someone who is suffering from multiple personality disorder or dissociative identity disorder, as it is more usually known nowadays. His transition from one self to another is not always voluntary and when he is in one identity, he may have no memory of the others, or not all of them anyway,’ said Vogel. ‘That’s my basic understanding of this condition, but this would be a particularly extreme case.’

Hemmings looked stunned.

‘Well one thing’s for certain,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford any more mistakes on any of this. To start with, we need an expert medical opinion, Vogel.’

‘Yes boss. I was about to suggest that. There’s a trick cyclist in London, who Nobby Clarke called on in the aftermath of the Sunday Club murders. She’s a chum of Nobby’s, big in the world of criminal psychiatry. Our killer there had a personality disorder too, but nothing like this, though.’

‘All right. Well, get on with it then, Vogel. Try for a meet today, if you can. DCS Clarke will be the one to fix that for you, then, won’t she? And let’s keep this between ourselves, shall we, until we know a bit more.’

‘OK, boss.’

‘Meanwhile, we carry on looking for Al, Leo Ovid and Saul Homer as if they are three different people. I don’t see what else we can do.’

‘OK, boss,’ said Vogel again.

He led Willis and Saslow towards the door.

‘So, if you’re right, which would be his real self, then boss?’ asked Saslow as they stepped into the corridor. ‘Saul, Al, or Leo? And how do we know?’

‘I have no idea, Saslow,’ replied Vogel. ‘Maybe there’s even another self.’

‘What? Aeolus, you mean?’

‘Good point, but no, as well as Aeolus. Look, we have no other record of any crime where his DNA has been found. So maybe our man has been living an apparently normal life outside his three, or four if you include Aeolus, alter egos.’

‘Surely nobody could do that, boss,’ said Willis.

‘I have no idea what this bastard can and cannot do,’ replied Vogel. ‘He certainly doesn’t seem to do limits. If I am right, there is only one thing we know for absolute certain about him: he’s mad. Quite mad.’

Vogel called DS Clarke straight away.

‘Boss, I think I’ve got something here, but I need help to sort it out,’ he said. ‘Do you remember that trick cyclist, the one you got to help us tie up the loose ends after the Sunday Club murders, Freda something or other?’

‘Do you mean Professor Freda Heath, per chance, Vogel, arguably the most distinguished criminal psychiatrist in the country?’

‘That’s the one, boss. Could you arrange a meet, soonest?’

‘Perhaps, if you were a little more respectful, Vogel.’

‘Sorry, boss. Look, I think I may have sussed out something about this raving lunatic we’re both after, but I need to be sure I’m not going barmy myself. Can you fix a meet today?’

‘Vogel, you don’t half push it. It’s two thirty in the afternoon already and you have to get here from Bristol. Freda’s NHS. Do you expect her to drop everything?’

‘I hope you will persuade her too. Yes. We’ve got three deaths between us already, boss, and barely a clue to go on.’

‘She’ll want to know where you’re coming from, Vogel.’

‘Of course.’

Vogel briefly explained his hypothesis. When he’d finished there was a brief silence before Nobby Clarke spoke again.

‘So you think our man has, at least three, separate identities and may also believe that he is a figure from Greek mythology. Is that about it?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘You don’t think this is a theory that may be just a tad off the wall, do you, Vogel?’

‘The whole thing is off the wall, boss, but it’s all we’ve got. Anyway, that’s why I need to talk to your trick cyclist. Sorry, I mean Professor Heath.’

Clarke let that pass.

‘I’ll call you back,’ she said and, without another word, ended the call.

Ten minutes later she was back on the line.

‘Freda says even NHS doctors have to eat. She’ll meet you and me both for an early dinner. Six o’clock at Joe Allen. She’s giving a talk to the Royal College of Psychiatrists at eight and will need to leave around seven thirty. Don’t be late.’

‘I won’t. Will you be able to stay on? I want to pick your brains more about the Timothy Southey murder and generally compare notes.’

‘Vogel, what time did you leave home this morning?’ asked Clarke obliquely.

‘About a quarter to six. What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘And you’ll be lucky to get home much before midnight. You don’t change, Vogel, do you? Can’t imagine how your missus puts up with you. You’re like a dog with a bone.’

‘And you’re not, boss?’

‘Ummm, maybe, but I don’t have a missus.’

‘Really, boss?’

‘You’re so pushing it, Vogel.’

Vogel smiled. DCS Nobby Clarke was notoriously protective of her privacy in many more respects than just that of her name. Nobody in the Met knew anything worth knowing about her private life. There were the usual rumours amongst the good old boys that she was a lesbian, but based more on the fact that she had rarely been spotted with a man, other than a colleague, and always turned up to police functions alone.

In spite of the banter, she was and would always be something of a mentor to Vogel. He welcomed the opportunity of discussing everything with her, almost as much as getting the opinion of an eminent psychiatrist.

‘By the way, Joe Allen, that sounds familiar.’

‘I’m quite sure it does. You’ll be able to find your way all right, I expect.’

‘I will indeed, boss.’

He caught the 3.30 p.m. train from Bristol Temple Meads by the skin of his teeth and arrived at Joe Allen in Covent Garden at five minutes to six. He paused briefly outside, remembering his association with the restaurant, known as Johnny’s Club at the time, during the Sunday Club murders. Vogel hadn’t been there since that investigation. It looked much the same as he remembered it. The same theatrical billboards and photographs. The same piano, albeit with a different, female pianist, wearing a hat.

He was the first to arrive and shown to the table in the far corner, where a plaque commemorating Sunday Club remained on the wall. Clarke and Professor Freda Heath arrived a couple of minutes later. Freda Heath was very tall, very black and very beautiful. She was also very clever and at the top of her profession, which, of course, was the only thing about her which really interested Vogel.

Hands were shaken and greetings exchanged. They quickly ordered drinks and food.

‘I asked for this table,’ said the DS, waving one hand at the Sunday Club plaque. ‘Holds a few memories for us, eh Vogel?’

‘Some I would like to forget, boss,’ said Vogel.

‘We solved the case, that’s the main thing.’

Vogel nodded. He would have preferred to have solved it a lot more quickly, before so much damage was done. Now, he was becoming desperate for the Tim Southey, Melanie Cooke and Manee Jainukul murders to be solved, before anyone else was hurt or killed.

‘I hear you have a rather intriguing theory for me,’ interjected Freda Heath.

‘The boss has filled you in then?’ Vogel asked, Freda nodded. ‘So, am I just as crazy as I believe our killer to be, or does any of this make any sense to you at all?’ asked Vogel.