Then, just as I was about to zip myself up and do a runner, she started to speak. She only seemed to be able to remain upright with the help of the wall and her voice was slurred, but she knew what she was saying all right.
‘You can’t even manage it,’ she said. ‘Are you a poof?’
Her eyes had dropped to my shrunken penis. She was mocking me. I couldn’t believe it. She was only fourteen. I remember thinking, yes, fourteen going on forty, and surely she realised the danger she was in, but she didn’t even seem to be afraid. Perhaps she was past that or just too drunk and confused to respond normally. She smiled at me, a smile as mocking as her words. She raised one hand and crooked her little finger.
Then she giggled.
It was the last straw.
I threw myself at her, wrapped my fingers around her neck and squeezed.
Part Two
Twenty-Two
Vogel was at his desk continuing to puzzle over the baffling turn of events, when the results of the second DNA test on Terry Cooke dropped.
They were, as Vogel had more or less expected, totally different to the first results. The foreign DNA, extracted from the hair follicles found in Melanie Cooke’s fingernails, did not match the new sample taken from her father’s at all. It did, however, match DNA taken from the crime scene of murdered Timothy Southey in London, as the Met’s forensic people had already reported.
No further match had been found with this DNA on any national data base so far, although forensics would continue to search. Meanwhile, there was no doubt at all that somewhere, somehow, there had been a catastrophic error. Terry Cooke was almost certainly innocent and an extraordinary double murderer was still at large.
Vogel knew that the first thing he must do was to inform his superior officer. He decided he would knock on Hemming’s office door unannounced. There was no easy way of doing this. Vogel was expecting a fairly unpleasant confrontation and he was not to be disappointed.
Hemmings was not a man who often swore or raised his voice. He was a thoughtful, measured policeman. He had no time for the ranting and raving looked upon as par for the course amongst many senior officers of his generation.
On this occasion, however, Hemmings hit the roof and his language was blue.
‘For fuck’s sake, Vogel.’ He roared. ‘How could this have happened? It’s a total cock-up. This force is going to look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. I have absolutely no choice but to order the immediate release of Terry Cooke and get all charges against him dismissed. Not only that, I’m going to have to reveal to the general public that there is some kind of weird monster out there somewhere.’
‘Don’t shout at me, boss,’ remarked Vogel mildly. ‘I don’t run forensics.’
‘I’d like to fucking get hold of whoever does — or fucking pretends to,’ stormed Hemmings.
After a brief pause, he continued in a more reasonable tone of voice.
‘There can’t have been a cock-up at this end, Vogel, can there?’
‘I don’t see how, boss,’ replied the DI. ‘Terry Cooke’s DNA was taken at Patchway custody suite in the usual way. Properly packaged and dispatched, I even sent Willis along to oversee it and make sure everything went smoothly.
‘Forensics must have got Terry Cooke’s sample mixed up. I can’t think of anything other explanation. I know there is supposed to be every precaution in place and it would be highly unusual, but it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. They’ll deny it, of course.’
‘They can deny all they fucking like, but heads are going to roll over this, Vogel, and I sure as hell do not intend one of them to be mine.’
‘No sir,’ murmured Vogel formally. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘For the moment. Just sort this bloody mess out as soon as, Vogel, do you hear?’
‘Yes sir,’ said Vogel, who was already halfway out of the door.
Back in his own office, he called in Willis and Saslow to give them the bad news.
‘I can’t believe it boss,’ said Willis. ‘How could a mistake like that have happened?’
‘There’ll be an inquiry of course,’ said Vogel. ‘Meanwhile, we can only start from where we are and it pretty much means starting again, but this time with even more cards stacked against us. We’ll be liaising with the Met, but they’ve got bugger all themselves, so far.’
‘Are we going back to regarding Al the paedo as our number one suspect then, boss?’ asked Saslow.
‘He could be our only suspect, certainly our only lead, however weak,’ Vogel replied morosely.
It was nearly ten at night. The DI was exhausted and bewildered. He had little of his usual energy. He was having to push himself, but he couldn’t even face the walk and the train journey home. He asked if there was a squad car free to take him to Sea Mills, something he almost never did. Vogel didn’t think tax payers should be paying to get police officers home. Particularly not police officers who were stupid enough never to have learned to drive. He believed squad cars had rather more important purposes, but on this occasion, he gave in to his total weariness of mind and body and asked for a ride home.
His mood, driven both by his personal and professional dilemmas, was blacker than ever by the time he arrived. It felt as if his entire life was in a mess. The Melanie Cooke case was in total disarray and the revelation that he had been adopted continued to torment him. Then something else happened, the very rarity of which made it all the more horrible. He had a row with Mary. A nasty silly row, which was entirely his fault.
She began to ask about his day, ready to listen and to support him like she always did. He bit her head off.
‘Can’t you see I’ve had enough,’ he snapped. ‘I’m living and breathing this damned case and now there’s been a major cock-up, which I’m likely to get the blame for. Do you think I want to bring it back here with me?’
‘Well, you usually say how much it helps you to talk things through with me,’ Mary began reasonably.
‘Well not this time. You should be able to bloody well tell.’
‘Really?’
Mary was a good woman, totally supportive of her husband and an exceptionally reasonable and understanding wife. She was not a saint.
Vogel caught the note of icy warning in her voice, but didn’t care.
‘Yes, bloody really,’ he stormed. ‘I’m dog-tired. I just want to sleep, for a week if I could.’
‘David, stop taking this out on me, do you hear?’ Mary shouted back. ‘Now. Right now. You’re going too far.’
‘Taking what out on you, for God’s sake?’ Vogel muttered.
‘You know very well what. The Melanie Cooke case may be a nightmare, but you can always cope with your work. Always. What you can’t cope with is learning that you were adopted and that you weren’t even born a Jew. And you aren’t going to cope with it until you come to terms with it.’
‘Indeed? As easy as that, is it? And what do you suggest I do about it?’
‘I never said it was easy. What you do is your business, but sweeping the whole thing under the carpet isn’t going to work. Perhaps you should at least get in touch with your sister and your birth mother. Maybe arrange to meet them. You never know. It might help.’
‘Might it? Well, if you’re so bloody wise why don’t you bloody well do it. I’m too busy for any of this. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry which has gone totally pear-shaped.’