Alfonso Bertorelli had a Facebook page, but it registered very little activity. Indeed he seemed to have barely returned to it since first compiling it and posting a picture of himself wearing his waiter’s white shirt and black pencil tie.
Karen Walker was also on Facebook and had by far the busiest entry. There were pictures of her with her husband, Greg, her children and her mother. Every part of her children’s lives seemed to be chronicled: their progress at school, their sporting activities and so on. She updated her page every few days and had a substantial list of Facebook friends.
The PNC revealed that Greg Walker was the only other member of the group to have a criminal record. And his was an offence of a violent nature.
At the age of eighteen Greg had pleaded guilty at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court to causing an affray. He and a group of other youths had caused a disturbance at the Brunswick shopping centre. A fight had broken out involving a local shopkeeper who’d ended up in hospital, albeit with only minor injuries. It had been alleged that the youths were part of a gang demanding protection money in the area, but this had not been proved. Greg had been given a three-month suspended prison sentence.
It was nothing much. A spoiled rich boy behaving true to form, and a son of the inner city falling foul of the law as a teenager and then apparently staying out of trouble ever after and building a solid family life for himself. Nonetheless, Vogel thought he might begin his inquiries with these two men.
There were already statements from Marlena, the most cruelly afflicted victim, and Alfonso, witness to her misfortune, on record, although Vogel, the master of spotting what others did not, intended to speak to them both again personally at some stage.
Meanwhile it was a matter of priorities. He had to start somewhere. He chose to visit the Walkers first.
The main gate leading into Bishops Court was unlocked, as it often was. Vogel climbed the stairs to the second floor. As he stepped onto the landing he could hear shouting from inside number 23.
Vogel moved a little closer, walking softly. He invariably wore slip-on Hush Puppies with rubber soles. Brown suede ones. Comfortable, practical shoes, which did not announce his presence before he wished it.
The woman’s voice was high-pitched and easy to hear.
‘You know something, Greg, you damned well know something, don’t you? I thought you did when your tyres were slashed. Now I’m sure of it.’
The man’s voice was lower-pitched and not so easy to hear. Vogel could only catch the odd word.
‘Honest, doll... there’s nothing... I wouldn’t...’
Then the woman again: ‘I just hope you’re not up to your old tricks — and don’t you think for one minute I don’t have a damned good idea what you were into before we got wed.’
Vogel could not catch anything comprehensible when the man replied, all he could hear was the murmur of a low voice.
He rang the doorbell. Immediately a small dog started to bark, then another. The woman answered, shooing to one side a pair of yapping West Highland terriers. There were patches of colour high on both her cheeks.
‘Mrs Walker?’ he enquired.
Karen nodded, already looking alarmed.
Vogel introduced himself and held out his warrant card.
The woman appeared to be mildly surprised. Vogel had grown accustomed to that. He’d once been told he looked more like an absent-minded professor than a policeman. And he’d actually been somewhat flattered. But, in truth, it would be hard to be less absent-minded than David Vogel.
Karen led him into the sitting room where the man Vogel assumed to be Greg Walker was standing by the window that overlooked the street.
‘The police are here,’ muttered Karen, glowering at her husband.
‘Right.’ Greg turned towards Vogel. His feet made a crunching sound as he moved.
‘Mr Walker?’ queried Vogel.
Greg didn’t reply directly.
Vogel took in the scene before him, his eyes flitting around the room, registering every detail. It was clean, tidy and attractively furnished. But cold. Almost as cold as outside. He noticed that the carpet by the window was strewn with broken glass, and the largest pane in the window itself had been smashed. An icy draught gusted into the room. There was a brick in the middle of the floor.
‘Did you call the police?’ Greg asked Karen. He didn’t sound angry, more resigned.
Vogel answered. ‘No, your wife didn’t call us, Mr Walker,’ he said. ‘Or at least, not to my knowledge, she didn’t.’
He glanced at Karen enquiringly. She shook her head, agreeing with him.
‘I am here as part of my investigation into certain incidents that have been reported to us by others with whom I think you are acquainted,’ Vogel went on. ‘I understand there was an incident concerning your van, which I do not believe you reported.’
Vogel looked down pointedly at the floor.
‘Might this be another such incident?’ he enquired.
Greg shrugged.
‘Yes, it damned well might,’ snapped Karen. ‘Some bastard’s thrown a brick through our window. Less than an hour ago. In broad daylight. Apart from anything else we could have been killed. If they hadn’t been at school, one of the kids could have been killed.’
‘Do either of you have any idea who might be responsible?’ asked Vogel, mindful of the exchange he had just overheard.
‘Well, I certainly don’t.’ Karen glowered at Greg again.
‘And you, Mr Walker?’
‘No. Look, we live in the middle of the city. These things happen.’
Karen snorted. ‘That’s what he said when the tyres on the van were slashed. You said you know about that, Detective Sergeant?’
Yes, I do. Although I would like to take more details from you, and also about this incident.’
‘Some idiot decided to toss a brick through a window, and our place just happened to be handy,’ said Greg. ‘That’s all there is to it.’
‘For God’s sake, we’re on the second floor,’ said Karen, still obviously very angry. ‘You have to really work at it to get a brick through our window, and this particular bastard has done just that.’
‘So do I take it that you believe your home has been deliberately targeted?’ asked Vogel.
‘Yes, I damned well do,’ said Karen.
‘I don’t,’ said Greg.
‘Right.’ Vogel decided to change tack abruptly. It was a habit of his. Experience had shown that, when caught off guard, interviewees sometimes divulged more than they otherwise might.
‘I understand you know Marlena McTavish, is that the case?’ he asked.
Greg looked momentarily puzzled. ‘What. Who? Oh. Yes.’
‘You don’t seem too sure, sir?’
‘Oh no, I am. It’s just, well, I’d never heard her last name. She’s just Marlena around here.’
‘I see, sir. Like Madonna or Cher, or Adele?’
‘Very nearly, yes.’ Karen joined in. ‘Not Marlena McTavish, that’s for sure. Is that really her last name?’
‘I believe so. And it seems that her real first name is Marleen.’
‘Well, that cuts through the mystique, doesn’t it?’ remarked Karen.
‘I’m sorry, madam?’
‘Oh nothing. Of course we know Marlena. Both of us. And we’re appalled by what’s happened to her. Aren’t we, Greg?’
‘Of course.’
Vogel studied the man. He looked like someone under considerable strain. However, a brick had just been thrown through his sitting-room window. And his wife looked strained too. But it was different, somehow.