‘You also, I believe, know George Kristos, Robert Buchanan, Alfonso Bertorelli, Ari Kabul, Billy Wiseman and Ronald “Tiny” Stephens?’ Vogel continued, putting emphasis on the nickname.
Greg and Karen agreed that they did.
‘And we know Michelle Monahan,’ said Greg. ‘Or as she’s a cop, doesn’t she even get mentioned?’
Vogel ignored that.
‘So, am I also to assume that you’re aware of the various other incidents concerning some of these people?’ he asked.
Greg and Karen agreed again that they were.
‘Can either of you think of anything that might be significant linking these people, including yourselves, or the various incidents that have occurred?’ Vogel asked.
‘Only that we’re all friends, and that we meet most Sundays for supper at Johnny’s Place,’ replied Karen. ‘But I expect you know that.’
Vogel nodded. ‘Nothing else?’
‘Well, I certainly don’t know anything else,’ said Karen, putting heavy emphasis on ‘I’, and staring pointedly at her husband.
‘And you, sir?’ Vogel asked diffidently.
‘No, nothing,’ said Greg.
‘Were you both here when the brick came through the window?’
‘Just me,’ said Karen. ‘And the dogs. They went mad, naturally. I called Greg and he came home straight away.’
‘Did you look out of the window at all, Mrs Walker? Did you see anything or anyone that seemed suspicious?’
‘I had a quick look out,’ said Karen. ‘Then I thought how bloody stupid I was being. Another brick could have been chucked in. I started to get really scared then. I just ran into the bathroom, where there aren’t any windows, and called Greg.’
‘So you didn’t see anything?’
‘Nothing, no.’
‘And you didn’t call the police. Can I ask you why you didn’t do that, particularly if you were so scared?’
Karen flushed and glanced at Greg, whose face was giving nothing away.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to get Greg back here, that’s all I could think of.’
‘And where were you, Mr Walker?’
‘I was over at my lock-up, it’s in one of those archways under the railway tracks at Waterloo. I rushed straight home. I’d only been in a few minutes when you arrived.’
‘I see. Well, you and the other members of your family could have been hurt this afternoon, sir,’ continued Vogel. ‘And hurt quite badly. Do you realize that?’
‘I damned well do,’ said Greg.
‘So I am going to ask you again, sir, do you really think this latest attack was just another random act of vandalism?’
‘Definitely,’ said Greg.
Vogel was puzzled. The three men whose dogs had been stolen had from the beginning made a point of their belief that there had to be a link between the various incidents befalling this group of friends.
Michelle Monahan had indicated the same. Indeed it was largely because of her suspicions in this regard, her fears even, that she had brought the matter to Vogel’s attention.
Yet Greg Walker was quite insistent that he suspected no such link, and suspected no one particular perpetrator of being guilty of the two acts of vandalism directed at him and his family.
Vogel was deep in thought as he strolled along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Soho on his way to Harpo’s, a club of which he was not a member but to which he was frequently invited because of his aptitude for backgammon. That night he was due to play in a small tournament there. Vogel had three passions in life: his family, his work and backgammon. Mary, his wife, had been known to suggest that the order was sometimes reversible.
There were two players in the competition that night who were particular rivals. One of them, a former women’s world champion, had the knack of repeatedly knocking him out in the final stages. Over the years he had beaten her more often than she’d beaten him, but twice now she’d won in tournament finals.
As he walked, Vogel prepared himself, determined she would not win that night.
He believed that backgammon was the perfect reflection of life. The throw of the dice was entirely down to chance. Sometimes you were lucky, the dice fell well for you. Sometimes you were unlucky and the dice fell badly. However good a player you were, there was nothing you could do about that.
But what you made of those throws was entirely up to you. Your quick thinking, your assessment of the situation, the way in which you built your board, meant that ultimately, over any designated period of time and number of games, the good player would always win.
And that was exactly how life was, Vogel believed. Only losers blamed their luck.
Vogel did not often lose.
Nine
It didn’t matter to me who was in charge of the police investigation. This man Vogel had a reputation for being clever, at least among his colleagues. But the average policeman’s concept of cleverness falls well short of mine.
I am in a different class. I have always been in a different class. And when I am intent upon a course of action there is nothing, and no one, that can stop me.
My one regret was the dogs. I was sorry about that. Genuinely sorry. I am a lover of animals and it pained me to end the lives of two creatures who had done me no harm. But the success of my mission called for drastic and unpalatable measures. It was vital that this entire group of so-called friends would now become not only suspects but also suspicious of one another on a whole new level. I needed to shock and confuse, to bring distress and hurt to them all. I wanted each and every one of them to be consumed by doubt, facing every day with a sense of trepidation as to what horror it might hold. Particularly the one I could never forgive, the one who had destroyed my life. The one I was determined to annihilate, totally and utterly.
There was more to come. So much more to come. I found that I was actually beginning to enjoying the challenge. There was satisfaction, pleasure almost, to be derived from manipulating those around me.
I was in control, there was no doubt about that. I had already proved it to myself. And also, I suspected, to the Metropolitan Police. They were deaf and blind to my machinations. They had failed to see the footprints that I had left. Neither had they heard my song of death.
I did not believe that I was a monster, nor that I had ever been a monster. But I knew that, whenever it was necessary, whenever I so desired, I could divorce myself from the kind of human responses generally regarded as normal. Whatever normal might purport to be in a cataclysmic world.
I was not a monster, but almost certainly a freak. Indeed, I knew I was a freak. But not a freak of nature. I had been made into what I was by the actions of another, my life shattered by a deed which had too long gone unpunished, an act of unspeakable evil.
I was a freak, and I was a victim. But I was also strong. My suffering had made me stronger than anyone I had ever encountered.
And I was clever. So very much cleverer than I appeared to be. So much cleverer than those around me. I’d learned to live by my wits. My brain was my engine, the instrument of the destruction I must deploy. I needed nothing more than that which was within me in order to claim my just retribution.
And what will you do in the day of visitation, and in the desolation which shall come from far? To whom will ye flee for help? And where will ye leave your glory?
Vogel was in an unusually good mood when he arrived at Charing Cross the following morning.