He’d won the previous evening’s backgammon tournament with rare ease. He had done so without having to meet his bête noire, the luck of the draw having gone his way. Or, in Vogel’s mind, perhaps the only thing that hadn’t gone his way. If anything, it had taken a little of the shine off his triumph, not having had the opportunity to overcome the opponent he most feared. Vogel believed that fears were there to be conquered.
His prize had been £400, two-thirds of the sum of the £50 entrance fee paid by each of the twelve entrants. The money, in cash of course, sat untouched in his inside jacket pocket. Vogel had won much more than he’d lost over his years of playing backgammon, but that was irrelevant to him. Except in as much as it represented victory. And that alone gave him satisfaction as he occasionally touched the bulge in his jacket with the fingers of one hand.
There was something else. He had immediately recognized one of the younger competitors, from the police mugshot he’d so recently studied, as Sunday Clubber Ari Kabul. This had given Vogel opportunity to watch, and perhaps learn, without his own identity being revealed. Kabul was knocked out in the first round and retreated to the bar where, Vogel noticed, he downed two or three large shots of a clear spirit and began chatting to a young woman. After a few minutes the pair disappeared from the room in the general direction of the toilets. The young woman was already unsteady upon her feet. They returned wrapped around each other and talking in loud animated voices. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the purpose of their lavatorial visit had been the ingestion of certain substances rather than the fulfilment of other more basic bodily functions. Something the bar manager seemed also to have noticed. He approached Ari and murmured in his ear. Ari shook his head and appeared to protest. Then he led his companion to the door. It was obvious that both of them had been asked to leave. Vogel was not surprised. It was no secret that Harpo’s had almost lost its licence the previous year because of allegations of drug use and dealing on the premises. As a result, the club was cracking down on any such indiscretions.
Vogel was still thinking about Ari Kabul’s behaviour when he arrived at Charing Cross more than an hour early for his shift, as was often his way. He had certainly learned something about the young Asian, albeit remaining as yet unsure of its significance, assuming it had any significance.
Kabul’s brush with the law the previous year had obviously not stopped his usage of illicit substances, almost certainly cocaine. And judging from the alacrity with which the Harpo’s bar manager had acted the previous evening, Vogel suspected that his habit was well known. He was only surprised that Ari was allowed in Harpo’s at all. But then again, this was an extremely rich and privileged young man whose inherited position in life would frequently open doors and rarely close them.
Vogel logged in to his computer and wrote a full report of the previous day’s events, including his visit to Greg and Karen Walker and his unexpected encounter with Ari Kabul. This he emailed to his immediate superior, along with a note saying that he wished to continue with his inquiries that day.
He did not wait for sanction from those above him. Instead he set off back into Covent Garden. It was not often that he took unilateral action. Usually cases came his way via the appropriate chain of command, but if something caught his attention, then he was confident his superiors would allow him to pursue it. This was not only because of his exceptional results, but also because of his detailed chronicling of everything that he did. No one was ever left out of the loop. No superior officer ever had the embarrassment of being forced to admit they didn’t know what Vogel was up to, because he always told them. But that was exactly what he did. He told them, he didn’t ask. And by and large he got away with it and was allowed to proceed unhindered.
At forty-one, Vogel was older than the average detective sergeant. In view of his crime-solving success rate, it was surprising that he remained in this lowly rank; whether this was his choice or that of his superiors was something of a grey area. Certainly Vogel gave little sign of being ambitious, and were he to rise up the chain of command his uniquely independent modus operandi may well have been curtailed. As things stood, it was debatable who benefited most from his highly individual situation, Vogel or his superiors.
He took a number 9 double-decker along the Strand. So far as he was concerned, an unmarked CID car was more trouble than it was worth in central London, on routine enquiries anyway. And although he had £400 in cash in his pocket, it was not Vogel’s habit to waste his money on taxis, nor indeed on anything else, and taxi fares were not submissible expenses for Metropolitan Police sergeants. On another day he would have walked all the way, but on this occasion he was in too much of a hurry.
Vogel was convinced that if he did not achieve a result swiftly in this case then more people could be hurt. Perhaps even killed. And, as usual, he believed that if he didn’t crack it, nobody else would.
He alighted from the bus at Aldwych, then walked up Wellington Street and Bow Street into the heart of the Garden, to the converted warehouse behind the opera house where Marlena lived. He now had a list of people he wanted to see and locations he wanted to check out, and Marlena was next on that list. After all, the incident involving her had been the most serious, as it remained the only one to have presented a direct threat to human life.
The woman, balanced precariously on her crutches, let him into her flat with some reluctance.
‘I’ve already been through this again and again,’ she said, wincing as she lowered herself into a chair in the small sitting room.
She was obviously struggling to cope with her injuries. Yet in spite of that, and even though he had called unannounced and she appeared to be alone, Vogel could not help noticing that Marlena was immaculately dressed and wearing full makeup, including, he was almost sure, false eyelashes, beneath the fringes of which she peered at him with some hostility.
‘First the two uniformed chaps and then Michelle,’ Marlena continued. ‘You know PC Monahan, I assume?’
Yes, I know her.’
‘Well, she was so eager to get every tiny detail from me she came rushing round late at night as soon as she got back from the training course she’d been on in Belfast — diplomatic protection or something, I think — but then I assume you know all that.’
‘More or less,’ said Vogel. He paused only briefly before pushing on with the purpose of his visit. ‘But I would appreciate it, Miss McTavish, if—’
‘Please don’t call me that,’ interrupted Marlena sharply, glaring at him.
‘But it is your name, I understand, madam,’ responded Vogel. ‘Although I must admit that it doesn’t seem to fit very well. You certainly don’t sound Scottish.’
And that, Vogel thought, was an understatement. The woman was what an actor pal of his would have called theatre grand. She sounded a bit like Donald Sinden in drag.
‘I am not Scottish,’ intoned Marlena. ‘My father was, but he and my mother, who was English, parted soon after I was conceived. I was both born and brought up on this side of the border. Thank God. I’m only just beginning to realize I should have changed that bloody name legally, instead of just dropping it. Please call me Marlena. Everyone else does.’
‘Very well,’ said Vogel, trying again. ‘So, Marlena, I would appreciate it if you would go through everything again with me. Tell me exactly what happened to you, what you told the police constables and what you told Michelle. I shall be handling this case from now on, and I want to be absolutely sure that nothing has been overlooked.’
With a theatrical sigh, Marlena told her story yet again.
When she had finished, it was a thoughtful Vogel who took the lift to the ground floor of Sampford House. He had already decided to change his plans. Instead of visiting other members of the group as he’d intended, Vogel retraced his steps down Bow Street and Wellington Street and took another number 9 bus back to Charing Cross.
There was something he had to check. Something that had been niggling at the back of his mind from the beginning of his meeting with Marlena. Something he hadn’t expected and had found extremely disturbing.
Back at the station he got himself a coffee from a vending machine then logged in to his computer. A few minutes later he leaned back in his chair, the paper cup of coffee standing neglected on his desk. His mind was racing.
As he had suspected, there had been no Belfast training course in diplomatic protection that week, nor indeed any other training course, as far as he could ascertain. It was a matter of record that Michelle was looking for a transfer out of Traffic, and the Ulster police did run such courses for officers based elsewhere, as, for obvious historical reasons, they were regarded as leaders in the field. But not on this occasion.
In any case, Vogel soon discovered that Michelle had reported sick for the two days she had been absent from work. That too was a matter of record.
So where had she been during the period between her Sunday-evening supper at Johnny’s Place and her arrival at Marlena’s flat late on Tuesday evening clutching an overnight bag? It seemed highly unlikely that she had been genuinely sick. What had she been doing? Why did she lie to her friends, and presumably to her employers?
Vogel had no idea. But he planned to find out.