‘So why did we find these items at your grandmother’s?’ Vogel asked.
‘I have no idea,’ said Alfonso. ‘Someone must have planted them. If I were guilty I wouldn’t have left all that stuff lying around to incriminate myself, would I? Surely you can see that?’
‘My understanding is that it is not generally known that you stay with your grandmother. So who among your colleagues and friends and acquaintances would know where she lives?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I was followed. And maybe I was followed when Michelle was mugged too. Someone waited until I was nearby, then attacked her. To set me up. That’s all I can think of.’
‘Mr Bertorelli, don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched?’
Alfonso lowered his head into his hands, and spoke through his fingers.
‘Why would I hurt Michelle?’ he asked. ‘Or Marlena. Why would I want to harm them? They’re my friends.’
And that, thought Vogel, was the million-dollar question: Why? What possible motive could Alfonso Bertorelli have? Indeed, if these crimes were linked, as they surely must be, what motive could anyone have?
Shortly after midday, Christopher Margolia, a Nigerian-born criminal lawyer recommended by Billy, arrived at Charing Cross police station fully prepared to intervene on behalf of his new client, Alfonso Bertorelli.
The Eton- and Oxford-educated Margolia was, Alfonso realized straight away, a very good man to have on your side.
Margolia pointed out calmly but forcefully to Vogel that his client’s claims were quite plausible. He could well have been followed and the incriminating evidence planted at his grandmother’s house. All other evidence against him was circumstantial, the lawyer said.
‘We are proceeding with our inquires, Mr Margolia,’ responded Vogel doggedly. ‘The items removed from the home of your client’s grandmother are being forensically examined and we are awaiting laboratory reports on those items, along with the clothes your client was wearing at the time of his arrest.’
Margolia was persistent. ‘You may have the right to keep my client overnight, Detective Sergeant Vogel, but unless you charge him, which I very much doubt you will be in a position to do, your time will be up tomorrow morning and I shall insist upon his release.’
Around mid-afternoon Vogel extricated himself from a further interview with Alfonso, which seemed to be getting nobody anywhere, and retreated to his desk in an attempt to think things through. Yet again. There was a lot to think about. He wanted to go over every statement, every jot of evidence again and again. He had to make absolutely sure nothing had been overlooked. It was his way.
He had no sooner started than he was interrupted by Detective Inspector Tom Forest. Vogel didn’t like to be interrupted when he was thinking, but as Forest was his superior officer he didn’t have a lot of say in the matter. Particularly as it was Forest who had ordained that Vogel was to be permitted to have his own way, so long as he continued to deliver results. Improving the department’s clear-up rate was paramount, even though it secretly irked Forest to deal with a subordinate whose emails and reports he struggled to comprehend. For his part, Vogel thought Forest unintelligent and pedantic, but he knew that it was largely because of Forest’s attitude, which even went to the extent of the Detective Inspector covering for Vogel on occasion to his own superiors, that he retained the possibly unique freedom he enjoyed within the Met.
Fired up both by his eternal obsession with targets and the desire to swiftly bring to justice the perpetrator of a violent crime against a fellow police officer, Forest appeared to be taking, true to form Vogel thought, an overly simplistic approach.
‘Well done, old man,’ said Forest. ‘Got it sorted, then. Seems you were quite right about those incidents being linked, and now you’ve got the bastard, eh? Damn good show.’
Vogel stared at Forest through red-rimmed eyes. This had already been a long, hard, and mentally taxing day. Vogel was running on empty. Being woken at 4 a.m. and deprived of his full seven or eight hours’ sleep did not suit him.
‘I’m not so sure about that, sir,’ he said mildly.
‘What do you mean?’ bristled Forest. ‘Bang to rights, I heard.’
‘We’re still waiting for the forensic results. We’ve fast-tracked fingerprinting but the DNA will take days,’ Vogel reminded his superior.
‘But that’s all just a formality, surely,’ continued Forest. ‘I mean, you can’t seriously think all that stuff was planted. The bike, the handbag, and that hoody?’
‘The suspect says so.’
As if on cue, DC Jones walked into the room. A large chunk of her longish brown hair had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck demanded by police regulations. She looked flustered.
‘We’ve just got the fingerprint results,’ she said. ‘No match for Bertorelli’s prints on either the bike or Michelle’s handbag.’
Vogel frowned. Forest caught him at it.
‘For goodness’ sake, man, he wiped his damn prints off, didn’t he? The bike and the bag were found on his grandmother’s property — the place he had returned to after the mugging.’
‘Yes, sir, and the bag was covered with Michelle’s blood,’ responded Vogel. ‘How did he clean off his prints yet leave the blood behind?’
‘He must have worn gloves so that there’d be no prints. And what about the washing machine — running in the middle of the night with the hoody in it. Evidence was being deliberately destroyed. Bertorelli has to be guilty.’
‘Perhaps, sir.’
‘Perhaps?’ Forest was turning puce. ‘Vogel, your own report stated that Bertorelli told no one about living with his mother and grandmother. That being the case, how would anyone have known where to plant evidence, let alone actually have done so?’
‘He told us he must have been followed to his grandmother’s home, sir.’
‘Of course he bloody did, Vogel. And what about the coincidence, yet again, of his conveniently timed arrival at the scene of the crime?’
‘He said that was a set-up too, sir.’ Even as he spoke, Vogel was aware how ridiculous it sounded.
‘Every bloody criminal claims they’ve been set up! It’s the oldest line in the book,’ blustered Forest. ‘Look, we’re talking about a violent attack on a police officer here. And a woman officer at that. Do you not understand? This is one of our own, Vogel. We have to act and we have to act fast. Otherwise it looks damned bad, both to the public and within the force. So get this joker bloody charged as soon as, will you?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I really need to think it through.’
‘You know what your trouble is, Vogel?’
‘No, sir,’ said Vogel.
‘You do far too much bloody thinking,’ roared Forest.
It turned out that the bicycle found in Alfonso’s nan’s storeroom had been stolen from outside the Royal Opera House the previous evening, the chain attaching it to a lamppost having been effectively severed. It was just possible that Alfonso had finished his shift at the Vine, somehow discovered that Michelle would be walking home from Marlena’s, stolen the bike, pursued her to Southampton Row where he attacked her and then stashed the bike somewhere, only to return for it upon leaving the hospital and, for some inexplicable reason, riding it to his nan’s place. Vogel thought it highly unlikely.
And so did the Crown Prosecution Service.
Early the following morning Vogel presented the facts in painstaking detail to Forest, and also to a CPS representative. The CPS man shared Vogel’s doubts, agreeing that the very presence of so much unsubstantiated evidence was in itself suspicious. Having crossed swords with Christopher Margolia in the past, he was also of the opinion that every piece of evidence and every witness would be subjected to rigorous cross-examination, and the prosecution would collapse at the first hurdle if they were foolish enough to bring a case against Mr Bertorelli on the existing evidence.