Ultimately, in spite of what Alfonso feared was such strong evidence against him, and regardless of DI Forest’s blustering, it was decided not to charge him with any offence. Not yet, anyway.
Eventually a furious Forest agreed that Alfonso should be released. Under habeas corpus they could, as Margolia had pointed out, keep him for only thirty-six hours.
And so at 11.30 a.m. Alfonso was told he was free to leave, and his paper suit was replaced with clean but used clothes from the police store since his were still being forensically examined.
Full of fear and uncertainty, and smarting from the indignity of wearing someone else’s clothes, an ill-fitting tracksuit at that, he began to wander the streets aimlessly.
How long would it be before the police might come to get him again? he wondered. How long would it be before all the forensic and DNA tests came through, and would they make things better or worse? It was obvious that his clothes would be covered in Michelle’s DNA, considering he’d held her in his arms until the ambulance got there. Unaware that the results of the fingerprinting of Michelle’s bag had already been delivered, and that no prints of his had been found, he wondered whether he had unknowingly touched Michelle’s bag, either at the scene of her attack or on some previous occasion. Could he have moved it across the table while in Johnny’s, picked it up from the floor or off the back of a chair, or merely handed it to Michelle? If so, it might bear his prints. Though the innocent possibilities were endless, there was no telling what the police would make of one more piece of evidence stacked against him.
He felt weak. Almost too weak to continue walking. He was right outside a pub. The Dunster Arms, according to the sign Alfonso didn’t even glance at. Maybe what he needed was a strong drink. Or several. Alfonso opened the door and entered. The Dunster was an unpromisingly shabby hostelry in need of a coat of paint outside and some major refurbishment inside, although Alfonso barely noticed that either. Despite its drab appearance, it provided better service and refreshment than he might have expected, even boasting a fancy coffee machine. The Dunster Arms was, by virtue of its close proximity, the hostelry favoured by staff of Charing Cross police station, but Alfonso didn’t know that or he would have avoided the place. An old-fashioned television set was tuned to a cricket match somewhere sunny. Alfonso registered that the players were wearing rather garish outfits, then looked away. He was not interested in cricket or indeed anything much else right then.
There was, at that hour of a Saturday, only one other drinker in attendance, and he neither looked like nor indeed was a police officer.
Alfonso ordered a double espresso and a large brandy, which he downed in one swallow. Although he liked his wine he was not a big drinker and the neat fiery alcohol went straight to his head. The sensation was extremely pleasant, given the ordeal he had just endured and the muddled state of his brain. So he ordered another, which he also drank straight down. And then a third.
‘Gotta bit of a thirst, mate?’ enquired his sole fellow drinker. The man was propped on a bar stool to Alfonso’s left. He had a sallow complexion, bad teeth, and one of those bulbous noses which come from years of alcoholic overindulgence. He was the sort of character Alfonso would normally have run a mile from.
On that day, his head spinning, he took a step closer, ignoring the stale sweaty smell the man exuded, and climbed with some difficulty onto the bar stool alongside him. The alcohol had loosened Alfonso’s tongue and his need for human companionship, any human companionship, was overwhelming.
‘I’m not thirsty, I just want to get drunk,’ he said.
The man with bad teeth looked him up and down. ‘You’re not the only one,’ he said.
‘What are you having?’ enquired Alfonso.
‘Just a small Scotch,’ the man with bad teeth replied.
Alfonso ordered him a large one and himself another large brandy. His new best friend returned the favour. Then Alfonso ordered yet another round. He had never drunk that much brandy in his life before, certainly not all in one sitting and in the middle of the day.
After only a short time the bar began to rotate around him and he would probably have fallen to the floor were it not for his new companion grabbing him in the nick of time. A waft of sour breath engulfed Alfonso. He didn’t even notice. Leaning heavily against the bar he managed somehow to lift his brandy glass to his lips. The double espresso remained untouched.
‘You all right, mate?’ asked the man, in the manner of someone not really expecting an answer.
‘Dush it look like I’m bloody all right?’ replied Alfonso.
The man didn’t respond.
‘I’ve been framed, I’ve been bloody framed, I’ve just spent a day and a night in the nick and I’m bloody innocent, I tell you, bloody well innocent.’
‘Aren’t we all, mate?’ said the man with bad teeth.
Later that day, around mid-evening, Marlena answered her intercom. A familiar voice enquired after her well-being and asked if she would like a visitor.
Marlena was pleased. She’d been feeling depressed. Her foot hurt and her head was full of unwelcome thoughts. Obviously she realized she might be in danger, given the recent attacks on the friends. But while Marlena had her reasons for fearing spectres from her past, she could see no reason why anyone currently in her life would wish to harm her.
She invited her caller up and buzzed the front door open.
The visitor had brought a bottle of rather good champagne, already nicely chilled, and after Marlena, still hobbling on crutches, led the way into her sitting room, opened the bottle at once and poured generous measures into a pair of crystal glasses standing on the sideboard.
The visitor then carried one of the glasses across the room to where Marlena was sitting in her usual chair by the window, and placed it on the table by her side. Marlena picked up the glass and took a long leisurely sip.
‘Lovely, darling,’ she said, a broad smile stretching across her face. Then she raised her eyebrows enquiringly. ‘You’re not drinking, sweetheart — don’t you want any?’
‘Later.’
‘Well, you’d better be quick.’ Marlena mischievously wiggled her glass, which was already half-empty. ‘You know vintage Bolly is my favourite.’
She smiled up at her visitor, who remained standing and was still wearing a full-length raincoat and gloves.
‘Oh, do make yourself at home. Sit down and take your coat off. It’s not raining, is it?’ She glanced towards the window.
‘I thought it might, that’s all,’ said the visitor, making no move either to remove the coat or to sit.
Marlena took another drink. ‘Please sit down and have a drink, you’re making me feel uncomfortable,’ she said.
‘In a minute. Aren’t you enjoying the champagne?’
‘Yes, darling...’ Marlena paused mid-sip, looking thoughtful. ‘Though it seems a little drier than usual. But it’s wonderful. A real treat.’
‘Good. I’m very glad. I think it’s important that the last drink one has should be a special one, don’t you?’
‘I should say so—’ Marlena stopped abruptly as the words sank in. Her smile froze on her face.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know, as an alternative to a last supper I suppose there’s nothing better than a bottle of decent bubbly. I knew you’d appreciate it.’