This time Forest interrupted Vogel.
‘Not we, and certainly not you, Detective Sergeant,’ he announced. ‘This is murder. I’ve called in an MIT. DCI Nobby Clarke is on the way from the Yard.’ Forest paused. ‘Met Nobby Clarke, have you, Vogel?’ he asked.
Vogel shook his head.
‘Right, well, latest in a long line of high-fliers,’ muttered Forest. He smiled fleetingly as if at some private joke, then continued: ‘The DCI will want to interview you. Make sure you’re available to answer questions, but other than that, keep out of it, do you hear?’
Forest was no longer smiling. He shouted the last few words then turned around sharply and stomped off in the direction of his office. He’d been happy to support Vogel while he was getting results, but that support had clearly been withdrawn in light of what he considered to be a fatal blunder on the detective’s part.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Vogel quietly, addressing Forest’s retreating back.
Murder Investigation Teams were the force’s specialist homicide squads. There were thirty-one MITs operating in the London area, consisting of between thirty and forty staff, both police and civilian, led by a detective chief inspector.
It was standard procedure for an MIT to be called in to take charge of a murder investigation such as this, even if there was no question of mishandling by officers who had been previously involved in events that may have led to the murder. In this case, Vogel feared, questions would be asked about the handling of such events. In particular, the arrest and release of Alfonso Bertorelli. And those questions would primarily be directed at him.
He didn’t care. Neither, at that moment, did he care about Forest’s instruction to leave well alone. He had every intention of disobeying the direct order of his superior officer. He was going to visit the scene of the crime, regardless of any possible consequences. And that was that.
Vogel’s hands were trembling and he had broken into a sweat by the time he arrived at Marlena’s flat. He had visited several murder scenes in his time and seen more than his share of dead bodies. It never got any easier for him. He didn’t experience nausea like some police officers he knew. He was in no danger of being sick, like young PC Porter. Vogel’s reaction was almost entirely mental, but it had physical repercussions in that he so dreaded his own response he felt like a gibbering wreck even before he’d come face to face with the reality.
In this case he feared he was about to confront the worst case of violent death he had ever encountered. And he was right. The sight which greeted him through the open door of the sitting room, as he stepped into the hallway of Marlena’s apartment, was far beyond anything he’d ever seen before. Almost before he had time to react, he found himself marvelling that the human body could contain so much blood. And he automatically registered that the dead woman’s indescribably horrific wounds had almost certainly been sustained while she was still alive, otherwise the projectile bleeding would surely have been significantly less. It looked as if the entire sitting room was splattered with blood, and in some places, on parts of the floor, there were puddles of the stuff.
Vogel stood very still, making himself breathe rhythmically. The distinctive stench of death had hit him straight away. And something else. He looked down. He’d only just avoided stepping in the pile of vomit deposited by Paddy Morgan.
He turned his attention back to the scene before him. He took in that the SOCOs were already at work, and this helped because it lent a certain air of normality even to this most abnormal and aberrant circumstance.
Few of Vogel’s colleagues, if any, knew of the demons he had to overcome, for he displayed no obvious reaction to dealing with deceased human beings. His head was swimming and his stomach had begun to churn. He still didn’t reckon he was going to vomit, but as he surveyed the remains of Marlena McTavish it crossed his mind that if ever there was going to be a first time, this would be it. He’d never passed out at a crime scene either, but a wave of light-headedness warned him that this might be the first time for that too. He rested a hand against the wall just in case.
One of the SOCOs looked up at him with weary eyes.
‘If you’re going to touch anything, Vogel, put your damn gloves on, will you?’ he instructed. ‘And don’t you dare come any further into this crime scene without getting suited up.’
‘Sorry,’ said Vogel, feeling like a complete idiot.
He stepped back into the doorway and almost collided with the Home Office pathologist, Dr Patricia Fitzwarren, almost unrecognizable in her crime scene coveralls.
‘Out the way, Vogel,’ she commanded.
Vogel obeyed, suddenly conscious of how the entire Metropolitan Police Service seemed to regard him as a nuisance, forever getting in the way, until they wanted something that only his particular talents could deliver. Would they still require his services after this? If Forest’s attitude was anything to go by, the blame for Marlena’s murder would be laid at his door. After all, it was his failure to gather sufficient evidence that had resulted in Alfonso Bertorelli being released.
Vogel looked at the cruelly mutilated body in front of him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, bowing his head.
He watched as Dr Fitzwarren knelt at the side of the victim and began her preliminary examination. The SOCOs, meanwhile, were busying themselves collecting samples of blood, searching drawers and cupboards, photographing the scene. There was almost total silence in the room. Vogel realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d been badly affected by this murder. There was none of the usual banter between the SOCOs. It was as if the barbarity of the crime had struck them dumb.
Before taking his leave, he surveyed the room one last time. The shockwaves that had been surging through his body seemed mercifully to have subsided, allowing his brain to function at something approaching its normal capacity.
There was a lot to be learned from studying a crime scene. Not just in terms of forensics, but in building a picture of what had taken place in that setting. He started by studying the front door. It didn’t look as though the killer had made a forced entry to the apartment. Vogel’s gaze shifted to the room in which Marlena’s body lay. There seemed to be at least one clear footprint in the blood on the floor. Careless, he thought, as he studied the room. In spite of the manner of the death, little seemed to have been disturbed in the apartment itself. No furniture had been overturned, and there was no obvious sign of a struggle. All of this indicated that the woman had known her attacker. But that was what he and everyone else, including Forest and probably by now DCI Clarke, had expected, was it not?
A bottle of Bollinger champagne, about two-thirds full, stood on the sideboard. Alongside it was a crystal glass, almost full of what must now be flat champagne. It looked untouched. A second glass, nearly empty, stood on a little table next to the armchair by the window. Judging by the worn appearance of the seat and cushions, this had almost certainly been the chair most often used by the dead woman.
Vogel backed out towards the communal hall, registering as he did so an entryphone just inside the door to the flat.
There were people in the corridor he hadn’t noticed before. But then, on his arrival, he had been far too preoccupied with thoughts of what he might be confronted with at the scene of the crime. PCs Porter and Martin, the two officers who had been first to respond to the 999 call, were standing alongside a man Vogel presumed to be the caretaker who’d found the body. This man, grey-faced and trembling, sat slumped on the floor leaning against the wall. His face, hands and clothes were covered in blood and vomit.