Forest’s eyes glazed over for a moment, before he came to and shook his head somewhat sorrowfully.
‘I see, sir,’ said Vogel, who wasn’t entirely sure that he did.
He did know that an inspector’s salary, even if it didn’t prove to be permanent, would be extremely useful right now. Although Vogel had never actively sought promotion, nor even known whether he really wanted it, his personal financial responsibilities had been rising of late. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife. He was only human.
‘Right then, get on with it,’ continued Forest, his usual bluster restored. ‘Clarke wants you hands on, Vogel. She’s given orders for Bertorelli to be arrested straight away, and she wants you to lead a team of the MIT chaps and bring the bastard in. A squad car’s outside waiting, Vogel. Oh, and from now on you report to her. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Vogel.
Alfonso Bertorelli was not at his grandmother’s home in King’s Cross, as Vogel had hoped he would be. Instead the arresting officers found merely a frightened old woman who spoke poor English but managed to tell them that her grandson had gone to work.
‘My boy, he say he just want to carry on as normal...’
Clarke had simultaneously arranged for a CID man and two uniformed officers from Dagenham nick to go to Bertorelli’s mother’s address. They found nobody at home, perhaps backing up by default the grandmother’s claim.
Unless Bertorelli had done a runner, thought Vogel. Leaving two officers to search the premises, he asked for more back-up to meet him at the Vine.
It was by now nearly four in the afternoon. As this was a Sunday, the restaurant was still full. Most of the remaining lunchers were on puddings, coffee, and in some cases brandy or liqueurs, when they became aware of police activity around them.
Alfonso was delivering iced Scandinavian berries with warm chocolate sauce to table fifteen when two uniformed PCs relieved him of the dish and steered him towards the door.
Chocolate sauce slopped onto Alfonso’s pristine white shirt and several berries fell to the floor, which the waiter only wished would open up and swallow him. He tried to shake himself free of the grasp of the officers.
‘What am I supposed to have done now?’ he asked. ‘I’m an innocent man, do you hear?’
‘Just step outside, please, sir,’ instructed Detective Constable Jones, who was right behind the two PCs. They had positioned themselves on either side of Alfonso and had each firmly grasped him by the upper arm.
‘At least will you let me walk out of my restaurant without being manhandled?’ asked Alfonso. ‘I’m not going to try to run, am I?’
The two uniformed officers looked at DC Jones, who glanced around the busy room. Outside, several more police officers waited. DC Jones nodded slightly to the PCs, one of whom released his grip on Alfonso while continuing to steer him to the door. The second officer kept one hand lightly resting on Alfonso’s arm, just in case.
Vogel had remained outside, letting the woodentops and DC Jones do the dirty work. He stood on the pavement opposite the door to the Vine, watchful as ever. When Alfonso emerged, Vogel stared at him with impassive eyes. Jones and the two PCs stepped away from Alfonso, allowing Vogel to confront him one to one.
‘Alfonso Bertorelli, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Miss Marleen McTavish,’ Vogel began. ‘You do not have to say anything—’
Vogel stopped abruptly. He could see he wasn’t going to get to finish the caution until later.
Alfonso looked as if he’d been hit by a truck. His face turned ashen, his eyes glazed over.
‘Marlena,’ he murmured, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘Marlena...’
Alfonso’s body began to sway.
Vogel stepped forward, arms outstretched. Other officers also reached out towards the arrested man. All of them were too slow and too late.
Alfonso dropped like a stone onto the pavement.
They took him to UCH for a check-up. Alfonso came round almost as quickly as he had passed out, and his only injuries appeared to be a grazed hand and a sprained wrist, but Vogel was taking no chances. Whatever the outcome of the next couple of days, he didn’t want the result undermined by some technicality that would create a legal loophole through which a killer could escape.
While waiting to be given the all-clear to detain Alfonso for interviews, Vogel learned that the officers searching the grandmother’s home at King’s Cross had found a pair of bloodstained Adidas trainers in one of the bins outside the back door of her block. Size nine. The same size apparently as the small collection of shoes in Alfonso’s bedroom.
This was a potentially highly incriminating discovery. Vogel had little doubt that the blood on the shoes would prove to be Marlena’s. He did, however, as when Alfonso had previously been arrested, have doubts about the location and manner of the discovery of the trainers. Alfonso Bertorelli didn’t strike him as unintelligent. Would anyone, having committed murder, dump a pair of incriminating bloodstained trainers in the bin at his place of residence? Or one of his places of residence. It would seem to be an act of total stupidity. Particularly when the perpetrator in question had already been arrested on suspicion of previous, doubtless connected, offences.
On the other hand, Vogel was well aware how those responsible for criminal acts could panic when the enormity of their actions overwhelmed them. Particularly where crimes of violence were concerned. And most particularly when it came to murder. Any murder. But surely all the more so when the murder had been as brutal as this one.
However, to question Bertorelli’s guilt for no other reason than the sheer weight of evidence against him would be perverse, even by Vogel’s standards.
Nobby Clarke and her MIT had installed themselves at Charing Cross police station and a cell had been made ready for Alfonso by the time Vogel was able to return there with the arrested man.
Alfonso was processed in the custody suite, his personal possessions and his clothes taken from him as before, even though this time Vogel did not expect them to necessarily provide evidence. He was then offered a cup of tea. Everything by the book, said Vogel, who countered his eccentricity in certain areas by acting with almost obsessive adherence to regulations in others.
While this was going on, Clarke summoned Vogel to the office which had been temporarily assigned to her. The DCI had a real presence about her, Vogel thought, emphasized by her height and her stylish appearance. Her dark blonde hair, its length pushing the limit of Met regulations, fell nearly to the collar of her sharply tailored jacket. Her manner was confident and authoritative without being imposing or domineering. She welcomed Vogel to MIT, told him she was looking forward to working with him as her number two, then cut to the chase.
‘Everything does now point to Bertorelli,’ she said. ‘But the more we can interview out of him the better. And you should know what the search team have found at Marlena’s apartment.’
Vogel looked at her enquiringly.
‘There was a suitcase under her bed containing memorabilia from her time in Paris. Back then, she was known as Madame Lola. And it appears she ran an upmarket brothel.’
‘Wow!’ said Vogel.
‘Indeed,’ Clarke agreed. ‘There were photographs both of her and various clients. A very elite clientele, from the look of it. We’ve been on to the French police. As you’d expect, they knew all about Madame Lola. They lost track of her twenty years ago after she fell foul of the mob. Word had it she’d got overambitious, decided to try her hand at a bit of blackmail. Only she chose the wrong victim. When she suddenly disappeared, the gendarmes weren’t sure whether she’d gone to ground or been buried six feet under it. Turns out she must have fled the country.’