‘So is it possible someone from her past has caught up with her, ma’am?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Must be a possibility, I suppose. But she came back to the UK, reinvented herself, has lived in Covent Garden ever since, and there seems to be no question of her having set herself up as a madam again. Made plenty of dosh before, apparently. No, why would anyone from her Paris days come after her twenty years after the event? It must be Bertorelli. We already have hard evidence, don’t we? I just wanted you to be aware of what we’ve learned about Marlena, that’s all.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
Vogel stood up to leave. When he reached the door, DCI Clarke called after him. Vogel turned to face her.
‘Listen, Vogel,’ she said. ‘Would you stop calling me bloody ma’am. This is MIT, we’re not a bunch of provincial wooden-tops, and you’re my assistant SIO. Call me Nobby, for Christ’s sake.’
Vogel gulped. He could not imagine calling any woman Nobby, let alone his rather impressive superior officer.
Clarke seemed to be waiting for him to respond. He didn’t know what to say.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ she continued eventually. ‘Boss will do. Anything but bloody ma’am.’
‘Yes, ma— I mean boss,’ said Vogel.
DC Jones was hovering in the corridor ready to take the first interview shift with him.
‘Pam, do you know why the boss calls herself Nobby?’ Vogel asked.
‘Isn’t it to do with the clerks in the City wearing top hats in the old days? People took to calling them nobby and it stuck. So if your surname’s Clarke, you’re liable to get called Nobby. Thought you’d know that, guv.’
‘Yeah, but I thought it was just men. I’ve never come across a woman called Nobby. What’s her real first name?’
‘Nobody knows,’ replied Pam Jones. ‘Apparently she hates her given name and won’t let it be used.’
‘Dear God,’ said Vogel, his thoughts immediately turning to a famous fictional detective. ‘Hasn’t anyone tried to find out?’
‘Carlisle and Wagstaff have a real thing about it. They’ve checked her out big time — the electoral register, everything. She’s always Nobby Clarke. They even managed to get hold of her driving licence. Nobby Clarke.’
Vogel found himself smiling. His new superior officer was certainly different.
He turned his attention to the matter in hand as he and Pam Jones approached the interview room where Alfonso Bertorelli was waiting for them. The Italian had tried to get Christopher Margolia, the criminal lawyer previously called in via Billy, to be by his side, but it seemed Margolia had jetted off to Prague for the weekend. A duty solicitor had been duly provided.
Nothing Clarke had told Vogel made him any happier about the Bertorelli situation. Quite the reverse, in fact. But neither did he believe that Marlena had been the victim of some mobster hitman. He just hoped, as he sat down opposite Alfonso, that the ensuing interview would prove to be fruitful. Who could tell, the man might even confess, and that would solve everything. But Vogel didn’t think so, somehow.
‘To begin with, Mr Bertorelli, could you please take us through your movements after you were released from police custody yesterday?’ he asked.
Alfonso looked a wreck. His eyes were red-rimmed as if he’d been crying. His response took Vogel by surprise. He made no attempt to answer the question, instead he took off on a tangent.
‘I loved Marlena, she was probably the most important person in the world to me, after my mamma and my nan,’ he said. ‘How dare you accuse me of murdering her? I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head.’
‘Mr Bertorelli, I have merely asked you to account for your movements—’
‘Yes, on the day Marlena was murdered. You’ve arrested me, for God’s sake, for murdering her. Me! I can’t even think straight.’
‘You must try, Mr Bertorelli. If you are innocent, then help me prove that. I’m going to ask you again. Would you please take us through your movements on the day that you were released from police custody?’
Alfonso took a deep breath.
‘I don’t know my movements,’ he said. ‘After you lot released me I walked for a bit and then I went into a pub. I think I had a bit too much to drink. I must have done. I lost most of the day. I just wanted to blot everything out.’
‘What was the name of the pub?’
Alfonso held his hands out in a despairing gesture.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I didn’t look. I just wanted to drink.’
‘Well, do you know where the pub was, the street perhaps?’
Alfonso shook his head.
‘OK. Do you remember what direction you were walking?’
Alfonso shook his head again.
‘Not really, towards Soho, I think, but I can’t be sure. I was trying to clear my head. I just walked around for a bit, without taking any notice of where I was.’
‘Right. Do you have any idea how long you walked for before going into this pub?’
‘I’m not sure of that either. A while. Twenty minutes. Maybe more.’
‘And you were on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you were drinking alone?’
‘I didn’t have anyone with me, did I? Of course I was drinking alone. Who would have wanted to drink with me? Me, the prime suspect.’
‘Did you speak to anyone?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. Maybe. I’m not sure.’
‘What about the landlord, or whoever was serving behind the bar?’
‘Well, I ordered drinks, so I must have spoken to someone behind the bar, I suppose.’
‘But no conversation?’
Suddenly Alfonso mustered a bit of attitude.
‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘I had a chat about my morning. “I’ve just come out of the nick. They think I’ve mugged a young woman police constable.” You know the sort of thing. Oh yeah, I had plenty to chat about.’
Alfonso put a heavily sarcastic emphasis on the word ‘chat’.
Vogel studied him wearily. This wasn’t helping, and he suspected Alfonso knew it. He ignored the sarcasm and continued.
‘And after that, after you left the pub, what did you do then?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I was drunk.’
‘You don’t remember anything else that you did that day?’
‘No.’
Alfonso looked as if he didn’t care. As if he had given in.
‘Do you remember returning to your nan’s place?’
Alfonso shook his head. ‘I remember waking up there though, in the early hours of this morning.’
‘And then what?’
‘What do you mean, then what? I felt like shit, obviously. Because of what had happened and because I’d got wasted. But I decided the best thing was for me to carry on as usual. I was on lunchtime shift at the restaurant, and on Sundays lunch is always extra busy. I thought going to work might keep me sane and I was pretty sure nobody there knew I’d been arrested. Not the first time. I’d asked my nan to call me in sick, hadn’t I.’ He paused. ‘They bloody know now though, don’t they? The rest of the bloody world, too, I expect. And this time I’m facing a murder charge. I didn’t bloody do it, do you hear? I didn’t bloody do it.’
Alfonso’s voice rose to a near hysterical shriek.
Vogel carried on, keeping his own voice calm and level.
‘So you decided to go to work as usual. But from what you have told us, if you really were so drunk that you couldn’t remember what you did yesterday, then you must have had one heck of a hangover this morning, didn’t you?’
Alfonso nodded.
‘I just said that.’