This time Alfonso, appearing even more agitated after a night in the cells, was accompanied by Christopher Margolia, his lawyer of choice, who had returned late the previous night from his trip to Prague.
‘It seems certain that the trainers found in the bin at your nan’s are yours. They match a footprint found at the murder scene, and we are confident that the blood on them will prove a match with that of the victim,’ Vogel said.
Alfonso looked bemused.
‘I didn’t put any trainers or shoes of any kind in the bin,’ he said. ‘At my nan’s? Why would I? If I were guilty of anything I’d dump the shoes I’d been wearing as far away as possible from my nan’s or anywhere else I stayed, wouldn’t I?’
There were obvious similarities with the circumstances of Alfonso’s earlier arrest. And his last remark echoed Vogel’s own thoughts, but that wasn’t nearly enough to prevent what was fast becoming inevitable. Vogel said nothing. This time Alfonso did fill the silence.
‘What makes you think they’re my shoes anyway?’ he asked.
‘They’re the right size, and they were found at your place of residence,’ Vogel recited patiently.
He placed a photograph on the table at which Alfonso was sitting.
‘But why don’t you tell me,’ he said. ‘Are these your trainers?’
Alfonso looked down at the picture. His face had been pale before, now it was like parchment.
‘They l-look like mine,’ he said eventually. ‘An old pair of Adidas I’ve had for years. I don’t wear them very often. I should have thrown them out really...’
Vogel put another photograph on the table. This time a shot of the footprint clearly marked in the blood on the floor of Marlena’s sitting room.
Only the side of the woman’s head was in the picture. Nonetheless Vogel saw the other man flinch away from the image before him.
‘You may or may not be aware that this is a footprint from an Adidas trainer,’ said Vogel. ‘It’s rather distinctive, is it not?’
‘Is it? I don’t know. I don’t go around looking at the bottom of people’s feet too often.’
Again a flash of what Vogel was beginning to realize was Alfonso’s natural sharpness. His customary mild wit and deftness of speech had been pretty much stamped out by then, but Vogel could still detect something remaining of the more usual Alfonso Bertorelli.
It was time to fire the next broadside.
‘You should also know that we’ve had the results of the fingerprint check made on these trainers,’ Vogel continued. ‘They are covered in your prints.’
‘B-but, if they’re my trainers they would be,’ Alfonso stumbled. ‘Somebody must have stolen them. I’ve told you: I’m being framed. You have to see that now. Whoever dumped all that stuff on me before — the bike, the hoody, Michelle’s bag — they must have taken my trainers then returned them. I’m being set up again. Someone’s out to get me. It’s obvious...’
Alfonso’s bottom lip began to tremble. For one awful moment Vogel thought the man was going to cry. He so hated it when that happened.
‘I think my client needs a break,’ interjected Margolia.
Vogel addressed the lawyer directly. ‘Look, let’s just see if we can clear all this up as quickly as possible, for everybody’s sake, shall we?’ he asked.
‘Please proceed with care, then, Mr Vogel,’ murmured Margolia.
Vogel inclined his head very slightly. He didn’t want any more interruptions. He had further questions to ask, to which answers were urgently required. He made his voice as gentle as possible.
‘Mr Bertorelli, when you were previously arrested at your grandmother’s home you were asked to check if anything had been stolen, either belonging to you or your grandmother, were you not?’
‘Well, yes, but...’
‘And you said that nothing was missing, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’d forgotten about those old trainers. I didn’t even know they were at my nan’s. I can’t remember when I last wore them even.’
‘It would seem that you wore them on Saturday evening, Mr Bertorelli, when you visited your old friend.’
Alfonso’s lower lip was trembling again, and this time he lost control. He began to cry, his shoulders shook, an animallike wail filled the room. Briefly, Vogel looked away.
‘For the record, you do not know that, Mr Vogel,’ said Margolia.
Vogel ignored the lawyer and made himself stare straight at Alfonso, trying to keep his face expressionless.
‘Mr Bertorelli, how do you feel about women?’ he asked, remembering the man’s reaction when he’d suggested he was gay.
Bertorelli stopped crying. ‘I like women,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ A sudden thought had occurred to Vogel.
‘Yes. I’d never hurt a woman, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I was rather more interested in your relationships with women. Have you ever had a real relationship with a woman, Mr Bertorelli?’
‘What? Of course I have.’
‘Have you ever actually had sex with a woman?’ Vogel continued mercilessly.
‘That’s enough, Mr Vogel,’ thundered Christopher Margolia.
Bertorelli looked horrified. Shocked to the core. But in spite of his lawyer’s intervention, he answered the question.
‘Of course I have,’ he said again, and once more started to weep hysterically.
Vogel was not convinced. Could Bertorelli be the oldest virgin in town? Was that one of his secrets? And, if so, how relevant was it? Had the man grown to hate women because he’d never had a woman of his own, never had an intimate relationship? Was that what had led him to kill? But why Marlena?
There could be no doubt that Marlena had invited her killer into her home. And she’d been drinking champagne with him, or her; champagne which the murderous visitor almost certainly brought along as a gift. A fatal gift.
Forensics had reported that substantial traces of gamma hydroxybutyrate had been found in Marlena’s almost empty glass at the crime scene. GHB is a central nervous system depressant, not unlike the more common date rape drug Rohypnol, but it comes in a clear liquid form, thus making its presence in a translucent drink like champagne less detectable, in spite of its slightly salty taste.
Alfonso Bertorelli was not a big man. Vogel considered that he would not be a particularly strong man. But a dose of GHB would render a much younger and fitter woman than Marlena incapable of resisting assault. She would have been unable to do much more than watch as unspeakable atrocities were committed on her, until, mercifully, her life finally ebbed away...
Vogel realized that he had drifted off. He turned his attention back to the present, and to the man sitting opposite him, who had started to weep again.
Alfonso had no verifiable alibi for the approximate time, or for any time after 11.30 a.m. on the day Marlena had met such a vicious and violent death. The team had been unable to confirm that he had visited a public house, and even if it were to be proved that he’d been drinking in a pub he may well still have had time to murder Marleen McTavish. He may not have been as drunk as he’d suggested, or indeed, not drunk at all.
The evidence against Bertorelli in connection with this and the other incidents seemed to be growing day by day. Vogel might still think some of it a little too neat, a bit too convenient, but if someone was framing Alfonso Bertorelli then they were making an extremely good fist of it.
And Bertorelli, who’d lived in London or thereabouts all his life and might well have been staying in King’s Cross with his nan at the time of the two murders there fifteen years earlier, really wasn’t helping himself. He just kept repeating that he had no idea where he’d been during the period when Marlena was killed.