No, she could not expose herself to that. In any case, she had probably got it all wrong. The case against Alfonso seemed rock-solid, she couldn’t be certain that what she’d learned the previous evening would make any difference. True, it raised questions about another member of the group, but did it undermine the evidence against Alfonso?
She had replayed the attack on her over and over again in her mind and was certain that her assailant had been male. Though the features had been hidden behind glasses and a scarf, the sheer power of the punch told her it had to be a man. Besides, assuming that the perpetrator was a member of Sunday Club, there were only three women in the group. One was dead, one was her — and she was guilty of nothing except desperation — and the third was Karen. Michelle could not, even in her wildest nightmares, consider Karen capable of such extremes of violence — nor did she have the strength. Thanks to her colleagues at Charing Cross nick, Michelle was aware of details concerning Marlena’s death that had not been made public; the force with which the murder weapon had been driven into her friend’s body indicated a degree of physical strength that was beyond most women.
No, it was definitely a man, it was almost certainly one of the friends, and her suspicions were beginning to focus on one particular friend. Although, as with Alfonso, Michelle had no idea what possible motive he could have.
It was too soon to share her suspicions with anyone. There was too little to go on at this stage. She needed to know more, to confirm to her own satisfaction that she was on the right track. The only way to do that would be to conduct her own inquiries. She knew it was unwise, but that wasn’t going stop her, just as it hadn’t stopped her flying to Zurich to meet her dodgy doctor. Michelle wanted to talk to this man. Even if Vogel were to take her seriously, he didn’t know this man the way she did. Faced with a policeman, his answers would be guarded, careful. She on the other hand was a friend; he wouldn’t even realize he was being questioned. What’s more, she had the first-hand knowledge to trip him up in any lies. No one was better placed to force him to incriminate himself. If indeed he were guilty.
For the first time since her hopes were dashed in Zurich, she felt buoyant and confident of her abilities. She realized she might be putting herself in danger, but planned to reduce the risk by arranging to meet him in a public place. A breakfast meeting in Costa or Starbucks, perhaps; somewhere he would not dare to attack.
An involuntary shiver ran through her at the memory of the cyclist bearing down on her in his hoody and dark glasses. That had been a public place; even late at night there had been cars and pedestrians in the vicinity, and still it hadn’t saved her from that punch in the face. It had all happened too fast for anyone to react.
Michelle did try, momentarily, to talk herself out of her own plan. One half of her urged caution, but the other declared that she was in any case battered and broken and probably eternally childless, so what did it matter if she lived or died?
She checked her watch. Just after 8.30. She picked up her phone then put it down again. To hell with it. Better to arrive without warning. More dangerous, perhaps, but surely more likely to bring results. She doubted he would have left home yet. With luck, she would catch him as he made his way out, invite him for coffee. That way she wouldn’t have to actually step inside his place. She’d better hurry though, because there was one other visit she needed to make before she confronted him.
She hurried to the bathroom, and covered her battered face with a thick layer of pancake make-up. Then she put on dark glasses and a baseball hat with a long peak which she pulled down over her forehead. She hesitated for just a moment before removing from the cupboard by the front door a small leather case, which she slipped into her coat pocket, then hurried downstairs.
Vogel had been at his desk in Charing Cross police station for a couple of hours, still battling to come to terms with his doubts. He had MIT chaps all over the place trying to build a stronger case against Bertorelli, but nothing they’d come up with so far seemed to quell his misgivings.
His peace of mind was further shaken by a call that came through shortly after nine. It was his old friend Ben Parker in Dorset.
‘Look, mate, I’ve been mulling this over ever since I heard about that woman who’s been murdered on your patch,’ he began. ‘It’s probably nothing, and I’m hating myself for this, but I guess I just can’t keep shtum any longer...’
‘For God’s sake, Ben, spit it out. I’m in the middle of a murder inquiry here.’
‘OK, OK, look, that night I got wasted with Phil Monahan on your behalf, he let it slip that Michelle’d had a hysterectomy. He said she’d been knocked sideways, was never the same afterwards, knowing she couldn’t have a baby. Anyway, he swore me to secrecy, because he’d promised her he wouldn’t let anyone know. Said it was the least he could do. But, well, when it came through the old grapevine how that poor bloody woman had been cut up... Oh, I know it’s ridiculous. Just shoot me down in flames, will you?’
Vogel thought it was ridiculous, but was unnerved nonetheless. He ended the call and cursed silently. It was obvious what Ben Parker had been getting at. Michelle Monahan might have become so unhinged that she’d developed a lethal grudge against women with the necessary biological equipment to produce the children she could not have.
But Parker didn’t know about the mugging that had left Michelle far too badly beaten up to have launched an attack on anyone. Even if she hadn’t been injured, Vogel could not believe she would be crazy enough or vicious enough to butcher another human being the way Marlena’s killer had. And why, if envy was the motive, would she have chosen a victim way beyond child-bearing years, a woman who had no children? Surely her target would have been Karen, the only mother in the group.
No, he did not for one moment think that Michelle Monahan could be guilty of Marlena’s murder, but Parker’s call had stirred up his misgivings about her furtive behaviour, the lies she’d told to cover her absence from work. There had to be a rational explanation. Colleagues who’d been in touch with her said she was still in a bad way after the mugging, so he’d put off having another talk with her. Once she was recovered, though, Vogel would talk to her again. Make her tell him the truth.
In the meantime, his focus had to be the case against Alfonso Bertorelli. If he could only find a more damning piece of evidence, something that would silence those niggling doubts that kept troubling him...
The results of Michelle’s first call, at a Covent Garden address not far from her eventual destination, made her all the more determined to follow through with her plan. She had the bit between her teeth now and was in no mood to let concerns about her safety stand in the way. If she started thinking like a victim, worrying about danger all the time, she might as well kiss her career in the police goodbye. The only way to conquer fear was to push yourself through whatever barriers it tried to throw up, consequences be damned.
The communal front door to the apartment block where he lived had been propped open, presumably by the driver of a courier van who was busily loading parcels onto a trolley ready to wheel them into the entrance hall. She flitted through unnoticed and quickly climbed the stairs. There was no response when she knocked on the door of his flat. She waited, knocked a second time. Again, no reply. He must be out already.