‘Thank you, Mr Timpson,’ said Vogel. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
And that clinches it, he thought to himself, as he made his way to Nobby Clarke’s office to give her his now delayed report. He hoped she would agree that the delay had been worth it.
Vogel was about to knock on the door of the office temporarily assigned to Clarke, when he was intercepted by DI Forest, bristling with indignation.
‘What the hell is going on, Vogel?’ Forest demanded.
In no mood for the DI’s posturing, Vogel replied, ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind stepping out of the way. I need to report to my SIO.’
Forest had positioned himself so that he was blocking the door to Nobby Clarke’s office. Instead of moving aside, he barked, ‘Tell that flash bitch Clarke she needs to get this sort—’
At that moment the door behind Forest opened to reveal a sardonically smiling DCI Clarke.
‘Thank you for your input, DI Forest,’ she said quietly.
Forest glanced anxiously over one shoulder. His ruddy complexion had turned even redder. DCI Clarke was a good six feet tall, Vogel reckoned. And, in the heeled boots which accompanied the tailored trouser suits she invariably wore to work, she towered over Tom Forest.
Vogel’s wife was tall. She’d told him that a lot of short men were intimidated by tall women, even if they wouldn’t admit it, particularly if the women were in a position of authority over them.
Forest certainly looked intimidated. And serve him damn well right, thought Vogel.
‘Yes, oh, yes, well, as long as we all pull together, I’m sure we will get the right result,’ Forest blustered.
‘Perhaps if you’d let my assistant SIO pass,’ said Clarke, her face expressionless, ‘we could get on with achieving the right result that much quicker.’
‘Yes, right, yes.’
As a flustered Forest departed, Clarke shook her head sorrowfully.
‘We were at Hendon together, you know,’ she told Vogel as she ushered him into her office. ‘We used to call him Einstein. And now he’s a DI. Not changed a bit, though.’
She sat down behind her desk, and gestured for Vogel to take a seat. ‘There’s nothing worse than losing a fellow copper,’ she sighed.
‘No, boss, there isn’t,’ agreed Vogel.
‘What do you make of it?’ she asked.
‘Clearly Mr Bertorelli couldn’t have killed Michelle Monahan. And it now looks as though he’s got an alibi for the day Marlena was killed...’
Vogel told her about Charles Timpson and the statement he had given. The DCI made a disparaging remark about the quality of Wagstaff and Carlisle’s pub check, and told Vogel to send them back to the Dunster Arms to verify Timpson’s story.
‘We probably need to drop all charges against him,’ said Vogel. ‘I shouldn’t think the CPS will want to know after this.’
‘All charges?’ she queried. ‘I agree it’s impossible for us to proceed with the murder charge, but what about the earlier mugging of PC Monahan? A considerable amount of incriminating evidence was found at Bertorelli’s place of residence, was it not? The hoody, the bike, and even Michelle Monahan’s handbag.’
‘Yes, just as we found a pair of his old trainers covered in Marlena’s blood when we went to arrest him for her murder, a murder he now has an alibi for,’ Vogel pointed out. ‘Bertorelli has always maintained that those items were planted at his gran’s. Forensics could find no trace of his fingerprints on the bike or the bag, which was why the CPS didn’t want to charge him after PC Monahan was mugged.’
‘So now we have to accept that he was telling the truth about being set up?’
‘Right, boss. And the blood-spattered trainers could only have been planted by the person who murdered Marlena.’
Clarke sat pondering this for a moment. ‘You think the same person is guilty of all these crimes involving the Sunday Club people, don’t you, Vogel?’
Vogel agreed that he did.
‘But the killings of Marlena and PC Monahan each followed a very different MO — how do you account for that?’
‘Marlena’s murder was premeditated. He had it all planned: drugging the champagne, taking along one of Bertorelli’s trainers to incriminate him, presumably making sure he had a change of clothes because his own would be covered in blood... it was all carefully set up to make sure that he would get away with it.’
The DCI was listening intently, she nodded for him to continue.
‘Michelle was killed in broad daylight a short distance from this police station. Not the ideal time or location if you’re planning a murder — far too much risk of being seen. That tells me he was in a hurry. It could be that Michelle had seen something or remembered something that would put him at risk, so he had to act fast to silence her. Maybe she was on the way here, and that’s why he killed her where he did.’
Clarke did not respond immediately but sat weighing up everything he had told her. Vogel waited in silence, enjoying the novelty of a superior officer who took the time to mull things over.
‘There is an alternative scenario,’ she said. ‘This latest killing could just be a terrible coincidence. But it would be so great a coincidence that I don’t think it’s worthy of serious consideration.’
Vogel was relieved to hear it. ‘So we’re looking for a serial offender, a double murderer. Right now he’s still at large, and we don’t know who he is or why he has done what he’s done. We need to find him, and fast, boss.’
‘We’ve made a bad mistake then, over the arrest of Bertorelli, haven’t we?’ she said. ‘If we hadn’t, Michelle Monahan might still be alive.’
Clarke looked quite bereft. And Vogel noted her use of the word ‘we’. Under Forest’s watch, it was a given that blame would be shifted down the chain of command. Vogel had never been one to pass the buck, not downwards, sideways, or up. If things went wrong he never took the attitude that it wasn’t his fault because he’d only been obeying orders. No. Vogel was a Jew whose immediate family had only just escaped Nazi Germany before the holocaust. There was a great-aunt who had died in the camps, and a number of distant cousins who had suffered unspeakable atrocities at the hands of those whose ultimate excuse had frequently been that they were only obeying orders. Vogel couldn’t accept that. Not for others and not for himself. He felt that the actions of every police officer involved in the Sunday Club investigations had contributed in some degree to the death of Michelle Monahan.
He was wracked with guilt about the part he’d played. He’d been too busy fretting over discrepancies in her bloody diary, which was all it had amounted to, and as a result he’d failed to see the bigger picture. Worse, he’d allowed Alfonso Bertorelli to be charged with murder and assault even though he doubted the man was guilty of either crime. That was the bitter truth. And Vogel was beside himself with grief and inner fury. However, as was his way, he let none of this show.
‘If mistakes were made,’ said Vogel, ‘they were mine more than anybody else’s.’
Clarke looked him in the eye, holding his gaze for a few seconds before responding. ‘We’re a team here, Vogel. Whatever went wrong is a team responsibility. And it certainly won’t do any good dwelling on it. So let’s move forward, shall we?’
Vogel nodded his agreement.
‘Right, we’ll drop the charges against Bertorelli and release him from custody,’ she said briskly. ‘But I want him told that our inquiries are ongoing and he could be called back in for questioning at any time. OK? Meanwhile let’s get the rest of the Sunday Club bunch picked up. No messing. One of them has probably killed a cop, so I say we arrest the lot of ’em, soon as. Don’t give ’em any warning. And I want their homes turned over.’