Vogel sighed. The team had already checked out Phil Monahan. Vogel had asked for that to be done as soon as he’d heard about Michelle’s death. He now knew that Monahan had been on duty since 8 a.m. that day and had spent most of the morning at his desk in Dorchester CID. He certainly would at no stage have had time to nip up to London, murder his estranged wife, and nip back. Even if he’d had any desire or inclination to do so.
The final interviewee was Bob.
‘Of course I can prove I was at Chatham Towers all morning,’ he said. ‘Twice a week I go there and it takes me ’til early afternoon. I get there about eight and I don’t usually leave ’til after two. I know the people who go off to work early, and I do their terraces first. Then I do the public areas. The place is usually deserted by nine o’clock, you see, because it’s all professional people, lawyers, accountants, City workers, that sort of thing. So I don’t get in anyone’s way. Before I start, Pete — that’s the porter — he always makes me a cuppa.’
‘And he did that this morning?’
‘Yes. We take a bit of a break, sit down in his little room in the basement, have a chat. Then I get stuck in again. There’s a lot to do at this time of year on the terraces and outside, clearing the last of the winter stuff, putting in the spring bedding plants and so on. And in the foyer, well, they always like it to look tiptop with a bit of colour, so I’m constantly replacing plants, usually just rotating them, you know. I don’t like to throw living things out. I bring them back to my place if I can find the room, put them in my cold frame if I need to, give ’em a bit of TLC—’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Vogel impatiently. He didn’t need a lecture on horticulture, and if he’d been less wearied by the lack of progress he probably wouldn’t have let Bob go on as much as he had. He did his best to persevere.
‘So how long did you and Pete spend together drinking tea this morning?’
‘Oh, about twenty minutes, I suppose,’ said Bob.
‘And then you worked on the public areas. Was this Pete with you then?’
‘Some of the time. He has a desk in the foyer, but he has various jobs to do. He can confirm that I wouldn’t have had the chance to nip off and murder little Michelle Monahan.’ Bob shook his head sadly. ‘Look at me,’ he instructed. ‘Do you really think I’ve got it in me to murder somebody?’
‘You were in the army, Mr Buchanan, you have been to war.’
‘A long time ago. And one thing that did was to make me never again want to have anything to do with the death of another human being. If I’m the best suspect you can come up with, then I’d say you haven’t got very far with this investigation.’
Vogel was inclined to agree. Stoically he carried on with his questioning.
‘What about when you went into the various flats to work on the private terraces? Pete wouldn’t have been with you then, would he? Presumably he wouldn’t have even known which flat you were supposed to be in.’
‘What do you mean “supposed to be”?’ asked Bob, showing a bit of spirit. ‘Anyway, I was in and out of my van all morning, wasn’t I? They let me park it in the courtyard round the back. I’m forever shifting plants about, fresh topsoil, fertilizer, tools and stuff, aren’t I? And I have to pass Pete’s desk every time, don’t I?’
Vogel watched as Bob was escorted back to his cell. It wasn’t like him to feel so confused. He was also becoming frustrated. Every one of the seven appeared to have a solid alibi for the period during which Michelle was killed. And this left the policeman no further forward.
He felt as if he were groping his way through a thick and impenetrable fog. And he was getting nowhere fast. Just as Bob had implied.
Vogel sat for a moment, staring into space, aware of DC Jones watching him anxiously. Then he pulled himself together and marched into the MIT room, trying to look purposeful. Perhaps there would be news from the search teams or forensics. Also there might be word from the officers looking through CCTV footage, starting with the streets around Brydges Place, where Michelle’s body was found, and then moving further afield.
Two murders had been committed and the murderer must have left clues. That was Vogel’s simple logic. Criminals make mistakes. Eventually. Sadistic killers leave a trail. It was up to him to uncover that trail and to follow it to its conclusion.
Nineteen
In between my turns in the interview room I waited quietly in my cell. I could not believe they had not yet discovered me. Wasn’t it obvious by now that I was the perpetrator? Many times throughout my life I’d wondered if I was the only person in the world who wasn’t stupid. This was just another example. I could always manipulate people, make them believe what I wanted them to and do what I wanted them to do. It was as if God had given me some rare and dangerous talent, a genuine sixth sense, in exchange for what he had taken away.
But nothing could ever make up for that.
I have experienced guilt. I am not a sociopath. I have feelings, not just for myself, but for others too. I’d even felt a certain sense of remorse when I had to dispense with Michelle Monahan. Not much, it’s true. She’d always annoyed me. At first it had amused me to be wining and dining with a police officer, and her so blissfully unaware of my history. But she was just too pretty and perky, too bright and vivacious. It made me want to slap her. I was jealous. Boy, was I jealous. She had everything going for her, yet after she’d had a few drinks she would start to moan about her wicked ex-husband and her ruined life. There was nothing wrong with her life. She had a career. And her looks. Men seemed to fall at her feet. Even I’d found her attractive, and that was the most annoying thing of all.
Nonetheless I regretted her passing. Strange, really, that I found myself almost mourning her death, as if I hadn’t been responsible for it.
It had been quite different with the bitch. I felt no regret for her passing. I’d carved into her and removed her organs much as a butcher would clean out the insides of a pig, leaving little more than a bare gaping cavity. It pleased me that I had been efficient, quite casually efficient. I’d felt nothing for her. Indeed, as I’d watched the bitch’s life blood flow, spilling across the floor, puddling at my feet, I experienced only a sense of release.
I had lusted after vengeance for so long, never imagining that it would one day come within my reach. So, when I severed the bitch’s genitalia and plucked out her womb, I had felt, more than anything else, triumphant. I had finally been avenged.
Once it was done, and the bitch was dead, I considered, then, taking my own life. After all, thanks to her, it had always been a total disappointment to me. When I was younger I would sometimes wake up in the mornings and feel a fleeting moment of hope at the thought of a new day. Then I would remember my own reality. Every day is the first day of the rest of your life, they say. It could never be like that for me. Every day of my life I had to bear the legacy of what the bitch had done, what she had turned me into — a wretched apology for a human being, a damaged, empty shell.
Marlena. So wonderful, so funny, such a character. Everyone loved Marlena. Even I had loved Marlena, hadn’t I? Before I’d learned the bitter truth.
My one regret was that I hadn’t killed her sooner. It offended me that she had lived so long, unscarred by what she had done. She’d claimed, in her dying agony, sputtering through the gag I had made for her, that she hadn’t realized the damage she had done. Begging for mercy — she who had shown none! She’d thrown me aside, leaving me to suffer, not just then but for the rest of my life. Self-preservation had been her only concern. She’d had no thought for me — until the day I finally caught up with her.