‘Just the two cases we already knew about,’ Vogel told her. ‘I dug out the files again and it was as I remembered: the reproductive organs of both victims had been hacked out, and unlike Marlena they had been strangled beforehand. Ari Kabul would have been eleven years old in 1998, which effectively rules him out, but the others could still be in the frame.’
‘Fifteen years is a hell of a long interval. Chances are, whoever was responsible is either dead or got taken out of general circulation in some other way, maybe locked up for another crime. Even so, make sure the team keep an eye out for any connections between our boys and what went down in King’s Cross. You never know...’
Back in the MIT’s incident room, Vogel assigned one of the sharpest young DCs, Steve Parlow, the task of following up on the Carla Karbusky lead — if indeed it was a lead and not another dead end. There continued to be no answer from the contact number George Kristos had supplied for her, which had turned out to be a pay-as-you-go phone. This made tracing the owner more difficult, but Vogel was confident that Parlow would eventually succeed. He wanted the young woman found, if only to give him some respite from wracking his brain trying to figure out why her face seemed so familiar.
Meanwhile, he drew up a list of known associates of the friends and ordered that they be brought in for questioning. This included, of course, Johnny the piano-playing boss of Johnny’s Place, Cathy the maître d’, and several other Johnny’s staff, some colleagues of Alfonso’s from the Vine, including his immediate boss Leonardo, Justin from Shannon’s, Pete the caretaker at Chatham Towers, and Paddy Morgan, the caretaker at Sampford House who had found Marlena’s body. There was nothing as yet to indicate the direct involvement of any of these, and the usual procedure would have been to conduct informal interviews elsewhere or invite them to attend Charing Cross police station by appointment. But Vogel had them picked up and brought in for formal questioning. He’d taken his kid gloves off and thrown them away.
There was one exception. Tony Kwan. Vogel wasn’t yet ready to summon the Triad boss to the police station, and he certainly wasn’t going to send a load of plods to pick Kwan up. Apart from any other consideration, if you started something with a man like Kwan, if you appeared to be taking him on, then you had better be prepared to finish it. Or else. And Vogel didn’t like to think about the ‘or else’.
A few years previously a couple of Met detectives based at West End Central had been investigating an upmarket protection racket centring on some of the major Oxford Street stores. They found evidence of blackmail, coercion and the use of extreme aggression, all of it pointing to Kwan. Somehow, Kwan got wind of the fact they were closing in on him. Threats were made; the detectives were warned that their families’ lives would be in danger if they didn’t back off. And fast. One of them, DC Leonard Smith, even claimed to have spotted a man armed with a sniper rifle on a roof overlooking the Savile Row entrance of the Mayfair police station. The top brass had dismissed the detective’s claims as pure fantasy, and ultimately both men had taken early retirement from the force. Vogel knew that Len Smith, with whom he’d been friendly, had suffered a nervous breakdown from which he had never recovered. The case was ultimately closed due to lack of evidence. To Vogel it seemed the Met had done what it had been told to do. Backed off. The whole matter had left a nasty taste in his mouth.
It was hard to blame those within the force who had taken the decision not to proceed. Kwan’s reputation was such that he was generally regarded as untouchable. Vogel did not know whether that was true. He did not operate at that kind of level within the Met. He did know that he was afraid of Tony Kwan. Very afraid. Anyone with half a brain would be. Vogel was a family man. He had a wife and a daughter. A vulnerable daughter. He wasn’t the gung-ho, have-a-go-hero type. He would have liked nothing better than to forget about that particular entry in Greg Walker’s phone, to accept Walker’s glib explanation of a simple purchase of whisky. But he couldn’t. As was often the case, he found himself resolved to follow a course of action he knew he might live to regret. Or did he just hope he might live to regret it? Vogel told himself off for letting his imagination run riot.
He was going to Soho to see Tony Kwan, and that was that.
It was almost 10 p.m. when he arrived, alone, at the Zodiac gambling club. Like Greg, he knew that Tony Kwan operated out of an office in the club. Unlike Greg, Vogel had never set foot inside the building. But he knew enough about Kwan to be confident that he would still be in his office. According to the legend that meandered its way around the bevied echelons of the Met, there was a sumptuous bedroom at the rear of the private office where Kwan frequently entertained whichever of the acquiescent young women who surrounded him might currently be taking his fancy. Kwan only returned to the gated complex at Virginia Water — his official residence and that of his wife, his sons and his daughters-in-law and their children — a couple of nights a week, and for Sunday lunches when he presided over a veritable banquet of dim sum and played at being the benevolent and doting head of his personal dynasty.
The two dinner-jacketed heavies on the door stepped forward and blocked Vogel’s way when he approached the entrance. With his horn-rimmed glasses, crumpled cords, and diffident manner, Vogel might not have looked much like most people’s idea of a policeman, but these men were trained to spot a copper.
Vogel introduced himself and asked very politely if he might see Mr Kwan.
The smaller of the heavies spoke in a high-pitched voice which somehow added to his menace, as did his distinctly London accent.
‘The boss don’t see no one without an appointment,’ he announced.
‘I wonder if you could ask him if he might make an exception in my case,’ said Vogel, obsequious now. There was, however, an edge to his next remark: ‘We have matters to discuss which may be of mutual interest.’
The heavy subjected him to careful scrutiny, then stepped back into the doorway and began to speak quietly into the radio mike clipped to his lapel.
There was considerable noise in the street and coming from inside the club. Vogel couldn’t make out what the man was saying. The result, however, was that the doors opened and Vogel was escorted through the club to the private door at the back, then up the rickety staircase to Kwan’s private offices on the third floor. The same route that Greg had taken just days before.
Vogel should not have been surprised by the lavishly appointed interior, having been forewarned by colleagues. Nevertheless his jaw dropped.
The ever-courteous Kwan got up from behind his desk and came towards Vogel. He stopped a few feet away and bowed his head very slightly. Vogel did the same.
‘And so, Mister Vogel, we meet at last,’ said Kwan.
Obviously the doorman would have supplied his name, but Kwan’s choice of greeting implied that he already knew about Vogel.
‘Indeed,’ he replied.
He’d often wondered what it would be like to meet Tony Kwan. He had wondered if he would be intimidated. Particularly on the man’s own territory. Oddly, he felt no fear. So far, at any rate, he remained intent on his mission.
As if aware of Vogel’s thoughts, Kwan continued: ‘And how is your dear wife, and your daughter? In better health, I hope?’
Vogel felt something then, all right. He hadn’t expected Kwan to know anything about his personal life, especially given the fact he’d arrived unannounced, so Kwan had not had the opportunity to do any homework. A chill ran down Vogel’s spine. He was especially sensitive to any reference to his daughter. How did Kwan know she was anything other than entirely well? Was this just his way of displaying the depth of his knowledge of the Met in general and Acting Detective Inspector Vogel in particular, or was it a veiled threat? Only one thing was certain, thought Vogeclass="underline" it was not a simple enquiry after the welfare of his family. Nonetheless he responded as if he had taken it that way.