‘They are both quite well, thank you, Mr Kwan,’ he said, struggling to keep his voice level.
‘To what do I owe this great pleasure?’ enquired Kwan softly.
‘I understand you know Greg Walker,’ responded Vogel, making a huge effort to put all other considerations out of his mind.
Kwan nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I believe you are heading the inquiry into the recent murder of two women in this area, both of whom have a connection with Mr Walker, I understand.’
‘Indeed,’ said Vogel again.
Then he waited, aware that Kwan was taking control of their meeting. Vogel didn’t mind. All he wanted was to find out what Kwan knew. And he sensed that the Triad boss had every intention of telling him.
Kwan cut right to the chase.
‘You did not come here this evening to enquire whether I or my people had any involvement in this?’
‘Of course not,’ lied Vogel.
‘Of course not,’ repeated Kwan. ‘We do not cut up old women and remove their reproductive organs.’
Vogel didn’t speak. The gruesome details of Marlena’s killing had not been released to the media. Miraculously, they hadn’t even been leaked on the net. If anyone else had divulged such knowledge, it would have aroused his suspicions. In Tony Kwan’s case, however, it was only to be expected. Both Marlena and Michelle had died within Kwan’s domain. The Triad leader was protective of his territory. He kept himself informed of any villains unconnected with him who were bold enough to operate on his patch. He would want to know who was behind such brutality, and why. Or that’s what Vogel was banking on.
Vogel waited for Kwan to continue. The Triad took his time.
‘My people have been making enquiries, on my instructions,’ said Kwan eventually. ‘We have our contacts, people you may not necessarily have dealings with, Mr Vogel...’
Kwan stroked his sleek black hair with the manicured fingers of one hand. Vogel thought he might be wearing clear nail varnish. His face revealed nothing. Vogel tried to appear equally inscrutable. He suspected he did not do it terribly well.
‘We also, Mr Vogel, have our own methods. Methods that are neither appropriate nor available to the Metropolitan Police.’
Kwan stretched his lips back from his teeth. Vogel assumed the man was trying to smile. He made his own attempt in response, but his mouth was so dry he feared he was unsuccessful.
Kwan turned and walked back to his desk. Suddenly he raised a clenched fist and smashed it down on the glass with such force that Vogel flinched, fearing the glass might break. It didn’t.
Kwan raised his fist again and held it up towards Vogel almost in a fascist-style salute. The part of his hand that had struck the desk was already beginning to swell. Still Kwan gave no sign of discomfort, but his face contorted in anger.
‘I have learned nothing! My people have found nothing!’ he shouted. ‘I know no more than the police. Nothing!’
Kwan spat out the word ‘police’, loading it with contempt. Vogel winced.
Then as abruptly as he had flown into a rage, Kwan sat down. Vogel could see the man was making a supreme effort to compose himself. He swallowed nervously, hoping that his anxiety didn’t show.
Kwan held out both his hands, palms upwards, as if in resignation.
‘I know nothing, Mr Vogel,’ he repeated, but this time in his usual quiet and courteous voice. ‘I have heard nothing. Neither have my people. It seems we may have a madman on the loose. You and I are on the same side here, Mr Vogel, I assure you. I am in business. I understand business, and the unpleasant necessities it sometimes brings. But this is something different. Something is happening under my nose, yet I cannot see it. Do you appreciate what I am saying?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Kwan, I most certainly do,’ said Vogel.
Tony Kwan saw these crimes as a violation of his domain. Moreover, people feared him in part because they thought him omnipotent, that nothing escaped his attention. Yet his efforts to identify the person responsible had been no more successful than Vogel’s. This was an intolerable personal affront.
Vogel, too, was a proud man. He had no illusions about his own omnipotence, but his failure to identify the killer had delivered a severe blow to his pride and he felt it keenly.
‘I am not happy, Mr Vogel, I am not happy at all,’ said Kwan.
‘And neither, Mr Kwan,’ replied Vogel, ‘am I.’
Twenty-one
In their respective homes, the various friends struggled to come to terms with the aftermath of arrest and incarceration.
Tiny and Billy clung to each other, mentally and physically, seeking comfort.
Suddenly, Billy broke free of his partner’s embrace and asked: ‘Why did you go looking at puppies without telling me, darling?’
‘I told you, I told you as soon as we left the police station,’ Tiny replied. ‘You’d said you weren’t ready yet for another dog. You were quite definite about that. I had this crazy idea that if I found some gorgeous little puppy, and maybe showed you a photograph or something, you wouldn’t be able to resist. I don’t just want another dog, sweetheart, I feel like I need a dog about the place again. Surely you understand?’
Billy pulled away from him.
‘Look, Tiny, I’m sorry, but this has been on my mind all evening,’ he said. ‘You did go to Uxbridge, darling, didn’t you?’
Tiny stared at him for several seconds. Tears formed in his big brown eyes.
‘I can’t believe you’re asking me that, Billy,’ he said. ‘Not you, you of all people.’
Murder creates many victims. There are grieving friends and relations of the deceased, the neighbours, colleagues and casual acquaintances shocked by the proximity of such violence. Then there are the suspects, not only those arrested and questioned as part of the official investigation, but those who fall under suspicion from their own family members and friends. And even if they have no doubts about each other’s innocence, there is always the question of blame. Would the young woman murdered after a night out with a group of mates still be alive if one of them had taken the trouble to walk her home? Could a child’s life have been saved if the parent or sibling or friend who was supposed to be looking after them had been more vigilant? Should we somehow be able to spot the paedophile, the rapist, the psychopath in our midst before they commit some terrible crime?
In the face of such guilt and recrimination, relationships that hitherto seemed rock-solid suddenly slide into a quagmire of doubt, fear and grief. Successful careers flounder. Men and women who have held down demanding jobs, led productive lives, cease to function. Children and young people who have previously been promising students, happy and fun-loving, lose the ability to learn or play. Decent human beings of all ages go off the rails, dropping out, running away, turning to violence. Those who have only dabbled in drink or recreational drugs, lose the ability to keep their habit in check.
Lives are wrecked, beyond all hope of retrieval.
Bob spent the evening alone, unable to eat, drink or sleep. He wanted to pick up the phone, to at least speak to another human being, to call a friend. But he couldn’t trust his friends any more, could he? He wanted to phone his son, only it had been so long since he’d spoken to Danny that he couldn’t just call him, out of the blue, and pour his heart out. And his friends, the little group in which he had once been so grateful to be included, were murder suspects, who, just like him, stood accused of killing one of their own. Bob felt totally alone. What had been done could not be undone. He could see no reason to carry on living. If he had the courage, he thought, he would find a way to end what passed for his life. But he didn’t have the courage. So instead he paced the perimeters of his cramped flat and the terrace which usually brought him solace but offered him none tonight. Only at dawn did he fall into a fitful sleep on his sofa.