She pulled back, swatting his hand away.
‘Don’t come near me! Don’t you dare touch me, don’t you ever touch me again, you evil bastard,’ Karen yelled.
Something snapped in Greg. Without realizing what he was doing, he slapped her. He had never in his life hit a woman, let alone his beloved Karen, but it was done before he knew what had happened.
She cried out, just once, and looked at him in horror. Tears formed in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of one hand, and drew herself up, looking him in the eye as she did so. It was as if she was determined not to break down, not to show any weakness.
For what seemed a very long time neither of them spoke. It was Greg who broke the silence, horrified at what he had done.
‘I’m sorry, love. I am so sorry.’
All he wanted was to hold her close, and go on holding her all through the night. But the slap had changed everything.
Curiously, Karen’s anger seemed to evaporate. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and calm, but her eyes were cold as ice.
‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘Don’t try to follow me into the bedroom. I think you’d better sleep out here on the sofa, don’t you?’
Greg just stared at the floor. He didn’t look up until she’d left the room. Soon afterwards he heard the key to their bedroom door turn. The lock he’d installed so they could ensure privacy from the kids, keep their sex life going strong. And some of the best sex had been make-up sex, after a row. But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.
He so wanted to hammer on the door, beg Karen to let him in, try again to explain everything. At least get her to forgive him for hitting her. To make her believe it would never ever happen again.
But he had enough sense to know that would only make matters worse. If they could be any worse. So instead he took a blanket from the airing cupboard and curled up on the sofa.
Unable to sleep, afraid to move in case she heard him and in doing so he angered her further, he lay there in the sitting room and waited for morning, when he hoped he might be able to begin to put things right.
Twenty-two
That next morning Vogel was at his desk at 7.30 a.m. in spite of having been late home the previous night.
He checked through his messages and scanned the reports that had been filed overnight. There had been no progress, no sign of a breakthrough. Forensics had drawn a blank. The computer boys had got nowhere.
An hour later, as Vogel was devouring the organic egg sandwich his wife had packed for him, DC Parlow burst in, flushed with excitement.
‘Guv, I’ve been through electoral registers, employment and immigration records, the lot,’ he announced. ‘I’ve found three Carla Karbuskys in the UK. One is sixty, one’s a ten-year-old child, and the third, probably about the right age, lives in Cardiff. Only she swears she’s never heard of George Kristos and—’
‘Right,’ Vogel interrupted, about to issue further instructions. Parlow, positively pink with excitement now, didn’t give him the opportunity.
‘I haven’t finished, guv. I just got word on that pay-as-you-go phone. We tracked it down, and you’ll never guess what...’
‘Get on with it, Parlow,’ snapped Vogel. ‘I’m in no mood for guessing.’
‘Sorry, guv. The phone was purchased by George Kristos. It’s his bloody phone. If you ask me, that girlfriend of his doesn’t exist. He made her up. It’s all a great big lie, and if he can lie about something like that, what else is he lying about, eh guv?’
‘Calm down, Parlow. One step at a time,’ said Vogel, even though it was all he could do to keep calm himself. He could feel that familiar buzz somewhere in his solar plexus that always occurred when he was on the brink of cracking a case.
‘Could the network tell us anything else?’ Vogel continued.
‘You bet, guv. They’ve just emailed me a list of calls and a transcript of recent messages. Not a lot of activity, but what there is is all from Kristos’s other phone, the one we detained. He was sending text messages and leaving voicemails for this woman who probably doesn’t exist, on a phone that is actually his. What d’you suppose that’s all about, guv?’
Parlow handed Vogel a sheet of A4, the contents of which he was able to swiftly assimilate.
There were only two messages, both left on the same Sunday evening a couple of months earlier, just before the start of the chain of events which had culminated in the deaths of Marleen McTavish, known as Marlena, and Michelle Monahan.
Hi, Carla darling, it’s me, read the first one. I’m calling from Johnny’s — I’m with the gang, Sunday Club. Like I told you about. Don’t suppose you can join us, can you? I’d love to see you and so would the rest of the bunch. If you can bear it, do come. Love you, baby. Kiss kiss.
The other message had been sent half an hour or so later on the same night, when George had again claimed to be attempting to contact his girlfriend.
Oh dear, I’m still getting your voicemail, baby, and I soooooo want to speak to you. Please come to Johnny’s if you can. This lot are driving me mad. They’re desperate to meet you. But don’t be put off. They’re all right, honest. All my love, baby-face. More kisses.
Vogel folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he looked up at Parlow.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘I’ll put Clarke in the picture, you get us a couple of uniforms and organize a car. Then let’s bring Kristos in. We need the devious bastard to tell us exactly what he’s up to.’
Parlow beamed. ‘You bet, boss,’ he said, taking off at a run to do Vogel’s bidding.
Vogel called after him. ‘One more thing, Parlow.’
The young man looked anxiously back over a shoulder.
‘Bloody well done,’ said Vogel.
Vogel called his superior officer, who had not yet arrived at Charing Cross, on her mobile to bring her up to speed. Then he rushed out of the station to catch up with Parlow, who was already behind the wheel of a CID car.
It took them only minutes to get to George’s apartment block. George was dressed, in jeans and a black sweater. There was a bag of pastries on his kitchen table. He said he’d been out to buy them fresh, and was about to take them round to his neighbour Marnie, as was his habit.
At almost exactly 9 a.m. Vogel again formally arrested George, who seemed more baffled than angry.
‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. ‘You only released me yesterday afternoon.’
‘We will discuss that during a formal interview back at the station,’ said Vogel.
Greg finally dropped off at dawn, though it was more of a doze than proper sleep. He was woken by Karen going into the kitchen just after nine. Usually they were both up much earlier, getting the kids off to school and themselves ready for work. He wondered if she had really slept until then, or lain fitfully awake for most of the night as he had done.
He listened to the usual morning noises, the clatter of crockery and cutlery, the hiss of the kettle. It all sounded so normal, even though this horrible morning was anything but normal. Then he heard Karen talking on the phone. He couldn’t catch what she was saying so he had no idea who she might be speaking to. He decided he would just stay put rather than risk inflaming matters by making the first approach. Eventually Karen came into the sitting room. There was a faint pink mark down one side of her face. Greg felt ashamed of himself. It had been unforgivable for him to strike out at her, and he still couldn’t believe what he had done.
Karen was carrying two mugs of tea, one of which, rather to his surprise, she handed to him.
He felt momentarily encouraged. Maybe things would turn out OK after all.