‘You can never be sure,’ said the voice. ‘Just be careful, George.’
‘I was being careful,’ muttered George into his phone. Then he realised nobody was listening any more.
Eight
‘Right, Saslow, I think we’d better interview the Kivels tomorrow, don’t you,’ said Vogel, as they were about to head back to Bristol after leaving Bella Fairbrother at the Mount Somerset.
‘Yes, boss,’ said Saslow.
‘OK, get on to Kenneth Steele and ask someone to find a phone number for them. Arrange a meet for us as early as possible in the morning, will you?’
Saslow winced. She didn’t fancy another early start.
‘Don’t you think we should stay over in the Blackdowns, boss?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I mean, the Wellington incident room will be fully operational by tomorrow. Shouldn’t we be on the spot.’
‘We are on the spot, Dawn, not much more than an hour’s drive away anyway,’ said Vogel.
Depending on the traffic, it could easily be an hour and a half in the holiday season and at peak times considerably more, thought Saslow. It had actually taken an hour and a quarter from Sea Mills that day, and only that because they’d left in the middle of the night. Or it had felt like the middle of night to her anyway. Saslow was not naturally an early riser, and in order to pick Vogel up at whatever time he decreed she had to rise considerably earlier than him. But she said nothing.
‘Anyway, don’t know about you, but I’d rather spend an hour less in my own bed any time than two hours more in a bed in some darned hotel,’ Vogel continued.
‘Yes, boss,’ said Saslow resignedly.
Everybody knew that David Vogel was a devoted family man. His family was even more important to him than the job with which he was also obsessed, something Saslow suspected not to be the case with a number of the gnarled old detectives she had already encountered in her short career. Rumour even had it that Vogel had resigned from his top job as a senior officer with the Met’s prestigious Major Investigation Team, and asked for a transfer to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, entirely for the sake of his fourteen-year-old daughter Rosamund.
Rosamund, whom Saslow knew Vogel adored, had cerebral palsy. Swimming was her great love, and, Vogel had confided in Saslow, although he rarely spoke about his private life, that when his daughter was swimming she seemed able to forget the limits her condition inflicted on her body and revelled in the freedom of movement the support of water gave her. The otherwise very ordinary and quite small bungalow which was the Vogel home, had one rather extraordinary feature. The previous owner had built a fairly luxurious mini spa, equipped with an endless pool, in the overly large garage, and Rosamund was able to swim whenever she wanted. Vogel would never have been able to afford anything like that in the London area.
The two officers didn’t speak much for the rest of the journey. Saslow could sense that Vogel was deep in thought. He was the kind of detective who believed that the solving of a crime lay as much inside the head as in the work done on the road. Evidence-, intelligence- and information-driven, of course; but then dependent on the dissection and analysis of the smallest detail of all collated material by the investigating officers.
Just as they were pulling up outside Vogel’s bungalow his phone rang.
‘The Kivels will see you at 8.30 in the morning,’ said Polly Jenkins, who clearly was still at work at Kenneth Steele House. ‘Martha Kivel says there’ll be a decent breakfast if you want it.’
Polly chuckled.
‘Thank you, Polly,’ said Vogel. ‘Never mind breakfast, what’s the address?’
Polly chuckled again, then duly recited the address of the Kivel cottage in Wrangway.
‘Thanks, Polly,’ said Vogel. ‘You should go home now. I think we’ve all had enough for one day. Get over to Wellington police station in the morning. We’ll be running the investigation out of there for the next two or three days at least.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Polly.
Saslow glanced across at her senior officer. His face was impassive. Vogel was by and large a quiet, self-contained man. He was also known for his powerful intellect. With his diffident manner, his thick-lensed spectacles, and his very slight stoop, he rather more resembled a university professor than a police detective at the cutting edge of major crime. In his spare time, he had played backgammon at the highest level and his principal hobby was compiling crosswords.
Saslow knew he would have at once memorised the Kivels’ address and would have no need to write it down or tap it into his phone.
Vogel opened the passenger door, glanced sideways at Saslow, and said, ‘Pick me up at 7.15 then, Dawn.’
Saslow muttered assent. She would have to leave her flat nearer to the centre of Bristol before seven. At least this was, however, an hour later than they had left that morning.
She watched Vogel walk up his garden path. The family dog started to bark, then whimper. The front door opened. Vogel’s wife Mary appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright light of the hallway behind her. Timmy the Border collie squeezed past in order to more quickly reach his master.
Vogel’s pace seemed to quicken, his stride lengthen. Timmy bounded by his side as he hurried towards his wife. Saslow could only see the back of her senior officer’s head, but she had no doubt that he was smiling.
Meanwhile, to the mild alarm of the landlord, George Grey had arrived at Brentford’s Brewery Tap pub. George looked pale and wan. He was limping heavily, and his clothes were dishevelled and didn’t seem to fit him. There was a suspicious looking dark stain on the left leg of his blue jeans.
He staggered very slightly on his way to the bar. Peter Forest wondered if he was already drunk, and also if he might be a vagrant.
But he sounded reasonably lucid when he ordered a large Scotch, so Forest served him. It was possible, thought Forest, that his customer was merely unwell. And, although he was definitely not a regular, there was something vaguely familiar about him, too.
George made his way to a table by the window, where he was almost immediately joined by a second man, heavily bearded and of indeterminate years, wearing a baseball hat and an expensive looking leather jacket. The landlord watched as the man put what seemed to be a solicitous arm around George’s thin shoulders, before approaching the bar and ordering two more large whiskies.
Forest hesitated very slightly.
‘Is your friend all right?’ he asked. ‘Looks a bit rough.’
‘Bad trip to the dentist,’ came the reply, accompanied by a reassuring smile.
Forest served the whiskies. The second man was certainly well capable of caring for the first, and the landlord considered that his presence absolved him of any responsibility. It was a busy time of day. There were other people in the pub waiting to be served. Forest proceeded to give them his full attention.
‘This isn’t what was supposed to have happened,’ muttered George half to himself, for the umpteenth time that day, as his companion sat down beside him.
‘Nobody was supposed to have got hurt. I was supposed to rescue them. Then everything was going to be all right. That’s what you said.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ replied the man in the leather jacket calmly.
George downed the remains of his first double whisky, and started on the second.
‘Some mistake. Two deaths, and I’m the one’s going to get the blame. You told me to start the fire. You had it all arranged, you said. I was careful. I really was careful. Then that bloody tank exploded. Like a bomb, it was. How did that happen? It wasn’t close to the house, and I started the fire at the front, like you told me to.’