‘Well no, I didn’t. I mean, they certainly weren’t regulars. And they certainly hadn’t been in recently. But, there was this niggle, I did have the feeling I had seen them before. I just couldn’t place them, that’s all. I do have a pretty good memory for faces. Helps in my line of work. Particularly if you have to ban someone.’
Forest grinned. Vogel smiled politely back. Although he was really not interested in amusing asides. He took the conversation straight back to the point.
‘If you had seen them before, do you think it was here, in this pub?’
‘More than likely. I don’t get out much.’
He grinned again. This time Vogel didn’t bother to smile back.
‘Would you say most of your trade is local, Mr Forest?’ he asked. ‘The pub is tucked away a bit.’
‘About fifty-fifty probably. But there’s quite a big rental market in Brentford, in the Dock, in the new developments in the high street and along towards Kew Bridge, and up by Brentford Lock. People come and go hereabouts. Just as you’ve got to know someone, they’re moving on.’
Vogel glanced at Saslow and Clarke. ‘Either of you anything else to ask?’ he enquired.
The two women both said they hadn’t.
Vogel glanced towards Lloyd Springer.
‘Just one thing, did you or anyone else hear what the two men were talking about?’ asked the young DC.
‘They were talking quietly. Most of the time. But your George Grey, he seemed to be asking for something. Asking where something was. I think I heard him say “why haven’t you brought it?” He raised his voice, seemed angry.’
Vogel thanked Peter Forest, and the landlord returned to the bar.
‘So, what about the second man?’ asked Vogel as soon as he’d gone, addressing Clarke. ‘You said you were on it.’
‘Well, yes. We’ve been making door-to-door inquiries. Just to the left of Thames Lock, as you walk toward the Dock, there’s a basin with several residential moorings. Thames Wharf. Houseboats, couple of narrowboats. Seems there’s a barge there which was bought about eighteen months or so ago by a man who could match Forest’s description of George Grey’s companion on the night of his death. Tall, bearded, and bald, but usually seen wearing a baseball cap. We got this from the chap who looks after the wharf. And that’s about it. Not even a guess at age. He said all bald men look the same age.’
Clarke chuckled. ‘He might be right, too,’ she said.
‘What about a name?’ asked Saslow.
Clarke nodded. ‘Yep. Called himself Richard Jones. Not quite as bad as John Smith, but getting there. Anyway, it seems he paid cash for the barge and for two years’ mooring fees in advance. Surprisingly enough, nobody asked too many questions, and all our efforts so far to trace this Richard Jones have come to a dead end.’
‘So, he could well be using a false name and that really does make him suspicious,’ commented Springer.
‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel. ‘We need to find him, that’s for sure. Do I assume there’s been no sign of him around here over the past couple of days since Grey was last seen in the pub?’
‘Absolutely not. In fact, it seems he’s only very rarely been seen since he bought the boat. Nobody got the chance to get to know him or anything about him. Also not surprising. We’ve put out a national alert for him. But there’s not a lot to go on, unfortunately.’
‘No, I don’t suppose there is,’ said Vogel thoughtfully, as he finished his coffee. ‘Wouldn’t mind a look around, before the inquest. Crime scene first perhaps?’
‘I was going to suggest that,’ said Clarke. ‘Let’s get over there shall we.’
Vogel stood up and headed for the door, Saslow at his heels and Nobby Clarke just a step or two behind. Vogel thought he saw her casting a wistful look at the optics behind the bar which seemed to include an extensive range of malts, but he couldn’t be sure.
Clarke then led the way to Thames Lock, which was, of course, still cordoned off, pointing out en route Town Wharf, and the bridge which health and safety didn’t seem to have discovered yet.
‘I see what everyone means about this place,’ muttered Vogel.
Pat Fitzwarren was long gone, along with the corpse. CSI were still at work and a pair of uniforms were protecting the crime scene. There were no barriers on either side of the murkily deep Thames Lock, which, thought the DI, was an accident waiting to happen. Or alternatively, an eerily likely location for a murder.
‘If it wasn’t for George Grey’s recent history, and the fact that we suspect him of arson leading to the death of two people, you’d easily believe he fell in here, wouldn’t you?’ Vogel mused. ‘Certainly, after four large whiskies and the state he was already in. It would have been dark too, and I wouldn’t think the lighting around here would be all that.’
‘Indeed, but this is a possible double murderer, who was with a mysterious companion who seems to have already disappeared on us,’ commented Clarke. ‘We also don’t know why he turned right toward the lock when he left the Brewery Tap, instead of left towards Brentford High Street. The hotels, the station, buses, taxis — all those things are in the other direction. This footpath leads only to the Dock housing estate. Even the entrance to Town Wharf is in the other direction.’
‘So, if his bearded drinking mate was the equally mysterious boat owner, do we assume he wasn’t going back with him, then?’ asked Saslow.
‘Who knows, he could have been so disorientated he didn’t have a clue where he was going,’ said Clarke.
‘Or, perhaps he knew someone who lived in the Dock,’ offered Saslow. ‘Someone who might put him up for the night. Perhaps that’s where he was heading, and he did just fall in the lock. It has to still be a possibility.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Vogel with a certain reluctance. ‘But what about the bearded drinking companion? If he was with him, why didn’t he raise the alarm when George fell? Unless, of course, he pushed him in, which is the theory we all favour, I think. The truth is, though, we don’t even know whether or not the two men left the pub together?’
DS Clarke nodded. ‘No, we don’t. But it would have been so easy; not taken much of a push, from what we hear of George’s condition.’
‘Surely he’d have cried out, screamed or something,’ commented Saslow. ‘Wouldn’t someone have heard something?’
Vogel looked around him. Although more or less surrounded by buildings of one sort or another, Thames Lock was peculiarly isolated. Some of the Dock flats overlooked the canal, but Vogel thought the residents would have had to be either looking out of their windows or standing on their balconies, on a cold wet October evening, in order to have a chance of noticing anything. Even then, in the dark, and with aircraft passing overhead intermittently, it was, he considered, probably unlikely. And the lock in which George Grey’s body had been found was the one furthest away from the flats.
‘You know, I reckon only someone actually walking by would have seen or heard anything,’ he replied, after a moment’s reflection.
He stared into the lock. Deep water. Tall sides. There was just one vertical ladder which would be difficult for anyone to reach and climb in the dark, even if they had been in good condition physically and mentally when they had entered the water, which George Grey reportedly had not.
‘Whether he fell or was pushed he wouldn’t have had much chance of getting out of there, even if he hadn’t been half off his head with booze and medication,’ Vogel commented.
It was starting to rain yet again. Nasty weather in London as well as Somerset. Clarke shivered as she muttered her agreement.
Vogel leaned forward and took a last lingering look into the lock; deep, black and oily.
‘What a truly horrible way to die,’ he murmured, half to himself.