‘Hold on, Dawn,’ muttered Vogel.
The body of Bella Fairbrother lay almost exactly in the middle of the room. She had fallen flat on her back with her head pointing towards the big picture windows at the river end of the room, and her feet pointing towards the door.
It seemed most likely to Vogel that she had been facing somebody standing just inside the room, somebody who had probably only recently entered the apartment.
There was no doubt at all that she was dead. She appeared to have been shot in the centre of her forehead, just above her eyes, and part of the top of her head had been blown away exposing grey matter. Her brain. Her eyes were wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Death was never pretty. The sight of Bella Fairbrother, who had always seemed so exceptionally alive to Vogel, after such a sudden and violent death, was particularly disturbing. It had been only that morning that the DI had spoken to her on the phone. She had told him she was still in Somerset and would drive back a little later. She couldn’t have been in her flat for long before she was killed. Vogel wondered, of course, if she would still be alive had he somehow or other arranged to meet her earlier, as she’d clearly wanted.
He was vaguely aware of a choking sound from Saslow. He turned in time to see her hurrying out of the apartment. He hoped she wouldn’t be sick in the lobby, there might be evidence there, but he wouldn’t blame her if she was.
He made himself return his attention to the dead woman. A woman he had not entirely trusted in life, but nonetheless a bright and vibrant human being. And she was the mother of a teenage girl. Now there was a death call Vogel hoped he didn’t get to make.
He looked again at the entry point of the bullet. It would undoubtedly have killed Bella instantly. The human brain will normally continue to function for ten to fifteen seconds after a direct shot to the heart. But a direct shot to the brain destroys the nervous system at once, and the body shuts down straightaway. Death is immediate.
Vogel was glad that Bella would have had no time in which to suffer. But there was something disturbingly clinical about such an accurate shot, through the central forehead and into the brain. It smacked of assassination, military style. Either the perpetrator had been exceedingly lucky, or he was some kind of professional. Vogel favoured the latter.
He would have liked to check out the body himself, and have a look around the flat for any further indication of what had occurred, and any clues that might suggest a possible motive, or even point to the identity of the perpetrator — although that would probably be hoping for far too much — but, like all modern police officers, Vogel didn’t dare do or touch anything which might muddy the crime scene. He must wait for CSI to do their job.
He stood looking at Bella Fairbrother’s body for a few seconds more. He regarded her death as primarily his responsibility. No logical argument would ever change his mind on that. And, whilst suspecting that Bella was far from innocent of at least a certain degree of nefarious involvement in the sequence of events which had led to her own passing, Vogel was overwhelmed with a sense of deep sadness. And guilt. Vogel’s wife always said that, in that regard, he was better suited to being a Roman Catholic than a Jew; at least he would be able to say a few Hail Mary’s and gain some absolution. As it was, Vogel carried his guilt around with him like notches etched into his soul. The wanton murder of Bella Fairbrother — which, taking into account the logistics of her journey from Somerset, must have occurred within a maximum of a couple of hours before his and Saslow’s arrival at her apartment, probably less — threatened to carve a very deep notch indeed.
Vogel’s expression was grim as he stepped out into the lobby and prepared to call in the crime.
A case which had started off as quite possibly no more than a tragic accidental fire had now led, directly or indirectly, to the death of four people. And with this fourth death, the murder of a young woman, a mother, whom he believed may well have been trying to put herself under his protection, the case had just got personal for Vogel. It was as if a metaphorical gauntlet had been thrown down before him.
Vogel felt as if he was accepting a challenge to combat, from which he would not back away until everyone responsible for this series of terrible violent crimes had been brought to justice.
Twenty-One
It was an MIT case, of course. Nobby Clarke arrived at Chelsea Harbour little more than an hour after the first response team. The crime scene had been cordoned off and a smattering of uniformed officers were making sure that nobody contaminated the scene. CSI and Dr Patricia Fitzwarren were already there. As was an MIT unit under the command of DCI James Pearson, who was also leading the London end of the investigation into the death of George Grey, and already familiar with the various strings to the Blackdown Manor case.
He didn’t look overjoyed at the arrival of his detective superintendent. Nobby was quite sure he felt that she should be safely behind her desk, where she belonged. And she sympathised absolutely with him. That was exactly how she’d always felt about MIT brass interfering when she’d been a detective chief inspector leading her own team.
‘It’s all right, Pearson,’ she said curtly. ‘Only a fleeting visit. I’ll be out of your way soon enough.’
Pearson coloured slightly. He had reddish hair and that sort of pale pink-white skin which tended to turn a deeper shade of pink very easily. Nobby might have felt sympathy for him if he hadn’t been a senior police officer. As it was, she was vaguely amused. But she tried not to show it. This was hardly the occasion.
‘I want to see Vogel,’ she continued. ‘This case is beginning to have huge ramifications. We need to work out a strategy between our two forces. As far as I’m concerned, this murder is an MIT job, and you are the senior investigating officer, but clearly it’s entangled with the cases Vogel and his Avon and Somerset MCIT team are already investigating. So I’m putting myself up as liaison, all right?’
‘Of course, Nobby,’ Pearson replied smartly.
Unlike Vogel, Pearson didn’t have a problem addressing Clarke in the informal manner that she preferred. He still looked as if he would have preferred her not to be there, though.
‘And don’t worry,’ added Clarke, knowing full well she was accurately putting his thoughts into words. ‘I’ll soon be back where I belong.’
After the arrival of Pearson and his team, Vogel had taken Saslow to a nearby coffee shop. She’d managed to refrain from being sick, as far as he knew. She’d certainly avoided vomiting in public. But only with difficulty, Vogel suspected. She still looked shaken.
Nonetheless Saslow stood up at once when Det. Supt. Clarke entered the coffee shop. With a mildly impatient wave, Nobby gestured for her to sit.
‘Well, this is turning into a right old mess, isn’t it, Vogel?’ she commented by way of greeting.
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ the DI muttered.
‘Right,’ continued Clarke, pausing only to order a double espresso. ‘This is Pearson’s case, right? It’s MIT. Unlike George Grey, Bella Fairbrother was neither an Avon and Somerset suspect, nor on the run...’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, boss, I mean Nobby—’ began Vogel.
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Vogel,’ interrupted Clarke. ‘My boys and girls are already on the case. It would be hours before you could set up your lot here, even in the unlikely event of your brass letting you even attempt to run a murder investigation in Met territory.’