Friends to Die For (23 page)

‘It’s an improvement,’ said her attacker, as if reading her mind. ‘You don’t look like a drag queen any more. I really thought you would have a little more hair,
though.’

Marlena’s humiliation was almost as great as her fear. She realized she was crying. Tears mixed with blood ran down her face. Angry at this loss of dignity, she struggled to push herself
upright. Her limbs refused to obey her. What little strength she possessed had disappeared. She knew now that she would not escape, yet still she couldn’t stop trying. By force of will she
managed to get on one knee, and was groping for support from the sideboard in order to pull herself upright when the punch came.

A fist hit her straight in the face, smashing her nose. Just like Michelle, she thought, as she fell back to the ground, blood and goo from her shattered nose now mingling with the blood from
her injured head.

Again she tried to rise to her feet. But this time her attacker had no need to intervene. She quickly collapsed, her head spinning alarmingly. With surprising clarity, she realized that this was
not due to the blow she had taken to the head.

She slumped, spreadeagled on the ground, a blubbering wreck. Though her mind remained lucid, her limbs failed to respond when she tried to move. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her.
She remembered the taste of the champagne. Drier than usual, she’d said. She of all people should have detected that there’d been something wrong with it, something added. But perhaps
she had merely tasted what she expected to taste.

She looked up into the eyes of her attacker and saw only emptiness. No compassion, obviously. No pity. But it was worse than that. There really was nothing there but emptiness.

It was at that moment that she knew for certain she was going to die. But even as the awful fear gripped her, she could not possibly have guessed how. Not then. Not yet.

She tried to speak. It was hard to get the words out. Her attacker kicked her in the ribs. Casually. For the hell of it, she thought. She tried to scream but no sound came. Then a second kick,
this one totally winding her.

She managed to gasp just one word.

‘Why?’ she asked.

Her attacker crouched down over her, smiling. The most terrifying smile she had ever seen.

‘Don’t you know?’

Marlena shook her head, her poor bloodied, almost bald head. She hadn’t the faintest idea.

‘Well, I think everyone has the right to know why they are going to die, don’t you?’

The voice was mild, almost conversational. The story it then related came as a total shock. For several minutes the voice wafted over her, reminding her of something she had done many years
ago.

Her attacker, it seemed, had been the victim of her actions. Unwitting actions, she wanted to explain. She had been stupid, reckless and irresponsible. But she’d meant no harm. In her
panic, she hadn’t stopped to think about the hurt she’d inflicted. Her attacker had not come here to listen to her explanation, her pleas for forgiveness. The drug she’d been
given made it impossible for her to speak. Her mind remained clear though. She realized that what was happening to her was revenge. The ultimate act of revenge. She saw now that one of the hands
which rested lightly, almost gently, on her upper body, held a knife with a long, slightly curved blade.

‘You should prepare yourself to say goodbye, darling,’ said her attacker, placing a heavily sarcastic inflection on the term of endearment Marlena always used so freely. ‘But
it will be a prolonged goodbye, so take your time.’

A terrible shudder ran through Marlena’s body. She so wished she could lose consciousness now. Just slip away.

Her attacker used the knife to cut a strip of material from the hem of the silk blouse she was wearing, forced open her mouth, slotted the strip of material between her teeth and tied it tightly
in a knot behind her head.

‘There, we don’t want you making a noise and disturbing the neighbours, do we?’

The voice was soft and all the more menacing for it. Marlena, half-choking on the makeshift gag, virtually incapable of movement, could do nothing but stare in wide-eyed horror as the devil
loomed over her and, using the knife again to cut into the fabric, tore her skirt and undergarments from her body.

‘I will discover thy skirts upon thy face. I will show the nations thy nakedness, and the kingdoms thy shame,’ said her attacker, hissing out the words. ‘I will cast abominable
filth upon thee, and make thee vile, and will set thee as gazing stock.’

Marlena’s eyes had become fixed only on the shimmering point of the knife, which was directed at her lower abdomen.

She was sure by then that she knew what was about to happen.

Yet when her legs were thrust apart and the vicious blade entered her there, brutally invading her most intimate parts, the sense of shock as the steel sliced through her flesh and thrust
upwards deep into her inner being, was every bit as overwhelming as the physical agony. And that was unspeakable.

The drug which had been added to Marlena’s champagne is sometimes used to lessen pain in childbirth. It could do little to combat the terrible suffering she endured at the hands of her
assailant before death finally claimed her.

It was the Sampford House caretaker who found Marlena’s body.

Paddy Morgan, a tiny sinewy man who in his youth had been a national hunt jockey until a bad fall in his first Irish National put paid to a promising future, had been in the habit of calling on
Marlena every morning since she’d been injured. He took her a newspaper, along with any other necessities she required: milk for her tea, the occasional loaf of bread or whatever small snack
she might request.

He usually left it until after eleven before ringing her doorbell. Marlena was a night bird, and even in the state she was in, still in pain, and unable to go out at night, Paddy knew that she
was likely to be up until the small hours reading, listening to the radio or watching TV. And she wouldn’t open her front door to anyone, not even Paddy, until she was fully made up and
properly dressed.

So on this tragic Sunday morning Paddy at first felt no particular sense of alarm when he couldn’t raise Marlena. He checked his watch and saw it was not yet quarter to eleven. Paddy was
in the habit of having a pint or two at the Nag’s Head of a Sunday lunchtime. And he wanted to get to the bookies in time to put a fiver on a mare he fancied in the 2.30 at Plumpton and then
watch the race on the betting shop TV. But he had a load of stuff to get through first. That’s why he’d called on Marlena a little earlier than usual. He liked to make sure she was OK
before finishing his routine chores, putting out the rubbish, cleaning the main hall, and so on, which he was required to do every day of the week, Sundays included, by the management of Sampford
House. He almost always spared the time for a bit of a chat, which he knew Marlena appreciated, particularly since she’d been more or less housebound. Besides, she was interesting. A good
story-teller. And Paddy had the Irishman’s congenital delight in sharing a decent yarn.

When Marlena failed to respond to her doorbell, Paddy decided to complete his chores first. After he’d finished, he came back and rang Marlena’s doorbell again. When there was still
no response he called her name several times. Becoming increasingly anxious that she might have fallen and further injured herself, he decided to use his pass key.

Paddy was half-expecting some kind of crisis as he stepped into the flat. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight which greeted him.

The door to the sitting room stood wide open. At first Paddy was so stunned he could not quite register what he was seeing. Involuntarily he moved forward into the room. As he did so, he slipped
and went down on one knee. He used his hands to stop himself falling further but the wood laminate floor was covered in a kind of wet slime. His hands slid along out of control and Paddy ended up
lying full length on the floor, his face just inches from Marlena’s.

It was her blood that had caused him to fall. And Marlena’s face, covered in the stuff, bruised and swollen from the blow she had received to the nose, bore an expression that was to haunt
Paddy for the rest of his life. Her lips were drawn back, in spite of the gag between her teeth, into a dreadful gaping leer. Her eyes were wide open and even in death Paddy could see the agony and
sheer unadulterated terror in them. He tried to move away, but his gaze was drawn down over Marlena’s body. Her clothes had been shredded, and there seemed to be hardly anything left where
her lower abdomen should have been. Her legs were apart, and scattered across the floor between them were pieces of what appeared to be internal organs. Obliquely, somewhere in the back of his
mind, Paddy was reminded of the offal tray at the butcher’s.

Somehow he managed to scramble to his feet, involuntarily lifting his hands to cover his face. As he did so, he realized that they were coated with blood. Whimpering in fright, he dropped them
to his side and backed out of the room.

By the time he reached the front door he had started to retch. He threw up in the doorway but didn’t stop running. He ran down the stairs, out into the street, possibly moving faster than
he had since the racing accident that had injured his back and twisted the ligaments in his right knee beyond repair. All he knew was that he had to get away from the nightmare he’d stumbled
into. He was past realizing that, as he ran, he was screaming. Screaming uncontrollably and at the top of his voice.

At the sight of the screaming man, covered in blood and vomit, passers-by crossed to the other side of the street. They either dismissed him as some sort of lunatic or were simply afraid to come
near. Or maybe a bit of both.

Still retching, Paddy stood on the pavement outside Sampford House, desperately trying to control himself enough to use his mobile phone. He knew he ought to raise the alarm, but he
couldn’t stop retching and clutching at his chest. It was another Sampford House resident, returning from church to find Paddy apparently drunk on the doorstep, who finally extracted from him
a brief, if hysterical, account of what had happened.

Two uniformed constables arrived at the scene within minutes, having been on patrol nearby when Dispatch put out the call. The older, Fred Martin, was a career bobby intent on giving the
impression he’d seen it all, although he turned absolutely ashen when he first saw Marlena. The younger of the pair, PC Brad Porter, took one look, fled outside and, like Paddy, was unable to
stop himself vomiting, though he did at least manage to reach the street.

The two constables were soon joined by a team of scenes of crime officers. Suited and booted in head-to-toe Tyvek coveralls, they set about erecting the usual crime scene defences and taking
photographs of the body and its surroundings.

Vogel was at his desk when Forest delivered the news. So long as PC Michelle Monahan’s attacker remained at large, even those who normally took Sunday off, like Tom Forest, were on duty.
And the DI was not in a good mood.

‘The bastard’s done it again,’ he stormed. ‘And this time he’s killed.’

Vogel was momentarily puzzled. Then the penny dropped.

‘Who’s been killed? Is it one of the Sunday Club group?’ he enquired.

DI Forest tersely related the circumstances of Marlena’s death, as reported by Constables Martin and Porter.

‘Damned nasty, by all accounts,’ he said. ‘Poor woman had been butchered, absolutely butchered. The caretaker who found the body was covered in blood, head to foot. Apparently
he fell over . . .’

Forest paused.

‘So much blood he slipped on the floor.’

His voice was matter of fact, but Vogel could tell that Forest had been shocked by what he’d been told. He felt his own stomach start to churn.

‘Anyway, plods on the scene have arrested the poor bastard. Right thing to do, of course. State he’s in, he has to be treated as a suspect. Can’t have him wandering off when he
feels like it. He didn’t bloody do it, though, we both know that, don’t we?’ Forest was seething with anger now.

Vogel grabbed his coat and was heading for the door before his superior had finished speaking.

‘Get back here, Vogel!’ shouted Forest. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

‘Shouldn’t I be at the scene, sir?’

‘I said get back here!’ roared Forest.

Vogel decided he’d better do as he was told. For once. He returned to his desk, tossed his coat over the back of his chair and sat down again.

‘But I know more about what may have led to this than anyone else, sir,’ he persisted.

‘So why did you let it lead to this? You should never have let that bastard Bertorelli go.’

Vogel noted the choice of words. One thing was already clear: Forest was not about to accept the blame if it turned out that Alfonso Bertorelli had committed murder within hours of his release
from police custody. Already Vogel was being set up to carry the can.

‘We didn’t have any choice, sir,’ he pointed out. ‘We didn’t have enough hard evidence to charge him.’

‘Yes, well, it looks as if he wasted no time in striking again. The press are going to be all over this like a rash. I simply cannot believe—’

Vogel interrupted what he considered to be unnecessary rhetoric. ‘Whoever did this must have blood all over him, sir,’ he said. ‘If we check all the CCTV in the area, we should
be able—’

This time Forest interrupted Vogel.

‘Not
we,
and certainly not
you,
Detective Sergeant,’ he announced. ‘This is murder. I’ve called in an MIT. DCI Nobby Clarke is on the way from the
Yard.’ Forest paused. ‘Met Nobby Clarke, have you, Vogel?’ he asked.

Vogel shook his head.

‘Right, well, latest in a long line of high-fliers,’ muttered Forest. He smiled fleetingly as if at some private joke, then continued: ‘The DCI will want to interview you. Make
sure you’re available to answer questions, but other than that, keep out of it, do you hear?’

Forest was no longer smiling. He shouted the last few words then turned around sharply and stomped off in the direction of his office. He’d been happy to support Vogel while he was getting
results, but that support had clearly been withdrawn in light of what he considered to be a fatal blunder on the detective’s part.