Friends to Die For (17 page)

‘So are you two getting back together again, then?’ he asked.

Michelle glowered at him. ‘I don’t want the whole fucking world to know about this,’ she said.

‘There’s no one else here,’ said Vogel reasonably, gesturing with his free hand at the empty corridor. ‘Are you?’ he persisted.

‘I don’t know,’ said Michelle. ‘And in any case it’s none of your fucking business.’

She seemed extremely angry. If she did still carry a torch for him, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Or perhaps that merely added to her anger. Vogel wasn’t sure. Vaguely wishing he
hadn’t got involved in the first place, he headed back to his desk. The trouble was that now he’d started his investigation he wouldn’t be able to stop. He knew that much about
himself. He wished he could but he couldn’t.

He had a new email from his superior asking him to look into a couple of queries concerning his report on the fraud case. He decided to deal with that straight away, but his mind kept
wandering.

Finally he gave in to temptation. He had to reassure himself about Michelle, he just had to. He called a colleague with Dorset police, Ben Parker, a man he’d trained with at Hendon many
years previously whom he knew was a sergeant at the same station as Phil Monahan.

Only when he’d successfully completed that call did he feel able to return to finalizing his part of the fraud case. After that he considered himself free to return to the matter which was
now constantly nagging away at him. He checked out his contact details for the rest of the friends and began to set up interviews for that evening and the next day. He arranged to meet Alfonso a
little later on during the waiter’s break from duty at the Vine. Bob agreed to come to the station the following morning at 10 a.m. He decided to visit the three men, whose dogs had died so
horribly, in their own homes and made appointments to call on both Tiny and George the following afternoon. Billy, it seemed, was planning to return to work the next day but offered to come to
Charing Cross police station as soon as he left his office.

Vogel wanted to speak to each of the friends individually, just in case there were contradictions or even minor variations in their stories which might give him some sort of lead.

He also wanted to interview Greg and Karen again, this time separately. He remained convinced that both had something on their minds which they weren’t telling him, particularly Greg.

He had mobile numbers for the Walkers, but neither answered, so he left messages asking them to contact him, and wondered how long it would take them to do so.

Then he began to pack up his desk ready to leave for his appointment with Alfonso, who had suggested they meet in a Costa cafe just across the street from the Vine. Vogel logged out of his
computer and closed it down. He cleared his desk of any bits and pieces that he didn’t carry in his pocket, like his calculator and his desk diary, and locked them in a drawer. Vogel was
naturally tidy and as meticulous with objects as he was awkward with people. His desk always looked as if nobody used it. There was never any personal paraphernalia, no photographs, no loose notes.
Nothing.

He was just leaving the building when his mobile rang.

It was Ben Parker in Dorchester.

‘You were right to be suspicious,’ Ben began. ‘I’m having a pint with Phil Monahan. I’ve just stepped out of the pub to call you. He’s not seen or spoken to
Michelle in over a year.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Well yes, I think so. I enquired about Michelle as casually as I could. Phil has no reason to lie to me.’

‘No, I suppose he doesn’t,’ murmured Vogel thoughtfully.

‘And there’s another thing,’ Parker went on. ‘The new bird’s pregnant.’

‘So she’s not dumped him, then?’

‘Seems not. She phoned while we were in the pub. I wouldn’t say it’s a match made in heaven, but there’s no doubt he’s over the moon about having a kid. Something
he always wanted, apparently.’

Vogel was disturbed by what Ben Parker had told him. Apart from anything else, Michelle Monahan seemed to have left herself without an alibi for the time of the Marlena incident, although Vogel
still found it hard to accept that she needed one. But her husband surely had no reason to lie. Certainly not to Parker.

Vogel wondered if Michelle was aware that the new woman in her husband’s life was pregnant. Either way, what was she playing at? She had asked him to investigate after all, so surely she
had nothing to hide. But maybe that was double bluff. He still couldn’t believe that the young policewoman could be responsible for any part of the unpleasant sequence of events he was
investigating. Nonetheless he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit.

Greg, of course, did not really believe that the unpleasant incidents concerning his family were random acts of vandalism. Not at all. Not the slashing of the tyres on his van,
nor the brick through the window of his apartment.

And he shared none of the professed doubts of the other Sunday Club members concerning who may or may not have been responsible. The other episodes, the pranks, the Marlena incident, the
horrible attack on the two little dogs, they were one thing. What had happened to his van and to his home, the danger his whole family now seemed to be in, was entirely another. Greg knew who was
responsible. Absolutely. He had no doubts at all.

He also knew that he had to do something about it. Fast. Unless he wanted to wait until someone he loved was hurt. And he knew exactly what he had to do. He had no choice.

Later that evening he made excuses to Karen, who was still furious with him, and set off for that Chinatown gambling club again. Karen thought she knew about Greg’s past. She really
didn’t have a clue. And he could not share it with her. If she ever found out, he dreaded what the knowledge would do to their relationship. He also did not want his wife to live in fear. It
didn’t matter about him. Greg had sold out to the devil many years previously, and was prepared to take the consequences. He’d learned to live with fear over the years. Once in a while
he almost allowed himself to forget. But only ever almost, in spite of it having been so long since he’d been given any real cause to remember. Although he’d become expert at
concealment even from those closest to him, there had always been an abiding dread in his heart. And now, it seemed, he must face his demons again.

The same security doormen, in their dark suits and dicky bows, stood outside the Zodiac. Or if they weren’t the same ones, then they were clones. Hard-faced and dangerous-looking.

But on this occasion Greg did not shuffle by and lurk around while desperately seeking the courage to go in. He knew that he must fulfil his intentions. If the latest events were anything to go
by, he was probably running out of time.

So, attempting a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel, he walked straight up to the door of the Zodiac and addressed the nearest of the two doormen, explaining briefly why he was
there and who he hoped to see. The man turned his back on Greg and spoke into a mike clipped to the lapel of his jacket. He was also wearing an earpiece. Greg knew he would be carrying, probably in
a belt holster, a standard security-industry Motorola two-way radio linked to other security staff within the building and, most importantly, to the upstairs offices of Zodiac Enterprises.

‘All right, you can go through,’ the doorman said after a minute or two. ‘I understand you know the way?’

Greg nodded. It had been years since he’d visited the Zodiac, but he knew the way all right. It was one of those things you never forgot. He moved swiftly through the main rooms of the
club, past the usual roulette tables, the blackjack, and the fruit machines. There was also a fanton table, the traditional Chinese version of roulette involving placing bets on the number of
buttons to be left beneath a bowl. Few of the clientele looked up as he passed. Intent upon their gambling, they were not interested in him, and he certainly was not interested in them. At the back
was a door marked private, outside which stood a third dinner-jacketed heavy. He invited Greg to pass through, into a dimly lit hallway, then frisked him with brisk efficiency before indicating the
rickety flight of stairs ahead.

Greg duly climbed to the third floor, pacing himself, hoping he was fit enough not to arrive out of breath. The walls on either side were distinctly grubby and greasy, the carpet was stained and
fraying, and the door off the third-floor landing, with its peeling paint and ill-assorted door furniture, appeared to have seen far better days. But appearances can be deceptive, and almost always
were in this other, secret world. The door, which was actually steel-plated beneath its layer of bad decoration, possessed all the benefits of modern technology, including a camera eye. As Greg
approached, as if by magic, it opened smoothly to reveal the sumptuously appointed rooms within. Greg stepped inside. His feet sank into plush carpet in the richest shade of purple. Opulent leather
furniture and banks of computers lined the walls, one of which bore a massive flat-screen TV.

Across the room the man Greg had come to see sat behind a gleaming steel-and-glass desk. Obsequious minions, male and female, Oriental and Caucasian, flitted about the place.

Tony Kwan, third generation of a redoubtable family of Hong Kong immigrants, described himself as a businessman. But Greg knew him to be rather more than that. And quite disconcertingly so.

Kwan was one of the latest in a long line of Soho Chinese who were both frighteningly powerful and powerfully frightening. His office, like everything else in his world, was a hidden-away place,
a casually concealed oasis of style and luxury from which this one man ran a terrifying empire.

Kwan, taller than the average Chinese, very thin, immaculately coiffured and Savile Row tailored, rose from his desk, strode across the carpet, and, bowing his head slightly, took Greg’s
hand and shook it warmly.

‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘I am most pleased to see you again, Gregory. It has been far too long. Welcome.’

Kwan was well known for his unfailing courtesy. Unlike Greg, and the inner-city kids who remained the bedrock of his organization. Kwan had been educated at a top English public school, and he
invariably displayed the manners which perfectly complimented the accent. There were those, however, who believed that the more polite Tony Kwan was, the more dangerous he was.

‘Thank you,’ said Greg, licking dry lips in order to be able to speak. He hoped his voice was steady. ‘I am most pleased to see you too, Mr Kwan.’

Kwan had always called Greg by his full given name – chosen by a mother who’d formed an adolescent crush on Gregory Peck which had lasted until her death – and was now the only
person who did so. It still took Greg by surprise, but he responded in the manner that he knew was expected. With equal courtesy and also with formality. He was well aware that he should always
address the Chinese gang boss as mister, if he knew what was good for him, just like everyone else did, even though he had first met the other man when they were both little more than boys. It was
about respect. And respect was everything in this frightening other world. The world of the Triads, the Chinese gangs with international networks on a scale which made the Mafia look like the small
family business Greg knew the Triad bosses more or less regarded it as. Kwan was a very important Triad boss. Greg had always been aware of that, even though it was never mentioned. Indeed, Greg
had never heard Kwan or any of his associates utter the word ‘Triad’.

Kwan called to one of his minions for tea, which was duly brought by a pretty young woman wearing an elegant silk cheongsam. She kept her head bowed as, with traditional ceremony, she poured the
pale beverage into exquisite small bowls of finest porcelain. Greg couldn’t help wondering what her other duties were.

Kwan asked Greg about the welfare of his wife and children, to which Greg responded evenly, although his nerves were on edge. He didn’t like to hear the other man mention his family.

‘So, Gregory, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’ asked Mr Kwan eventually.

Greg had known better than to attempt to lead their conversation.

‘I just wanted to pay my respects,’ said Greg, keeping his face as expressionless as he could and his voice level. ‘And to assure you, Mr Kwan, that if there is anything I can
do for you, you only have to ask.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Kwan stared at Greg. He didn’t seem to blink like other men. Greg was still trying not to allow his body language to give anything away, certainly no indication of the knot of fear that
was tightening like a vice around his lower abdomen. But he knew he had no answer to Tony Kwan’s unnerving Oriental inscrutability.

‘And is there any reason, Gregory, any particular reason for you to come to me now, I wonder?’ asked Kwan.

‘No, of course not, Mr Kwan,’ lied Greg. ‘Like I said, I just thought it was time I paid my respects.’

‘Ah yes,’ Mr Kwan repeated. ‘We appreciate it, Gregory. We want you to know that. We sincerely appreciate it.’

Greg nodded. It was not unusual for Tony Kwan to adopt the royal ‘we’; no doubt he saw himself as a monarch of sorts. And although he kept a lower profile, he wielded more power than
most modern monarchs.

Greg waited. He understood the ways of the Triad. So much remained unspoken.

‘Thank you, Gregory,’ Kwan continued eventually. ‘We may well be in touch. Meanwhile, please don’t worry about anything, will you?’

Greg shook his head. In spite of the fact he was worried sick about almost everything.

Mr Kwan took him by the hand and bade him farewell. But as Greg turned towards the door, Kwan spoke again.

‘If there is anything I can help you with, Gregory, you will let me know, won’t you?

Hard intelligent eyes stared at Greg. Kwan’s voice was heavy with an inference the Englishman didn’t quite understand.

He thanked the Chinese and fled.

Once outside the building he realized he was sweating profusely even though it was a cool night. And he was shaking. He bought more cigarettes from a late-night shop and lit one as he walked
home, inhaling greedily, just to calm his nerves he told himself.