Wheel of Fire Page 14

  ‘Yes, but he fell in the lock where the ground is level, and there aren’t any obstacles,’ said Knott.

  ‘Indeed, but neither is there any kind of fence or safety barrier,’ responded Clarke. She paused. Thinking. Knott voiced her thoughts before she quite got to them.

  ‘Pretty easy to push someone in there, though, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Particularly if that someone is already injured and a bit groggy.’

  The super smiled. ‘That’s as may be, Sergeant Knott,’ she said. ‘But we have no evidence at all yet to indicate such a thing, do we?’

  ‘Of course not, ma’am,’ replied Knott. ‘But we do know who he is and where he came from, and that he was already wanted by Somerset police in connection with arson, don’t we, ma’am?’

  ‘We almost certainly do, Knott.’

  ‘So I can’t help wondering what he was doing wandering along by the lock side. We don’t even have any idea what he was doing in Brentford, do we, boss? Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ said Clarke. ‘But we know he must have come more or less straight here after he walked out of that hospital in Taunton. He’s been in the water getting on for twenty-four hours, Dr Fitzwarren thinks. That means he must have headed up here pretty much as soon as he legged it from the hospital. So why would he come here so quickly? And make quite a long journey when he must have been in significant discomfort, at the very least.’

  ‘To meet someone, ma’am?’

  ‘That was my first thought.’

  ‘Or maybe he has family here.’

  ‘Ah yes, good thinking, Knott,’ said Nobby Clarke. ‘OK, I’m going to get my team on door-to-door work. The pub obviously. The Brentford Dock estate. The shops and all the various businesses in the high street. Find out if anyone saw George Grey or knows anything about him. Indeed, if anyone around here knew him at all before whatever happened here.’

  She paused for just a few seconds. ‘Any hotels hereabouts?’

  ‘There’s a new Premier Inn, just a couple of hundred yards away, a Holiday Inn up at Brentford Lock, and a Travelodge a bit further off towards Kew Bridge.’

  ‘Right, we’ll make them a priority too. If Grey wasn’t staying in one of those, maybe he was meeting someone that was.’

  She turned to DC Springer. ‘OK, Lloyd, over to you,’ she said. ‘Let’s call in the troops and get on with it. And we’ll need all the help you local lads can give us too, Sergeant Knott.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Knott.

  He’d heard of Nobby Clarke, of course. Her reputation, and the stories about her somewhat unusual name, went before her. The truth was he was more than a little tickled to find himself given the opportunity to work with her.

  FOURTEEN

  It was late afternoon when Vogel received the call.

  His caller’s opening words were: ‘How are you, you old devil? Still boring the arse off everyone you work with.’

  He recognised the voice at once, of course. And as ever, he felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘I’m well, thank you very much for asking, boss,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  He found that he was smiling. Det. Supt. Nobby Clarke always seemed to make him smile. And he still missed working with her on a day-to-day basis, as he had in the Met. Clarke had headed an MIT team and he had been her number two. When it came to his fellow officers, Vogel didn’t care whether they were men, women, transgender, or giraffes. All that mattered to him was that they were good at their jobs. And Nobby Clarke was almost certainly the best he had ever worked with.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of news for you, and when I want you to know how I am, I’ll tell you,’ reposted Clarke.

  Vogel felt his smile widening. ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Good. I think we’ve found that missing person you’re after, George Grey, re the Blackdown Manor fire. They tell me you’re SIO.’

  ‘Deputy SIO—’

  ‘Really?’ interrupted Clarke. ‘Since when have you been able to tell the difference?’

  Vogel ignored the interruption. He couldn’t wait to hear the rest of Clarke’s news.

  ‘That’s great, boss,’ he said. ‘I really think Grey might be the key to it all. We certainly need to give him the tenth degree. Where is he? I hope you’ve got the slippery bastard somewhere safe?’

  ‘Oh yes, Vogel, we’ve got him somewhere safe, all right. In the morgue. I’m afraid your Mr Grey is dead. He’s not going to be doing any more talking, and if he proves to be the key to anything it’ll have to be posthumously.’

  ‘You’re kidding, boss.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Vogel. Of course, I’m not kidding. And what else have I told you repeatedly?’

  ‘Not to call you boss, boss.’

  ‘Well done, detective inspector. And I told you that when I was your boss. It’s even worse now.’

  ‘Sorry …’

  Vogel paused. Why did she always have to do this? The woman seemed to take a perverse pleasure in teasing him. Or he assumed that’s what it was. He found it particularly frustrating on this occasion as she was making him wait for information she knew he was extremely eager for.

  ‘I’m still here, Vogel.’

  ‘Sorry, Nobby,’ he said.

  He was sure he heard the DS chuckle. He would never be comfortable with calling a female senior detective, who was tall, blonde, and rather elegant, Nobby. Vogel couldn’t help it. That was just the way he was. Everybody else seemed able to deal with it well enough. Not Vogel. But he did his best.

  ‘So, what happened, and where did you find him, b–Nobby?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know what happened. Not yet, anyway. We found him earlier this afternoon at the bottom of Thames Lock at Brentford. His body caused the lock gates to snag.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Vogel. ‘Do you know how long he’d been in there?’

  ‘Not exactly, but it seems likely it was approaching twenty-four hours, which means he must have made his way to Brentford straight after walking out of hospital.’

  The DS briefly went over what Pat Fitzwarren had said concerning George Grey’s condition, and the time and possible cause of death.

  ‘So, we don’t know a lot, Vogel,’ she said. ‘But we’ve launched a major investigation, obviously. It’s possible that your man’s death could be an accident, and if the deceased had been almost anyone except someone already wanted in connection with a major murder investigation, indeed a possible suspect, then accidental death would probably have been our first thought. Particularly as the whole area is a health and safety nightmare. There’s a pub just across the way, via a couple of bridges, a narrow walkway, and an unguarded stretch along the lockside, which is almost certainly where he entered the water. There’s a big housing estate, Brentford Dock, on the other side of the lock, and a lot of the residents use that pub as their local. The general consensus of opinion is that it’s a miracle more people, half-pissed, don’t end up in the drink here. It’s not easy walking. But as far as your George Grey’s untimely demise is concerned, there are far too many coincidences and unanswered questions for us to regard it as likely to be an accident. I am treating this as a suspicious death, Vogel, and the investigation will proceed accordingly.’

  ‘Too right, boss,’ said Vogel.

  ‘Yes. Now this is your case. Or that’s the way I see it, anyway. And we seem to have found your major lead, who may not be much use to you himself, but there must be someone around here who knows your man and a heck of a lot else besides, I shouldn’t wonder. I think you should get yourself up here, Vogel, first thing tomorrow at the latest, unless you’ve got something more important to do down there in the sticks?’

  ‘No,’ said Vogel. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘OK, do you want me to clear it with your super?’

  ‘Yes, please, boss, I mean … N-Nobby,’ said Vogel, as usual hesitating over the name.

  Clarke let that one pass.

  ‘I’d better go visit Mrs Grey now, t
hough,’ said Vogel. ‘Somebody’s got to make the death call, and I’d like to see how she reacts. I was pretty sure she wasn’t telling us half what she knew when we interviewed her before. Maybe the death of her husband might jog her memory. Then I’ve got some stuff I need to finish up. So first thing in the morning it is, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘As you wish, Vogel,’ said Clarke. ‘How will you get here? Don’t suppose you’ve passed your driving test yet, have you?’

  Vogel winced. Nobby Clarke knew him rather too well.

  He dodged the question. In any case, Det. Supt. Clarke was clearly well aware of what the answer would be.

  ‘Saslow will be driving me,’ he said.

  ‘Ah good, you’re still working with her then,’ commented Clarke, letting Vogel get away with his bit of prevarication. ‘Sharp cookie that one. Is she OK?’

  They both knew what Clarke was referring to; that last case which neither Vogel nor Dawn Saslow were ever likely to be able to put totally behind them.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Vogel replied shortly.

  ‘Good. Call me when you’re getting close.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Vogel. ‘Sorry, yes Nobby.’

  He winced as he said the name. He would never get used to it, never.

  He was still in Wellington police station, sitting with his laptop open in front of him at a desk in the station’s biggest room, which wasn’t nearly big enough. He glanced across at Saslow, who was standing at the far end, studying something on one of the wall charts.

  He walked over. ‘Do you fancy a trip to London tomorrow?’ he asked her.

  Then he explained about his call from Det. Supt. Clarke and the discovery of George Grey’s body.

  Saslow’s face lit up. Which might have seemed rather odd to anyone except another police officer. This was at the very least an intriguing development. Of course; she was pleased to know she would be actively involved, thought Vogel. Any young officer would be. Particularly one who was clearly determined to overcome experiences which might have brought down a lesser person. And he had reason to believe that Saslow welcomed the opportunity of working with Clarke just as much as he did.

  ‘But right now, I’m afraid we have to visit Janice Grey,’ Vogel continued.

  He saw Saslow’s expression change. The light went out of her eyes. She’d guessed, he thought. All police officers hated breaking the news that a loved one had died. More than once in his career he’d had to break the news of the death of a child to distraught parents, and many times the death of a much loved, husband, wife, partner, or even dear friend. It never got any easier. Although, Vogel had to admit to himself, he didn’t feel quite the same about it this time as he usually did.

  After all, George Grey had been, and remained, the only suspect so far in a case of double murder by arson, and Vogel was not at all convinced that his widow wasn’t also involved. Certainly, it was hard to believe that she had known nothing of whatever it was that her husband had been up to on the night of that terrible fire.

  ‘The death call,’ muttered Saslow, resignedly, breaking into his reverie.

  ‘Yes, but it’s much more than that this time, isn’t it, Dawn?’

  Her face brightened just a little. Vogel had known he wouldn’t have to explain.

  ‘Well yes, Janice Grey surely has to be up to her ears in whatever’s going on, hasn’t she boss?’ Saslow volunteered. ‘Just like her husband.’

  ‘Quite probably,’ agreed Vogel. ‘At the very least I suspect that she knew what George was up to, or at least had a fair idea.’

  ‘I’ll get my coat,’ said Saslow.

  ‘Yep. Oh, and ask Margot Hartley to get a family liaison officer on board, will you?’

  Saslow nodded, jumped to her feet, and began to move at speed, coat in one hand, phone in the other.

  Janice Grey might be a suspect in her own right, but she was also the wife of a man who had died suddenly and possibly violently. So, Vogel had done what he would always do as part of the death call routine, made arrangements for a family liaison officer to be allocated to her.

  This also had another purpose, of course. Particularly in circumstances where the bereaved might be under some kind of suspicion, family liaison doubled as on-the-spot eyes and ears for the investigating officers, in this case keeping a close watch on Mrs Grey, everything she did and everyone she might be in contact with. A good FLO could be an invaluable source of information.

  Mrs Grey opened the door of The Gatehouse before Vogel or Saslow had even knocked on it. This was in stark contrast to their earlier visit.

  She looked even more unkempt than when they had first met. Again Vogel reckoned the woman had been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen. Perhaps she’d had a fair idea that something would happen to her husband after he’d walked out of hospital. Maybe she’d expected to hear from him and feared the worst when she didn’t. Or maybe she had merely shed tears of self-pity.

  As soon as she saw the two police officers she seemed to know what they were there for. But didn’t they always, thought Vogel.

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ she asked, her voice high-pitched with apprehension. ‘Has something happened to my Georgie? It has, hasn’t it? That what you’re here for, just tell me, tell me …’

  She sounded near hysterical.

  Vogel interrupted her calmly, and as kindly as he could. ‘Look, can we come in Mrs Grey, please?’ he asked. ‘We do have some news. But why don’t we all go inside and sit down. Then we will tell you everything.’

  The woman’s shoulders dropped. Suddenly she looked even smaller than she actually was.

  She knew all right.

  Without uttering another word, she led Vogel and Saslow into the sitting room. Vogel perched on one of the chintzy chairs, gesturing for Mrs Grey also to sit. She did so. On the sofa. Saslow sat down next to her.

  ‘Mrs Grey, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you,’ he began. ‘It would seem that—’

  Janice Grey didn’t need him to finish. She seemed calmer. Her expression had changed to one of glum resignation. ‘He’s dead, he’s dead, isn’t he?’ she interrupted. ‘My Georgie’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I fear he almost certainly is,’ Vogel continued. ‘We need him to be formally identified, of course, but there seems little doubt. The police officers who have seen the body of the man we believe to be your husband have identified him to their own satisfaction from the photograph you gave us, which we circulated nationwide. Also, of course, there are wounds present on the deceased which are similar to those sustained by Mr Grey on the night of the fire, and these are an additional aid to identification.’

  Mrs Grey stared at Vogel. ‘What happened to him, what have those bastards done to my George?’

  Vogel explained where and how George was found, in Brentford at the bottom of Thames Lock.

  ‘What was he doing in Brentford?’ asked Mrs Grey, and Vogel had little doubt that her surprise was genuine.

  ‘We don’t know, not yet anyway,’ replied Vogel. ‘In fact, we were rather hoping you might be able to tell us.’

  ‘I haven’t got any idea,’ said Janice Grey.

  ‘Do you have friends, or relatives perhaps, in the area?’

  Janice shook her head. ‘What the hell was he doing in Brentford?’ she muttered, repeating herself. ‘I told him no good would come of any of this. I told him. He never listened, my Georgie, not to me anyway, never …’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Vogel asked. ‘No good would come of any of what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Janice Grey replied quickly.

  ‘Mrs Grey, you also asked “what have those bastards done to my Georgie?” I need to know what you mean by that too?’

  With what appeared to be a huge effort of will, Vogel thought, Janice Grey struggled to regain control of herself.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ she said. ‘Really I don’t. I just meant …’

  She paused, as if seeki
ng the right words. ‘I just meant, well, the bastards who’ve done for my George. Whoever they are. That’s all.’

  ‘Mrs Grey, I did not at any stage tell you that anybody had “done for your George”. I have not mentioned murder. Indeed, at this stage we are not entirely sure what happened to your husband.’

  ‘Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it,’ Mrs Grey blustered. ‘You found him at the bottom of a canal lock. What are you saying? He fell in? He’s not stupid you know …’

  She paused again, this time in order to correct herself. ‘He wasn’t stupid. What was he doing by a canal anyway? He wouldn’t have just fallen in. I took that for granted.’

  ‘People do, Mrs Grey,’ said Vogel. ‘Your husband would have been very weak, it’s reasonable to assume, after what he went through on the night of the fire. We have reason to believe that he died within hours of walking out of The Musgrove. He’d been heavily sedated in order for the surgeon to effectively stitch his wounds. He could still have been affected by that. He would probably have been taking pain killers. And I understand there is a pub close to where his body was found. He might have been drinking. We just don’t know yet.’

  Janice Grey looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘My Georgie hardly ever drank, always said he didn’t like being out of control,’ she said.

  ‘Well, if he was in pain, he may have made an exception.’

  Mrs Grey grunted, clearly unconvinced. ‘Some bastard did for him,’ she muttered almost to herself, looking down at her lap.

  Then she looked up and met Vogel’s eye. ‘Look, as far as I know, Georgie’s never even been to bloody Brentford. Not before. And I certainly haven’t. Maybe somebody abducted him. Yes, that’s it, someone went into that hospital and abducted my Georgie.’

  ‘And why would anyone do that, Mrs Grey?’ asked Vogel patiently.

  The veil came down over Janice Grey’s eyes again. ‘I don’t know, do I? Isn’t that your job? To find out.’

  ‘Yes, and so we will, Mrs Grey. One way or another. You need have no doubt about that. But if you know anything that might assist us, and I must say I believe you probably do, we would be most grateful for your help.’