Table of Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles by Hilary Bonner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
A selection of recent titles by Hilary Bonner
The David Vogel mysteries
DEADLY DANCE *
WHEEL OF FIRE *
DREAMS OF FEAR *
Other titles
THE CRUELLEST GAME
FRIENDS TO DIE FOR
DEATH COMES FIRST
* available from Severn House
DREAMS OF FEAR
Hilary Bonner
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2019
in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2019 by Hilary Bonner.
The right of Hilary Bonner to be
identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8907-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-653-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0368-7 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described
for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For
Alan St Clair
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks for their inestimable assistances are due to:
Former Detective Constables John Wright and Chris Webb, Devon and Cornwall Police; former Detective Sergeant Frank Waghorn, Avon and Somerset Police; Michael Johns, doyen of Instow and the North Devon Yacht Club; Pete and Sandra Morris, long-time friends from my home town of Bideford.
PROLOGUE
The child appeared suddenly right in front of the car as Gerry Barham turned into Estuary Vista Close.
A little girl, starkly illuminated in the beam of their headlights, was running towards Gerry and Anne’s vehicle, as if totally unaware of the danger she was in.
Her long blonde hair was flying around her face, her feet were bare, and her mouth was wide open as if she might be screaming, but inside the car Gerry and Anne could hear nothing but the rumble of the engine and the shrieking noise of burning rubber on tarmac as Gerry slammed on the brakes and the wheels locked into a skid.
Anne cried out in shock. The child kept on running. Gerry swung the steering wheel to the right. The car continued to skid. It seemed for ever before it slowed at all. But the child was no longer before them, having disappeared from their narrow field of vision as suddenly as she had appeared in it. There was then a dreadful moment when Gerry thought they and his treasured Mercedes were going to smash into the Morgan-Smith’s newly erected natural stone wall. Involuntarily he closed his eyes.
Ultimately the vehicle jerked to a halt just in time, slamming Gerry and Anne against their seat belts. Gerry wondered if his safety airbag would open. That had happened once before when he’d made an emergency stop. Not this time thankfully.
He turned to his left, staring through the passenger window at the stretch of road where the child had been. Gerry didn’t know the exact time, but he thought it must be well after midnight. Possibly nearer to one. The rain, which had started just as they left Bideford, was falling steadily now. There was no moon visible. No stars. The Close, half a mile or so up the hill to the rear of the North Devon seaside village of Instow, had no street lighting, and was the type of residential road where, by and large, most of the residents retired early to their beds. Except directly ahead, where his headlights were illuminating the Morgan-Smith’s wall, Gerry could see nothing but blackness.
‘What the heck was that?’ he muttered, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone.
‘Little Joanna Ferguson, I’m almost sure, in her pyjamas,’ responded his wife. ‘Oh my God, Gerry, we didn’t hit her, did we?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Gerry. ‘But I can’t be certain.’
He switched on his phone’s torch. A shaft of light bounced around the interior of the car, primarily illuminating his wife’s pale face.
‘I’m going to go and look,’ said Gerry. ‘I don’t dare move the car in case she’s behind us.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Anne, reaching for her own phone.
The Barhams had been to dinner with friends in nearby Bideford. They were rarely out that late, but it had been a little party celebrating a ruby wedding anniversary, a particularly jolly affair, and considerable quantities of good food and wine had been consumed. Upon which, Gerry sincerely hoped, for his own sake as well as hers, that the child had not been hit. He was usually very careful about drinking when he was driving. Indeed, throughout his life he had been the sort of man who made sure he would never be caught falling foul of the law, and he was pretty sure that he was within the limit. But he knew he’d drunk at least a glass more than he would normally.
‘Shit,’ he muttered to himself under his breath. Anne didn’t like to hear him swear. But on this occasion she did not seem to notice.
Once they were both out of the car he could see that his wife had switched on her torch and was shining it from side to side. He started to do the same, hunching his inadequately clad upper body against the driving rain.
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‘I can’t see her, can you?’ he called.
‘Not yet,’ Anne called back. ‘What on earth is she doing out at this time of night? I’m sure it’s little Jo— oh, thank God, there she is …’
She stopped speaking. Gerry could see that she was shining the light from the torch onto her own face.
‘It’s me, Jo, it’s Anne,’ she said. ‘Don’t be scared.’
Gerry hurried towards his wife.
Joanna Ferguson, whom he knew to be just six years old, was half concealed by the wheelie bin she seemed to be trying to hide behind. Anne had reached for the little girl’s hand and was trying to coax her out onto the pavement, speaking to her in that soothing comforting way she had with children. Finally Joanna stepped forward. Both Anne and Gerry knew her and the rest of the Ferguson family reasonably well, albeit as neighbours rather than friends. They had even occasionally babysat Jo and her twin brother since they’d retired to Instow seven years earlier and moved into the house next door to the Fergusons.
Joanna looked to be in quite a state, her appearance worsened by the effects of the heavy rain. Now that she wasn’t running, her blonde hair lay flattened to her head, lank and dark. She was sobbing uncontrollably. Her pyjamas were sodden.
‘What is it, darling?’ asked Anne gently. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’
The little girl looked as if she was trying to speak, but didn’t seem able to get any words out. Her breath came in short sharp gasps. She was shaking from head to toe. Gerry wasn’t sure whether that was just because of the cold and the rain or something else. Something more. He was beginning to think it was something more.
He slipped off his jacket and, although the shoulders were already thoroughly damp, passed it to Anne. She stepped forward and took the jacket, then wrapped it and her arms around little Jo.
‘What’s happened, darling?’ she asked again.
Again the child seemed unable to reply.
‘Look Joanna dear, we must get you into the warm,’ Anne continued. ‘Shall I take you home? Are Mummy and Daddy there? They wouldn’t leave you on your own, I know that.’
The little girl stopped sobbing quite abruptly and looked up at Anne through wide eyes.
‘M-m-mummy is … is there, I want my mummy and d-daddy,’ she stumbled. ‘I c-can’t get to my m-m …’
The child’s voice tailed off, as she started to sob again.
‘You want Mummy and Daddy,’ echoed Anne. ‘Yes, of course you do.’
Anne lifted the little girl up, keeping Gerry’s jacket wrapped around her, and pressing the child tightly against her upper body.
‘That’s better, isn’t it?’ she soothed. ‘Your feet must be cold and sore, I should think. You’ve not even got your slippers on, have you?’
The child did not reply, but her sobbing abated very slightly.
‘I think Mummy must be asleep,’ Anne continued. ‘Or she would never have let you wander off out into the street, would she? How did you get out of the house, anyway, you little monkey?’
Anne’s voice was light. But, then, of course it was, thought Gerry. Clearly Anne’s principle intention was to reassure the little girl and get her to safety.
Gerry still had a lurking sense of unease, and felt sure Anne did too. He told himself that Jo’s mother, Jane, must have failed to lock the front door properly, or something like that.
Jane’s husband, Felix, had told him how badly she was sleeping. He knew she had all sorts of problems in that regard. Maybe she’d been desperate for sleep and had taken a sleeping pill. More than likely that’s what she had done.
‘Is little Jo, OK?’ Gerry asked Anne quietly.
‘I think so, just frightened,’ replied his wife.
A light suddenly appeared in the Morgan-Smith’s bedroom window, presumably as curtains had been pulled open.
Gerry realized he had left his headlights full on, and they were still directed at the house. He had been in such a hurry and so shocked by the appearance of the child in front of him in the road, that he’d not even switched the engine off.
‘Look, Gerry, I’m sure everything’s fine,’ said Anne. still keeping her voice light. ‘Why don’t you move the car before we wake the entire road. Go home. I’ll call you if I need you. I’m sure I won’t—’
Gerry felt doubtful. Very doubtful. He did not share Anne’s confidence.
‘No, you go home, I’ll take Joanna back,’ he interrupted.
‘Don’t be silly, Gerry, you have to move that blessed car.’
Not for the first time during their long marriage, Gerry wished his wife could drive. His feeling that all might not be well at the Fergusons was growing stronger by the minute. He was about to protest further when he saw another light go on in the Morgan-Smiths’ house. The one on the landing, he thought. Damn. They were probably on their way downstairs to investigate. Gerry wasn’t overly fond of the Morgan-Smiths, and in any case didn’t really feel like answering a lot of tom fool questions in what was, for him, the middle of the night. Anne was right, he really must move the car. He would so much have preferred to be the one returning little Jo.
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I’ll park up at home and unlock whilst you take Jo back. But call if you’re uneasy about anything. Promise?’
‘Promise,’ replied Anne.
Gerry turned and started to walk quickly to the abandoned vehicle.
As he approached he saw the figure of a man, or a woman, standing by the Morgan-Smiths’ gate, weakly silhouetted against the lights from the house. Or he thought he did. There was something or someone there, surely.
He cursed under his breath. Had one of the Morgan-Smiths’ come outside already? He feared he was about to have to face the cross-examination he so wanted to avoid.
Which Morgan-Smith was it? He marginally preferred the prospect of having to deal with Frank over Daphne. Though there wasn’t much in it. He narrowed his eyes, peering ahead.
The figure had not moved, surely. But it did not seem to be there anymore. And if it had been Frank or Daphne they would sure as heck have made their presence felt. Gerry was relieved. Or half relieved. He had been so convinced someone was standing there. And if it hadn’t been one of the Morgan-Smiths, who on earth was it?
He felt most uneasy. He told himself firmly that he must just be the victim of a trick of the light. He was seeing things that simply weren’t there. He made a mental note to get his eyes checked, and see if he could be prescribed some glasses which might help with night vision. After all, he had found driving at night difficult for some time now. Yes, he was getting old and he was seeing things. It was as simple as that.
However, he wasn’t able to entirely convince himself.
Still holding Joanna Ferguson tightly in her arms, Anne Barham turned away from her husband and headed for the Ferguson home, number eleven. Joanna started to cry more loudly again. The little girl seemed to be in total shock. But then, she was only six, Anne told herself. Just being alone in the dark would be shock enough at that age to spark a near hysterical crying fit.
Joanna was a fair weight too. Anne, hurrying as fast as she could through the rain, would have quite liked to put her down and make her walk, but she wasn’t sure if the tot was capable of that right then. Certainly, the easiest thing to do was to grit her teeth and carry the six-year-old. But she had to do it more or less with one hand as she needed the other to aim the phone torch before her.
She made it to the Fergusons’ house and into their drive. The big iron gates stood open. That momentarily surprised her because they were electronically operated security gates, and they were usually closed and locked. Then she realized they would have had to be open, for whatever reason, for Joanna to have been able to wander out in to the street. The garden lights didn’t come on automatically like they normally did. The front door was slightly ajar. It was all more than a little disconcerting. As Anne approached, little Jo’s weight became too much for her. She lowered the child carefully to th
e ground and took her hand.
A pale light shone into the porch. From the landing, she thought.
‘Right, let’s go and wake Mummy up, shall we,’ she murmured to Joanna, pushing the door with one foot.
It swung easily fully open. A shadow, not immediately recognisable, from an object that seemed to be moving slightly in the subsequent draught, passed over Anne’s head, once and then again.
Anne looked upwards.
Jane Ferguson was suspended from the bannisters, her body swinging gently where it hung in the stairwell, suspended by a rope fastened tightly around her neck.
Her tongue protruded through her open mouth. Her eyes were also wide open and protruding unnaturally in their sockets.
She was clearly dead. She had been hanged.
For several seconds Anne couldn’t quite take in the terrible scene before her. She stood quite still staring ahead, as if she were rooted to the spot.
‘There’s Mummy,’ said Joanna. ‘Are you going to wake her up now, Anne?’
The child’s voice jerked Anne into action. She bent down and picked up the little girl again.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m going to take you over to our house. Then I’ll come back to … to … look after Mummy.’
Jo didn’t argue.
Anne, valiantly fighting the trembling fit which was threatening to engulf her entire body, turned away from the grotesque scene before them and was about to carry Joanna out of the house when a thought suddenly occurred to her. Joanna had a twin brother.
‘Jo, wh-where’s Stevie?’ she asked.
‘I-I don’t know,’ stumbled the little girl.
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