After he had eaten, he walked outside and crossed the street to the waterside. The sun was shining now. Instow, the village where they had so recently visited what he now believed to be almost certainly the location of a vicious murder, was immediately across the estuary, looking just like a picture postcard brought to life. It was hard to believe that anything bad or evil could happen in such a place, thought Vogel, who was still rather more used to the underbelly of metropolitan London where you accepted violent crime on a daily basis.
He found a bench, texted Saslow to tell her where he was, and sat there enjoying a few minutes’ peace before immersing himself in the hurly-burly of the investigation again.
A little later the acting DS joined him. Vogel checked his watch. It was just before eight thirty a.m., the time they had agreed they would set off on the next stage of their enquiries, that visit to the Fergusons. Saslow was almost always punctual.
The home of the mayor of Bideford – called All Seasons, and in its glorious but exposed position it would certainly experience a full-frontal assault from all four, thought Vogel – was a large sixties- or seventies-built house in Bay View Road, in the borough of Northam. As the name suggested the plot commanded a stunning view of Bideford Bay.
The sun was still beating down over the water, white horses danced in a dark sea. Vogel, although a city boy through and through, was beginning to discover that he was not entirely immune to the beauty of nature, but, as usual, his mind was totally preoccupied with the case in hand.
Saslow parked in the driveway. As they stepped out it became apparent that quite a breeze had blown up in the ten minutes or so the drive from Appledore had taken them. Vogel was surprised. Unlike Gerry Barham, he had yet to learn first-hand how quickly the weather changes on the North Devon coast. He and Saslow found themselves hurrying to the protection of the porch around the front door, bending forward into the wind which was beginning to blast powerfully off the Atlantic.
The woman who answered the door almost before Vogel had rung the bell was of average height, five foot five or so, Vogel guessed, but held herself so well she appeared much taller. Her grey-blonde hair had clearly been quite strenuously coiffured into submission and framed a strong well-boned face with carefully arranged waves and curls which did not look as if they ever dared move much. It was, Vogel supposed, a rather old-fashioned look. Not unlike the hairstyle of our own dear queen, as Vogel’s mother may have remarked.
She was wearing a twin set. Vogel didn’t think he’d seen one of those in a long time.
A pair of Cavalier King Charles spaniels, yapping excitedly, were at her feet.
‘Mrs Amelia Ferguson?’ he enquired.
The woman nodded curtly.
‘Police,’ said Vogel, and proceeded to introduce himself and Saslow.
She looked him up and down without enthusiasm.
‘You’d better come in then,’ she said, stepping back into the hallway.
Her manner was disconcertingly abrupt, which Vogel assumed was her intention. She was not only immaculately coiffured, but fully made-up and perfectly dressed, even though it was not yet nine a.m. and her daughter-in-law had met a violent death during the night. If this had disturbed her in any way beyond having suffered a broken night’s sleep, Amelia Ferguson showed no sign of it. And, in what most people would regard as the worst of circumstances, Mrs Ferguson displayed no visible distress. This was clearly a formidable woman. A force to be reckoned with, thought Vogel.
She had the look of someone who had never shed a tear in her life. But in Vogel’s experience that was sometimes only a façade. He wasn’t sure about this one, though.
Amelia Ferguson led the way into a vast sitting room with floor-to-ceiling picture windows offering sweeping views over the bay. The room was perfectly presented, just like its owner.
Two large cream brocade sofas, standing on a spotless cream carpet, flanked the windows. Vogel was mildly surprised that he hadn’t been asked to remove his shoes before entering.
Through a wide arch Vogel could see a second smaller room containing a large solid-looking dining table. Two small children, a boy and a girl, sat at the table. They had pencils or crayons in their hands and seemed to be drawing in books, or perhaps colouring-in.
The twins, Vogel guessed correctly. Joanna and Stevie Ferguson. Joanna in particular looked pale, perhaps unnaturally pale, but there was little else about either child to give any indication of the terrible night they had just experienced.
Joanna’s long blonde hair appeared to be freshly washed, and had been neatly tied into bunches with two pink ribbons. Her brother’s hair was also quite long, but had been parted to one side and combed flat to his head. The attentions of Grannie were evident, Vogel thought.
Both children were neatly dressed, Joanna in a grey woolly skirt and a pink jersey with a teddy bear motive, and Stevie in little blue jeans, with the crease ironed in, and a blue and yellow plaid shirt. Vogel assumed they must have been transported from Instow in their nightwear, but presumably they kept clothes at their grandparents’ house, and doubtless Amelia Ferguson was the sort who would require children to wash and dress as soon as they were out of bed. On this just like any other day.
This family had been through some kind of nightmare already. But, superficially at least, there was little to show for it at the home of the Fergusons senior. Vogel had no doubt that was largely down to Amelia.
The two children looked up from their books as Vogel and Saslow entered the sitting room.
‘Hello,’ said Vogel, treating them to what he hoped was his most reassuring smile.
Amelia Ferguson clearly had little time for life’s niceties, even where her own grandchildren were concerned.
‘Right, you two, Grannie has to talk to our visitors, why don’t you both go upstairs and play in your room for a bit,’ she commanded.
Vogel thought that was quite an unfeeling way to talk to a couple of little kids who had been through such an awful experience. Only a few hours previously they had witnessed their mother hanging dead in their home.
Joanna and Stevie merely stood up and proceeded to do as they had been told.
Vogel took the opportunity to introduce himself.
As the twins walked past him he crouched down.
‘I’m David,’ he said. ‘You must be Stevie and Joanna.’
The little boy nodded, and very formally held out his hand to be shaken. Vogel obliged. He found such grown-up courtesy rather disturbing in one so young.
The little girl just stared.
‘I may see you later,’ said Vogel. ‘Will that be all right?’
The little boy nodded again. His sister more or less ignored Vogel, turning instead to her grandmother.
‘Aren’t we going home to Mummy now?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No dear, not today,’ replied Mrs Ferguson, her voice full of forced cheeriness. ‘You’re going to have a day with Grannie. Isn’t that nice?’
Neither child looked entirely convinced of that.
‘I want to see my mummy,’ said Joanna, looking disconcertingly close to tears.
‘We’ll talk about that later, dear,’ said Amelia quite brusquely. ‘Just run along now, there’s a good girl.’
Mrs Ferguson senior really did appear to be the most insensitive of people, considered Vogel. He watched as the children left the room without further protest. There was something so very sad about them. And he wasn’t at all sure that this rather austere woman would be much help to them. There was also already a question mark over the father. In any case surely under these tragic circumstances he should be with his son and daughter.
‘Where is your son, Mrs Ferguson?’ he asked curtly, as soon as the door had shut behind them. ‘I shall need to talk to him too.’
‘He’s in bed, he’s had a dreadful shock, you know, he needs to sleep, to recover,’ replied Amelia Ferguson, immediately displaying rather more sympathy for her son than she had so far for her grandchildren.
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Vogel was surprised.
All he said was: ‘I see.’
‘Yes well, Mr Vogel, shall we get on with it then?’ she continued.
Only it wasn’t so much a question as an instruction. Amelia gestured for Vogel and Saslow to sit on one of the big sofas. There was no offer of coffee or tea. Vogel didn’t want either. He had just enjoyed a large breakfast. But he suspected the thought of providing two visiting police officers with a beverage wouldn’t even occur to this woman.
‘Could I start by saying how sorry we are for your loss, Mrs Ferguson,’ he began, forcing himself to use the quietly sympathetic tone which was the norm for him when dealing with the recently bereaved. Even when suspicion might have already fallen upon them, or he simply found himself instantly disliking them.
Amelia, who had remained standing, towering over Vogel and Saslow in a domineering sort of way, grunted.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘Now what do you want to ask me exactly?’
Vogel thought he’d better at least attempt to take charge of this interview.
‘Won’t you please also sit down, Mrs Ferguson,’ he said.
In spite of his mild-mannered approach, Vogel would never let anyone he was interviewing assume a dominant position – not even to the extent of sitting in a significantly taller chair.
With just the merest flicker of further annoyance in her eyes, Mrs Ferguson sat.
‘Right,’ said Vogel. ‘First of all, you should know that the reason we have come to see you so quickly is that your daughter-in-law’s death is being treated as suspicious.’
Vogel’s tone was now quite sharp. He would try not to show it, but Amelia Ferguson’s manner had already annoyed him considerably. Not least because of the way she had been with her grandchildren under such awful circumstances.
He was gratified to see the woman’s excessively confident and somewhat overbearing manner evaporate like steam on a hot day.
Her jaw dropped. It really did. She sat forward in her chair, clasping her hands tightly in her lap, as if making a determined effort to maintain her strict self-control.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked. ‘Jane took her own life, the s—’
Amelia Ferguson stopped abruptly. Had there been a bookie handy Vogel would have taken a decent bet that she had been about to say ‘silly girl’. Or something worse. He really had taken an instant dislike to this woman. Something he rarely did. And something he knew he must disregard while completing this investigation. He met Mrs Ferguson’s eye with his, keeping his expression as neutral as possible, and remained silent.
‘But, Jane hanged herself,’ the woman continued. ‘Little Joanna found her. The police, I mean, the two officers who came first to the house, they told my Felix that. Didn’t they? It was suicide. That’s not a suspicious death, is it?’
Amelia Ferguson no longer sounded quite so much in control. Not even of herself. Vogel knew he was being small, as his wife would say, but he found that rather gratifying.
‘Indeed, suicide is not a suspicious death,’ he said. ‘But the pathologist who attended the scene has reason to believe that there is a strong possibility that your daughter-in-law did not take her own life.’
‘Reason to believe?’ repeated Amelia Ferguson. ‘What possible reason could there be? Jane hanged herself from the bannisters when the only other people in the house were her own little children. And if that’s not the height of selfishness I don’t know what is …’
The woman stopped abruptly again. This time a light flush spread across her features. Vogel suspected that she realized she may have gone too far.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ferguson, I am not at liberty to go into any details. However, I would like to ask you why you are so sure your daughter-in-law killed herself?’
‘Well, it didn’t occur to me that it could be anything else. Not from what Felix told me, and the two constables who broke the news to us said much the same. She’d been found hanged by little Joanna, that’s what they told us. The whole thing was just totally shocking. I could barely believe my ears. Neither Sam nor I could quite take it in at first. I mean, Jane, was, well, never what you might call well-adjusted. But it didn’t occur to me, not to any of us, that she would take her own life. I mean, have you seen her beautiful home? Felix has always been such a good provider. Like his father. Well, to tell the truth, the whole family have been involved. Jane wanted for nothing. Never had to work once she was married. Not that we’d have let her carry on working as a waitress, obviously. That wouldn’t have done at all …’
Amelia stopped in mid-sentence. Vogel wondered if his face might have given away too much of what he was thinking. He was vaguely amused by the way Amelia Ferguson seemed to have so little idea how her words would sound to almost anyone listening. He considered what she had told him. Jane had been a waitress before her marriage, had she? That would certainly not have pleased her future mother-in-law who was clearly a proper old-fashioned snob. He certainly wanted to hear more from her, though. She was revealing so much more than she realized.
‘Do go on, Mrs Ferguson,’ he encouraged.
‘Right, yes,’ the woman continued readily enough. ‘And then there are those beautiful children. I don’t see how there can be any doubt that Jane committed suicide, surely. But as for why, I have no idea, detective chief inspector.’
‘Could you tell me when you last saw your daughter-in-law, Mrs Ferguson?’ Vogel asked levelly.
‘Oh yes. Yes, of course. It would have been, uh, about two months ago. Felix’s birthday. His thirty-fifth. We gave a little party for him here.’
Vogel considered for a moment.
‘Two months seems quite a long time ago for you to have last seen your son’s wife,’ the detective remarked casually. ‘Particularly considering she and your son only live fifteen minutes or so away from you.’
‘Yes, well. You may as well know, detective chief inspector, because you’ll find out soon enough if you’re going poking around in matters that don’t concern you, my daughter-in-law and I did not get on.’
Poking around in matters that don’t concern you? Had she actually said that? The woman really was infuriating. And she had already made her low opinion of her son’s wife pretty darned clear. Vogel found himself blinking rapidly behind his spectacles. It always happened when he was aroused, either emotionally affected, or, as in this case, battling to keep his anger in check.
‘Mrs Ferguson, we may well be mounting a full-scale murder investigation, of which I expect to be in charge,’ he responded with a certain quiet menace. ‘There is therefore nothing that does not concern me or any of my investigating officers. Nothing at all.’
Amelia Ferguson flushed again. She opened her mouth as if to speak and then shut it. Vogel suspected she had thought that he was a pushover. People often made that mistake. Vogel’s natural demeanour was to be mild-mannered and courteous. He was a thoughtful man, whose hobbies were compiling crosswords and playing backgammon at the highest level. He never looked well dressed. His dark brown hair was long to the collar and somewhat dishevelled. He sometimes seemed a tad on the vague side, and gave every appearance of being a bit of a dreamer not entirely at ease in the modern world. But appearances can be deceptive. Vogel was a very modern policeman, technically highly skilled, an incisive detective with a brain like a bacon slicer. And he expected, indeed demanded, to be treated with respect.
It seemed possible that Amelia Ferguson was beginning to realize at least part of this. She remained silent until he spoke again.
‘Right,’ Vogel continued firmly. ‘Perhaps you would tell me when you last saw your son before his wife’s death.’
‘Oh, that would be yesterday, when he picked the twins up. He usually brings the children here on Friday evenings, then they stay with us overnight. More often in the school holidays. I see Felix most days, Mr Vogel. When he’s working, he almost always pops in at lunchtime or early evening before he goes home.’
‘But not acc
ompanied by his wife?’
‘No, Mr Vogel. I’m afraid things had got to the stage where Jane and I only met up at family occasions when that could not be reasonably avoided. Like birthdays. Christmas. Events at the children’s school. Important social occasions connected with the businesses, not that she was keen on that sort of thing. Rarely otherwise. Not for two or three years now.’
‘And might I enquire if there was any particular reason for this situation to develop?’ asked Vogel.
‘Nothing in particular, not really. Things just went from bad to worse between us, over the years. I mean, Felix should never have married her. He could have had anybody, taken his pick of the girls around here, handsome young man like him, family business and all of that. But no. He chose her. That … that … silly …’
She stopped yet again.
‘Silly girl?’ prompted Vogel.
‘Well, she was. She really was.’
Mrs Ferguson blurted the words out. Vogel was starting to get interested. For all her controlling ways Amelia Ferguson clearly had problems governing her tongue. Certainly as far as her daughter-in-law was concerned. Which, for an investigating policeman was extremely good news.
He didn’t say anything. Neither did Saslow. She’d learned fast that one.
Mrs Ferguson soon began to speak again, as Vogel had known she would.
‘Look, Mr Vogel, Jane was never happy. She was one of those who found life difficult. She was never content. The children would often get to be too much for her. She would call Felix and say she couldn’t cope on her own. That’s why I had them so much in the school holidays. I always thought she had …’
Mrs Ferguson paused, took a deep breath, and then continued.
‘To tell the truth, and there can’t be much doubt about it now, I always thought she had mental health issues. We, Sam and I, begged Felix to get her to seek help. He told us she did agree to see someone. A while back. I never knew the details. She needed medication if you ask me. Lately, well … Felix seemed so unhappy. I’ve suspected he and Jane were having problems. Not surprising. A man like Felix needs a proper wife. Someone who will look after his children and his home, and be there to socialize with him. She never wanted to get involved with that side of his life. Not a bit interested in going to the yacht club with him, for example, even though he is commodore.’
Dreams of Fear Page 8
