‘You all right, Dawn?’ Clarke enquired conversationally. ‘Still keeping the old bugger in check.’
‘I don’t know about that, boss,’ Saslow murmured.
‘No. Far too much to expect.’
Clarke picked up two menus and handed them to Saslow and Vogel.
‘Let’s order first,’ she said. ‘I’m having a veal escalope Milanese. With spaghetti.’
Vogel winced. Clarke laughed.
‘Got you!’ she said. ‘Even I don’t eat veal. It’s a chicken escalope. All right, Vogel?’
‘I am not your conscience,’ said Vogel, aware that he probably sounded even more sanctimonious than he had intended.
Saslow said she would have the same. A waiter brought the coffee and ginger ale. Clarke ordered chicken escalope for them both. Vogel chose mushroom risotto.
Clarke leaned back in her seat, her hands behind her head.
‘So, we have forensic evidence indicating that Jane Ferguson was murdered,’ she began.
‘Yes, but not irrefutable,’ said Vogel.
‘And yet you want me to officially launch a murder investigation?’
‘It’s as near as dammit if you ask me, Nobby,’ said Vogel. ‘However, we have to put a full-scale murder investigation in place in order to widen the scope of our enquiries. We need more evidence, and then there’s the little matter of our number one suspect appearing to have a pretty good alibi.’
The obligatory Vogel-Clarke banter was over, apparently. For the moment anyway.
‘Yes, our grieving husband, doubtless expressing his undying love for the deceased to anyone who will listen,’ Clarke mused. ‘Are we absolutely sure of his alibi?’
‘Well, he was at this big night at the yacht club, and as the new commodore he was guest of honour,’ responded Vogel. ‘Gave a speech. Hoovered up the booze. It looks cast iron. At first sight anyway. Although we’ll go along there later and double check it out.’
‘Nobody else in the frame?’
‘Not really. Not yet anyway. Felix Ferguson’s mother clearly loathed her daughter-in-law and makes no bones about it. Thinks she wasn’t good enough for her precious son. Same with Ferguson senior. Neither made any secret of their feelings when we interviewed them earlier. But it’s hard to believe either of them would go as far as to whack our Jane on the head, strangle her, then hang her over the bannisters. Indeed, hard to believe Mrs Ferguson would have had the physical strength. Not on her own, anyway. Same for Sam really, even though he looks like a reasonably fit man for his age. They’re both well into their sixties.’
‘What about if they did it together? Do they have alibis?’
‘Only each other. But, like I say, disliking your son’s wife and doing her in are two different things. We’d have a load more corpses on our hands if they weren’t! I don’t see it, Nobby, really I don’t.’
‘Neither do I, to tell the truth. So, we don’t have a lot to go on, yet, do we? As things stand, Vogel, what sort of chance do you see of us getting to the bottom of this thing, finding out beyond reasonable doubt who did what and why?’
Vogel glanced curiously at his senior officer.
‘That’s an odd sort of question to ask,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s very early days. We’ve teams doing door-to-door in Instow, Estuary Vista Close and thereabouts. See if anyone suspicious was seen hanging about, and so on. We’ll do all the routine grinding police work, like we always do, and see where it takes us. I won’t give up, boss. I never do. You know that.’
‘Of course, I know that. It’s why you’re here.’
Vogel noticed that she hadn’t picked up on his calling her ‘boss’. She always picked up on that. Unless she had something more important on her mind, of course.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘You know something, don’t you? Something I haven’t been told.’
Clarke’s second glass of wine arrived, along with the food they’d all ordered. She allowed herself to be momentarily distracted, and took a sip from the new glass before replying to Vogel, who was waiting more than a tad impatiently.
‘Actually, Vogel, I don’t know anything,’ she said, with emphasis firmly on ‘know’.
‘It’s just that the old super in Barnstaple, who’s been in charge for ever, turned quite green when I told him we were looking at a suspicious death which might possibly turn into a murder enquiry. Kept asking me if I was absolutely sure and so on.’
She paused.
‘Well yes,’ said Vogel. ‘But you would expect that, wouldn’t you? I mean, you said from the beginning, the mayor of Bideford is like a little tin god in this part of North Devon. And your old super has been here since the year dot. Barnstaple’s his home town. I’d guess?’
Vogel raised his eyebrows quizzically. Clarke nodded briefly.
‘Bideford actually.’
‘Ah, even worse, then,’ Vogel continued. ‘He wouldn’t want to rock the boat of any local political bigwig, would he? And particularly not the mayor of his old home town. He probably also has retirement closing in on the horizon, and really doesn’t want his own boat rocked either?’
Another query. Another nod from Clarke.
‘Then what’s bothering you, Nobby?’ asked Vogel. ‘Everything’s panning out how we’d have expected so far, isn’t it? That’s how it seems to me, anyhow.’
‘Yes, but you’re a city creature, and as a copper you’re Met through and through. Always will be. You know what they say. They can take the boy out of the Met, but you can’t take the Met out of the boy.’
‘I don’t quite see where this is going,’ responded Vogel.
‘Oh, come on, yes you do,’ replied Clarke. ‘You have that awful Met thing in you, of assuming that anyone out in the sticks is at the very least inferior to, and quite probably considerably less intelligent than, you, and indeed most people in the metropolis.’
‘I dunno about that, Nobby,’ replied Vogel mildly. ‘I’ve been down west for a couple of years now. I may have thought that way to begin with, but I don’t reckon I do any more.’
‘Really,’ said Clarke, sounding totally unconvinced. ‘Sure of that, are you, Vogel?’
He opened his mouth to tell the detective superintendent she was a damned sight more likely to be guilty of Met superiority than he was. Then a certain aspect of his last big case for Avon and Somerset Police flitted across his mind. He had very nearly missed vital indications of criminal activity because of a lurking inclination to regard people with broad West Country accents as being not quite as bright as those without. Even though he would never admit it.
‘Well, maybe not entirely sure,’ he said. The nearest to an honest answer he was prepared to give.
‘Indeed. Have you looked around you at all whilst you’ve been here, Vogel?’
Vogel glanced at Saslow. He had been aware of her taking in the sea views, and generally enjoying the scenic quality of the place they had been sent to. Aspects of life that meant very little to Vogel. Was that what Clarke was getting at? If so, she was, in his opinion, moving from mild eccentricity into weirdo territory.
‘It’s a very beautiful part of the world, Nobby,’ he remarked tentatively.
Nobby Clarke clicked her teeth impatiently.
‘Anything else you noticed?’
‘Uh, well, we only got here a few hours ago and I’ve been concentrating on the case—’
‘This is about the case,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘This chunk of North Devon by the sea has something of a boom town about it. Recession and even Brexit haven’t really touched it. Not to the degree that they have most of the rest of the country, anyway. The holiday trade is booming. It’s quite a sophisticated trade nowadays too.
‘Look at that lovely little boozer, where you’re staying. Everything about it is high end, from the furnishings to the food. And consider the location. You’ve got the river right in front of you, and Instow across the water, the pretty little white village which we believe is now the scene of a major and not yet expl
icable crime. It doesn’t fit, Vogel. That’s for sure. But when does crime fit? Nonetheless, another thing that’s for sure, is that the people who live on the North Devon coast aren’t seaside Worzel Gummidges. Neither are they inbred idiots desperate to protect an insular way of life. There is nothing insular about North Devon anymore.’
‘I still don’t get exactly where you’re going with this, boss,’ said Vogel again.
‘Don’t you?’ the detective superintendent replied. ‘Thing is, Vogel, you’re actually not here because the local mayor’s family are at the heart of a murder enquiry, and I want someone in charge who will dig his way to the truth regardless of any pressure from those on high.’
‘I’m not?’
‘No, Vogel, you’re not. Neither you nor Saslow. You’re here because I don’t believe one jot of this hick town nonsense. The Barnstaple super might be old fashioned but he’s a thoroughly decent police officer, and I think every instinct in his body would lead him to conduct a thorough investigation into any serious crime on his patch. By the book to the nth degree, maybe. But he’d do it. And the fact that a local mayor is involved would probably make him more determined to conduct a proper investigation rather than less. Yet he would still like nothing more than to find a way to shut this enquiry down and dismiss Jane Ferguson’s death as a tragic suicide.
‘That’s why I wanted to meet you today, Vogel. To make my thoughts on this clear. And that’s why I wanted you leading the investigation. Because I believe there is something far bigger going on than the possibility of some small-town scandal, which those who pass for the great and the good round here want brushed under the carpet in order to protect reputations and civic status.
‘In fact, I think all that is a load of old bollocks, Vogel. You are here to find out what really lies behind this desire for a cover-up. Because there’s no doubt something is going on. There remains considerable pressure from on high, and I don’t think for one moment that it is confined to within Devon and Cornwall Police, for the case of Jane Ferguson to be buried as quickly as possible.’
Nobby Clarke paused.
‘If you’ll excuse the pun,’ she said.
Vogel allowed his lips to twitch.
‘Saslow and our number one suspect have already beaten you to it in that area, Nobby,’ he murmured.
The detective super ignored him. She looked and sounded like a woman on a mission. Vogel had seen her in that mode before. It almost always led to trouble. For all concerned. She never learned, of course, and neither, he supposed, did he.
‘I’m not sure exactly who is applying this pressure, in fact I’ve no bloody idea,’ Clarke continued. ‘But it comes from the very top. I’m quite sure of that. Trust me.’
Vogel took a sip of his ginger ale.
‘You really are determined to run out of career moves, aren’t you, boss?’ he commented.
‘Do you mind?’ queried the detective super. ‘If I go down again, I could well take you with me.’
‘Naw, I’m Met. You said so yourself. I’m slippery. I’ll blame it all on you.’
‘Vogel, you are all kinds of things. Slippery is not one of them. And neither have you ever been any better than me at keeping out of trouble.’
Vogel knew he couldn’t argue with that. He smiled and changed the subject.
‘One thing though, I don’t get, boss,’ he said. ‘If the D and C brass want a cover-up so badly, why did they take this case away from the local boys and girls, authorize you to bring in Saslow and me. Chief constable to chief constable too.’
‘It’s all changed, Vogel, from when this death was called in not much more than twelve hours ago, and it really was just about local politics,’ she said. ‘The brass are now regretting your appointment big time, I suspect. They are under some sort of mega pressure from on high, seriously on high, and I don’t know why, what, or bloody whom. I will bloody well find out, though.’
For a while the three officers concentrated on their food. Saslow was clearly hungry, she had missed breakfast, and she demolished her chicken escalope at appropriate speed. As usual Nobby Clarke was more interested in the wine and only picked at her escalope. Vogel only picked at his risotto. He’d eaten a hearty breakfast and hadn’t wanted lunch in the first place.
When they rose to leave the restaurant, Clarke placed a hand on Vogel’s arm.
‘Sod it, you’ve officially got your murder enquiry,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell the CC. He’ll be thrilled.’
With a new spring in his step, Vogel headed for the door. He couldn’t wait to get on with it.
That was one of the things he liked best about working with Detective Superintendent Nobby Clarke. She didn’t ask the chief constable, even the CC of a force she was new to, at which she had arrived under something of a cloud. Even under the increasingly bewildering circumstances which seemed to be developing.
She told him.
TEN
Dr Miriam Thorpe’s consulting rooms were in a narrow street of tall Georgian houses situated, rather conveniently for Vogel and Saslow, just a few minutes’ walk from Exeter’s Cathedral Yard.
The doctor was an unusually tall woman, probably in her late thirties. Her wavy dark hair was attractively untidy, and she was casually dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. Vogel assumed this kind of style was probably the norm nowadays for someone in her profession – on the basis that in the twenty-first century it was the sort of look required to encourage patients to relax and talk about themselves without feeling intimidated.
Dr Thorpe ushered Vogel and Saslow into a spacious high-ceilinged room, bade them sit on a sofa facing the window, and lowered herself into the armchair alongside. No formal seating arrangement for this one, and certainly no question of her sitting behind a desk while her visitors were forced into low seating accommodation, thought Vogel. Even when in this case the visitors were not patients but police officers, Dr Thorpe was careful to ensure that no party enjoyed a physical advantage over another.
She looked suitably shocked when Vogel explained that he was investigating the death of Jane Ferguson.
‘I h-had no idea,’ she said, somewhat obviously, stumbling very slightly over her words. ‘Jane is dead? My God. Wh-what happened?’
Vogel considered for a moment if the woman might be dissembling. But, in view of what had originally been regarded as the probability of Jane Ferguson’s death being suicide, no announcement had yet been made to the press. And whilst there was already doubtless plenty of local gossip, and probably at least some mention on social media, there was no reason why Dr Thorpe should be aware of it.
‘Mrs Ferguson’s body was found hanged from the bannisters of her home in the early hours of this morning,’ the detective explained bluntly. ‘By her six-year-old daughter.’
Miriam Thorpe gasped.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘Absolutely terrible. Poor Jane. And the poor child.’
‘Indeed,’ said Vogel. ‘We are here to ask you, doctor, if you are aware from your consultations with Mrs Ferguson of anything which might have led her to take her own life. And further to that, if you had ever regarded her as a person at risk.’
Miriam Thorpe looked doubtful.
‘Well, yes and no, detective chief inspector,’ she said. ‘Most people who seek out the counsel of a mental health professional are vulnerable. So yes, almost all of them are at some level of risk. But as for fearing that Jane might take her own life: no, I don’t think I ever thought that was likely. Although when dealing with someone who has reason to seek psychiatric help, one knows better than to rule anything out, my consultations with Jane never led me to actively consider that possibility. However, I really can’t go into detail, Mr Vogel. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that everything that takes place between a patient and someone in my position is highly confidential. That’s the only way we can maintain the necessary trust. Mine is after all one of the most sensitive areas of medicine …’
‘I am sure it is,
doctor,’ replied Vogel. ‘But perhaps I need to remind you that your patient is no longer with us, and that I am investigating the manner of her death.’
‘The manner of her death, detective chief inspector? You said she’d been found hanged, that she had taken her own life, didn’t you?’
‘I asked you if you knew of anything that may have led to Mrs Ferguson taking her own life, doctor. Now look, I totally understand your reluctance to breach a professional confidence, but there are extremely troubling aspects of Mrs Ferguson’s death which we are investigating, and I suspect it would be of considerable assistance to us if we had access to your notes concerning the deceased’s mental health. I feel sure you would be as anxious to get to the truth of the matter as we are, for everyone’s sake, not least her husband and her children.’
Miriam Thorpe still looked doubtful.
‘I take your point, inspector,’ she said eventually. ‘But I would like to check with Jane’s next of kin first, with her husband.’
‘I’m afraid I have to ask you not to do that, doctor,’ countered Vogel quickly.
Miriam Thorpe stood up abruptly and turned away from the two officers for a few seconds. Then she swung around to face them again.
‘So, you think Jane’s death may be suspicious and you suspect her husband may be involved, is that the nub of it, Mr Vogel?’ she asked eventually.
‘We are investigating Mrs Ferguson’s death, doctor, and Mr Ferguson is helping with our enquiries. That is all I can possibly tell you in that regard at the moment. You must understand that in our line of work, also, there are areas of considerable sensitivity.’
‘Of course. And shall we just say that my contacting Mr Ferguson in advance of any assistance I might feel able to give you could be counter-productive. Is that so, Mr Vogel? Please don’t prevaricate, will you?’
Dreams of Fear Page 12
