Dreams of Fear

by Hilary Bonner

  Felix’s father, on the other hand, was a different prospect. Sam Ferguson didn’t miss much. Although Felix had no idea at all what conclusions his father may have drawn from what could only ever have been a disjointed and incomplete view of his son’s married life.

  If Felix had shared with his father what was really going on things may have turned out differently. Sam Ferguson might, like his wife, love his only son unconditionally. But he was a realist. And he had the steadiest of heads on his shoulders.

  If Felix had gone to his father, told him the truth, the whole truth, he supposed it was possible that Sam Ferguson may have found a better way out of the whole damned mess. Although Felix didn’t know what the hell that could have been. And neither did he know how he, the man who previously had always told his father everything, could have shared the details of the last few weeks of Jane’s life with anyone.

  But one thing was for certain now. It was too late. Irrevocable decisions had been made. Jane was dead. The beautiful wife Felix had fallen head over heels in love with was no more.

  Felix bent down and picked up a stick which he threw for the dogs. Pedro and Petra took off after it in yelping writhing delight, every pace, every leap, every sound, a chorus of total happiness.

  The sea breeze of earlier in the day was growing stronger and there were dark clouds gathering. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall. Felix didn’t care. He stood still for a moment looking out to sea. This part of Westward Ho!, the start of Abbotsham Cliffs, where the tors reached up to the south and the ocean stretched to the north, was quite possibly his favourite place in all the world. It was beautiful whatever the weather.

  Lundy Island, jewel of the Atlantic, standing dark and proud on the horizon, had yet to disappear within a gathering mist.

  Pedro galloped back to Felix and was at his feet, excited, joyful, insistent on another throw of his stick. Felix bent forward, and took the stick from the dog’s mouth.

  When he stood up, ready to oblige, there were tears pouring down his cheeks.

  THIRTEEN

  Back in Instow, Gerry Barham had also decided to go for a sea walk. But not along the front of his home village, that was far too public.

  He had a meeting arranged with someone he was not sure he wanted to meet at all. But he felt that he had little choice.

  He drove to Westward Ho!, heading for Sandymere at the furthest end of Northam Burrows, where he parked by the seawater pond, known as the inland sea, which, at low tide, is actually little more than a large puddle.

  Even though this was a Sunday in May, there were few other cars there, probably belonging to stalwart dog walkers. The changeable weather had seen to that, as Gerry and the man he was meeting had expected. By the time Gerry arrived the wind had turned into something of a gale and the rain was tipping down.

  Nonetheless Gerry pulled on the heavy duty waterproof he had learned, since moving to North Devon, to always carry in the back of his car, and clambered over the pebble ridge. The tide was a long way out. He strode towards the distant sea until he felt his feet begin to sink in the sand. Then he stopped and stood for a moment just staring over the water.

  The wind bit into his face, driving droplets of rain down his neck inside the waterproof. He hoped he wouldn’t have to wait for long.

  After a bit he checked his watch, turned around, and peered back towards the pebble ridge and the sand dunes. A tall burly man wearing a dark hooded coat and wellington boots, body bent almost horizontally into the driving wind, was moving across the sand towards him.

  He walked straight up to Gerry Barham, all the while looking around as if to make sure nobody else was nearby.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ said Gerry.

  Sam Ferguson, the mayor of Bideford, father-in-law of the recently deceased Jane Ferguson, unenthusiastically grunted something which might or might not have been a greeting.

  ‘Hope nobody knows we’re meeting today, Gerry,’ he muttered.

  ‘Nobody knows we’re meeting, Sam, and certainly not that we’re doing so way out here with our feet sinking in the sand,’ replied Gerry. ‘We could have talked in the early hours when you came to collect the twins. You didn’t even come into the house. Why do you always have to be so bloody cloak and dagger anyway?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Gerry, it’s not cloak and dagger enough, not nearly enough,’ replied Sam. ‘I wasn’t going to try to talk to you with the Close crawling with coppers. In any case, Felix was already with you, ready to bring the children out to Amelia and me. Look, let’s cut to the chase, my daughter-in-law met a violent death in the night. I want to know what you know about it?’

  ‘I-I don’t know anything,’ said Gerry haltingly. ‘Except that Anne and I discovered Jane’s body, or Anne did – well, after your poor little Joanna, of course.’

  ‘Ummm, we’ll see about that,’ said Sam. ‘I just got a text from Amelia saying the police have now launched a murder investigation. Did you know that?’

  ‘I … uh … I didn’t know for certain,’ stumbled Gerry.

  ‘They’ve been around to interview Felix for the second time,’ Sam continued. ‘My son seems to be the number one suspect, and I doubt I’m far behind him on the list.’

  Gerry looked anxious.

  ‘But you didn’t do it, Sam, did you?’ he said. ‘I mean, I know more than anybody how you felt about Jane. Whatever you say. And you were supposed to be at that anniversary dinner at the Waltons last night. You didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Gerry? I’m not a bloody murderer. I’ve just been looking out for my family, that’s all.’

  ‘So where were you last night then?’

  Gerry had decided that attack might be the best form of defence, but he spoke with a confidence he did not feel.

  ‘Why weren’t you at the Waltons?’ he continued.

  ‘You know why we weren’t there. Melia was a bit under the weather. Some sort of tummy bug. We phoned.’

  ‘Yeah. So I understand. And I for one didn’t believe a word of it. Your wife’s as strong as an ox. Shouldn’t think she’s gone down with a tummy bug in the whole of her life.’

  ‘All right, all right. Joan Walton has put Amelia’s nose out of joint. Woman probably not even aware of it. God knows it’s easily enough done. Got herself elected chairman of the Inner Wheel over Amelia’s head. Or that’s how Melia sees it. I thought she was prepared to let it go, move on. But no. Not her. At the last moment yesterday she refused to go. So I made our excuses … Gerry, what is this? Why are you giving me the third degree? You’re the one who’s been snooping on my son and his wife. You’re the one who knows what was really going on in that house.’

  ‘I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you. We made an agreement and I stuck to it. Any information I have, you have.’

  ‘I don’t have any information, Gerry. You’ve given me nothing. And neither have you told me what any of this is about, and what you’ve really been up to.’

  ‘Just a little retirement job, Sam. I’ve explained all I can …’

  ‘It’s something far more sinister than that, I suspect, Gerry.’

  ‘Really. Didn’t stop you getting me on board to do your dirty work though, did it? To do some snooping on your behalf.’

  ‘That woman was ruining my son’s life, she was a danger to her children, my grandchildren. What did you expect me to do? I just took the opportunity to find out what was happening. So that I could maybe sort the whole damned mess out.’

  ‘And is that what you’ve done, Sam. Sorted out the mess by killing Jane. Is it?’

  ‘No. I promise you. It isn’t.’

  ‘Your son, then?’

  ‘Felix? You know him. I love my boy. But, quite frankly, apart from any other considerations, he wouldn’t have the gumption. He wouldn’t be able to do it, he couldn’t kill anybody, let alone his wife. You must see that.’

  ‘Then who, Sam, who?’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to
see you. I thought if anybody knew, it would be you.’

  ‘I know no more than you do. Unlike you, I was at the Waltons last night, as I was supposed to be …’

  ‘So I hear. And I’ve checked that. Otherwise, well otherwise, I’d be quite prepared to believe you killed our Jane.’

  ‘Our Jane, is it now? That’s not how you thought of her when she was alive, is it? Look Sam, the first I knew anything was wrong was when little Joanna ran plumb in front of our car.’

  ‘I don’t trust you, Gerry,’ said Sam, spitting the words out. ‘I don’t trust you as far as I can see you.’

  ‘Well then, that’s at least something we have in common, Sam. Because I sure as hell don’t trust you either!’

  ‘Look, whether or not we trust each other, we need to work together here,’ said Sam. ‘I need to get the heat off Felix, and put my family back on track. You don’t want anything to upset your cosy little life. So, let’s make sure we both get what we want, shall we? The police clearly don’t have a clue what’s going on here. But you do, don’t you, Gerry?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam.’

  ‘Really. You know what I caught you doing that night at number eleven. The only surprise is that the police haven’t yet discovered what you were up to. They will, though, surely. It must only be a matter of time. And if you don’t come clean with me I will make sure they find out. And I will destroy you. I promise you that. All I have to do is drop a word in the right ear and the whole of the Devon and Cornwall police force will come down on you like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. Come down on me like a ton of bricks for what?’

  ‘Are you being deliberately stupid? You were doing something not only highly questionable but totally illegal …’

  ‘And you went along with it, you became a-a conspirator.’

  ‘Really? You just try proving that, Gerry boy. I shall deny all knowledge. And there’s more, obviously. The little question of historic sex abuse.’

  ‘For goodness sake, Sam. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, those unfortunate little incidents in your past life that might pop up at any moment.’

  ‘We both know you’re making that up.’

  ‘And what if I am? In the present climate even the merest suggestion of historic sexual abuse has to be fully investigated. And it will be. Believe me. Even more so than the allegations might otherwise merit, probably, because I shall be behind the scenes pulling the strings like some extremely able puppet master.’

  ‘You evil bastard.’

  Gerry had been on tenterhooks ever since the discovery of Jane Ferguson’s body. Sam Ferguson’s words sent a shiver of pure fear through his entire body. But not entirely for the reasons Sam might expect. Gerry made one last attempt to mediate with him.

  ‘Look Sam, you don’t know what you’re getting into here, really you don’t—’ he began.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Sam interrupted. ‘But if you don’t start talking, I will destroy the life you’ve built for yourself down here in no time at all. The parish council, the yacht club, the golf club, it will all be over for you. And as for your marriage … I think you can say goodbye to that once the press and social media come alive with stories of all your nasty little sexual shenanigans, don’t you? It won’t matter whether they’re true or not, will it?’

  ‘I’m telling you, Sam, you are meddling with matters you don’t understand.’

  ‘So make me understand then. That’s all I’m asking. Tell me everything you know. Everything you have learned about Jane’s past, and about the people you are working for.’

  Gerry sighed. He reckoned he had no choice. In any case, he could do with confiding in someone. He feared he was out of his depth. Perhaps Sam might prove to be an ally. Someone to lean on.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will tell you all I know. I just hope we don’t both come to regret it.’

  FOURTEEN

  After leaving the Ferguson’s home for the second time that day, Vogel and Saslow decided that a visit to the North Devon Yacht Club should be their next move.

  ‘Motive and opportunity, that’s what you look for in a murderer, is it not, Saslow?’ Vogel murmured as they turned into Instow’s Marine Parade. ‘We have yet to find a motive as far as Felix is concerned, and at first sight it seems he didn’t even have the opportunity, either. So at least let’s check that out, shall we?’

  They arrived at the yacht club shortly before six p.m.

  The NDYC occupies a couple of acres of seafront land on the site of Instow’s former railway station, bounded on one side by the tidal River Torridge, and on the other by what had once been the railway line between Barnstaple and Bideford and is now a coastal path, part of the famous Tarka Trail.

  Its premises even include the original signal box, still standing proud on the site of the old level crossing. The changing rooms are housed in the wooden clad building which had once been the station waiting room.

  The club, founded in 1905 as the Taw and Torridge Sailing Club, moved into its intriguing current home after the infamous Beeching cuts in the early sixties destroyed local railway networks throughout Britain, digging up railway lines nationwide.

  Vogel had Googled most of this on the short drive from Northam. Whilst not always impressed by the beauty of nature in the way that most people are, Vogel was fascinated by unusual architecture and the history of buildings. However, whilst he had at least acquired a halfway decent raincoat since moving to the West of England, Vogel the city boy remained inadequately clad to dally outside in the proper North Devon gale which was now blowing in from the estuary. He hoped he might have opportunity to take a longer look around another time, but meanwhile he and Saslow hurried inside.

  The club steward, Ronnie, was just opening up the bar, at the rear of the function room where the commodore’s dinner had been held the previous evening.

  He seemed friendly and helpful enough, at first.

  ‘I am sure you know about the tragic death of Mrs Jane Ferguson,’ Vogel began.

  Ronnie, a sharp-featured neat little man of a certain age with silver hair so precisely arranged that it looked as if it might have been parted by a geometric instrument rather than a comb, agreed that he did.

  ‘Terrible business,’ he said. ‘You wonder what could possibly drive a young woman like that to do what she did. I mean, she had those lovely children and everything.’

  ‘Do I gather from what you have just said that you are assuming that Mrs Ferguson committed suicide?’

  Ronnie looked surprised.

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘She was found hanged, wasn’t she? By her poor little daughter, I heard.’

  ‘That much is true,’ said Vogel. ‘But you should know that we have reason to believe that Mrs Ferguson did not take her own life. We believe she was murdered.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘So we are making enquiries concerning the whereabouts last night of everyone connected with Mrs Ferguson,’ said Vogel. ‘Starting with her husband.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Ronnie again. ‘Well, Mr Ferguson was here. But I expect you already know that. It was the annual do for the new commodore.’

  ‘Do you know whether or not Mr Ferguson was here all night, throughout the proceedings?’

  ‘Yes, of course he was,’ Ronnie confirmed swiftly. ‘There were drinks first, then the dinner, then speeches, then awards for people who’d won the most sailing races during the last twelve months, and so on. Mr Ferguson had to make a speech, and a very good one he made too.’

  ‘Did he indeed?’ remarked Vogel.

  It wasn’t really a query, but Ronnie responded as if it were, all the same.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a very good speaker, Mr Ferguson. One of the best we’ve ever had as commodore actually. Only I didn’t say that, if you know what I mean. Don’t want to upset anybody.’

  Ronnie tapped the side of his nose.

  Voge
l didn’t think he’d actually ever seen anyone do that before.

  ‘Oh yes, I know what you mean,’ he agreed, in the matiest manner he could muster. ‘Are you sure he was up to his best form last night?’

  ‘He most certainly was.’

  ‘Only we have reason to believe that Mr Ferguson may have been somewhat under the influence of alcohol.’

  ‘By the time he left the club, perhaps,’ said Ronnie. ‘But he’s always very professional, is Mr Ferguson. When he’s speaking he’ll barely have a drink at all until afterwards. Gin and tonic man usually. But every so often he tips me the wink and I know just to serve him tonic. Later on, like, he’ll let his hair down, so to speak. Last night, a few of them settled into the back room for a few drinks after the main proceedings ended. I stayed behind to serve them. I didn’t mind. He’s always been very good to me, Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vogel. ‘And until what time did Mr Ferguson and his drinking companions stay in the back room?’

  ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure. I served them a final round, so they were stocked up, so to speak, and then I left just before two, I think. They said they’d lock up and everything.’

  ‘Is it usual for you to leave members to lock up?’

  ‘It’s not usual, no. But the dinner for the new commodore is a special night. And there’s not a problem about it. This is a member’s club. You trust people, don’t you?’

  ‘How many people were drinking with Mr Ferguson, and who were they?’

  ‘Let’s see, four, no, five. There was Jack Crossley, last year’s commodore. And two couples. Married couples. The Conway-Browns and the Smythes. They’d been sitting on the same table. Mr Ferguson and Mr Crossley were together on the top table, of course.’

  ‘And you are quite sure Mr Ferguson didn’t leave the club at all, during the course of the evening, at any time before you closed the bar?’