Hardwick told him that there was a considerable amount of advice he would like to give Felix concerning what he should and should not tell the police officers who interviewed him, and that he could quite probably assist in all sorts of ways. But he could do absolutely nothing at all if a potential client declined his services. And that is what Felix had done. Quite categorically, apparently.
Sam then called the police. He had the mobile number of the senior man at Bideford, a uniformed inspector. He asked where his son was and what was happening to him.
Inspector Braddock told him that Felix had been taken to Barnstaple, which he’d already learned from Hardwick, and that the interview process was ongoing.
‘Has he been charged?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information, Sam, really I can’t,’ said Braddock. ‘All I can tell you is that Felix has been arrested on suspicion of Jane’s murder.’
‘I bloody know that,’ snapped Sam.
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t help you any further,’ said Braddock. He sounded awkward and embarrassed.
Sam knew full well that he had put the man in an impossible position and that he should have made his enquiries through the official channels. He didn’t care. He was desperate.
‘Look, can I see Felix?’ he asked. ‘Can you arrange that for me?’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ said Braddock. ‘Members of the public can’t visit somebody who’s been arrested for murder whilst they are in police custody and being interviewed. This case has attracted the attention of the top brass too. Big time. And not just because of who you are, Sam, I’m pretty sure of that. We don’t know quite what’s going on, to tell the truth.’
‘But you do think there’s something else going on, then, do you?’
‘Nobody tells me anything,’ replied Braddock obliquely. ‘I’m just the senior wooden top around here. Look, I’ve got to go.’
And he promptly ended the call without the formality of a farewell.
Sam was thoughtful. Probably without realising it, Inspector Braddock had added weight to what he already knew. But Sam was all too aware that he had only half the picture – if that.
The children came running down the stairs then and into the kitchen, closely followed by Amelia.
She glanced at Sam enquiringly. He’d told her he would call Hardwick and the police while she went upstairs with the twins.
He shook his head slightly and turned his attention to Jo and Stevie.
‘Right, you two, off you go to the sitting room and I’ll find that film you like and put it on the big screen in there,’ he said, trying, with extreme difficulty, to make his voice sound suitably jolly.
When the twins were safely out of earshot he related the unsatisfactory results of his phone calls to Amelia, leaving out Inspector Braddock’s expression of puzzlement at the level of ‘top brass’ interest in the case, but otherwise giving an accurate account. His wife looked as downcast as he felt. But Sam doubted she was anything like as frightened as he was.
He followed the children into the sitting room, looked out the DVD of The Jungle Book, currently their favourite film which they seemed happy to watch over and over again even if their concentration rarely lasted until the end of it, and put it on the big TV, just as he had promised. Then he sat down and began to watch the film with them; partly because he knew the twins would like that, and he wanted so much to keep them from being distressed and upset, and partly because, at that moment, he could think of nothing else to do.
Only he wasn’t watching the film, of course; just staring unseeingly at the screen, whilst the previously unimaginable horror which had suddenly descended upon his family engulfed every iota of his being.
Amelia went to the kitchen to prepare the children’s tea. Or that’s what she said she was doing. In fact, it didn’t take very long to make Jo and Stevie’s favourite fish finger sandwiches. They were not normally on Amelia’s menu for the twins. She usually tried to provide them with healthier meals, although she did keep a packet in the freezer for special occasions. She supposed this was a special occasion, of the most terrible sort. If fish finger sandwiches would give the twins pleasure, even make them happy, albeit fleetingly, then that is what they were going to get.
She shut the kitchen door behind her. Even the children’s laughter, and the noisy cartoon sounds of the film showing on the sitting-room TV, made her nerves jangle. But at least Sam was making a real effort for their grandchildren, and she admired him for it. She knew it couldn’t be easy for him to put on a brave face for them, any more than it was for her. He was behaving a little more like the solid capable man she had married, the man who had always been able to solve any problem.
When the children had seen as much of the film as they wanted, Sam brought them in to the kitchen, where they polished off their fish finger sandwiches in a thrice. Not for the first time Amelia marvelled at the resilience of childhood. Although she had little doubt that it would take a miracle to avoid Joanna and Stevie suffering long term damage in the wake of the events of the last two days.
Sam, sitting at the table opposite the twins, listening to their chatter, and even joining in, was somehow managing to continue to play the jovial grandparent. She just couldn’t do it. She bustled around the kitchen pretending to be busy, whilst wondering what on earth they were going to do to entertain Joanna and Stevie until their bedtime. She desperately wanted to talk to her husband too. She wondered if one of them should go to the police station, just to be there for Felix, even if they couldn’t see him. At the very least Sam should surely call the police again. Or maybe she should. But that was Sam’s department. That was what he did. And he was so much better at dealing with officialdom than she was, or he usually was anyway. He always seemed to know someone in authority; if anyone could cut through red tape it was Sam.
With a great effort of will she put a smile on her face and sat down at the table with her grandchildren and her husband. She leaned close to him.
‘Don’t you think you should call the police again?’ she asked softly. ‘I can’t bear not knowing what is happening.’
He nodded.
‘I was just about to,’ he said. ‘You stay with these two, I’ll do it in the living room.’
He wasn’t gone long. When he returned he was shaking his head.
‘No change,’ he said. ‘No more news at all. Not that anyone’s passing on to me, anyway.’
Amelia lowered her voice to a whisper again.
‘They haven’t charged him, have they?’ she asked, the very thought of it making her heart race.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sam.
He looked as if he was about to say more when the familiar beep of his phone indicated that he had received an incoming text.
He took the phone from his pocket and began to study the screen, turning away from Amelia as he did so. She couldn’t see his face, but she noticed his shoulders tensing – or she thought she did.
‘What is it?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is it news?’
Sam turned around again.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Uh, not really. But I have to go out for a while. Sorry to leave you on your own with the children, but …’
‘Where are you going?’ Amelia demanded. ‘Are you going to the police station? Is it about Felix?’
Sam had already taken his car keys, from one of the row of hooks on the kitchen wall where they kept all their keys, and was halfway through the door. He looked back over his shoulder.
‘I’m not sure exactly what it’s about but I have to find out,’ he said. ‘This is something I have to do. And I can’t tell you about it yet. I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to trust me.’
At a run she followed him into the hall.
‘Sam, stop! I want to know what’s going on. Where do you keep disappearing to? This is the third time. What is going on? Please, please tell me …?’
Her words fell upon deaf ears. Sam just carried on
through the front door and out of the house.
She was about to follow him outside when she remembered the reporters and photographers who were doubtless still waiting there.
She stopped herself just in time. Her breath was coming in short sharp gasps. She could feel her heart beating far too fast, she was sure of it. She was bewildered, frightened and distraught.
In the distance she could hear her grandchildren calling for her. Then little Joanna appeared by her side. The child looked as if she was about to burst into tears. Amelia had to fight to stop herself doing the same. Her grandchildren needed her to comfort them and take care of them. She just hoped she had the strength.
She bent down, reached out for Joanna, and pulled her close.
‘There, there, Jo,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, sweetheart, Grannie promises, everything is going to be all right.’
But even as she spoke she was starkly aware that this was one promise she would almost certainly never be able to keep.
TWENTY-SIX
Meanwhile at Hartland, Vogel had pulled himself together, cleaned himself up and re-entered the tent which covered and protected the body of the man who must surely be Gerry Barham.
However, he still felt slightly nauseous, and had not looked too closely. He thought, or at least hoped, that he’d seen enough. And certainly Saslow, who’d remained in the tent whilst he had emptied the contents of his stomach amongst the rocks, would have had plenty of time to study the body.
He had no doubt that the DS was well aware of what had happened, but she passed no comment, and certainly knew better than to ask how he was feeling.
Instead she remarked levelly, ‘I don’t think we can learn too much more here, do you, boss?’
And she thus made it respectable for Vogel to quit the scene as fast as he could.
By the time the two of them had made their way up the precarious path to the clifftop his stomach had more or less settled, although he didn’t feel great. But he couldn’t dwell on that.
They needed to get back to Barnstaple police station as quickly as possible to continue interviewing Felix Ferguson. Vogel was becoming increasingly certain that, at the very least, the young man knew more than he was letting on. And he was clearly not the only one.
In the relative warmth and quiet of their vehicle the two detectives continued to discuss what may or may not have happened to Gerry Barham, and any possible connection his death might have to the death of Jane Ferguson.
‘We need to get on to DI Peters,’ said Vogel. ‘I want a team diverted to try to find out when Gerry Barham and his boat left their mooring, whether or not he really was alone, and, if not, did anyone have any idea who was with him. Let’s re-interview that chap who saw Gerry’s boat going towards the estuary this morning. And if there is a single human being in the whole of North Devon who saw anyone, man, woman, boy or beast, acting suspiciously in coastal areas, around the time Gerry is believed to have taken his boat out, I want that person found. I also want Gerry’s movements tracked, right through the period from when we interviewed him early yesterday morning until he took his boat out this morning, with or without company, a period of almost exactly twenty-four hours. Let’s concentrate on the yacht club, all the houses, pubs, restaurants and shops along Instow front, across the river at Appledore, and Hartland and thereabouts, of course, where we found the body. If a third party was involved in Barham’s death, could it have been Felix? That’s the big question we need to address when we get to Barnstaple. And we should also get someone to check if Amelia Ferguson can alibi her son, too. We arrested him just before one p.m., so, if he wasn’t at home, in theory he could have had time. Maybe. And he is a sailor. But he was sitting with a whisky bottle when we picked him up, and although he wasn’t drunk exactly, he looked as if he’d already got stuck in, and certainly not like a man who’d just been battling the elements out at sea. Do you agree, Saslow?’
‘I do, boss. He didn’t look as if he’d been anywhere. But there is someone, though, a pretty unlikely someone, I realize, whose whereabouts were apparently a bit of a mystery all morning, according to his wife.’
Vogel turned to look at the young detective with whom he had been working now for almost four years, and for whom his respect grew almost as every day passed.
‘Of course, Saslow,’ he said. ‘Sam Ferguson. Amelia was furious because he’d gone off somewhere without telling her and been missing for hours. She also inferred that he’d lied about his whereabouts. Good thinking, Saslow. So let’s detour to Northam on the way back and see what Mr Ferguson senior has to say for himself. I agree it’s hard to imagine him leaping on and off boats whilst he commits a bizarre murder at sea, but it would appear he created the window of opportunity for himself, and at the very least we need to know exactly what he was up to this morning.’
‘Right, boss,’ said Saslow. ‘It’s far from the only theory, though, is it? I was thinking about something else, just an idea, and you’re probably going to say it’s a daft one, but it would make sense of a lot of things …’
She paused, looking as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue.
‘Go on, Saslow,’ said Vogel, a tad impatiently.
‘Well, we cannot yet be entirely sure the dead man washed up at Hartland is Gerry Barham, can we?’ continued the young detective. ‘I mean, you sure as heck couldn’t recognize him, the state he’s in. His own wife couldn’t recognize him.’
‘Saslow, what are you talking about? If that isn’t George Barham lying dead back there in that bloody awful cove, then who the heck is it, and how did he get there?’
‘I dunno, boss, but maybe it’s somebody Barham got on his boat and then murdered. Maybe Barham himself is off somewhere alive and well. Maybe he staged his own death. His wife said he’d been acting very strangely. Perhaps he was involved in this whole extraordinary sequence of events in ways we haven’t thought of yet. Maybe he’s done a John Stonehouse. Or the canoe man, you know, that man who pretended to die in a canoe accident and buggered off to Spain or somewhere …’
‘Saslow, you’ve been watching too much television.’
‘No, I haven’t, boss. I work for you. I don’t get the time to watch nearly enough television.’
Vogel smiled.
‘I’ve no doubt you’re right there,’ he admitted. ‘All the same, if Barham was murdered by an assailant aboard his boat, we do still have the small problem of how anybody could have safely got off the boat whilst leaving their victim to die in what was presumably meant to look like just a tragic, and very stupid, accident at sea.’
‘I know, boss. I don’t have the answer to that, either, I’m afraid.’
‘Neither do I, Saslow, neither do I. Whoever it was would have had to be a bit of a superman. Or superwoman, I suppose. Now that would be something.’
Saslow smiled.
‘Or just a professional, boss,’ she offered. ‘Someone with top-level military training. SAS perhaps.’
‘Perhaps, Saslow, but we don’t have anybody of that sort remotely in the frame, do we?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we do. There is another possibility, though, boss. The obvious, simple one. Assuming it is George Barham lying dead and smashed up out at Hartland Point, which will be proved pretty soon one way or another by DNA and dental records and so on, what about if he really did take his silly little boat out in a moment of madness without checking the weather forecast. And all on his own. Then the weather blew up big time, he got caught in a storm of considerable magnitude, which neither he nor his boat could cope with. The boat was wrecked, and he died. Nobody else was involved at all. The whole thing really is a stupid tragic accident. And the fact that his next-door neighbour died violently, and was almost certainly murdered, the day before, really is just a coincidence. But you don’t believe that, boss, do you?’
‘No, Saslow,’ said Vogel. ‘I do not believe that for one moment. Now come on, put your foot down. Ferguson senior first at Northam,
and then Ferguson junior back at the nick. I think both of them are holding out on us. And if we put enough pressure on them maybe, just maybe, one of them will break.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
It took Vogel and Saslow just under half an hour to drive from Hartland to Northam. By the time they arrived, there was a small group of reporters and photographers outside the Ferguson home, six or seven of them. There was also a TV news team.
‘Good to see the British press corps is still so on the ball,’ muttered Vogel unenthusiastically.
The whole assembled throng surged forward as the two officers climbed out of the car and headed for the front door of All Seasons. The door opened before either of them had knocked or rung the bell. At first it seemed to have done so all on its own as neither Vogel nor Saslow could see anyone in the hallway. Then they realized that Amelia Ferguson, who had presumably been peeping out of a window at what was going on outside, was standing pressed against the wall, half hidden behind the open door.
‘Come in quickly,’ she muttered. ‘Please. They’re awful those people, awful. They’re just vultures.’
Vogel was inclined to agree. On occasions, anyway. But as a policeman of long standing he also believed that a free press was a necessary evil without which a free society could not function as such. And the press did have its uses. Like so many in the police force, he’d fed journalists information over the years and used them in all sorts of ways to assist his enquiries. Sometimes without them quite realising what he was up to.
He and Saslow stepped inside. Mrs Ferguson slammed the door shut behind them, still keeping out of camera shot.
Amelia looked as if she might have been crying. Vogel was mildly surprised. Perhaps the woman did have feelings, after all.
He wished her good evening and told her that he and Saslow would like to speak to her husband.
‘He’s not here,’ replied Mrs Ferguson sharply. She sounded angry and upset. ‘He went off again, and again I’ve no idea where he’s gone. Somebody sent him a text. He read it and he just left. Leaving me with the children, not knowing when he’ll be back or what’s going on …’ She paused, a thought clearly occurring to her.
Dreams of Fear Page 24
