‘Look, I don’t want you to think, I mean, I am sure Sam has a good reason for whatever he’s doing. He’s probably just protecting me … He might have gone to the police station … I just don’t know … I don’t want to cause any more trouble …’
Vogel thought he understood what she was getting at. This was a difficult woman with a naturally arrogant nature, although there wasn’t much sign of that at the moment. But there was little doubt of her loyalty to her husband and to her son, albeit not to her dead daughter-in-law.
‘Mrs Ferguson, I don’t think you are likely to cause much more trouble than has already befallen your family,’ the DCI remarked gently. ‘I think you may be afraid of being disloyal to him, but I urge you to give us all the help you can, for your husband’s sake, possibly for his safety. There has been a disturbing development. We need to speak to Mr Ferguson as a matter of urgency.’
‘But I just told you, I don’t know where he is,’ said Amelia, looking even more distressed.
‘All right, let’s go through everything again, shall we?’ persisted Vogel. ‘Mr Ferguson received a text and then left without any real explanation, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Amelia agreed with only a little reluctance. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Oh, you only just missed him actually. About ten or fifteen minutes ago.’
‘I see, and he didn’t tell you who the text was from?’
‘No. He told me nothing. He hasn’t told me anything for the best part of two days.’
‘And am I correct to assume you were unable to see the screen of his phone?’
‘That’s correct, yes, I couldn’t see it, he turned his back on me, then put his phone back in his pocket.’
‘All right, now there may be a way of finding out who texted your husband,’ said Vogel, who had a bit of a love affair with modern technology, had been accused of preferring his computer to people, and was known by his colleagues as ‘the geek’.
‘Does Mr Ferguson have an iPad which might be linked to his phone?’
‘He has an iPad,’ replied Amelia. ‘Though he doesn’t use it much nowadays because the phones are so good, and he always has his with him. But I have no idea whether or not it’s linked to his phone. In fact, I didn’t even know that was possible.’
‘Do you know where the iPad is, can you show it to us?’
‘Yes, it’s in the office, in the desk drawer.’
Amelia Ferguson led the way upstairs to a room on the street side clearly used as an office. Everything in it, the Mac desktop, the furniture, the books, looked clean, shiny, and in its place. Vogel was not surprised when Amelia removed the iPad from the first drawer she opened.
He switched it on. No password. He was straight in. And he was quickly able to ascertain that the tablet was linked to a mobile phone.
He opened messages, and there was the text Sam had received earlier.
Meet me at the old chapel outside Eastleigh, soon as you can. I have something to show you. It’s vital that we talk. Gerry.
Vogel felt the back of his neck stiffen as he read it and saw who it was from.
Without comment he passed the iPad to Saslow.
The DS gasped involuntarily as she looked at the screen.
‘G-Gerry Barham?’ she queried haltingly.
‘Must be. The number’s plumbed in the phone too, indicating regular contact. Only this message is timed at 17.43 and we certainly know it can’t be from Gerry, don’t we?’
Saslow was about to respond, but Amelia Ferguson got there first.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked. ‘What’s Gerry Barham got to do with anything?’
Vogel turned to her, his expression and his voice grave.
‘Mrs Ferguson, I have to tell you that Gerry Barham has been found dead following an incident at sea, and we are treating his death as suspicious.’
He reached to take the iPad from Saslow and passed it to Amelia.
‘As you can see, the text Mr Ferguson received appears to be from Mr Barham asking your husband to meet him urgently. But we know Gerry Barham cannot have sent it, because he was already dead.’
‘I don’t understand …’ said Amelia.
‘I’m sure you don’t Mrs Ferguson. Do you know this chapel by any chance? Has your husband got any connection with it at all?’
‘I know the chapel, yes. Everybody does. Somebody from London bought it years ago to convert into a house, but they couldn’t get planning permission. They started to build and were stopped halfway through. It’s a bit of an eyesore now. Nothing to do with Sam. I have no idea why he would meet anybody there …’
‘All right, Mrs Ferguson. Look, I am in little doubt now that your husband is in danger. And to be on the safe side, I’m sending a uniformed team round here. Someone will be with you twenty-four seven until we’ve sorted this. They’ll keep those vultures at bay for you, too. Meanwhile, don’t open the door to anyone—’
Amelia interrupted him.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘Whatever is going on?’
‘Try not to worry, Mrs Ferguson,’ Vogel continued, with a confidence he did not feel. ‘Saslow and I are going to find your husband and bring him home to you.’
Saslow was ahead of him. Literally. She was already on her way down the stairs. Vogel followed hard on her heels.
‘As soon as we’re in the car let’s get Peters on the hands-free, we need her to send backup, and make sure we know exactly where this damned chapel is, too,’ said Vogel. ‘And you know what, Dawn, if we don’t get there smartish, I think we’ll have another death on our hands.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
The old chapel, about a mile out of Eastleigh up a narrow country lane, had been built in the nineteenth century at the height of Methodism, in common with most rural chapels, almost all now abandoned, throughout Britain.
Many have been successfully converted into residential dwellings. This one was still surrounded by elderly scaffolding and piles of debris bearing witness to the unsuccessful attempt to do just that, which Amelia Ferguson had referred to.
Saslow, who had broken every speed limit on the way, pulled their car to a halt with a shriek of brakes in the layby opposite the dilapidated once-white building. There were already two other vehicles parked there. Sam Ferguson’s blue Range Rover, which they recognized at once, and a business-like looking black Land Rover Defender. Saslow and Vogel were out in a flash, running at full pelt across the lane and the overgrown and rubble-strewn patch of rough ground directly in front of the chapel. A door at the far end, which looked as if it had until very recently been boarded up, stood slightly ajar.
Vogel tried to push it further open but failed. He squeezed his way in followed by Saslow.
Once inside he couldn’t see anything at first. There were a number of windows, of course, but these were also boarded up, and there was little light.
Vogel could just make out the figure of a man, who seemed to be turning to look at the two officers.
‘Mr Ferguson,’ Vogel called. ‘Is that you?’
At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a movement. He glanced upwards to where there was a precarious looking balcony, high in the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. He could hear something too. A scraping noise. Suddenly he saw a large object begin to appear over the edge, directly above where Sam Ferguson was standing.
‘Move Sam, get out the way, move,’ Vogel yelled at the top of his voice.
Sam only then seemed to register what was happening. He glanced upwards just as the large object, revealing itself to be a steel beam of the sort used in construction, toppled, or most likely was pushed, off the balcony edge. Simultaneously, and with perhaps unexpected speed and agility, Sam threw himself sideways, landing full length on the uneven chapel floor.
The beam, an RSJ about ten feet long and most likely weighing between three and four hundred pounds, crashed to the ground alongside Sam, sending up
a cloud of dust and dirt, and missing him by inches.
‘Stay down, Sam,’ called Vogel, realising as he spoke that he had no idea if the older man would even be able to get up.
Ferguson stayed down.
Vogel’s eyes began to adjust more fully. He peered through the gloom. There must be someone up on the balcony. That RSJ hadn’t come crashing down all on its own. The balcony hadn’t collapsed, it was still intact, in spite of its precarious appearance. And he didn’t think it was any coincidence that Sam Ferguson had been standing directly below the beam when it fell.
There was someone up there all right. Someone who knew how to go about causing fatal damage to another human being. A killer. Someone who had almost certainly already killed twice.
Vogel was listening as well as looking. He thought he heard footsteps. Maybe the sound of someone coming down a staircase, if indeed there was a staircase, but he supposed there would have been once. Or it could have been footsteps on a ladder. And was that the shadow of someone moving towards him and Saslow? Or towards the door? He couldn’t quite make it out.
‘Saslow, get out of here,’ he hissed.
The young DS had not so long ago ended up in grave danger, during a previous investigation which Vogel had headed. She had come close to death and Vogel had felt responsible. He still felt responsible. He wasn’t going to risk that happening to her again.
But, of course, Dawn Saslow had a mind of her own. And she was just as stubborn as her senior officer.
‘No boss, I’m sticking with you,’ she said.
Vogel turned towards her, about to protest. At that moment a dark shape came out of nowhere and at him, cannoning into his body with considerable force. Vogel was knocked sideways onto the ground, the breath forced out of his body. The shape continued to move at speed towards the doorway, its momentum barely slackening, strikingly silhouetted against the incoming light. To Vogel’s horror Saslow, whom he knew to be a fast runner, had already taken off after it. And the dark shape was their killer, Vogel had little doubt of that. He tried to shout, to order her to stop, not that there was any guarantee she would take any notice. But he did not have the breath to do so. All he could do was watch, and pray that Saslow did not catch up with that shape.
Then he heard something, something which at that moment he thought was the best sound he had ever heard. The wail of the siren of a police car, clearly approaching at speed up the lane, its siren growing louder by the second. More than one police car, he swiftly realized.
The shape hesitated. Saslow was gaining ground. Vogel found his voice.
‘Saslow, stop,’ he yelled. ‘Our backup is here.’
Somewhat to his surprise she did stop. Maybe she, too, had remembered her last near-death experience.
The shape, now revealed to be a man, surely it had to be a man, wearing dark clothing, turned briefly back, looking towards where Vogel was lying, but the light was behind him and Vogel could not see his face.
In convoy, two patrol cars arrived up the lane from the direction of Instow, and a police four-wheel-drive, of the sort used by armed-response units, appeared from the other, effectively blocking in the three vehicles already parked in the lay-by.
The man turned to the right, then to the left, presumably looking for a path of escape, and back to the right. Then he took off at a run. As he disappeared from Vogel’s path of vision he appeared to be making a phone call.
Still breathing with difficulty, Vogel hoisted himself to his feet.
‘All right, Saslow, I’ll take it from here,’ he said. ‘You go take care of Sam Ferguson.’
From the lane, again just out of his limited field of vision, he could now hear the sound of a male voice, amplified by a megaphone.
‘Stop. Armed police. Stop. And put your hands on your head. Stop.’
Vogel made his way as fast as he could to the doorway of the shed, where he paused before stepping outside, instead peering cautiously around the door.
The darkly clad figure was now standing quite still about twenty yards away, to Vogel’s left. The DCI watched with some satisfaction as he obediently put his hands on his head.
Two armed officers moved forward, grabbed his arms, frisked him, and cuffed him, very nearly in one practiced movement.
Vogel approached at once.
‘Well done, lads,’ he remarked.
The darkly clad figure was wearing a balaclava type hood. Vogel realized he wouldn’t have been able to see his head even if there had been proper light in the chapel.
‘Get that hood off,’ instructed Vogel. ‘Let’s see who we’ve got here then, shall we?’
One of the armed officers promptly ripped off the balaclava hood, revealing the lightly tanned face of a man probably in his early forties, with a full head of dark blonde hair and striking blue eyes. He was a tall, rangy looking character, immediately familiar to Vogel. But the DCI couldn’t quite place him, at first.
Then he got it.
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. We met at the yacht club yesterday.’
The man did not respond. He stared straight ahead, his facial expression giving nothing away.
Vogel thought for a few seconds. He had a good memory for both faces and names. In fact, Vogel had a good memory for almost everything.
‘You’re Jimmy Granger, the graphic designer from Instow and new member of the club,’ he announced just a little triumphantly. ‘Only you’re no more a graphic designer than I am, are you?’
‘No comment,’ said the man.
TWENTY-NINE
Vogel arrested and cautioned Jimmy Granger and asked for him to be delivered to Barnstaple police station.
A shaken looking Sam Ferguson was by then standing in front of the chapel watching the arrest. Saslow was with him, one hand tucked supportively beneath his right elbow.
Sam seemed to be favouring his right leg, and his right hand was bleeding.
Vogel walked across the yard to join them.
‘You all right, Mr Ferguson?’ he enquired, well aware that the older man clearly wasn’t. He was trembling, and his face was ashen.
‘Hurt my knee when I fell to the ground, and grazed my hand when I tried to save myself,’ Sam replied. ‘Other than that, I think I’m OK.’
‘Good,’ said Vogel.
He wanted some straight talking from Sam Ferguson at last, so he decided to strike whilst the other man was in obvious shock.
‘You do realize you were very nearly killed in there, don’t you?’ he asked.
Ferguson nodded.
‘Yes, and I think I would have been if it hadn’t been for you two,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Vogel. ‘You can do something for me now. You can start telling me what you know, as you clearly know much more than you have revealed so far, about the murder of your daughter-in-law, and a lot else besides, I reckon. I want the truth, all of it.’
Ferguson nodded again.
‘Yes, of course, absolutely everything, I promise you,’ he said, with what Vogel was sure was rare subservience. ‘Gerry told me I didn’t know what I was getting into. And he was certainly right about that. I came here to meet Gerry …’ Ferguson paused, looking puzzled.
‘Where is Gerry? Did he tell you I was here?’
‘No, Mr Ferguson, he did not,’ said Vogel bluntly. ‘I am afraid Mr Barham is dead.’
‘G-Gerry, d-dead?’ Sam stumbled. ‘No. H-how? He wasn’t murdered too, w-was he?’
‘We think so, yes.’
‘And someone … someone came after me, too. A complete stranger, I think. I saw his face just then, when he was arrested. I have no idea who …’
Ferguson broke off in mid-sentence. There was suddenly real fear in his eyes.
‘Mr Vogel, my family. Amelia. The twins. Oh, what have I done?’
His voice grew louder, and there was a note of near hysteria in it.
‘Are they in danger too?’
‘I think the danger m
ight be over, certainly for the time being, now we’ve made this arrest,’ replied Vogel. ‘But in any case, I have arranged for a police presence at your home twenty-four seven. Your family are safe, Mr Ferguson.’
‘T-thank you, thank you.’
He’d lowered his voice to a more normal level, but, as he spoke, Sam Ferguson’s knees began to buckle. Saslow gripped his elbow more firmly. Vogel stepped forward to take his other arm.
‘An ambulance is on its way, we need to get you checked out in hospital,’ said the DCI. ‘But first, I really want to speak to you before we interview your assailant, and indeed before we talk to your son again. Do you think you might feel up to that? We can sit in our car.’
‘Yes, of course, anything I can do, anything,’ said Ferguson. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vogel, who couldn’t wait to hear exactly what it was that Sam Ferguson had done which he now regretted so much.
Together with Saslow he helped Sam to the car. Vogel didn’t think the other man was badly hurt physically, although his knee looked sore, but he was clearly badly shaken. The DCI remained determined to take full advantage of that.
He sat in the front with Ferguson. Saslow installed herself in the back.
‘Right, Mr Ferguson, I want you to begin at the beginning,’ instructed Vogel. ‘It is becoming clear that you have been afraid of something, or at least that you probably had certain knowledge which was causing you concern, ever since the death of your daughter-in-law. Could you tell me about that, please?’
‘Well, we were always suspicious of Jane,’ replied Ferguson. ‘We didn’t like her, Amelia and I, neither of us liked her, I told you that before. But it was more than that. There was something about her. We were suspicious of her past, which seemed … so … so mysterious. Felix, well, Felix is loyal by nature, always has been, and he loved Jane so much … Look, he couldn’t have killed Jane, you’ve got to believe that, Mr Vogel. Perhaps you do believe that now?’
Dreams of Fear Page 25
