Dreams of Fear

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.

Vogel 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?’

‘How could he have done?’ asked Ronnie. It was a rhetorical question. He clearly did not expect a reply and carried on speaking without giving Vogel time to make one. ‘It was Mr Ferguson’s night. The commodore is expected to be the host, like.’

‘You couldn’t be sure he didn’t slip out, though, could you? I mean, you had a bar to run on a very busy occasion.’

‘Well, no. I suppose I couldn’t be absolutely sure. But I don’t see how he would have had the chance. Somebody would have noticed... ’

The bar steward stopped in his tracks.

‘Why are you asking me this, sir?’ he enquired. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Ronnie,’ said Vogel. ‘I am just asking you to help us with our enquiries, that’s all.’

Ronnie stood up, stretching to his full five foot six inches or so, and puffing out his chest. It was a clear display of righteous indignation.

‘Well, I’m not answering any more of your questions. I’m not saying any more at all, not without someone with me, someone from the committee. I don’t like where you’re going with this, sir. I don’t like it at all. Mrs Ferguson took her own life. That’s what I was told this morning. And until you lot can prove anything different, that’s what I’m going to believe. It’s a tragedy, a terrible tragedy. I realize you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but the commodore and his wife were close, real close. There was no doubt about that, you can ask anyone. She must have been ill to do what she did. She must have been. That’s the only explanation.’

Ronnie stopped talking abruptly. Perhaps remembering that he hadn’t been going to say any more. Vogel had difficulty stopping himself smiling. He liked this sort of witness. They couldn’t stop talking even if they wanted to.

He passed no comment — refraining from pointing out again that there was certainly another explanation, and that he was, in fact, conducting a murder enquiry — because he thought that would be counter-productive. Instead the DCI began to ask another question which he felt quite sure Ronnie would answer quickly enough. In spite of his pledge to remain silent from now on.

‘Those people who were drinking with Felix Ferguson last night, the previous commodore, the Smythes, and... and... who were the other couple?’

‘The Conway-Browns,’ supplied Ronnie readily enough.

‘Yes, the Conway-Browns. Are any of them likely to come in this evening?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Ronnie. ‘Not after the night they had last night. Mr Smythe popped in at lunchtime, hair of the dog, he said. Only a couple of other members turned up at all, and just for a quick one. Nobody stayed. We only opened for an hour.’

‘Well, we’re going to need to speak to that little late drinking group,’ said Vogel. ‘I’d like their contact details please.’

‘You’ll need to speak to Janice in the office in the morning,’ said Ronnie a tad sullenly. ‘I don’t have that sort of personal information. And she’ll have to get permission from the committee too... ’

‘Ronnie, I’m going to tell you again. We don’t think Mrs Ferguson took her own life. We are conducting an investigation into a murder, and I really must insist that you cooperate fully. Now, you mentioned last year’s commodore. Jack Crossley? I want his contact details.’

‘He lives over Fremington way,’ Ronnie answered in a resigned sort of way. ‘I don’t have his full address.’

‘But no doubt you have his phone number?’

‘Well yes, I do, but... ’

‘No buts, Ronnie. Give me that number.’

Even more sullenly Ronnie picked up his phone from the bar and began to read out Crossley’s number.

As he did so the door to the club room opened. A tall rangy man, possibly into his early forties, but with a full head of dark blonde hair which flopped boyishly over his forehead, walked in and approached the bar.

Ronnie glanced towards him.

‘Evening, Ronnie,’ said the man. ‘Hair of the dog for me. I could have done with it a lot earlier too, but I couldn’t spare the time.’

He looked around the bar, which apart from Saslow and Vogel remained empty.

‘Thought there might be a few other sufferers here,’ he remarked.

Ronnie offered briefly that there had been a few in at lunchtime, as he’d told Vogel, but he certainly didn’t expect many that evening.

The tall man, who had almost startlingly blue eyes, studied Saslow and Vogel for a brief moment, then stepped towards them, hand outstretched.

‘Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Granger, pleased to meet you.’

‘Mr Granger is one of our newer members,’ volunteered Ronnie.

‘Yes,’ said Granger. ‘Moved into a flat in Marine Court just over a month ago. Relocating after a divorce. Goodbye family home, hallo bachelor pad. You know the sort of thing, I’m sure.’

Vogel did not. And he had no intention of ever finding out. But he chose not to remark on that.

Instead he took Jimmy Granger’s outstretched hand in his, and introduced himself and Saslow.

‘Police, eh,’ said Granger. ‘All right, officer. I give in. It’s a fair cop. I was drunk as a skunk last night.’

He laughed loudly at his own joke. If indeed it was a joke. To make matters worse his voice, with a hint of Midland twang about it, was a little too loud, and his whole personae a tad too hearty.

Vogel managed a weak smile.

‘Do I take it you were at the commodore’s dinner, sir?’ he queried.

‘Yes, I was. As far as I remember.’

Granger again laughed loudly.

‘But you would remember seeing Mr Ferguson here, I presume?’

‘Felix? Of course. He’s the new commodore, for goodness sake. Gave a speech. Played host. What are you asking about Felix for? Nothing’s happened to him, I hope.’

‘Uh, are you unaware, then, sir, of a certain tragic incident in the village which occurred in the early hours of this morning?’

‘Tragic event? What tragic event? I have no idea what you are talking about. Got off to a late start. Hangover and all of that. And I’ve been chained to my desk ever since, catching up on work. Graphic designer me. Self-employed. One good thing about it, I can do it anywhere. That’s why I thought to myself, Jimmy my boy, you’re on your own again, why not go to live at the seaside, buy yourself a boat... ’

Granger paused.

‘Sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I? Has something happened I should know about?’

‘Mr Ferguson’s wife was found dead in the early hours, sir,’ said Vogel.

‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry. How? I mean, she was a young woman, wasn’t she? Why’s it a police matter?’

Vogel explained as briefly as possible.

‘A murder enquiry?’ Jimmy Granger queried. ‘Jesus. When I moved into Instow they told me nothing ever happened here. And you’re asking about Felix? Surely you don’t suspect him, do you?’

‘I can’t comment on that, sir,’ said Vogel. ‘I am just enquiring about Mr Ferguson’s whereabouts last night, and anyone else who may have been nearby at the time of the incident. Can I ask you if you were here for the entire evening, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes, I was. From just after seven.’

‘And when did you leave, sir?’

‘Oh, about twelve thirty. Maybe one a.m.’

‘So you weren’t one of the group I understand were drinking with Felix Ferguson in the back room.’

‘You’re joking? I’m just a new boy. Be a while before I graduate to a lock-in with the commodore.’

‘I see, sir, well, thank you very much.’

Granger ordered a pint of lager and a whisky chaser and took his drinks to a table by the window.

Vogel watched him idly, wondering if he always drank like that. But maybe it really was just a hair of the dog after an unusually heavy night’s drinking, as Granger had said. The man was fit looking and lightly tanned. He didn’t have the appearance of a habitual boozer.

After he finished serving Granger, Ronnie moved back along the bar to re-join Vogel and Saslow. In spite of his earlier comments, he couldn’t quite leave them alone, thought Vogel.

He suspected that Ronnie was the sort of man who always wanted to appear to know more than others did, particularly about something as juicy as the sudden violent death of a young woman, even whilst so volubly expressing shock and concern.

‘Lovely woman, Mrs Ferguson, and those two lovely children,’ he remarked for the second time, clearly trying to draw Vogel and Saslow into conversation again, regardless of his professed intention not to provide them with any more information. ‘A tragedy, that’s what it is... ’

‘Yes indeed, Ronnie,’ interjected Vogel mildly. ‘The sudden death of a young woman is always a tragedy. Particularly when she has been murdered—’

‘I just can’t believe it,’ interrupted Ronnie. ‘Who would want to murder Mrs Ferguson?’

‘That is what I am trying to find out,’ remarked Vogel patiently. ‘Clearly you knew and liked Mrs Ferguson. Did you see her often in the club then?’

Ronnie seemed to have yet again forgotten that he was answering no further questions.

‘Not often, no. There are the two young children, aren’t there? But in the summer, particularly at weekends, the members often bring their children with them. His little ones are too young for proper sailing, of course, but Mr Ferguson takes them on the river sometimes, motoring upstream to Bideford at high tide, that sort of thing. And they seem to enjoy being here. As did Mrs Ferguson, I’m sure. Though we haven’t seen her here in a while.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw her in the club?’

‘Not really. Not this year. I’m pretty certain.’

‘I see. And she wasn’t here last night, was she? Wouldn’t you have expected the commodore’s wife to be with him on such an important occasion?’

Ronnie looked blank for a moment. Then his face clouded over, and he scowled at Vogel. It seemed he’d remembered his earlier pledge.

‘I’m saying nothing more,’ he said. ‘I told you that, and I mean it.’

Vogel smiled at him, which he hoped Ronnie found as annoying as he meant it to be. He didn’t think the man was hiding anything deliberately, although it was possible that he knew something significant without realising it. But Ronnie was the sort of irritation the DCI could do without.

‘C’mon, Saslow,’ he said heading for the door.

‘Do you ever long for the days when a copper could just give an irritating little bugger like that a slap, sir?’ Saslow asked conversationally as she followed him out of the club.

‘Not worth the effort, Dawn,’ said Vogel, smiling more genuinely. ‘And we’ve got better things to do. Like heading back to our gaff and getting some sleep before we both fall over. Early night and an early start tomorrow, when I think we should spend a few hours at the Bideford incident room, make sure we’re abreast of everything. Meanwhile, I’ll call Nobby and keep her up to speed. I want you to phone that former commodore fella, pick his brains about last night first, then tell him exactly what we want from the NDYC. Starting with a list of all the members who were at the dinner last night, and their contact details. Then we’ll get a team onto checking ’em out.’

‘Quite a job, boss.’

‘Yep. The glamour of policing, Dawn. But all we need is one person, just one person, who saw Felix Ferguson slip away from the dinner — after all his home is only just up the hill — or even someone with a reasonable suggestion of how he might have been able to do that, and we have our opportunity.’

‘But still no motive, boss.’

‘Early doors, Saslow. Give it time. Give it time.’