Dreams of Fear

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.’