Dreams of Fear

Epilogue

Sam Ferguson told his wife everything. He had no choice, either. She would not leave him, of course. But neither would she ever forgive him. His only son also made it clear that he would never forgive his father. And that he was going to leave.

Right after his release from police custody Felix Ferguson told his parents that he intended to take his children away and build a new life for them somewhere many miles from North Devon and their terrible memories. Felix said his mother would always be welcome, wherever he went. But he never again wanted to see the father without whose complicity in the surveillance operation at his home, he believed his wife would still be alive.

Felix was the one person who might have been expected to pursue every possible avenue of protest when Jane’s death was suddenly dismissed as suicide — particularly given all that he knew about events surrounding it, including the surveillance operation at his home and the arrest of Jimmy Granger. But he did not do so.

Felix no longer cared about anything except his children’s future. And, for their sake, he wanted the past buried almost as much as those who had summarily called a halt to Vogel’s investigation.

In addition, Felix was quite sure that in not making a fuss, and therefore protecting his children from unknown further consequences, he was doing what Jane, the most devoted of mothers, would have wanted.

Anne Barham immediately made plans to sell her house in Estuary Vista Close and look for a flat in suburban London close to her daughter, son-in-law, and grandson. She did not wish to remain in Instow for a moment longer than she had to.

Her dream retirement with the husband she had loved for most of her adult life had ended in a way she could never have imagined. A truly horrific way. Anne grieved for Gerry dreadfully, in spite of feeling betrayed by him. She’d really never had any idea that he’d worked for MI6, and it still seemed barely possible to her that her quiet unassuming husband had been some sort of spy.

Jimmy Granger ceased to exist almost immediately after his release from custody. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man, who had been known by that name, parked his Land Rover Defender outside a motorway service station motel on the M4, not far from Heathrow, picked up a brown leather bag that had been left for him at reception, and checked into his pre-booked room.

A few hours later he left the motel and set off for the airport by taxi. He now appeared to be completely bald, and his eyes, without the tinted contact lenses he’d previously been wearing, were a murky grey rather than strident blue. The picture in the passport which had been in the brown leather bag — along with a new credit card, a considerable sum of cash, some clothes, and a few other necessities — matched his new appearance exactly.

Immediately after Nobby Clarke’s revelatory visit, David Vogel sat down and wrote a letter of resignation to his superior officer, Detective Superintendent Reg Hemmings.

Only when he had finished did he consider his wife and his daughter, and her special needs. Vogel had joined the police force when he was eighteen. He had never had another job. He had no professional skill other than being a policeman. He had no other source of income.

Perhaps even more importantly, he knew no other way of life.

He sat looking at the letter, which he had folded neatly and placed inside a plain white envelope, for several minutes.

Then he ripped it up.

The following morning he reported for duty at Kenneth Steele House. It was what he did. There was nothing else. It was what David Vogel would always do.