Dreams of Fear

Four

Detective Inspector David Vogel was in bed and asleep at his home on the outskirts of Bristol when he got the call from Detective Superintendent Reg Hemmings, his immediate superior in the Major Crime Investigations Team of Avon and Somerset Police.

‘You and Saslow have been co-opted over to the Devon and Cornwall,’ said Hemmings without prevarication. ‘Woman found hanged in her home. At first sight looks like a suicide, but they’re now considering treating it as a suspicious death, and one they’d rather have someone from outside handling. Plus, they’re chronically short of personnel at the moment, even more than the rest of us apparently.’

‘W-what? When? Where?’

The monosyllables were all Vogel could manage. He had propped himself up on one elbow to answer his mobile, and not even put a light on yet. But the electric clock on the bedside table — an old-fashioned radio alarm clock, Vogel was that sort of man — had illuminated hands. It was just after three a.m. He groaned silently.

Hemmings started to speak again.

‘I’ve just told you what,’ he said. ‘Right now. And you have to go to a little seaside resort called Instow.’

‘Instow?’ Vogel repeated. He was very nearly in shock. Where the hell was Instow anyway?

Hemmings was ahead of him.

‘The North Devon coast,’ he said.

Vogel’s West Country geography was still pretty shaky, but he had a fair idea he could get to London more quickly from Bristol than to almost anywhere on the North Devon coast.

‘How far away is that?’ he asked.

‘About two hours’ drive if you’re lucky,’ Hemmings replied. ‘So just get on with it, will you.’

‘What?’ queried Vogel again. ‘But I’ve got a lot on, boss. There’s that historic abuse case for a start. We’re beginning to untangle a right can of worms there—’

‘Look Vogel, do you really think I like this any more than you do?’ interrupted Hemmings. ‘This was chief constable to chief constable. None of us have any choice.’

‘It’s another police force,’ Vogel continued. ‘What is it exactly that makes their need greater than ours, anyway?’

‘Vogel, do you always have to argue?’ responded Hemmings. ‘The D and C covers the largest geographical police area in England, extending over 180 miles from the county borders with Dorset and Somerset, right down to the tip of Cornwall and beyond. Would you believe its territory even includes the Isles of Scilly?’

‘I believe everything you tell me, boss,’ said Vogel, who was beginning to clear his head but wasn’t entirely sure that he wanted to.

‘I should bloody well think so,’ countered Hemmings. ‘Right well, the D and C’s Major Crimes Team is stretched to breaking point at the moment, an ongoing double murder enquiry in Penzance and that missing child in Dorset that’s all over the press. So we’re helping out, Vogel, whether you like it or not.’

‘All right,’ muttered Vogel resignedly. ‘Do I not even get a proper briefing?’

‘I’ll email you all that I have. Full name and address of the deceased obviously. And the preliminary report from the two uniforms who were first on the scene. They were the ones who alerted the brass to the fact that this might not be the domestic tragedy it first seemed.’

‘All right,’ said Vogel again. ‘I’ll call Saslow then. Get her to come and pick me up on the way—’

‘Leave Saslow to me,’ interrupted Hemmings. ‘I’ll alert her and make sure she gets her skates on. All the D and C people have instructions not to touch anything until you get there, so you can see the scene for yourself, Vogel.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ said Vogel.

‘I do hope you’re not being sarcastic, detective inspector?’ Hemmings enquired.

‘What me, sir?’ asked Vogel.

‘Just behave, Vogel,’ he said. ‘This is a tricky one. If the woman has been murdered, the number one suspect would seem to be her husband who may well have gone missing.’

‘Well that’s not unusual,’ replied Vogel. ‘Some sort of domestic then? So why on earth have we got to get involved? Why don’t the Devon and Cornwall brass just put it in the hands of local CID?’

‘That’s where we come to the tricky bit. The husband’s father is a pillar of the local establishment, big businessman thereabouts, and the mayor of Bideford, the nearest town.’

‘Ah,’ said Vogel, trying to sound as if he understood everything now. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat upright. His head still felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool.

‘Yes, it’s been decided they have to have an investigative team from outside the area, further away the better,’ said Hemmings. ‘They don’t want the local boys and girls anywhere near it. Justice has to be seen to be done and all that. So I’ve agreed that you and Saslow will be seconded to the Devon and Cornwall.’

‘Right,’ replied Vogel, still struggling to take everything in. ‘Instow, you said... ’

‘Yes, pretty little place, wonderful estuary views, good beach too. Mrs Hemmings and I spent a weekend there once, soon after we were married.’

‘Did you, sir,’ murmured Vogel, who really couldn’t care less about the detective superintendent’s weekend break, nor the scenic attractions of the location of the incident which had caused him to be so rudely awakened and dragged from his marital bed.

‘How long are we going to be there for?’ he asked lamely.

‘For God’s sake, Vogel, how the hell am I supposed to know how long the investigation will take,’ responded Hemmings forcibly. ‘You’ll be there for the duration.’

‘Does that mean staying over down there?’ Vogel queried, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he felt.

‘Of course it damned well does,’ said Hemmings. ‘I just told you, Instow’s a good two hours’ drive from Bristol, and can be longer. The North Devon link road is a right bastard. I want you working, not stuck in traffic.’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ muttered Vogel, who so wished he could go back to sleep and somehow or other erase this phone call from his life. Vogel didn’t like going away from home. He was a family man. He liked to spend whatever spare time he had, which was never enough, with his wife, his daughter, and his dog. He really did not want to be stationed away from home for an indefinite period. And he knew that Hemmings was well aware of that.

‘I should think so,’ replied Hemmings. ‘You’ve been asked for specially, by the way, by the new head of MCT at the Devon and Cornwall.’

Vogel was surprised. He wasn’t aware that he knew anyone in the D and C, let alone a copper senior enough to be in charge of the major crimes unit.

‘Really, boss?’ he queried, his interest awakening just a little.

‘Yep. Newly appointed. Old chum of yours, only been in the job a few days. Transferred from the Met. Detective Superintendent Nobby Clarke.’

Vogel was suddenly wide awake. Being stuck away from home in North Devon might not appeal to him, but the opportunity of working again with his old boss from the Met’s Major Incidents Team excited him at once. It always did.

‘I’d never have thought Nobby would leave the Met,’ said Vogel, more or less thinking aloud.

‘Yes, well, I think there might be a bit of a story there,’ replied Hemmings. ‘All in good time, eh?’

Vogel smiled. He wondered what Nobby had done this time. She was famous, or notorious as her superiors might say, for doing things her way and brooking no interference. As Hemmings had inferred, he’d find out soon enough.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

He would still have preferred to stay at his home base, but things were definitely looking up.

‘Right, Saslow will pick you up within half an hour,’ Hemmings instructed. ‘And I’ll have all the info that’s been compiled so far pinged over so you can study it on the way. Oh, and Vogel, one more thing. You get Acting DCI rank for the duration, and Saslow acting DS, with the appropriate salary and pension increases. OK?’

Vogel managed an ungracious thank you. It was, however, very OK. Vogel had a daughter with special needs. There was always something else that could, or should, be done to help Rosamund lead a better and as normal a life as possible, often at considerable expense. The extra money would be a real bonus. He knew that in their present circumstances, as far as his wife Mary was concerned, it would go quite a way towards making up for his absence from home. And for him too.

Perhaps things weren’t turning out so badly after all.

Meanwhile, there had been a development at the scene of the crime.

PC Docherty received another call from a senior officer. She listened for a few minutes, responding only briefly with a succession of murmured ‘yes sirs’ and ‘no sirs’.

When she’d finished she turned to face PC Lake.

‘That was Inspector Braddock at Bideford,’ she said. ‘Seems like he’s also had his beauty sleep interrupted for this one. They’ve roused Mr and Mrs Ferguson senior, and broken the news. Felix Ferguson isn’t with his parents. And they’re in shock, of course, but they did say, regarding the whereabouts of their son, that we should try the North Devon Yacht Club. He’s just been made commodore, apparently, and there’s been an inaugural dinner.’

Phil glanced at his watch. It was 3.05 a.m.

‘And they think he might still be there at this hour?’ he queried. ‘That’s some night out, even if it is a special occasion.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Docherty. ‘Anyway, they’re on their way here to pick up their grandchildren. Adamant they should be with family. The Bideford team are driving them. Markham doesn’t want them blundering about unsupervised, or so he says. Treating ’em with kid gloves, if you ask me. He said HQ are diverting a team from Barnstaple to take over our sentry duty. As soon as they come they want us to check out the yacht club, see if Felix is there.’

She paused.

‘Could be a death call, so they want a woman there, of course... ’

Phil Lake was mildly surprised. He remained steeped in the principals of political correctness. Equality and diversity had formed a substantial part of his training at police college, and he was only just beginning to learn that the everyday reality of policing did not always abide by the codes of practice which had been instilled in him.

‘Did they say that?’ he asked.

Docherty shot him a withering look.

‘They didn’t need to,’ she replied.

For a moment she looked as if she might have a lot more to say, but the attention of both officers was drawn to a sudden rumpus at the end of the driveway. They had earlier closed the iron gates as a basic security measure, but had no means of locking them even if they had wished to. Somebody now seemed to be more or less falling through them. All the exterior lights were now on, having been switched to permanent by the two officers. Docherty and Lake could not only hear but also see the approaching figure. It was a man, and it was pretty clear he was very drunk.

‘I think our missing father and husband may just have arrived home,’ said PC Docherty calmly. ‘That’s saved us a job, then.’

With the exaggerated deliberation of the inebriated, the man, wearing a dinner jacket but no tie, made his way determinedly up the short driveway towards the two officers. It was still raining heavily. He looked as if he was wet through, but barely even aware of it.

Docherty stepped forwards.

‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there,’ she said.

‘Whaddya mean, I can’t go in?’ countered the man belligerently. ‘I bloody live here. What’s going on anyway? Why are you here? What’s happened?’

The man sounded as if he was starting to panic. Even in his drunken haze, thought Lake, he must be beginning to realize that something serious had occurred to necessitate a police presence in the early hours.

‘Could you tell me who you are, please, sir?’ asked PC Docherty politely.

‘Who I bloody am?’ came the reply. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think I am, for God’s sake?’

‘I need you to tell me your name, sir,’ said PC Docherty, enunciating with the exaggerated patience usually reserved by sober adults for the excessively young, the excessively elderly, or, as in this case, the excessively drunk.

‘My name? I’m Felix Ferguson. Thish is my bloody house. My wife and children are in there. Now will you get out of my bloody way.’

He stepped forwards. So did Lake, who was a big lad and a rugby player. He might still have a lot to learn about the niceties of policing, but he was not at all phased by the prospect of a little rough and tumble.

‘Sir, you need to calm down,’ he said in his most authoritative fashion.

The man focused on Phil Lake with some difficulty.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ he began. But he did take a step backwards.

‘Right,’ said Docherty, in an equally authoritative manner. ‘Could you please tell me where you have been until this hour of the morning, Mr Ferguson?’

‘What’sh it got to do with you?’ asked Felix, still belligerent. Then he looked around him, as if trying to make sense out of what was going on.

‘Why are you stopping me going into my own home?’ he asked loudly. ‘I fucking live here. What are you all doing here?’

With the last sentence, Ferguson’s voice rose even higher in pitch.

Lake looked at Docherty, hoping she would take over. Which she did, with only the hint of a weary sigh.

‘Look, Mr Ferguson,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m afraid we have some very bad news for you. Um, perhaps you would come with me and we could sit in the patrol car over there... ’

Ferguson lurched forwards again. He now seemed not only drunk but was also near hysterical.

‘What’sh happening, what’sh going on?’ he screamed. ‘Is it the children? Oh my God, hash something happened to my children?’

The words came out in a torrent, and were not entirely comprehensible.

‘Your children are safe... ’ Docherty began.

‘It’s my wife then? It’s Jane. Tell me, tell me what’sh happened?’

‘I’m trying to, Mr Ferguson,’ responded Docherty quietly. ‘But you really do need to calm down and listen.’

Her calm and restrained manner seemed to infuriate Ferguson even more. Suddenly he let out an animal roar of anger and threw himself at the woman PC, arms flailing as if he were about to attack her. Lake was ready for him. The young officer simply wrapped his big arms right around Felix again, and pulled him away. The man stopped struggling at once.

‘Jusht tell me, tell me what’s happened,’ asked Ferguson again. This time a tad more quietly and with a note of near pleading in his voice. He leant back against Lake, his body suddenly limp. Lake wondered if this was because he was no longer confident of his ability to stand unassisted, or out of fear of what was to follow.

‘I’m trying to, sir,’ said Docherty patiently.

She so hated these moments. In spite of her bravado, and air of having seen it all before, Docherty believed that breaking the news of the death of a loved one was the most difficult thing a police officer ever had to do. Particularly when the circumstances might still be suspicious. Or, equally hard for many to accept, when suicide was the most likely cause of death. None of this was helped, of course, by the imminent recipient of the bad news being drunk as a skunk.

She decided the best thing to do was to get on with it, as quickly as she could.

‘Mr Ferguson, there is no easy way to break this news to you,’ she said. ‘I am afraid your wife is dead.’

Ferguson’s legs buckled. Without Lake’s support he would almost certainly have fallen.

‘Dead?’ he queried in a bemused sort of way. ‘How can she be dead? I was with her jusht a few hours ago.’

‘I am afraid there is no doubt, sir. She will need to be formally identified, of course. But the body of a woman has been found in your home. And we have no reason to assume it might be anyone other than your wife.’

‘Oh my God. How?’

Ferguson still looked bewildered, and was clearly desperately fighting the fog of his inebriation in order to understand.

Docherty braced herself.

‘I’m afraid your wife’s body was found hanging from the bannisters.’

For a moment it seemed Felix Ferguson hadn’t fully grasped what the PC was saying.

‘Hanging? How? What do you mean?’ he asked.

Docherty braced herself further.

‘Hanged, by the neck, sir, I’m afraid,’ she said.

Ferguson again stared at her, for what seemed like a very long time. Then stark light seemed to dawn.

‘Oh my God,’ he said eventually, and for the second time.

Far more calmly this time, he struggled to pull himself away from Lake’s grasp. Lake glanced towards Docherty. She nodded almost imperceptibly. All she could do at this stage was accept Ferguson to be a genuinely grieving husband. Drunk he may be, but he would also be in terrible shock and should not be forced to deal with the news he had just been given whilst being held in an armlock by a rugby playing policeman.

Lake let go. He kept a warning hand on one of Ferguson’s arms, but the man no longer looked so much of a drunken nuisance, nor as if he might be a danger to anyone.

He did, however, still seem to be struggling to take in what had happened. And that was a common enough reaction, in Docherty’s experience.

‘Who-who found her?’ Felix asked, stumbling over his words, but no longer just because he’d been drinking, Docherty reckoned.

‘I am afraid it was your daughter,’ Docherty replied. ‘Little Joanna found her mother.’

Again, Ferguson just stared at the police officer for several seconds.

‘Oh my God,’ he said eventually and for the third time.

Then he leaned forward, and was mightily sick. A rush of vomit hit the concrete driveway directly in front of the porch, splashing over the feet and legs of both officers.

The crime scene, or certainly the approach to it, had been sullied, just as PC Lake had feared, albeit that he wasn’t responsible. Or not directly, anyway.

After that, Ferguson’s recovery from his drunkenness was surprisingly swift. He gave the impression of being very nearly sober almost immediately after emptying the contents of his stomach. Which did not surprise either officer. Lake was not unused to the varied effects of heavy drinking, and its aftermath, experienced on nights out with his rugby mates. Docherty had noted more than once before in her police career how extreme shock can trigger sobriety, even without the assistance of a good old-fashioned vomit. But Ferguson was clearly still quite unable to deal with the situation in a realistic manner.

‘I want to see my wife,’ Ferguson demanded. ‘And I want my children. I want them now. They should be with me.’

Docherty explained that Felix would not be permitted to see his wife’s body until the pathologist had completed her examination.

For just a fleeting moment Ferguson looked as if he might throw up again.

‘And I am afraid you will not be allowed back into your home until the crime scene investigators have finished their work, which won’t be for at least twenty-four hours, probably more,’ Docherty continued.

‘Really, well where do you suggest I go then?’ asked Ferguson, now speaking with considerably more lucidity. ‘And will you please tell me where my children are? You have no right to keep them from me.’

‘We are not keeping your children from you, Mr Ferguson,’ continued Docherty patiently. ‘They are with your neighbours, the Barhams, the people who called us here when they realized what had happened... ’

‘But why are they involved? How did they know?’

‘I’m not sure of the details, Mr Ferguson. But when they realized what had happened to your wife they took Joanna and Stevie into their home, and dialled 999.’

Ferguson still looked puzzled.

‘Just let me go to them,’ he said. ‘That’s all I ask.’

‘Of course, I will take you over to the Barhams’ house myself,’ said Docherty, who had no intention of letting this man out of her sight for a moment until she was told to.

‘And you should know that when we could not locate your whereabouts we had to alert your parents, and they are on their way here now, with the intention, I understand, of taking your children back to their home,’ Docherty continued. ‘Perhaps you may like to go with them.’

‘Oh yes, constable,’ responded Ferguson. ‘I’d like nothing more.’

Docherty studied him carefully. She thought he was being sarcastic, but she wasn’t sure. It was hard to be sure of anything concerning this case, she reckoned. One thing was certain, it wasn’t going to be straightforward. She already reckoned that little concerning the death of Mrs Jane Ferguson would turn out to be how it at first seemed.