Dreams of Fear

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘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.’

  FIFTEEN

  In Estuary Vista Close the forensic examination of number eleven had continued throughout the day. Crime scene investigators arrived and left, moving in and out of the house, sometimes carrying boxes.

  Anne Barham, sitting by the window of her spare bedroom, which, like the main bathroom, faced the Ferguson’s home, had a bird’s-eye view of the driveway. She wondered idly what the boxes might contain. She read crime novels occasionally, and more frequently watched the big detective series on TV. She assumed there might be mobile phones and tablets, laptops, or even a desktop computer in them. She knew the Fergusons had an iMac desktop in their home office off the kitchen. There would be paperwork too. Maybe clothes, and shoes. What else? Anne wasn’t sure, but at least she was occupying her mind on what was proving to be a very difficult day.

  She took a sip of her cappuccino, freshly prepared from her new all-singing, all-dancing coffee machine, a present for her birthday a month earlier from her daughter and son-in-law. Anne loved cappuccino. Possibly more than any sort of alcohol. Although Gerry certainly didn’t understand that. Nor anyone else much that she knew. The group of retired people who seemed to comprise the bulk of hers and Gerry’s social circle in North Devon were like expats in some ways, she thought. Desperately seeking alcohol in a bid to fill the hours left empty by retirement from jobs which no longer seemed unattractive at all, and the absence of children who had long flown the nest and were now consumed, and quite rightly so, by their own careers and families.

  Anne realized that her mind was wandering. The cappuccino was wonderful. Rich and creamy. Angela and Ralph always gave her and Gerry extravagant presents. They lived in London. Ralph was an architect and Angela was a barrister, who had returned to work just a couple of months after the birth of their five-year-old son. Anne knew that their presents were intended to compensate a little for the fact that she and Gerry hardly ever seemed to see them nowadays. But Anne was inordinately fond of all three of them. And usually she didn’t mind too much. Today she so wished they lived closer, and were less busy.

  She emptied the coffee cup. Ever since the arrival of the doubtless expensive machine, it had given Anne such pleasure to be able to make and enjoy a truly excellent cappuccino in her own home. Not today.

  She was still getting over the events of the early hours. Actually, she wasn’t getting over it at all. And she didn’t think she ever would.

  Anne had seen death before. Her mother lying stiff and grey in the bedroom of the old family home in Harrow. Her father at the undertaker’s chapel. And once, a stranger, a motorcyclist, dead and broken in the road, when she had found herself the first on the scene of a fatal traffic accident.

  But she had never, ever seen anything akin to what she had so recently witnessed in the house next door.

  Jane Ferguson hanging, unnaturally crooked, her face distorted and discoloured, in the hallway of her own home. Then there were the little children, finding Joanna in the road, caught in the glare of the headlights of their car, and little Stevie wandering onto the landing. Both of them disorientated. Distraught. And Anne trying so hard, yet, she felt, so ineffectually, to comfort them.

  She shivered. The bedroom was cool, although that may not have been the cause. Outside the wind was getting up, and rain was now falling steadily. The glorious weather of earlier in the day had evaporated. That was North Devon for you. The CSI people, in their pale blue protective suits, were hurrying as they went about their business, hoods up, and heads down. It was probably a trick of the angle from which she was watching them, but their legs looked too small for their bodies, and seemed to be moving unnaturally fast, as if they were part of a speeded-up film sequence. Anne thought they looked like a swarm of blue plasticised ants.

  She had only recently dressed properly, having spent most of the day in her dressing gown, wandering aimlessly around the house. And, most unusually, it had been a real effort to do so. But it was an effort she had ultimately made on the grounds that she would feel better. She had showered and washed her hair, applied her make-up with care, dressed nicely in her favourite silk shirt and a faux leather waistcoat over a rather good pair of Eileen Fisher trousers.

  However, she didn’t feel better. She th
ought she would probably never feel better. And her fragile state of mind had not been helped by Gerry’s behaviour, which had actually been distinctly odd.

  He had seemed fine at first. The usual supportive kind Gerry, so concerned about her after she had been confronted by Jane’s body. He had taken charge the way he usually did, phoning the police, making hot drinks for the children, whilst she calmed herself down, assuring her that he would see to everything, dealing with the arrival of the emergency services, and later Felix. Then encouraging her to go to bed, to at least try to sleep.

  But almost immediately after those two detectives had left, DCI Vogel and DS Saslow, at around seven a.m., he’d retreated to his study and remained there for most of the rest of the morning.

  Anne, continuing to feel truly wretched, had two or three times popped in with a cup of coffee and asked him if he wouldn’t come and sit with her for a bit. Each time he’d been bent intently over his laptop, and when he’d looked up at her he’d shut the lid.

  ‘I promise I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he’d said reassuringly. But he hadn’t kept that promise at all. And when she’d asked what he was doing, he had merely muttered something only half comprehensible about wanting to take his mind off everything.

  She’d hovered outside the study door every so often, something she would never normally think of doing, and once heard the murmur of his voice on the phone, but he’d been speaking so quietly that she’d been unable to decipher a word that he was saying.

  He finally emerged for a late lunch, but only after she had stormed into his study and told him she was going to scream and burst into tears if he didn’t come out. Then, as soon as he’d finished eating, just two or three of the sandwiches she’d prepared, he’d risen from the kitchen table and told her he was going out for a walk.

  She’d broken down then, and begun to cry.

  He had put his arm around her, kissed her lightly, apologized profusely and said that he just needed some fresh air, and he wouldn’t be long.

  She’d reached into the pocket of her dressing gown for a paper tissue, blown her nose, told herself she was over-reacting, and tried to pull herself together. As she had been brought up to do.