‘Well, all right then, fresh air does sound like a good idea, I suppose, so why don’t I come with you?’ she’d enquired, trying to sound cheery.
‘Look, my love, I really need a little time alone to clear my head. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll be back before you know it. And you’re not even dressed yet.’
She hadn’t been dressed, of course. And she supposed she hadn’t minded. Not really. Not too much, anyway. But it was all so unlike Gerry. He was not the sort of man who needed to go for a walk to clear his head. Gerry’s head was always clear. Or so Anne had always thought, and she had been married to him for thirty-seven years. It was one of the things that she’d always loved about him. Whatever happened in life, there was Gerry, level-headed, calm, brain engaged, sorting it all out.
Some women looked for excitement, for partners who were exciting. And God knows, Gerry had never been that. But he suited Anne down to the ground. She loved her dependable man. And she’d never really had a thing to worry about since she’d married him. Gerry had invariably seen to everything.
He had even managed to assist her in producing a daughter who never gave either of them anything to worry about. A clever girl, also pretty, who launched herself with apparent ease into a near brilliant career and married a charming handsome man who was equally clever and absolutely right for her. Anne had little doubt that their son would turn out in the same mould. That was Gerry for you. He managed things right. Even his only offspring.
However, that morning, that morning of all mornings, Gerry had definitely not been like Gerry.
Anne was puzzled as well as upset. So much so, that after he left for his alleged walk – taking the car, she noticed – she gave in to her curiosity. She went to his study and jacked up the laptop, still on the desk, which had monopolized so much of his attention that day. She’d never done anything like that before. It would just not have occurred to her. Not before this awful and peculiar day. She found that the laptop was password protected. Well, there was nothing unusual or suspicious about that. She also had a laptop, though she did not often use it, and that was password protected too. The only difference was, she suddenly realized, that whilst Gerry knew her password, she had absolutely no idea what his was.
Anne had closed the laptop and walked away, asking herself what on earth she thought she was doing. This was her husband of thirty-seven years, kind, dependable Gerry, who had never given her reason to doubt him for a moment.
Or had he? Gerry was a night owl, she was an early bird. She often went to bed before him, and was aware that he might spend hours sometimes on his laptop before joining her. He played backgammon. He was a keen amateur historian and enjoyed creating his own research projects, looking into famous characters from the past, and indeed his own family. He also liked to browse YouTube, Twitter and Facebook, sites which held no interest at all for Anne.
Or is that what he did? As she sat with her coffee gazing unseeingly now at the blue ants next door, it occurred to her that she really had absolutely no idea what Gerry was doing when he spent all those hours at his computer.
He could be downloading unspeakable porn. He could be conducting some sort of weird internet affair. He could be a criminal mastermind, or an alien in human guise contacting his distant planet.
She let her imagination run riot, because it reassured her that Gerry downloading porn or having a cyber affair was no more likely than him being a criminal or an alien. And the latter two thoughts made her want to laugh. Which also made her feel just a little better.
She told herself there would be a logical explanation for his behaviour that day, because there always was with Gerry. Wasn’t there?
Then she checked her watch. Gerry had left for his little walk to clear his head just after two thirty p.m., promising that he would be back in no time. That was another promise he had totally failed to keep.
He had now been gone for more than three hours, and she had not heard from him at all. He could have gone to the yacht club for a drink, but he had the car. If he’d intended to do that he would have left the car at home.
She was becoming quite anxious. Again, it was so unlike Gerry not to keep in touch. Particularly on a day like this.
She told herself he could have gone shopping to take his mind off everything. He could have driven to Bideford, or slightly further away to Barnstaple. He could just have gone for a very long walk, along any one of the so many lovely beaches near their home, then onto the network of paths which stretched along the North Devon coast. But for over three hours? Gerry was not that sort of walker. And the weather had broken. In any case she would have expected him to call.
She had called him, of course. But he hadn’t picked up. Each time his phone rang briefly, then switched to voicemail.
She didn’t know what to do. She half wanted to call the police. She had the business card that nice DCI Vogel had given her. But he was investigating Jane Ferguson’s death. A death regarded as suspicious. And she didn’t think DCI Vogel, or any other police officer come to that, would be very interested in the case of a grown man who had been away from his home for three hours. They would think Anne was being ridiculous. A silly old woman. And when she put it into words she could fully understand that. It was what she would think about anyone else.
But this was Gerry. Her Gerry. And it just wasn’t right.
Sighing, she reached for her phone to call him one more time. Finally, he answered.
SIXTEEN
Sam Ferguson was in a total state of shock as he tramped back across the sand and over the pebble ridge onto Northam Burrows.
Sam was a man accustomed to knowing what to do. He would invariably assess a situation quickly, decide upon a course of action, and execute it without hesitation. He was good at making decisions. That was what Sam Ferguson did.
Not this time though. What Gerry Barham had told Sam had shaken him to the very core. He still did not know what it really meant.
He did know that he was afraid. He believed now that his surviving family were under threat. He was sure of it. And whilst what he had told DCI Vogel was absolutely correct, that he felt no grief for the passing of his daughter-in-law, he found himself wishing with all his heart that she were still alive. He glanced at his watch on a kind of autopilot. At almost exactly the same time as Anne Ferguson had looked at hers, and Vogel and Saslow had arrived at the NDYC.
It was a few minutes before six p.m. The two constables who had broken the news of Jane’s death had arrived at his home just before three a.m., around fifteen hours previously.
In the whole of his life Sam Ferguson had not experienced a more devastating fifteen hours. He couldn’t believe what had happened. Not any of it. But particularly not what he had just been told by Gerry Barham.
He was devastated. He did not know whom to turn to or what to do. And Sam was not used to feeling that way.
He unlocked his car, climbed in, and allowed his upper body to slump over the steering wheel for a few seconds, then he sat up and tried to make himself think, to concentrate, to come up with some sort of course of action. Any sort.
He supposed he could just do nothing at all, something he had always found most difficult. In any case he feared that events would overtake themselves. And Felix was so vulnerable. He’d always been like that, charming, not without talent, not without a brain, but weak and rudderless.
Sam had never minded. It had always suited him to have a son whose path he could mould, a young man he could guide and steer who, unlike most sons in Sam’s experience, seemed to welcome that level of interference from his father.
But for a fleeting moment, and for probably the first time ever, he wished Felix were a different sort of man, a young man he could confide in, who might, for once, even be able to support his father in the way Sam had always supported him.
But that was not how things were. And Sam didn’t want Felix, or his grandchildren, ever to have to face the consequences of what he had just been told. Yet he feared
that day would come, and sooner rather than later.
He sat there alone in his car for more than half an hour wracking his brains to come up with a workable plan, something that might yet save the day, without any success.
He needed to get home too. He’d told Amelia he’d had to go back to the council offices to deal with some vital issues.
She had echoed Vogel’s thoughts of that morning. Sam didn’t know what Vogel had thought, of course, although he might have guessed.
‘What possible council business could there be to take you away from your family yet again on this day of all days?’ Amelia had asked. ‘It’s a Sunday, too.’
Sam had apologized but insisted that there were pressing matters he needed to attend to before the offices opened for normal business the following day.
‘I’d always intended to go in this afternoon,’ he told Amelia. ‘I didn’t know Jane was going to get herself topped, did I?’
As soon as he spoke he’d regretted his choice of words. Amelia, not a woman known for her sensitivity, looked at him quite aghast.
‘I’m going to forget you said that, Sam,’ she said.
He knew he had been unconvincing in explaining his intentions, and his wife, who was certainly no fool, had clearly not believed a word he said. Indeed, even as he sat in the Burrows car park, momentarily too shocked to move, she was probably calling his direct line at the council offices to see if he was really there.
And if he didn’t pull himself together and get back fast, he was likely to be greeted by an explosion of fury, swiftly followed by an angry cross-examination which he didn’t feel up to.
With a huge effort of will he made himself start the engine and head home, all the while his mind was in turmoil. He had to do something, and he had to do something quickly. There was no one to turn to. There never was. It was down to him. As always.
SEVENTEEN
Gerry Barham watched Sam Ferguson stride across the beach, his tall burly figure shrinking into the distance as he reached the pebble ridge, climbed it with surprising speed and agility for a man in his sixties, and disappeared over the top.
Gerry made no move to follow Sam. He wanted the other man well gone before he made his own way back to the car park. He already wished he hadn’t told Sam all that he had. But Sam hadn’t left him much choice.
Gerry picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it into the sea. Was it really only yesterday that his life in retirement, or very nearly retirement, had seemed so pleasant and carefree – his one extramural activity adding just the smallest pinch of spice to an existence which might otherwise have been almost humdrum.
Even as he threw the piece of wood he noticed that his hand was trembling. Just like Sam he wondered what he should do next. There were people he needed to speak to. One in particular. He had been waiting for her to call all day. That’s why he’d left the house right after lunch. To chase her up. He’d needed to get seriously to work on the phone, and he couldn’t do that at home with Anne. So far, he had only managed to speak to minions. And they’d been no help at all, that was for sure. Now he really ought to get back to Anne. He knew she was puzzled by his behaviour. He had tried to behave as normally as possible, in spite of all those hours at his laptop and the whispered phone calls. But he knew he hadn’t made a very good job of it. He just hoped Anne would put it down to the shock of discovering Jane Ferguson’s body. Even though she was the one who had actually made the discovery.
His mobile, switched to silent to prevent unwanted interruptions, was tucked into the top pocket of his leather jacket. Suddenly, for the umpteenth time that afternoon, he felt it vibrate against his heart. Or what was left of his heart, he thought wryly. He quickly removed the phone and checked the screen, willing for the call he both dreaded and longed for. It was Anne again. Still no word from the other woman who was so important to him. The other woman who might yet wreck everything. Not a mistress, or someone with whom he’d had a casual affair, or even a one-night stand. No. A woman whom he suddenly regarded as far more of a potential danger to his way of life than any manifestation of personal indiscretion might be.
He continued to study the screen for a few seconds. He knew he could no longer avoid speaking to his wife, or she was going to be quite frantic. He accepted the call.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said.
It was how he always answered a call from Anne. Ordinary words, and he tried desperately to make his voice sound ordinary.
‘Gerry, where on earth are you? Are you all right?’
Anne sounded both anxious and bewildered. As well she might, thought Gerry.
‘I’m on the beach beyond Northam Burrows, over by the estuary,’ he answered truthfully.
The sea breeze was whistling in his ears. He rather hoped Anne would have difficulty in hearing him. It seemed that she did.
‘What did you say, Gerry?’ she asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘On the beach,’ he repeated more loudly. ‘There’s a fair wind blowing. And it’s raining. I told you I was going for a walk, didn’t I?’
‘What? Gerry, this is impossible. I can’t hear you properly. You’ve been gone for hours. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘I’m sorry, I … uh … I suppose I didn’t realize the time …’
‘Look, never mind, just come home will you?’
‘Yes. Yes. I’m on my way.’
Gerry began to walk towards the pebble ridge, as if to prove to himself, if not to Anne, that he was again telling the truth.
‘What?’ said Anne, clearly still unable to hear him properly and sounding frustrated.
‘I’m on my way,’ Gerry shouted. ‘I shan’t be long.’
He ended the call relieved that the poor reception had enabled him to avoid having to give Anne any sort of explanation. That would come of course, but hopefully he would by then have had time to think of a suitable one. And he may even have received the call he was waiting for from the other woman. Perhaps some reassuring news. Although he wasn’t holding his breath.
To his surprise, and somewhat to his discomfort, Sam Ferguson’s Range Rover was still in the car park, parked not far away from his Mercedes. He couldn’t see if Sam was still inside it, and he wasn’t going to approach any closer to check. It made no difference anyway. He suspected Sam was trying to think through all that had happened and what he should do, just as he was.
As he climbed into his own vehicle he shut the door as quietly as possible, before driving slowly along the track across the Burrows, and out over the cattle grid onto the Northam road.
He crossed the Torridge Bridge and had just reached Instow when his phone rang again. It was her. On his hands-free. Her voice was all too familiar even though he had only actually spoken to her a handful of times over the three years or so that she had been his contact. Her name was Martha. And he was as sure as he could be that wasn’t her real name. After all, Gerry had an ear for voices, and he was pretty sure this was the third Martha he had spoken to in total since he had entered into the agreement which had seemed such a good idea at the time. An agreement that had facilitated his retirement in a style and a manner he had not expected, allowing him and Anne to indulge in various luxuries, like their top-of-the-range Merc, and occasional exotic holidays.
He did not know Martha’s last name.
‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you, Gerry,’ she said. ‘I thought you might have some information for me.’
‘Really?’ responded Gerry, turning the word into a question. He wasn’t entirely a pushover. ‘I thought you might have some information for me. I’ve been waiting for you to call all day,’ he continued.
‘You are our man on the spot,’ said Martha, ignoring any criticism which may have been inferred by his last remark. ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that.’
She paused. Gerry thought she was waiting for him to speak again. He said nothing.
‘I understand our potential problem is no longer a problem,’ she continued eventually.
>
‘Is that some sort of riddle?’ asked Gerry, who found that he was suddenly more angry than anything else. He glanced at his hands on the steering wheel. His fingers were still trembling. And he couldn’t control it.
‘I think you know what I mean,’ said Martha in the same level tone.
‘If you mean that a young woman has died in violent circumstances, then yes, that is the case,’ Gerry continued, fighting to keep his voice level and give no hint of just how afraid he was beginning to feel. ‘As her death is being treated as murder and the police have launched a major investigation, then it could be that one “problem” has been replaced by another “problem”.’
‘Gerry, I would remind you we are speaking on an open phone line. Please be careful what you say.’
‘Bit late for being careful, isn’t it?’ snapped Gerry.
‘Look, you have been dealing with this situation for a long time now, you must have realized there were certain inherent dangers—’
‘I never in my wildest imaginings thought it would end like this,’ interrupted Gerry.
‘Gerry, you made an agreement with us for which you have been and continue to be extremely well rewarded. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, you know.’
‘Jesus,’ growled Gerry.
‘Look, you have to keep calm. We need to debrief you. Obviously.’
‘I am calm,’ Gerry lied. ‘I can’t get up to London. Anne would never stand for it. And the police would be all over me like a rash. I’m sure they’re suspicious already …’
‘Maybe, or you could just be panicking. But I do agree it would be unwise for you to act in any way out of character right now, and you certainly aren’t in the habit of hopping on a train to London at short notice. So, we will get someone to you.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone who can give you all the assistance you need. Someone who will do your thinking for you for a bit, and ensure that you and your wife are kept safe. How does that sound?’
Dreams of Fear Page 17