Dreams of Fear

by Hilary Bonner

  ‘Yes, boss,’ agreed Saslow. ‘Simple, when you say it quickly, boss.’

  ‘In as much as anything is simple about this case, Dawn,’ said Vogel.

  Yet again he tried to call Nobby Clarke.

  ‘She’s still not picking up,’ he muttered, after being diverted once more to voicemail. ‘And I don’t like it, not at all.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Vogel was woken by a phone call from DC Perkins just before six a.m.

  ‘Boss, I’ve got something to tell you and you’re not going to be happy,’ he began. ‘The custody sergeant at Barnstaple’s just rung me. He’s a mate. Seems Jimmy Granger’s been released from custody. Insufficient evidence to detain him.’

  ‘What?’

  Vogel sat bolt upright in bed, instantly wide awake.

  ‘What d’you mean released? When? On who’s authority?’

  ‘About half an hour ago apparently. Orders from MCT HQ at Exeter.’

  Vogel felt his heart sink.

  ‘The big chief herself, boss,’ Perkins replied. ‘Detective Superintendent Nobby Clarke.’

  Vogel ended the call almost straight away. Immediately, and for the umpteenth time, he tried to call Nobby.

  For the umpteenth time he got her message service. This time he didn’t bother to leave another message.

  She would know what he was calling about, for sure. As she would have known all damned night that he was desperate to speak to her. And now he knew why she wasn’t picking up. Vogel leaned back in his bed and closed his eyes. His mind was in turmoil. For once in his life he really didn’t know what to do next.

  It looked like Nobby Clarke, too, had allowed herself to become embroiled in some sort of high-level conspiracy.

  Apart from his wife, and perhaps Saslow, Nobby was the only person in the world whom Vogel trusted absolutely. He considered her to be a copper with heart and integrity, and had always admired her independent spirit, her passion for justice, and her near compulsion to always question authority.

  Secretly, she was the copper he aspired to be. Or she had been until now.

  If he couldn’t trust Nobby he wasn’t sure there was any point in continuing to be a policeman.

  Nonetheless, he determined to carry on going through the motions. He called DI Peters. She was in the incident room, and answered straight away. Vogel suspected she had been there all night. That sort of work ethic was something which she did have in common with Margot Hartley.

  ‘I was just going to call you, boss,’ she said. ‘CSI finally got to Granger’s flat. They’re still at it, but their first impression is that it’s been cleaned up and cleared out. There are some clothes, presumably his, there, but virtually nothing else. No paperwork of any kind, not even an electricity bill, no laptop. Nothing personal at all.’

  Vogel was not surprised. Granger himself could not have cleared out his flat as he’d been in jail until half an hour earlier. But it seemed there had been people to do the job for him, and the delay in the arrival of a CSI team had given them the time.

  ‘I see,’ he commented non-committedly. ‘Any news on that RTA the CSIs were diverted to, by the way?’

  If Peters followed his train of thought, her voice gave no indication of it.

  ‘Yep, seems some wires got crossed and the first report was way off,’ she replied evenly. ‘No fatalities at all, and nobody seriously injured either.’

  Once again Vogel wasn’t surprised. He told Peters then that Granger had been released, trying not to let his anger show.

  Peters muttered something he didn’t quite hear. She sounded vaguely uncomfortable. He had the feeling she might already have known, and also knew that the man had been released without the knowledge of her SIO.

  ‘I still want us to keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out where he’s going. He obviously hasn’t gone back to his Instow flat, if he ever really lived there. He’s probably in his car, heading out of the area. That Defender we have on file. Get a call out to Traffic. Devon and Cornwall, and Avon and Somerset. We should be able to pick him up on the North Devon link road or the M5 with a bit of luck.’

  Less than ten minutes later his phone rang again. It was his senior officer at the Avon and Somerset, Detective Superintendent Reg Hemmings, head of MCIT.

  ‘Vogel, we need you back,’ he said. ‘You’re to wind up your part of the Ferguson investigation pronto and get on the way to Bristol. You and Saslow …’

  ‘For God’s sake, boss, what is going on?’ asked Vogel. ‘A man whom I am quite sure has killed two people and tried to kill a third has been released from custody. I’m the SIO on the case and I wasn’t even officially told, let alone consulted. The whole thing stinks, boss.’

  ‘That’s not the information I’ve been given, Vogel,’ countered Hemmings. ‘Seems it’s all been a storm in a teacup, a suicide and an accident at sea. My instructions are that we should get out, and leave the local boys and girls to clean it up.’

  ‘It wasn’t a storm in a teacup for Gerry Barham, that’s for sure,’ said Vogel, who was mildly surprised to find that his policeman’s black humour remained intact. ‘And Jane Ferguson did not commit suicide. Karen Crow made that pretty clear.’

  ‘Not entirely clear, apparently, Vogel. In any case, I’ve been told that the Crown Prosecution Service would not be confident of a prosecution. Your mate Nobby didn’t reckon there was enough evidence to charge this Jimmy Granger. You must realize that.’

  ‘It’s a cover-up, boss,’ said Vogel.

  ‘Oh, get down off your high horse, man,’ responded Hemmings. ‘And get your arse back to Bristol. You did all you could.’

  Vogel could think of little more to say. And barely had the will to say anything. He was despondent.

  He made one more attempt to call Nobby Clarke. This time she picked up. And she spoke first, before he had the chance to.

  ‘I wouldn’t have let this happen without a damned good reason, Vogel,’ she began, sounding as feisty and confident as ever. ‘You should know that.’

  ‘I don’t know any such thing because you have told me zilch,’ countered Vogel. ‘I have been trying to speak to you since yesterday evening, as you are well aware. You appointed me SIO of a murder investigation. You asked for me, you brought me here. Now you have ordered the release of a man who I’m darned sure has killed twice and attempted to kill a third time. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me yourself. I had to learn it from a DC. What on earth is going on, boss?’

  ‘Look Vogel, there’s always been doubt in this case. A woman, known to be neurotic, hanged, and a man who was barely an amateur sailor took a boat out in a storm. Suicide and an accident at sea. Those are the obvious conclusions. We were making too much of it. Then there was an incident on premises which are clearly a health and safety nightmare.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, boss, don’t give me that shite,’ Vogel stormed.

  The DCI rarely swore, and was known for his calmness in a crisis. He had never felt less calm. A cold fury was consuming his entire being.

  ‘I cannot believe this is you talking. Have you been fucking got at or something?’ he continued.

  ‘Remember who you are speaking to,’ responded Nobby quickly.

  Vogel was having none of it.

  ‘Don’t even think about pulling rank with me,’ he said. ‘And, since you brought the subject up, I don’t think I know who I’m speaking to anymore.’

  ‘Oh, Vogel, I just told you, this operation has been scaled down for a very good reason—’

  ‘It hasn’t been scaled down, it’s been as near as damn closed down,’ interrupted Vogel. ‘And, if there is a good reason, then tell me what it is. Just tell me, boss.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Vogel. I’m sorry. You are just going to have to trust me on this.’

  ‘Trust you, Detective Superintendent Clarke?’ queried Vogel, with cold formality. ‘I will never trust you again as long as I live. And I never ever want to work with you again. In fa
ct, right now, I don’t even want to stay in the same police force as you.’

  Vogel and Saslow had arranged to meet for an early breakfast. He greeted her with the news that they had both been recalled to Bristol.

  Saslow didn’t think she had ever seen her boss look so severe.

  He then told her about the release of Jimmy Granger and the closing down of the MCT incident room in Bideford, and the conclusions which had been officially drawn concerning the deaths of Jane Ferguson and Gerry Granger, and the attack on Sam Ferguson.

  ‘Christ,’ Saslow blurted out. ‘Surely Nobby hasn’t gone along with that.’

  ‘The detective superintendent has been the one issuing the orders,’ said Vogel grimly.

  ‘What?’

  Saslow was shocked to the core.

  ‘She wouldn’t. I mean, why? She must have a good reason. Surely?’

  Vogel laughed humourlessly.

  ‘So she says, however, she hasn’t chosen to share that reason with me.’

  ‘But you two are so close, you speak the same language—’

  ‘We were, and we did,’ interrupted Vogel. ‘It’s over now. And so is this job. Get your stuff together. I’d like to make a last visit to the Bideford MIR, then it’s back to Bristol for us.’

  Saslow could hardly believe her ears. This wasn’t her governor. He sounded totally defeated.

  ‘Boss, if there’s anything you’d like to do, you know, under the radar, well I’m up for it, really I am,’ she said.

  Vogel smiled sadly.

  ‘Thank you for that, Saslow,’ he replied. ‘But I am afraid there is nothing either of us can do. Not this time, not with this one. The plug has been pulled.’

  The MCT team were already packing up at Bideford police station when Saslow and Vogel arrived.

  DI Peters looked flustered. Saslow wasn’t surprised. No sooner had she got to grips with the behind the scenes management of a major murder enquiry, than the whole investigation had been pushed to one side.

  There seemed to be cardboard boxes everywhere. Laptops, printers, and stacks of paper were being packed away, or fed through a shredder.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you, boss,’ she said. ‘The guvnor told me you were on your way back to Bristol.’

  ‘I am,’ said Vogel. ‘This is a farewell visit. And to say thank you.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Peters. ‘We’d barely got started. We certainly hadn’t anything like finished.’

  It was obvious to Saslow that the DI shared Vogel’s frustration.

  ‘As you know, boss, I’ve been ordered to leave everything to local CID and shut our operation down as quickly as possible, and unfortunately that includes the tracking of Jimmy Granger’s car,’ Peters continued. ‘Traffic reported an early spotting of the Defender heading north on the M5 by Taunton, but, I’m sorry, boss, I’ve had to call off the hounds. Oh, and whilst two of the keys Granger was carrying when you arrested him were to his flat, CSI never did get around to checking if any of the others belonged to the Ferguson home. They were his personal property, of course, and had to be handed back to him as soon as we knew he was going to be released.’

  Vogel looked as if this was only the news that he had expected.

  He had been almost entirely silent on the short drive from Appledore to Bideford. And he remained largely uncommunicative throughout the much longer journey from Bideford to Bristol.

  His phone rang several times. Each time he glanced at the screen but did not pick up. Saslow would have cheerfully bet a month’s salary that the calls, or at least most of them, were from Nobby Clarke.

  She had never seen her senior officer look broken before. In fact she had always considered him to be indomitable. And she was absolutely sure that it was Nobby Clarke’s apparent betrayal of her own team which had left him that way.

  She wished he would talk to her, but knew better than to ask any questions. In any case, the DCI had already made it clear that he knew few answers.

  As they approached Bristol, Vogel asked Saslow to drop him at his home on the outskirts of the city. That in itself was highly unusual. It was still only mid-afternoon. There was little doubt in Saslow’s mind that, under normal circumstances, Vogel would have wanted to return to work at MCT for the rest of the day, and expected her to do the same. But these were not normal circumstances.

  Like Vogel, Saslow found herself upset and more than a tad angry, as she continued to drive into the city centre, heading on autopilot for Kenneth Steele House. Suddenly she swung the car off the main drag and headed in a totally different direction.

  ‘The damned brass have turned their backs on us, right enough,’ she muttered to herself. ‘They can do without me until the morning, too.’

  As usual, Vogel gave his wife Mary a full account of events. Or as full an account as possible. He invariably found her listening ear, and her occasional quiet comments, helpful in the extreme. On this occasion she could not help at all.

  Mary knew how much he respected, and indeed liked, Nobby Clarke, and she looked as shell-shocked as he felt when he related his earlier conversation with the detective superintendent.

  Vogel could not sort out his head at all. He took the family dog for a walk in the park to get some fresh air. He listened as his daughter, who suffered from cerebral palsy but was an excellent swimmer, regaled him excitedly with a blow-by-blow account of her latest competition triumph the previous day.

  He sat down for an unhurried dinner with his wife and daughter, something he all too often missed, and always enjoyed. But he could not begin to relax.

  After dinner he helped Mary clear up, and later, once Rosamund had gone to bed, the two of them sat down to watch a movie which Mary said was reputed to be one of the best of the year. Vogel could not concentrate on it at all.

  Just before ten p.m. the doorbell rang. Vogel looked at Mary. Mary looked at Vogel.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said, rising to his feet.

  Unexpected visitors at that sort of time slightly disconcert most people. For a police officer, dealing as a matter of course with society’s underbelly, such calls are particularly disconcerting.

  Vogel walked softly along the hallway and peered through the spyhole in the front door. The security light in the porch had already switched itself on and the visitor’s face was clearly illuminated.

  It was Nobby Clarke. For a second Vogel thought about not even opening the door to her. He couldn’t quite do that. He opened it, and stood in silence looking at her.

  ‘I was going home, then I found myself driving here to you,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t pick up. So, it’s the mountain and Mohammed and all that …’

  Her voice tailed off.

  ‘You’d better come in, then,’ said Vogel flatly.

  He led the way into the sitting room. Mary was already on her feet. She greeted Nobby warmly. Slightly to Vogel’s annoyance.

  Then she offered to make tea.

  ‘I’m sure you two need to talk,’ she said.

  ‘We certainly do,’ said Nobby. ‘Thank you, Mary.’

  Vogel was unimpressed. He knew the detective super wouldn’t have driven all the way from Exeter for nothing. But he could not imagine anything she might tell him which would even begin to lessen his disappointment in her.

  ‘Right, Vogel, you are clearly going to carry on throwing your toys out of the pram unless I give you an explanation, so that’s what you’re going to get,’ Clarke announced. ‘But you have to swear that you will never breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to a living soul, not Saslow, and not even Mary.’

  Vogel glowered at her, and shrugged. He said nothing.

  ‘You’re still behaving like a child, Vogel, nonetheless I am going to put my trust in you, and I hope you don’t make me live to regret it,’ she continued.

  Vogel found her tone extremely irritating, and didn’t feel that Nobby Clarke was in any position to discuss trust. He did, however, want to hear whatever it was that she had finally deci
ded to tell him. So he still said nothing.

  ‘Do you love your country, Vogel?’ she asked.

  ‘What sort of damned fool question is that?’ he growled, all the more irritated now. ‘Something your low life spook friends would come up with, I should think.’

  ‘Do you, Vogel?’ Nobby persisted.

  ‘Yes, of course I love my country,’ he snapped. ‘It’s the clowns who run it I can’t stand.’

  ‘You have a point there,’ responded Nobby. ‘But of course, we are fortunate to have people at the very top who, whether you like them or not, have for centuries given this country a stability envied throughout the world.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were a royalist,’ said Vogel.

  ‘I’m not. I’m a pragmatist. As I believe you are. And I believe that if something isn’t broken you shouldn’t mend it.’

  Vogel was intrigued in spite of himself. He said no more, instead waiting for Nobby to continue.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘This is the story. Jane Ferguson did not kill her twin sister as she feared. But there was some truth in her dreams. She did have a twin sister. And the little girl was murdered. But by her mother. Not by Jane—’

  Vogel interrupted sharply. He could not help himself.

  ‘So, just to make things really perfect, you’re telling me Jane Ferguson was an innocent woman who had harmed nobody,’ he snapped. ‘And we’re letting her murderer walk away scot free. Now, ain’t that just great!’

  ‘Vogel, please. Will you just keep quiet until I’ve finished?’

  Vogel grunted.

  ‘The twins’ mother, not the woman who brought Jane Ferguson up, had developed serious mental health issues, not helped by a reliance on drugs and alcohol,’ Nobby Clarke continued. ‘One night she quite literally took leave of her senses and attacked Jane’s twin with a knife, killing her. Woken by the children’s screams, their father came in to the room, just as the mother was beginning to turn her attentions on Jane. He grabbed the woman, pulling her off, and pushed her out of the way. Forcefully. He was a strong man. A military man. He killed her, without, it is alleged, meaning to do so. Nonetheless he killed her.’

  Nobby took a deep breath.