Хилари Боннер - Dreams of Fear

‘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.

Vogel and Saslow arrived in Instow less than two and a half hours after Detective Superintendent Hemmings’ middle of the night call to the acting DCI. It was still only five thirty a.m. But this was May at the bottom end of England. Narrow stripes of yellow, white, and pale grey, were already streaking through the darkness heralding the imminent arrival of daybreak. They had driven through rain, which had now stopped, and it looked as if a pretty decent morning was about to break.

A CSI van was parked outside number eleven Estuary Vista Close, alongside two police patrol cars and an unmarked vehicle. A grey VW Golf. Vogel had a feeling that Karen Crow, the Home Office Regional Pathologist, drove a VW Golf. He wasn’t very good at colours — which his wife Mary always said was immediately apparent from the way he dressed, unless she managed to have a hand in it.

He knew one thing for certain. If Karen had been waiting all this time for him and Saslow to arrive before being allowed to start her preliminary investigation, she wouldn’t be in the best of moods.

Vogel could see that there were lights on in the house and also just one other in the close, the house next door to number eleven, on the east side. He guessed that was the home of the Barhams, the couple whom, he already knew, from the preliminary report forwarded by Hemmings, had reported the discovery of Jane Ferguson’s body. All the other properties were still in darkness. They clearly slept well in Estuary Vista Close, thought Vogel. But, of course, these were large and solid detached houses, set well back from the road in their own substantial gardens.

Saslow parked deftly between the Golf and one of the patrol cars. A uniform standing on sentry duty by the gate stepped forward.

Vogel climbed out of the car and introduced himself.

‘Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you,’ said the young constable, greeting him politely. ‘I’m PC Phil Lake.’

‘Ah, you were first on the scene, weren’t you, along with a woman PC?’

‘Morag Docherty, sir,’ said Phil Lake. ‘She’s nipped back to Fremington to check on the domestic we were dealing with before we were diverted here. The neighbours have been complaining it’s still kicking off. She shouldn’t be long though.’

‘I see. Any sign of the husband at all?’

‘Oh yes, sir. I thought you knew. He came staggering back here in the early hours, and he was well pissed I can tell you... ’

PC Lake stopped abruptly. In the ever-brightening early morning light Vogel could see the young constable’s face colouring beneath his uniform cap.

‘S-sorry, sir,’ Lake stumbled. ‘I mean, the deceased’s husband appeared to be inebriated, sir.’

Vogel couldn’t help smiling.

‘Well-pissed will do nicely, thank you, constable,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t been told anything yet about his return. You’d better fill me in.’

Phil Lake did so, in what Vogel considered to be a highly satisfactory manner. The young officer seemed to have a clear mind, and was one of those who paid considerable attention to detail. Vogel liked that in a copper.

‘So where is Mr Felix Ferguson right now, then?’

‘He’s with his parents in Bideford, as far as I know, sir,’ he said.

‘And the children?’

‘He took them with him.’

‘Terrific,’ muttered Vogel.

‘I’m sorry, sir, we had no reason to detain him,’ said PC Lake. ‘At first everybody thought this was just a suicide, and then, well, then, of course... ’

PC Lake’s voice tailed off.

‘And then what, constable?’

‘Uh nothing, sir,’ replied Lake.

‘And then, Felix Ferguson is the son of the mayor of Bideford, the commodore of the North Devon Yacht Club, and a prominent local businessman. Is that what you were going to say, constable?’

Constable Lake straightened his back, stood very nearly to attention, and treated Vogel to a display of quite impressive inscrutability.

‘Certainly not, sir,’ he said.

Vogel did not press him further. Privately he considered that this young man might go rather a long way.

‘Right then, let’s go look at what we’ve got in there,’ he said, with just the faintest of smiles.

Karen Crow appeared, apparently from nowhere, just as Vogel and Saslow were getting kitted up in the protective coveralls and over-shoes handed to them by a waiting crime scene investigator.

‘At bloody last,’ she muttered to no one in particular.

‘And good morning to you, Dr Crow,’ said Vogel affably.

Karen Crow grunted and inhaled deeply from the cigarette she was carrying between the extended first and second fingers of her right hand. So, she’d been lurking somewhere in the street having a smoke, thought Vogel with a certain amount of distaste. He hated smoking. He’d watched his maternal grandfather die from emphysema, and, in any case, Vogel was a fastidious man who could not understand why anyone would willingly poison their own lungs, let alone what was left of the world’s atmosphere, with smoke and ash.

Then Karen Crow exhaled. The DCI breathed in at just the wrong moment. He started to cough as soon as the smoke hit the back of his throat.

She turned away — totally unapologetic, if indeed she had even noticed — and along with Phil Lake, led the way up the short driveway to the house, with Vogel and Saslow following as quickly as they could.

‘As we are approaching a crime scene, don’t you think you should put that thing out?’ Vogel enquired.

Karen Crow shot him a withering look. But she reached inside her protective suit, took from a pocket a little folding ashtray, clearly carried for just such occasions, opened it, stubbed out her cigarette, closed it again, and returned it to the pocket.

By then the four of them had almost reached the front door.

Lake held out a cautionary hand.

‘Watch where you put your feet,’ he warned. ‘I’m afraid Mr Ferguson had a bit of an accident.’

Vogel looked down with distaste at the pile of vomit on the ground just outside the porch. He was beginning to take a dislike to Felix Ferguson.

Lake, who was wearing gloves but not a coverall, opened the door and stood back for his senior officers and the pathologist to enter. Then he retreated down the driveway to his sentry duty by the gate.

CSI had already set up their lights and were at work. One investigator was on his hands and knees, shuffling backwards down the staircase checking out each tread.

As Vogel had been assured, nobody had touched the body, which was swinging very gently from side to side, a phenomenon brought about, Vogel assumed, by the slight breeze caused by the opening of the front door.