Хилари Боннер - Dreams of Fear

‘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 decided 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.