Vogel’s corduroy jacket, one of a small selection which formed his invariable working attire, was about to go the same way as his beloved old Hush Puppies. He very much feared he could smell it. Either that or he had mistakenly wrapped himself in a horse blanket. Even he was beginning to realize that almost all of his four or five corduroy jackets, in varying shades of murky brown and green with one dark grey one for formal occasions, had now reached a state which would soon demand replacement. What seemed to him to be a more or less daily drenching was not helping at all.
He turned up the collar. Just like earlier in the day, it didn’t help much. He reached the gate to his bungalow, hurried up the brickwork path which cut through the gravelled front garden with a circular rose bed in the middle, unlocked the front door and stepped into the small carpeted hallway.
Tim, the family dog Vogel regarded as more his than anybody else’s, threw himself at his master. Vogel rubbed the old border collie’s head fondly and called out for his wife and daughter. There was no reply. He knew exactly where they would be.
He made his way into the kitchen and then headed for the narrow door that led into what had once been the connecting garage, generously large for a small two-bedroomed bungalow. The previous owner had converted the garage into a mini health spa, with a seventeen-foot endless pool and a sauna in one corner.
And that, although Vogel still couldn’t get his head around it, was the reason he and his little family had uprooted themselves from their rented flat in a Pimlico mansion block and moved to the West.
Vogel’s daughter, Rosamund, suffered from cerebral palsy. Although confined to a wheelchair, she could manage to walk a few steps with aids. She had quite good movement in her arms, and reasonable control, although she was liable to knock things over if she reached across a table for the salt and pepper. From the earliest age swimming therapy had helped her a great deal. More than that, she seemed happiest when in the water, and showed considerable aptitude for swimming.
Rosamund’s mind was entirely unaffected by her condition and she was a bright child, although her speech was slightly hesitant and slurred. Sometimes Vogel wondered if her intelligence made her condition harder for his daughter to bear. He so hoped that it didn’t.
Rosamund’s great hero was the Welsh swimmer David Roberts, winner of eleven Paralympic gold medals and arguably Britain’s greatest ever Paralympian. Roberts also suffered from cerebral palsy, albeit a milder form of the disorder than Rosamund’s.
When they had lived in London Mary had taken Rosamund every Monday night to the Pimlico Puffins, a swimming club for people with disabilities. An hour once a week wasn’t nearly enough for her. Mary, and Vogel when his work commitments allowed, had tried to take her swimming at other times. But it wasn’t easy in a busy London pool with power swimmers thundering past, often with no consideration for other pool-users, disabled or otherwise.
They’d often thought how wonderful it would be to have their own pool where Rosamund could swim as often as she liked, but it had been one of those ‘if we won the lottery’ dreams. It hadn’t seemed possible that a home with a swimming pool would be within their reach on Vogel’s salary, even since his promotion to DI.
Then Mary had spotted an ad in Somerset Life, which she had picked up at the dentist, for this property in Sea Mills, conveniently adjacent to Bristol city centre. The bungalow was modest enough to fit their budget, even with the extraordinary addition of a small but ultra-modern pool equipped with a system of air jets for Rosamund to swim against. Because it was so small, only just over a metre deep, and well insulated, even the cost of heating the pool was affordable. Much as he hated leaving the rent-controlled apartment in the heart of London, Vogel hadn’t hesitated. Nothing mattered more to him than the happiness of his wife and their only daughter.
The Vogels were not extravagant. They had saved enough over the years to be able to buy the Sea Mills bungalow with the help of only a modest mortgage.
Vogel opened the connecting door. The garage had been partially tiled in mock marble and decorated in the style of a Roman bath. Trompe-l’oeil pillars and urns entwined with vines adorned the walls. It never failed to surprise him every time he stepped inside.
Mary, wearing a big fluffy turquoise dressing gown that matched the colour of the water, was sitting at the edge of the pool, watching her daughter. It took her a moment to realize he was there. She turned, opened her eyes wide in surprise, then smiled.
Vogel raised one finger to his lips and mouthed, ‘Shhhh.’
He wanted to watch Rosamund for a bit whilst she was still unaware of his presence. It was wonderful to see her, arms flailing, legs kicking as best she could, throwing all her energies into trying to combat the force of the endless pool’s jet. She was so at home in the water that, at a glance, her disability, although severe, was not apparent.
After a minute or so Rosamund sensed her father’s presence. She paused and turned to look at him. Her hair was wet and tousled. Her cheeks were flushed from her exertions. She beamed at Vogel. And, even to he who knew better, she looked not only blissfully happy but also a picture of health.
At moments like this, he thought, the move to Bristol was absolutely worthwhile. And even the prospect of having to deal with some up-himself Whitehall upstart in the morning seemed inconsequential.
‘My goodness,’ said Mary. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you this early. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Vogel. ‘All I want to do this evening is to enjoy being here with you and Rosamund.’
Next morning Vogel left for the station an hour later than usual — an unheard-of occurrence. Unable to totally disassociate himself from an investigation into a child’s disappearance, he had phoned Margo Hartley at 7 a.m. for a progress report.
Only one new lead had come to light. CCTV analysis had revealed a blue Honda Accord arriving and leaving the development on the night Fred Mildmay disappeared. The owner of the vehicle, who had been away in London overnight, had reported it stolen when he arrived at Bristol Parkway the following morning to find it missing from the car park. The footage did not provide a clear view of the car’s occupants, but it was possible to see that in addition to the driver there was a passenger who appeared to be of small stature. A suspect vehicle alert had been put out to police forces nationwide, and the Honda’s details registered on ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) cameras throughout the country.
Once he was content that Margo had everything in hand, Vogel sat down for breakfast with his family, again surprising both his wife and daughter.
He wasn’t behaving in this out-of-character manner because he was sulking. It was simply that he didn’t see how he could function under the restrictions now imposed upon him. While he wasn’t ready to conclude that Henry Tanner had abducted his grandchild, he was convinced that the man was withholding vital information. To be forbidden to contact Tanner was not only infuriating, it was potentially catastrophic. The fact that Tanner had friends in high places should never have been allowed to take precedence over the welfare of his grandson.
He arrived at his desk at Kenneth Steele House shortly before 9 a.m., still early enough for most men and women beginning a long working day, but a positively leisurely hour for Vogel, carrying, as was his habit, a cup of black coffee acquired from the vending machine in the corridor.
He switched on his computer, and sat for a moment staring at his screen saver, which featured his wife and daughter on a day trip to Torquay. Then he gave himself a bit of a mental shake. A child was missing. He must do what he could until the cavalry arrived. The unwelcome cavalry, in Vogel’s opinion.