‘Yes, pretty little place, wonderful estuary views, good beach too. Mrs Hemmings and I spent a weekend there once, soon after we were married.’
‘Did you, sir,’ murmured Vogel, who really couldn’t care less about the detective superintendent’s weekend break, nor the scenic attractions of the location of the incident which had caused him to be so rudely awakened and dragged from his marital bed.
‘How long are we going to be there for?’ he asked lamely.
‘For God’s sake, Vogel, how the hell am I supposed to know how long the investigation will take,’ responded Hemmings forcibly. ‘You’ll be there for the duration.’
‘Does that mean staying over down there?’ Vogel queried, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he felt.
‘Of course it damned well does,’ said Hemmings. ‘I just told you, Instow’s a good two hours’ drive from Bristol, and can be longer. The North Devon link road is a right bastard. I want you working, not stuck in traffic.’
‘Whatever you say, boss,’ muttered Vogel, who so wished he could go back to sleep and somehow or other erase this phone call from his life. Vogel didn’t like going away from home. He was a family man. He liked to spend whatever spare time he had, which was never enough, with his wife, his daughter, and his dog. He really did not want to be stationed away from home for an indefinite period. And he knew that Hemmings was well aware of that.
‘I should think so,’ replied Hemmings. ‘You’ve been asked for specially, by the way, by the new head of MCT at the Devon and Cornwall.’
Vogel was surprised. He wasn’t aware that he knew anyone in the D and C, let alone a copper senior enough to be in charge of the major crimes unit.
‘Really, boss?’ he queried, his interest awakening just a little.
‘Yep. Newly appointed. Old chum of yours, only been in the job a few days. Transferred from the Met. Detective Superintendent Nobby Clarke.’
Vogel was suddenly wide awake. Being stuck away from home in North Devon might not appeal to him, but the opportunity of working again with his old boss from the Met’s Major Incidents Team excited him at once. It always did.
‘I’d never have thought Nobby would leave the Met,’ said Vogel, more or less thinking aloud.
‘Yes, well, I think there might be a bit of a story there,’ replied Hemmings. ‘All in good time, eh?’
Vogel smiled. He wondered what Nobby had done this time. She was famous, or notorious as her superiors might say, for doing things her way and brooking no interference. As Hemmings had inferred, he’d find out soon enough.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
He would still have preferred to stay at his home base, but things were definitely looking up.
‘Right, Saslow will pick you up within half an hour,’ Hemmings instructed. ‘And I’ll have all the info that’s been compiled so far pinged over so you can study it on the way. Oh, and Vogel, one more thing. You get Acting DCI rank for the duration, and Saslow acting DS, with the appropriate salary and pension increases. OK?’
Vogel managed an ungracious thank you. It was, however, very OK. Vogel had a daughter with special needs. There was always something else that could, or should, be done to help Rosamund lead a better and as normal a life as possible, often at considerable expense. The extra money would be a real bonus. He knew that in their present circumstances, as far as his wife Mary was concerned, it would go quite a way towards making up for his absence from home. And for him too.
Perhaps things weren’t turning out so badly after all.
Meanwhile, there had been a development at the scene of the crime.
PC Docherty received another call from a senior officer. She listened for a few minutes, responding only briefly with a succession of murmured ‘yes sirs’ and ‘no sirs’.
When she’d finished she turned to face PC Lake.
‘That was Inspector Braddock at Bideford,’ she said. ‘Seems like he’s also had his beauty sleep interrupted for this one. They’ve roused Mr and Mrs Ferguson senior, and broken the news. Felix Ferguson isn’t with his parents. And they’re in shock, of course, but they did say, regarding the whereabouts of their son, that we should try the North Devon Yacht Club. He’s just been made commodore, apparently, and there’s been an inaugural dinner.’
Phil glanced at his watch. It was 3.05 a.m.
‘And they think he might still be there at this hour?’ he queried. ‘That’s some night out, even if it is a special occasion.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Docherty. ‘Anyway, they’re on their way here to pick up their grandchildren. Adamant they should be with family. The Bideford team are driving them. Markham doesn’t want them blundering about unsupervised, or so he says. Treating ’em with kid gloves, if you ask me. He said HQ are diverting a team from Barnstaple to take over our sentry duty. As soon as they come they want us to check out the yacht club, see if Felix is there.’
She paused.
‘Could be a death call, so they want a woman there, of course... ’
Phil Lake was mildly surprised. He remained steeped in the principals of political correctness. Equality and diversity had formed a substantial part of his training at police college, and he was only just beginning to learn that the everyday reality of policing did not always abide by the codes of practice which had been instilled in him.
‘Did they say that?’ he asked.
Docherty shot him a withering look.
‘They didn’t need to,’ she replied.
For a moment she looked as if she might have a lot more to say, but the attention of both officers was drawn to a sudden rumpus at the end of the driveway. They had earlier closed the iron gates as a basic security measure, but had no means of locking them even if they had wished to. Somebody now seemed to be more or less falling through them. All the exterior lights were now on, having been switched to permanent by the two officers. Docherty and Lake could not only hear but also see the approaching figure. It was a man, and it was pretty clear he was very drunk.
‘I think our missing father and husband may just have arrived home,’ said PC Docherty calmly. ‘That’s saved us a job, then.’
With the exaggerated deliberation of the inebriated, the man, wearing a dinner jacket but no tie, made his way determinedly up the short driveway towards the two officers. It was still raining heavily. He looked as if he was wet through, but barely even aware of it.
Docherty stepped forwards.
‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go in there,’ she said.
‘Whaddya mean, I can’t go in?’ countered the man belligerently. ‘I bloody live here. What’s going on anyway? Why are you here? What’s happened?’
The man sounded as if he was starting to panic. Even in his drunken haze, thought Lake, he must be beginning to realize that something serious had occurred to necessitate a police presence in the early hours.
‘Could you tell me who you are, please, sir?’ asked PC Docherty politely.
‘Who I bloody am?’ came the reply. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think I am, for God’s sake?’
‘I need you to tell me your name, sir,’ said PC Docherty, enunciating with the exaggerated patience usually reserved by sober adults for the excessively young, the excessively elderly, or, as in this case, the excessively drunk.
‘My name? I’m Felix Ferguson. Thish is my bloody house. My wife and children are in there. Now will you get out of my bloody way.’
He stepped forwards. So did Lake, who was a big lad and a rugby player. He might still have a lot to learn about the niceties of policing, but he was not at all phased by the prospect of a little rough and tumble.
‘Sir, you need to calm down,’ he said in his most authoritative fashion.
The man focused on Phil Lake with some difficulty.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do,’ he began. But he did take a step backwards.