‘Terrible business,’ he said. ‘You wonder what could possibly drive a young woman like that to do what she did. I mean, she had those lovely children and everything.’
‘Do I gather from what you have just said that you are assuming that Mrs Ferguson committed suicide?’
Ronnie looked surprised.
‘Well, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘She was found hanged, wasn’t she? By her poor little daughter, I heard.’
‘That much is true,’ said Vogel. ‘But you should know that we have reason to believe that Mrs Ferguson did not take her own life. We believe she was murdered.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ronnie.
‘So we are making enquiries concerning the whereabouts last night of everyone connected with Mrs Ferguson,’ said Vogel. ‘Starting with her husband.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Ronnie again. ‘Well, Mr Ferguson was here. But I expect you already know that. It was the annual do for the new commodore.’
‘Do you know whether or not Mr Ferguson was here all night, throughout the proceedings?’
‘Yes, of course he was,’ Ronnie confirmed swiftly. ‘There were drinks first, then the dinner, then speeches, then awards for people who’d won the most sailing races during the last twelve months, and so on. Mr Ferguson had to make a speech, and a very good one he made too.’
‘Did he indeed?’ remarked Vogel.
It wasn’t really a query, but Ronnie responded as if it were, all the same.
‘Oh yes. He’s a very good speaker, Mr Ferguson. One of the best we’ve ever had as commodore actually. Only I didn’t say that, if you know what I mean. Don’t want to upset anybody.’
Ronnie tapped the side of his nose.
Vogel didn’t think he’d actually ever seen anyone do that before.
‘Oh yes, I know what you mean,’ he agreed, in the matiest manner he could muster. ‘Are you sure he was up to his best form last night?’
‘He most certainly was.’
‘Only we have reason to believe that Mr Ferguson may have been somewhat under the influence of alcohol.’
‘By the time he left the club, perhaps,’ said Ronnie. ‘But he’s always very professional, is Mr Ferguson. When he’s speaking he’ll barely have a drink at all until afterwards. Gin and tonic man usually. But every so often he tips me the wink and I know just to serve him tonic. Later on, like, he’ll let his hair down, so to speak. Last night, a few of them settled into the back room for a few drinks after the main proceedings ended. I stayed behind to serve them. I didn’t mind. He’s always been very good to me, Mr Ferguson.’
‘I see,’ said Vogel. ‘And until what time did Mr Ferguson and his drinking companions stay in the back room?’
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure. I served them a final round, so they were stocked up, so to speak, and then I left just before two, I think. They said they’d lock up and everything.’
‘Is it usual for you to leave members to lock up?’
‘It’s not usual, no. But the dinner for the new commodore is a special night. And there’s not a problem about it. This is a member’s club. You trust people, don’t you?’
‘How many people were drinking with Mr Ferguson, and who were they?’
‘Let’s see, four, no, five. There was Jack Crossley, last year’s commodore. And two couples. Married couples. The Conway-Browns and the Smythes. They’d been sitting on the same table. Mr Ferguson and Mr Crossley were together on the top table, of course.’
‘And you are quite sure Mr Ferguson didn’t leave the club at all, during the course of the evening, at any time before you closed the bar?’
‘How could he have done?’ asked Ronnie. It was a rhetorical question. He clearly did not expect a reply and carried on speaking without giving Vogel time to make one. ‘It was Mr Ferguson’s night. The commodore is expected to be the host, like.’
‘You couldn’t be sure he didn’t slip out, though, could you? I mean, you had a bar to run on a very busy occasion.’
‘Well, no. I suppose I couldn’t be absolutely sure. But I don’t see how he would have had the chance. Somebody would have noticed... ’
The bar steward stopped in his tracks.
‘Why are you asking me this, sir?’ he enquired. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Ronnie,’ said Vogel. ‘I am just asking you to help us with our enquiries, that’s all.’
Ronnie stood up, stretching to his full five foot six inches or so, and puffing out his chest. It was a clear display of righteous indignation.
‘Well, I’m not answering any more of your questions. I’m not saying any more at all, not without someone with me, someone from the committee. I don’t like where you’re going with this, sir. I don’t like it at all. Mrs Ferguson took her own life. That’s what I was told this morning. And until you lot can prove anything different, that’s what I’m going to believe. It’s a tragedy, a terrible tragedy. I realize you never know what goes on behind closed doors, but the commodore and his wife were close, real close. There was no doubt about that, you can ask anyone. She must have been ill to do what she did. She must have been. That’s the only explanation.’
Ronnie stopped talking abruptly. Perhaps remembering that he hadn’t been going to say any more. Vogel had difficulty stopping himself smiling. He liked this sort of witness. They couldn’t stop talking even if they wanted to.
He passed no comment — refraining from pointing out again that there was certainly another explanation, and that he was, in fact, conducting a murder enquiry — because he thought that would be counter-productive. Instead the DCI began to ask another question which he felt quite sure Ronnie would answer quickly enough. In spite of his pledge to remain silent from now on.
‘Those people who were drinking with Felix Ferguson last night, the previous commodore, the Smythes, and... and... who were the other couple?’
‘The Conway-Browns,’ supplied Ronnie readily enough.
‘Yes, the Conway-Browns. Are any of them likely to come in this evening?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Ronnie. ‘Not after the night they had last night. Mr Smythe popped in at lunchtime, hair of the dog, he said. Only a couple of other members turned up at all, and just for a quick one. Nobody stayed. We only opened for an hour.’
‘Well, we’re going to need to speak to that little late drinking group,’ said Vogel. ‘I’d like their contact details please.’
‘You’ll need to speak to Janice in the office in the morning,’ said Ronnie a tad sullenly. ‘I don’t have that sort of personal information. And she’ll have to get permission from the committee too... ’
‘Ronnie, I’m going to tell you again. We don’t think Mrs Ferguson took her own life. We are conducting an investigation into a murder, and I really must insist that you cooperate fully. Now, you mentioned last year’s commodore. Jack Crossley? I want his contact details.’
‘He lives over Fremington way,’ Ronnie answered in a resigned sort of way. ‘I don’t have his full address.’
‘But no doubt you have his phone number?’
‘Well yes, I do, but... ’
‘No buts, Ronnie. Give me that number.’
Even more sullenly Ronnie picked up his phone from the bar and began to read out Crossley’s number.
As he did so the door to the club room opened. A tall rangy man, possibly into his early forties, but with a full head of dark blonde hair which flopped boyishly over his forehead, walked in and approached the bar.
Ronnie glanced towards him.
‘Evening, Ronnie,’ said the man. ‘Hair of the dog for me. I could have done with it a lot earlier too, but I couldn’t spare the time.’
He looked around the bar, which apart from Saslow and Vogel remained empty.