She tried his mobile at once. Her call went straight to voicemail. His direct line at the council offices also went straight to voicemail. This, too, would not have been unusual on any other day. Sam was a very busy man and a very independent man with his own agenda to follow. When he was out and about running his various businesses, he rarely answered his mobile; neither did Amelia expect him to. Usually she would text him if there was something she wished to tell or ask him.
Neither of them had the time or inclination for idle chat on their mobiles. They weren’t those sort of people.
But she couldn’t quite believe he’d again walked out on her like that, at such a stressful time, leaving her to deal with their son, who was still sleeping off his excesses of the previous afternoon, their grandchildren, and quite possibly, further police enquiries.
Amelia did something she would not normally dream of doing. She set out to find Sam, wherever he was.
She knew that the council offices opened at nine a.m., and almost on the dot she called the switchboard, asking to speak to her husband, only to be told that he was not in his office. She then began a ring around of the family businesses, the café, Cleverdon’s, the estate agency, the department store in Bideford High Street, and the office at the Westward Ho! holiday complex. Nobody had seen Sam.
Angry, and becoming increasingly more anxious, she blitzed Sam’s phone with calls and texts. She even emailed, and messaged him on WhatsApp.
Finally, just before twelve noon he called back.
‘What on earth’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘You must have called a dozen times, and texted. Didn’t you realize I was obviously busy? You don’t usually behave like this.’
‘No,’ said Amelia. ‘But this isn’t a usual day, is it?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Sam, in a more reasonable tone of voice. ‘I do realize that, darling. I don’t understand why you have been chasing me, that’s all.’
‘Where have you been, Sam?’ asked Amelia.
‘I’ve been working, just like always. I’ve been busy. Life has to go on, you know. Somebody has to get a grip if this family is going to survive.’
‘Sam, I’ve phoned the council, I’ve phoned the café, the estate agency, Westward Ho! I have phoned every one of our businesses trying to find you. Nobody has seen you all morning. I asked at each place that they call me if you turned up there. Nobody called back. What’s going on, Sam?’
‘Nothing’s going on, Amelia. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well, will you tell me honestly, then, what have you been doing?’
She heard him sigh down the phone.
‘Look, I had things to do, could we just leave it at that. I’m not always quite as strong as everybody thinks I am.’
‘Really?’ queried his wife. ‘Well, you’re not alone in that, Sam. So, where did you go?’
‘I went for a drive.’
‘For the best part of six hours?’
‘No. I stopped. Parked up. I’m sorry, darling. I was just trying to get my head around everything. I’m having difficulty coping.’
Amelia felt most uneasy. This really wasn’t her Sam. Did he really say he was having difficulty coping? This was a man who always coped. Coping was what Sam Ferguson was best at.
‘Just come home, Sam,’ she said, her voice displaying more emotion than she would normally reveal to anyone. ‘Your family needs you. I need you. Together we will cope. Just come home.’
Nineteen
In Instow Anne Barham woke at seven a.m., almost exactly an hour after Amelia Ferguson. At first she felt better than she had at any stage since discovering her neighbour’s body. She had slept well. She felt rested, as if she might be beginning to recover. Just a little.
She reached out with one languid hand for Gerry. He was no longer in bed beside her. She was mildly surprised, because he rarely rose before her now that he was retired, but it was another glorious morning. The sun was shining through the windows. Yesterday’s storm had passed over during the night. She propped herself on one elbow and listened to see if she could hear him moving around the house. There was no sound except the tick of the bedroom clock and the occasional drip of the tap in the en-suite bathroom, which they really must get fixed. Gerry, like her, was a keen gardener, but he was no handyman. He had probably made tea and gone out into the garden for a potter. More than likely he would soon bring her up a cup.
Once Gerry had finally arrived home the previous day he had been profusely apologetic and promised Anne his full attention for the rest of the evening. A promise he had delivered absolutely. He’d prepared supper, scrambled egg and smoked salmon, one of her favourites. Then they had sat together on the sofa watching an old movie. They hadn’t talked about Jane Ferguson and her terrible death. They hadn’t needed to. Gerry and Anne were good at companionable silence, and in Anne’s opinion they almost always knew what each other was thinking, anyway. Although she hadn’t been entirely sure of that yesterday afternoon.
By bedtime she had not only forgiven her husband for worrying her so, but made herself at least begin to forget all about it. She was just as determined to forget the terrible scene she had been confronted with at number eleven. And Gerry, who by then really had seemed like her Gerry again, had come up to bed only ten minutes or so after her, although she did think she had heard him on the phone again. And for her to be able to do that from upstairs, when he was in his study, meant that his voice must have been raised considerably. Which in itself was unusual for Gerry.
She hadn’t asked him about it though. She hadn’t wanted to risk upsetting him again. She just wanted things to get back to normal. And, after all, she trusted him, didn’t she?
Anne still felt deliciously sleepy. She thought she would give herself another ten minutes or so. In fact, she drifted off into a deep sleep again and did not wake for well over an hour.
When she did wake, she sat up in bed at once. This time completely without her feeling of renewed wellbeing. The clock on the wall told her that it was eight thirty-five a.m. There was no cup of tea on her bedside table. And when Gerry was up first he always brought her a cuppa. She was also surprised he hadn’t woken her. He knew it made her feel rotten if she lay in for too long.
She got out of bed, pulled her dressing gown over her shoulders, and trotted downstairs, calling out Gerry’s name as she did so. There was no reply.
Could he perhaps still be in the garden? The conservatory off the hall afforded a pretty good view of most of their little plot. She could see no sign of him, nor of the gardening paraphernalia, from wheelbarrow to spade and fork, which he was inclined to leave all over the place when he was at work.
She opened the garden door and called out. Still no reply. Where could he be? Feeling distinctly anxious again she headed for the kitchen. There was a note on the kitchen table.
‘Just popped out for a walk, darling. You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll do a bit of shopping and pick us up something nice for dinner tonight. Gx.’
Anne reached for her mobile phone at once and tried to call her husband. The call went straight to voicemail.
For God’s sake, not again, she thought, as she left a brief, somewhat curt, message asking him to call her back.
Half an hour or so passed during which she tried his number twice more, each time getting no response.
She made tea for herself and took it into the conservatory, all the while keeping her phone close by. Her anxiety was growing. Where was he and what was he doing?