‘Well, perhaps you should call him,’ suggested Vogel. ‘I don’t think you should be here alone at the moment.’
He became aware then of some sort of commotion outside. Sam Ferguson burst into the room. His hair was tousled, and his jacket was hanging off one shoulder. He looked dishevelled, as if he had been in a tussle.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Vogel?’ he stormed.
The two uniformed officers who had been on sentry duty outside were hard on his heels.
‘Sorry, boss,’ said the taller and younger one. ‘We tried to hold him back. He gave us the slip. Suddenly took off, like. To be honest, we didn’t expect him to be that fleet on his feet... ’
Vogel held up a hand to stem the flow.
‘It’s all right, PC Verity,’ he said.
Then he turned to face Sam Ferguson.
‘I have arrested your son, Mr Ferguson,’ Vogel told him, ‘on suspicion of the murder of his wife. And if you don’t calm down and behave yourself, I shall probably arrest you too.’
‘I am calm,’ replied Ferguson, with the slightly manic certainty of someone who was anything but. ‘I just want to know why you are arresting my son, and why I wasn’t told. I should have been told.’
‘We are not in the habit of announcing in advance an impending arrest—’ Vogel began, only to be interrupted by a clearly still angry Amelia.
‘Nobody could tell you anything today, Sam, because nobody knew where the heck you were,’ she said edgily. ‘What were you doing, Sam?’
Sam stared at his wife, then glanced towards Vogel, and back again.
‘I was working, Amelia, like I always am, I told you that, you knew that,’ he said pointedly. ‘And I hope you told the police that.’
‘No, I didn’t, Sam, because it’s not true. You admitted that on the phone. Things to do, you said. You were gone for six damned hours, the day after... after... that dreadful thing happened. And I have no idea where you were, do I? I know where you should have been. Here, with your family. You may even have been able to stop this... this... ridiculous arrest... ’
Vogel had no time for this. It was turning into a domestic which did not seem to be of any interest to him. Perhaps Sam Ferguson was having an affair. Vogel didn’t care. Felix would be taken to the nearest police station with a custody suite and holding cells, which was Barnstaple, eight or nine miles away. Vogel wanted to get there himself as fast as possible in order to begin the interviewing process whilst the young man was still reeling from the shock of his arrest.
‘Mrs Ferguson, the arrest of your son is a police matter over which your husband could not possibly have any control,’ he interjected. ‘However, I am glad that Mr Ferguson has now returned, and hopefully you will be able to give each other some mutual support. We will keep you informed on further developments.’
Twenty-One
Ultimately Vogel and Saslow began the first formal interview with Felix Ferguson just over an hour after his arrest. DC Perkins was charged with the task of liaising with DI Peters in the Major Incident Room at Bideford in case of any further developments.
Felix had volunteered nothing on the journey from Northam, nor whilst he had been processed through the custody suite, not as lengthy a process as usual as his fingerprints had already been taken and DNA extracted, as a matter of routine, for the purposes of elimination if nothing more. But he appeared, to Vogel’s relief, to be reasonably sober and perfectly lucid, in spite of having clearly already started drinking before his arrest. Vogel had on more than one occasion been forced to attempt to conduct interviews with subjects under the influence of drink and drugs. It was not normally a successful process.
Felix turned down the opportunity of having a solicitor present, which allowed the interview to proceed more quickly than might otherwise have been the case.
‘I don’t need a solicitor because I didn’t do it,’ he said.
Vogel ensured that the video equipment was activated, and recited the names of those present and the time and date, as is standard.
For just a few seconds he studied the man sitting opposite him across the simple table. As always, he asked himself if he really thought this was a human being capable of taking the life of another; not a scientific approach, but something he could never help doing.
In this case his gut instinct told him that Felix Ferguson was probably not a murderer. But there was now significant evidence to the contrary, which couldn’t be ignored. Also, everything about Felix, from his appearance through to his behaviour since his wife was killed, suggested that he was a weak man. And Vogel’s many years of police experience had taught him that weak people were inclined to be the most dangerous.
‘Mr Ferguson, we have arrested you on suspicion of the murder of your wife because, since we last spoke to you, fresh evidence has come to our attention which incriminates you,’ said Vogel stiffly. ‘Do you understand?’
Felix nodded.
‘I understand. But I don’t know what this evidence can be, because I’m innocent. I didn’t kill my wife. I loved my wife.’
‘Well, let me explain.’
Vogel glanced towards the uniformed woman constable standing by the door.
‘Could you bring in the evidence bag, please,’ he asked.
The PC was gone for less than a minute during which nobody spoke in the small interview room. When she returned she was dragging behind her a large clear plastic evidence bag and its clearly heavy contents.
‘Do you recognize the contents of this bag?’ asked Vogel.
Felix leaned towards the bag.
‘Well, it’s a rope, probably a boat line.’
He paused.
‘Oh my God, is that the rope which hanged Jane?’
‘Yes, it is, Mr Ferguson. And you were also correct when you said that it is a rope which has been used as a line on a boat. Do you recognize it?’
‘Recognize it? What do you mean. One boat line is pretty much like another. It looks like it’s quite new, hasn’t been used a lot. There’s no fraying... ’
He stopped in his tracks.
‘I had new lines fitted to the Stevie-Jo this season. Are you saying that is my rope?’
‘We have reason to believe so, Mr Ferguson. The rope is covered in your fingerprints.’
‘Well, that’s absurd nonsense,’ blustered Felix.
‘I’m afraid it’s the truth.’
‘Well, someone must have taken it off the boat. You can’t make them secure, you know. Not on a river mooring.’
‘When did you last take your boat out?’
‘About a week ago.’
‘And did you notice anything missing then?’
‘Well no, but if someone had nicked a line, I wouldn’t necessarily. There’s one at the stern and two aft, port and starboard, and I keep another couple in a locker. There’s no key or anything. Anyway, I suppose it could have been taken after that.’
‘So, you didn’t remove that line from your boat yourself, and take it to your home?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. Why on earth would I?’
It was apparent that Felix was not thinking clearly, or he wouldn’t have needed to ask that question. Vogel did not wish to state the obvious. Nor to lead the interviewee. He made no response.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ continued Felix, as grim realisation slowly dawned. ‘You think I took the rope home in order to use it to hang my Jane, don’t you? Well it’s nonsense, I tell you. I still believe she committed suicide. I’ve always believed that. Look, it makes sense. If she was planning to hang herself, she would certainly know where to find a suitable rope. On my boat. It’s obvious, isn’t it?’