One of her favourite sayings was ‘never let the act drop’.
She asked Sam if he had called Trevor Hardwick, and he was at least able to reassure her that the solicitor was on his way to be at their son’s side.
‘It’s gone half past two,’ she said then. ‘One of us needs to go and fetch the twins from school.’
Sam knew Joanna and Stevie finished school at three. From the way Amelia had worded her remark it was obvious to him that she was hoping he would offer to pick them up.
He did so willingly. It would get him out of the house, this time for a thoroughly legitimate reason, and give him something to do.
‘If anyone comes to the door, don’t answer it,’ he instructed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not going to take the press long to get hold of this. It never does.’
He met a couple of teachers outside the school, and a parent whom he knew a little, all of whom expressed only slightly embarrassed regret and condolences over Jane’s death. Sam thanked them and made no further comment. They would know that a murder investigation was underway, of course, but the news of Felix’s arrest had yet to break. That’s when things would turn really grim.
Meanwhile, the twins’ form teacher brought Joanna and Stevie to him, holding each of them by the hand. The children ran to their grandfather pretty much as they normally did, but he was aware that they lacked their usual exuberance. He wasn’t surprised. And things were going to get so much worse.
‘How’ve they been?’ he asked.
‘A little quiet,’ responded Miss Wakefield. She turned to the twins. ‘But you’re such brave little soldiers, aren’t you?’
The twins nodded. Stevie managed a small smile. Sam did not like to think about how brave these two six-year-olds were going to have to be.
He just wanted to get them home. He probably wouldn’t have sent them to school that day. But he hadn’t been around to make the decision, had he? And in the event, it was a good thing that they hadn’t been in the house when their father was arrested. They were quiet on the journey. Selfishly, Sam was quite glad they didn’t want him to talk to them, because, frankly, he no longer knew what to say.
As they pulled into Bay View Road, he was quickly aware that his worst fears had already been realized. A woman photographer was standing by the gate of All Seasons, aiming her camera through the Range Rover windows as he swung his vehicle into the driveway. A young man he vaguely recognized to be a reporter from the Western Morning News, known for being particularly quick off the mark, was standing by the porch.
Sam parked the Range Rover in front of the garage, and, ushering the children before him, headed smartly for the scant protection of the porch, aware of the photographer snapping away all the while.
‘Could you confirm that your son has been arrested for the murder of his wife,’ called out the reporter, who was doing his best to obstruct Sam’s path.
Sam only just resisted the urge to push him out of the way. He just hoped neither of the twins had properly understood what the reporter had said. He sidestepped around the young man then turned to face him, drawing himself up to his full six foot two inches. The photographer was still snapping.
‘I have only one thing to say to you,’ he announced, hopefully with an authority he most certainly did not feel. ‘My grandchildren are six years old. If their picture appears in your paper, any other publication, or anywhere on the internet including social media, I shall not just sue, I shall bring the wrath of God on all your heads.’
Sam wasn’t sure quite what he meant by the last remark, but he had the satisfaction of seeing the reporter take a step backwards and the photographer lower her camera. It made him feel very slightly better, although he suspected that feeling would not last for long.
He opened the front door and shooed the twins inside.
Joanna turned to him, wide-eyed, anxious.
‘Who are those people, Grandad?’ she asked.
‘Nobody you need worry about, kitten,’ Sam assured her, aware that nothing could be much further than the truth.
‘Grandad will make them go away,’ he continued. Another lie.
Amelia was standing in the hallway. To be more exact, she was cowering in the hallway.
‘Oh Sam, it’s started already,’ she cried. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’
Sam went to her, put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. He knew she liked that. Although he didn’t think it would help much that afternoon.
‘There, there,’ he murmured ineffectually. ‘I’m on the case now. And Trevor Hardwick is with Felix. We should hear from him soon—’
‘He’s already called, on the house phone,’ interrupted Amelia. ‘He says Felix has turned down his services, won’t see him. This is just all so awful, Sam. I mean, Felix has been arrested for murder, why on earth would he turn down legal help?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Sam, who actually thought he did have a fair idea of at least some of the reasoning behind his son’s behaviour.
Twenty-Three
At Barnstaple police station the interview with Felix Ferguson continued without offering up anything more of significant assistance to the investigation.
Felix continued to be unable to explain certain aspects of his behaviour, primarily his visit home during the yacht club dinner, to Vogel’s satisfaction. But he stubbornly persisted in proclaiming his innocence.
Vogel asked him again if he could suggest a single alternative suspect. Felix stared glumly at the DCI, his expression suggesting that was a question to which he had no answer. And in any case he had no time to give one.
There was a knock on the interview room door, and DC Perkins’ tousled dark head appeared. The young man looked even more worried than usual.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he began tentatively. ‘Could I have a word?’
Vogel’s first reaction was one of intense irritation. But he knew that no police officer would ever interrupt the interview of a man under arrest for murder except on a matter of extreme urgency. And he had asked Perkins to keep in touch with DI Peters and monitor any further developments.
The DCI announced formally for the benefit of the video recording that he was pausing the proceedings, gestured for Saslow to stay where she was, and left the room hard on Perkins’ heels.
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Perkins again. ‘DI Peters just had a call through from HQ at Exeter, they’ve had a report they thought we might be interested in—’
‘Get on with it, man,’ interrupted Vogel impatiently.
‘Yes, sir. It’s Gerry Barham, as in Gerry and Anne Barham, the couple who nearly drove into little Joanna Ferguson after she’d found her mother’s body. Apparently he’s gone missing, boss.’
‘Gone missing?’ queried Vogel. He and Saslow had interviewed the Barhams early the previous morning. And Gerry Barham was an adult as yet not under any sort of suspicion. The DCI was puzzled. He had yet to understand why this had been brought to his attention.
‘When did he go missing?’ the DCI asked.
‘Uh, well, his wife doesn’t know for sure.’
Perkins explained how Anne Barham had woken at seven to find her husband no longer in bed, and then gone back to sleep.
‘It was about half past eight when she went downstairs and realized he had left the house,’ said Perkins.
The DCI checked his watch. It was three twenty-five p.m.
‘So Gerry Barham’s precise whereabouts have been unknown to his wife for a maximum of between seven and eight-and-a-half daytime hours,’ he said. ‘How does that qualify for him to be described as missing?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I should have said. He’s presumed missing at sea.’