Anne raised her head to look across at Vogel. There were no tears to be seen. Just an expression in her eyes of total devastation.
‘Do you know any more? When was he found? Are they sure? Are they sure it’s Gerry?’
Vogel answered as simply and factually as he could.
‘Enough of the boat remained intact for the lifeboat men who found it to fairly quickly identify the wreckage as being from a boat of the same sort as your husband’s, and a little later they found the section of the hull bearing its name. The Lady Anne. After you, I suppose?’
Anne Barham closed her eyes briefly. Her face tightened as if she were in pain. Then she nodded in a distracted sort of way.
‘Yes. He changed the boat’s name as soon as he bought it. I read somewhere that is believed to be unlucky... ’
She uttered a small mirthless laugh.
‘Yes, well, it was a rescue helicopter which first spotted a significant amount of wreckage off Hartland Point about two hours ago,’ Vogel continued. ‘Hartland lifeboat was quickly at the scene, and its crew later discovered the body of a man wedged in a crevice of the rocks, partially hidden from sight. I was notified, as requested, as soon as it became reasonable to assume that the body was that of your husband.’
‘Assume? You mean there is still some doubt?’
‘Very little, to be honest,’ said Vogel. ‘As I am sure you already realize. But, of course, we will need to have the body formally identified.’
Anne Barham gasped.
‘I am not sure that I could do that,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ said Vogel quickly. ‘Another relative, or anyone who was close to your husband, can make the formal identification.’
‘My daughter,’ said Anne at once. ‘Maybe she will do it. She’s on her way from London. Or at least I hope she’s on her way. I called her earlier. Told her what had happened. That her father... her father was thought to be missing at sea. She couldn’t understand it. Well, how could anyone? It just seems so unlikely. All of it. Why on earth, why on God’s earth did Gerry take that bloody boat out on a day like this?’
Anne Barham had been speaking quite calmly. The last few sentences once more turned into a wail of anguish. She waved a hand at the sitting-room window. Rain was lashing against the glass, the sky was a leaden dark grey, something somewhere outside was being rattled by the powerful wind, the trees at the bottom of the garden were leaning at a dangerous angle.
‘How could anyone survive at sea in a small boat?’ questioned Anne in a voice so small it was nearly a whisper.
‘Mrs Barham, do you know what time your daughter will get here?’ asked Saslow.
It was clear to both officers that the woman should not be left alone.
‘No, I don’t. I could call her. But what shall I tell her? She’ll be driving. Should I tell her on the phone that her father is dead? It might be dangerous, mightn’t it, to give her such a shock?’
Saslow looked towards Vogel for guidance.
‘Only you can decide that, Mrs Barham,’ he said. ‘Because of what you have already told her, your daughter is probably already expecting the worst. But perhaps you might like to wait a little while, so that you have time to clear your thoughts, before you decide when and how you will break the tragic news to her.’
Anne Barham nodded.
‘All right,’ she stammered uncertainly.
‘Meanwhile, is there anyone else we can contact who could be with you?’
‘I don’t want anybody else, and I don’t need anyone else,’ said Anne, who clearly did need support quite badly.
‘Well, we can at least get a family liaison officer over... ’
‘I don’t need a family liaison officer,’ said Anne stubbornly.
‘Look, we’ll get one over here, and then you can decide later whether you want him or her to stay with you,’ said Vogel. ‘It is standard procedure in a case like this.’
‘Is it?’ asked Anne Barham, her voice suddenly sharp. ‘I didn’t think the police were required to provide a FLO in a case of accidental death, however tragic?’
Vogel did a double take. Anne Barham had naturally used the police vernacular. Perhaps there was more to this woman than at first seemed. On the other hand, perhaps she was just a fan of crime fiction. Either way, this was not the time to push her on that.
‘Well, no, but... ’ he began.
‘But you are already treating my husband’s death as suspicious, is that it, Mr Vogel?’
‘Well, not really, not yet, however at this stage all options remain open, and we will conduct a thorough investigation into the loss of your husband’s boat, the events leading up to it, and his subsequent death,’ said Vogel. ‘It is more than possible, probably likely even, that your husband’s death was a tragic accident. But well... ’
‘But, it’s the second violent death in this small community in less than two days, and the other person who died is our next-door neighbour,’ volunteered Anne.
Vogel shot her a look of guarded admiration. He didn’t doubt for one moment that her grief was both overwhelming and totally genuine. But Anne’s brain had snapped back into action quickly enough.
‘Absolutely,’ he said.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ responded Anne, just slightly dithery again. ‘My Gerry was a very ordinary man, and he led a very ordinary life. None of this makes any sense. No sense at all.’
An ordinary man, mused Vogel as he and Saslow drove out of Estuary Vista Close a half hour or so later. Was he indeed? And if Gerry was so very ordinary, how the hell had he become involved in the sequence of events which, Vogel now strongly suspected, had probably led to his death, and were beginning to look as if they were anything but ordinary?
Twenty-Four
After leaving the Barham home Saslow and Vogel drove straight to Hartland Point. Gerry Barham’s body had been found at the foot of a cliff to one side of a roughly hewn cove, which, the RNLI reported, was inaccessible from the sea due to the rock formation just offshore, and presented problems for approach by helicopter due to the cliff overhang.
There was, however, a steep path, largely taking the form of steps roughly hewn in the rock face, leading down to the cove.
Saslow followed the clifftop track and parked as close as she could to where she believed the path to be, as indicated by the other vehicles already there: two police patrol cars, a CSI van, a Coastguard Cliff Rescue truck, and pathologist Karen Crow’s little white Golf. The two detectives made their way to the cliff edge where they could see a uniformed constable standing looking down at the scene below. They introduced themselves and also peered over the cliff. A tent had been erected over what must be the place where the body lay. Vogel already knew that the body had been moved once as, when it was spotted, it had been half covered by the still incoming tide. CSIs were scurrying in and out of the tent.
The rain had stopped, but it was still pretty blowy. Vogel pulled his inadequate coat close to his body and stepped forwards.
‘Come on, Saslow,’ said Vogel, with a lot more bravado than he felt. ‘Let’s get down there and have a proper look.’
Vogel was not especially afraid of heights. But he was a city boy through and through. He never felt comfortable with steep paths and uneven ground, the Atlantic Ocean was raging down below, and gusts of wind were hitting him straight in the face. Vogel was way out of his comfort zone.
He noticed a system of ropes and pulleys were in place, and wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse.
‘You’ll have to wait a minute, sir,’ said the uniform. ‘Cliff Rescue are on site and there’s a safety officer who will rope you up and take you down.’