‘No, I haven’t, boss. I work for you. I don’t get the time to watch nearly enough television.’
Vogel smiled.
‘I’ve no doubt you’re right there,’ he admitted. ‘All the same, if Barham was murdered by an assailant aboard his boat, we do still have the small problem of how anybody could have safely got off the boat whilst leaving their victim to die in what was presumably meant to look like just a tragic, and very stupid, accident at sea.’
‘I know, boss. I don’t have the answer to that, either, I’m afraid.’
‘Neither do I, Saslow, neither do I. Whoever it was would have had to be a bit of a superman. Or superwoman, I suppose. Now that would be something.’
Saslow smiled.
‘Or just a professional, boss,’ she offered. ‘Someone with top-level military training. SAS perhaps.’
‘Perhaps, Saslow, but we don’t have anybody of that sort remotely in the frame, do we?’
‘No, I don’t suppose we do. There is another possibility, though, boss. The obvious, simple one. Assuming it is George Barham lying dead and smashed up out at Hartland Point, which will be proved pretty soon one way or another by DNA and dental records and so on, what about if he really did take his silly little boat out in a moment of madness without checking the weather forecast. And all on his own. Then the weather blew up big time, he got caught in a storm of considerable magnitude, which neither he nor his boat could cope with. The boat was wrecked, and he died. Nobody else was involved at all. The whole thing really is a stupid tragic accident. And the fact that his next-door neighbour died violently, and was almost certainly murdered, the day before, really is just a coincidence. But you don’t believe that, boss, do you?’
‘No, Saslow,’ said Vogel. ‘I do not believe that for one moment. Now come on, put your foot down. Ferguson senior first at Northam, and then Ferguson junior back at the nick. I think both of them are holding out on us. And if we put enough pressure on them maybe, just maybe, one of them will break.’
Twenty-Seven
It took Vogel and Saslow just under half an hour to drive from Hartland to Northam. By the time they arrived, there was a small group of reporters and photographers outside the Ferguson home, six or seven of them. There was also a TV news team.
‘Good to see the British press corps is still so on the ball,’ muttered Vogel unenthusiastically.
The whole assembled throng surged forward as the two officers climbed out of the car and headed for the front door of All Seasons. The door opened before either of them had knocked or rung the bell. At first it seemed to have done so all on its own as neither Vogel nor Saslow could see anyone in the hallway. Then they realized that Amelia Ferguson, who had presumably been peeping out of a window at what was going on outside, was standing pressed against the wall, half hidden behind the open door.
‘Come in quickly,’ she muttered. ‘Please. They’re awful those people, awful. They’re just vultures.’
Vogel was inclined to agree. On occasions, anyway. But as a policeman of long standing he also believed that a free press was a necessary evil without which a free society could not function as such. And the press did have its uses. Like so many in the police force, he’d fed journalists information over the years and used them in all sorts of ways to assist his enquiries. Sometimes without them quite realising what he was up to.
He and Saslow stepped inside. Mrs Ferguson slammed the door shut behind them, still keeping out of camera shot.
Amelia looked as if she might have been crying. Vogel was mildly surprised. Perhaps the woman did have feelings, after all.
He wished her good evening and told her that he and Saslow would like to speak to her husband.
‘He’s not here,’ replied Mrs Ferguson sharply. She sounded angry and upset. ‘He went off again, and again I’ve no idea where he’s gone. Somebody sent him a text. He read it and he just left. Leaving me with the children, not knowing when he’ll be back or what’s going on... ’ She paused, a thought clearly occurring to her.
‘Look, I don’t want you to think, I mean, I am sure Sam has a good reason for whatever he’s doing. He’s probably just protecting me... He might have gone to the police station... I just don’t know... I don’t want to cause any more trouble... ’
Vogel thought he understood what she was getting at. This was a difficult woman with a naturally arrogant nature, although there wasn’t much sign of that at the moment. But there was little doubt of her loyalty to her husband and to her son, albeit not to her dead daughter-in-law.
‘Mrs Ferguson, I don’t think you are likely to cause much more trouble than has already befallen your family,’ the DCI remarked gently. ‘I think you may be afraid of being disloyal to him, but I urge you to give us all the help you can, for your husband’s sake, possibly for his safety. There has been a disturbing development. We need to speak to Mr Ferguson as a matter of urgency.’
‘But I just told you, I don’t know where he is,’ said Amelia, looking even more distressed.
‘All right, let’s go through everything again, shall we?’ persisted Vogel. ‘Mr Ferguson received a text and then left without any real explanation, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Amelia agreed with only a little reluctance. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Oh, you only just missed him actually. About ten or fifteen minutes ago.’
‘I see, and he didn’t tell you who the text was from?’
‘No. He told me nothing. He hasn’t told me anything for the best part of two days.’
‘And am I correct to assume you were unable to see the screen of his phone?’
‘That’s correct, yes, I couldn’t see it, he turned his back on me, then put his phone back in his pocket.’
‘All right, now there may be a way of finding out who texted your husband,’ said Vogel, who had a bit of a love affair with modern technology, had been accused of preferring his computer to people, and was known by his colleagues as ‘the geek’.
‘Does Mr Ferguson have an iPad which might be linked to his phone?’
‘He has an iPad,’ replied Amelia. ‘Though he doesn’t use it much nowadays because the phones are so good, and he always has his with him. But I have no idea whether or not it’s linked to his phone. In fact, I didn’t even know that was possible.’
‘Do you know where the iPad is, can you show it to us?’
‘Yes, it’s in the office, in the desk drawer.’
Amelia Ferguson led the way upstairs to a room on the street side clearly used as an office. Everything in it, the Mac desktop, the furniture, the books, looked clean, shiny, and in its place. Vogel was not surprised when Amelia removed the iPad from the first drawer she opened.
He switched it on. No password. He was straight in. And he was quickly able to ascertain that the tablet was linked to a mobile phone.
He opened messages, and there was the text Sam had received earlier.
Meet me at the old chapel outside Eastleigh, soon as you can. I have something to show you. It’s vital that we talk. Gerry.
Vogel felt the back of his neck stiffen as he read it and saw who it was from.
Without comment he passed the iPad to Saslow.
The DS gasped involuntarily as she looked at the screen.
‘G-Gerry Barham?’ she queried haltingly.
‘Must be. The number’s plumbed in the phone too, indicating regular contact. Only this message is timed at 17.43 and we certainly know it can’t be from Gerry, don’t we?’
Saslow was about to respond, but Amelia Ferguson got there first.
‘What are you talking about?’ she asked. ‘What’s Gerry Barham got to do with anything?’