Vogel turned to her, his expression and his voice grave.
‘Mrs Ferguson, I have to tell you that Gerry Barham has been found dead following an incident at sea, and we are treating his death as suspicious.’
He reached to take the iPad from Saslow and passed it to Amelia.
‘As you can see, the text Mr Ferguson received appears to be from Mr Barham asking your husband to meet him urgently. But we know Gerry Barham cannot have sent it, because he was already dead.’
‘I don’t understand... ’ said Amelia.
‘I’m sure you don’t Mrs Ferguson. Do you know this chapel by any chance? Has your husband got any connection with it at all?’
‘I know the chapel, yes. Everybody does. Somebody from London bought it years ago to convert into a house, but they couldn’t get planning permission. They started to build and were stopped halfway through. It’s a bit of an eyesore now. Nothing to do with Sam. I have no idea why he would meet anybody there... ’
‘All right, Mrs Ferguson. Look, I am in little doubt now that your husband is in danger. And to be on the safe side, I’m sending a uniformed team round here. Someone will be with you twenty-four seven until we’ve sorted this. They’ll keep those vultures at bay for you, too. Meanwhile, don’t open the door to anyone—’
Amelia interrupted him.
‘My God,’ she said. ‘Whatever is going on?’
‘Try not to worry, Mrs Ferguson,’ Vogel continued, with a confidence he did not feel. ‘Saslow and I are going to find your husband and bring him home to you.’
Saslow was ahead of him. Literally. She was already on her way down the stairs. Vogel followed hard on her heels.
‘As soon as we’re in the car let’s get Peters on the hands-free, we need her to send backup, and make sure we know exactly where this damned chapel is, too,’ said Vogel. ‘And you know what, Dawn, if we don’t get there smartish, I think we’ll have another death on our hands.’
Twenty-Eight
The old chapel, about a mile out of Eastleigh up a narrow country lane, had been built in the nineteenth century at the height of Methodism, in common with most rural chapels, almost all now abandoned, throughout Britain.
Many have been successfully converted into residential dwellings. This one was still surrounded by elderly scaffolding and piles of debris bearing witness to the unsuccessful attempt to do just that, which Amelia Ferguson had referred to.
Saslow, who had broken every speed limit on the way, pulled their car to a halt with a shriek of brakes in the layby opposite the dilapidated once-white building. There were already two other vehicles parked there. Sam Ferguson’s blue Range Rover, which they recognized at once, and a business-like looking black Land Rover Defender. Saslow and Vogel were out in a flash, running at full pelt across the lane and the overgrown and rubble-strewn patch of rough ground directly in front of the chapel. A door at the far end, which looked as if it had until very recently been boarded up, stood slightly ajar.
Vogel tried to push it further open but failed. He squeezed his way in followed by Saslow.
Once inside he couldn’t see anything at first. There were a number of windows, of course, but these were also boarded up, and there was little light.
Vogel could just make out the figure of a man, who seemed to be turning to look at the two officers.
‘Mr Ferguson,’ Vogel called. ‘Is that you?’
At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a movement. He glanced upwards to where there was a precarious looking balcony, high in the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. He could hear something too. A scraping noise. Suddenly he saw a large object begin to appear over the edge, directly above where Sam Ferguson was standing.
‘Move Sam, get out the way, move,’ Vogel yelled at the top of his voice.
Sam only then seemed to register what was happening. He glanced upwards just as the large object, revealing itself to be a steel beam of the sort used in construction, toppled, or most likely was pushed, off the balcony edge. Simultaneously, and with perhaps unexpected speed and agility, Sam threw himself sideways, landing full length on the uneven chapel floor.
The beam, an RSJ about ten feet long and most likely weighing between three and four hundred pounds, crashed to the ground alongside Sam, sending up a cloud of dust and dirt, and missing him by inches.
‘Stay down, Sam,’ called Vogel, realising as he spoke that he had no idea if the older man would even be able to get up.
Ferguson stayed down.
Vogel’s eyes began to adjust more fully. He peered through the gloom. There must be someone up on the balcony. That RSJ hadn’t come crashing down all on its own. The balcony hadn’t collapsed, it was still intact, in spite of its precarious appearance. And he didn’t think it was any coincidence that Sam Ferguson had been standing directly below the beam when it fell.
There was someone up there all right. Someone who knew how to go about causing fatal damage to another human being. A killer. Someone who had almost certainly already killed twice.
Vogel was listening as well as looking. He thought he heard footsteps. Maybe the sound of someone coming down a staircase, if indeed there was a staircase, but he supposed there would have been once. Or it could have been footsteps on a ladder. And was that the shadow of someone moving towards him and Saslow? Or towards the door? He couldn’t quite make it out.
‘Saslow, get out of here,’ he hissed.
The young DS had not so long ago ended up in grave danger, during a previous investigation which Vogel had headed. She had come close to death and Vogel had felt responsible. He still felt responsible. He wasn’t going to risk that happening to her again.
But, of course, Dawn Saslow had a mind of her own. And she was just as stubborn as her senior officer.
‘No boss, I’m sticking with you,’ she said.
Vogel turned towards her, about to protest. At that moment a dark shape came out of nowhere and at him, cannoning into his body with considerable force. Vogel was knocked sideways onto the ground, the breath forced out of his body. The shape continued to move at speed towards the doorway, its momentum barely slackening, strikingly silhouetted against the incoming light. To Vogel’s horror Saslow, whom he knew to be a fast runner, had already taken off after it. And the dark shape was their killer, Vogel had little doubt of that. He tried to shout, to order her to stop, not that there was any guarantee she would take any notice. But he did not have the breath to do so. All he could do was watch, and pray that Saslow did not catch up with that shape.
Then he heard something, something which at that moment he thought was the best sound he had ever heard. The wail of the siren of a police car, clearly approaching at speed up the lane, its siren growing louder by the second. More than one police car, he swiftly realized.
The shape hesitated. Saslow was gaining ground. Vogel found his voice.
‘Saslow, stop,’ he yelled. ‘Our backup is here.’
Somewhat to his surprise she did stop. Maybe she, too, had remembered her last near-death experience.
The shape, now revealed to be a man, surely it had to be a man, wearing dark clothing, turned briefly back, looking towards where Vogel was lying, but the light was behind him and Vogel could not see his face.
In convoy, two patrol cars arrived up the lane from the direction of Instow, and a police four-wheel-drive, of the sort used by armed-response units, appeared from the other, effectively blocking in the three vehicles already parked in the lay-by.
The man turned to the right, then to the left, presumably looking for a path of escape, and back to the right. Then he took off at a run. As he disappeared from Vogel’s path of vision he appeared to be making a phone call.