Fox Evil (19 page)

"How dare you speak to me like that?" demanded Prue as if he were still a bolshie teenager. "You've done nothing but criticize me since you married that girl."

Jack gave an angry laugh. "Point proved…
Mother
. You only ever remember what you want to remember, and the rest goes into a hole in your brain. If you have any sense you'll replay that conversation you say you heard, and try to recall the bits you've left out… it's damn bloody strange that the only person who believes you is that idiot Bartlett woman." There was the sound of a voice in the background. "I have to go. Lindy's parents are leaving." He paused and when he spoke again his tone was final. "You're on your own with this one, so just remember to tell the police and any solicitors who turn up that the rest of us were in the dark. We've all worked too hard to see the business go down the drain because you can't keep your mouth shut. Dad's already protected this end by transferring it to Lindy and me. Tomorrow he's going to ring-fence your end so we don't lose Shenstead in slander damages." The line went dead as he hung up.

Prue's immediate reaction was a physical one. The saliva drained so drastically from her mouth that she couldn't swallow and with desperation she returned the receiver to its rest and filled a glass at the tap. She began by blaming everyone except herself.
Eleanor had done far worse than she had… Dick was such a wet he'd been frightened off… Belinda had poisoned Jack's mind against her from the start… If anyone should know what James was like, it was Elizabeth… All Prue had done was take the poor girl's side… and, by default, Ailsa's…

In any case she knew what she'd heard. Of course, she did.

"…you're always rewriting history… you remember what you want to remember…"

Was Dick right? Had Ailsa been talking
about
James and not
to
him? She couldn't remember now. The truth was the one she had created during her drive home from the Copse when she'd filled in the gaps to make sense of what she'd heard, and at the back of her mind was the memory of a police officer suggesting exactly that.

"No one remembers anything with absolute accuracy, Mrs. Weldon," he had told her. "You need to be very sure indeed that what you're saying is true, because you may have to stand up in court and swear to it. Are you that sure?"

"No," she had answered. "I am not."

But Eleanor had persuaded her differently.

Fox knew a file must exist-James was too meticulous about his correspondence-but a search of the cabinets against the wall failed to produce it. In the end, he came across it by accident. It was at the bottom of one of the dusty desk drawers, with "Miscellaneous" written in the top right-hand corner. He wouldn't have bothered with it except that it looked less battered than the rest and suggested a more recent collating of information than the files on Lockyer-Fox history that were stacked on top of it. More out of curiosity than with any recognition that he was about to strike the mother lode, he opened the cover and found James's correspondence with Nancy Smith on top of Mark Ankerton's reports on his progress in finding her. He took the entire file because there was no reason not to. Nothing would destroy the Colonel quicker than knowing his secret was out.

Nancy rapped lightly on the side of the bus before she mounted the steps and appeared in the open doorway. "Hi," she said cheerfully, "mind if we come in?"

Nine adults were grouped around a table on the same side as the door. They sat the length of a U-shaped banquette in purple vinyl, three with their backs to Nancy, three facing her, and three in front of the unbearded window. On the other side of the narrow aisle was an elderly stove with a Calor gas bottle beside it, and a kitchen unit with an inset sink. Two of the coach's original bench seats remained in the area between the door and the banquette-presumably for the use of passengers while the vehicle was moving-and dazzling pink and purple curtaining hung from rails around the interior to provide partitioning for privacy. In a psychedelic way it reminded Nancy of the layout of the narrowboats her parents had hired for canal holidays when she was a child.

The occupants had been eating lunch. Dirty plates littered the table and the air was redolent with the smells of garlic and cigarette smoke. Her sudden entrance and the deceptive speed with which she advanced up the aisle in three long strides took them by surprise, and she was amused to see the comical expression on the face of the fat woman at the end of the banquette. Caught in the process of lighting a joint-perhaps fearing a raid-her black eyebrows shot like inverted
Vs
toward her cropped, peroxided hair. For no reason at all-except that beauty was the least of her attributes and she was dressed in flowing purple-Nancy decided this was Bella.

She raised a friendly hand to a group of children who were clustered around a small battery-operated television behind a half-drawn curtain, then positioned herself between Bella and the sink, effectively pinning her to her seat. "Nancy Smith," she introduced herself before gesturing to the two men following close on her heels. "Mark Ankerton and James Lockyer-Fox."

Ivo, sitting with his back to the window, made an attempt to rise, but he was hampered by the table in front of him and the people wedged against him on either side. "We do mind," he snapped, jerking his head urgently at Zadie who still had freedom of movement opposite Bella.

He was too late. With James urging him forward, Mark found himself guarding the end of the table, while James became the stop that closed the exit at Zadie's end. "The door was open," Nancy said good-humoredly, "and in these parts, that constitutes an invitation to enter."

"There's a 'keep out' notice on the rope," Ivo told her aggressively. "You gonna tell me you can't read?"

Nancy glanced from Mark to James. "Did you see a 'keep out' notice?" she asked in surprise.

"No," said James honestly, "I didn't see a rope either. Admittedly my eyesight's not as good as it was, but I think I'd have noticed if our way was barred."

Mark shook his head. "It's completely free entry from the Copse," he assured Ivo courteously. "Perhaps you'd like to check for yourself. Your vehicles are parked at an angle to each other so you should be able to see from the window whether the rope's there or not. I can guarantee it isn't."

Ivo twisted around to peer along the length of the bus. "It's fallen on the fucking ground," he said angrily. "Which of you idiots tied that one?"

No one volunteered.

"It was Fox," said a child's nervous voice from behind James.

Ivo and Bella spoke in unison.

"Shut your mouth," growled Ivo.

"Hush, darlin'," said Bella, trying to rise against the apparently casual pressure of Nancy's arm, resting on the banquette back.

Mark, as ever the observer, turned to look in the direction from which the voice had come. He was becoming obsessed with Lockyer-Fox genes, he thought, as he stared into Wolfie's startling blue eyes beneath the tangled thatch of platinum blond hair. Or perhaps the word "fox" had created associations in his mind. He nodded to the boy. "Hey, mate, what's happening?" he said, aping the style of his numerous nephews while wondering what the child had meant. Had a fox gnawed through the rope?

Wolfie's lower lip trembled. "I dunno," he muttered, his courage ebbing away as fast as it had come. He had wanted to protect Nancy because he knew she'd untied the rope, but Ivo's angry reaction had frightened him. "No one never tells me nothing."

"So what's 'fox'? A pet?"

Bella gave a sudden hard shove against Nancy to push her out of the way and came up against an immovable force. "Look, lady, I wanna stand up," she grunted. "It's my sodding bus. You got no right to come in here and throw your weight around."

"I'm just standing beside you, Bella," said Nancy amiably. "It's you who's throwing her weight around. We came for a chat, that's all… not to exchange blows." She jerked a thumb at the unit behind her. "If it's of any interest, my back's rammed up against your sink, and if you don't stop shoving your unit's going to collapse… which seems a shame, since you've obviously installed a tank and a pump, and the system will run dry if your pipes rupture."

Bella assessed her for a moment, then relaxed her pressure. "A bit of a wise-arse, eh? How do you know my name?"

Nancy lifted an amused eyebrow. "It's written on your bus in large letters."

"You a cop?"

"No. I'm a Captain in the Royal Engineers. James Lockyer-Fox is a retired Colonel from the Cavalry, and Mark Ankerton is a solicitor."

"Shi-i-it!"
said Zadie ironically. "It's the heavy brigade, folks. They've given up on the candyfloss and sent in the armored division." She sent a mischievous glance around the table. "What do you reckon they're after? Surrender?"

Bella quelled her with a frown before assessing Nancy a second time. "At least let the kid get by," she said then. "He's scared out of his wits, poor mite. He'll be better off with the others round the telly."

"Sure," Nancy agreed, nodding to James. "We can pass him along in front of us."

The old man shifted to make room, reaching out a hand to guide Wolfie forward, but the child dodged back. "I ain't going," he said.

"No one's gonna hurt you, darlin'," said Bella.

Wolfie backed farther away, poised for flight. "Fox said he was a murderer," he muttered, staring at James, "and I ain't going down that end of the bus in case it's true. There ain't no way out."

There was an uncomfortable silence that was only broken when James laughed. "You're a wise lad," he said to the child. "In your shoes I wouldn't go down that end of the bus either. Is it Fox who taught you about traps?"

Wolfie had never seen so many creases around anyone's eyes. "I ain't saying I believe you'se a murderer," he told him. "I'se just saying I'se ready."

James nodded. "That shows you have good sense. My wife's dog walked into a trap not so long ago. There was no way out for him either."

"What happened to him?"

"He died… rather painfully as a matter of fact. His leg was broken by the trap and his muzzle was crushed with a hammer. I'm afraid the man who caught him wasn't a nice person."

Wolfie recoiled abruptly.

"How do you know it was a man?" asked Ivo.

"Because whoever killed him left him on my terrace," said James, turning to look at him, "and he was too big for a woman to carry-or so I've always thought." His eyes came to rest thoughtfully on Bella.

"Don't look at me," she said indignantly. "I don't hold with cruelty. What sort of dog was he, anyway?"

James didn't answer.

"A Great Dane," said Mark, wondering why James had told him the dog had died of old age. "Elderly… half blind… with the sweetest nature on God's earth. Everyone adored him. He was called Henry."

Bella gave a shrug of compassion. "That's pretty sad. We had a dog called Frisbee that got run over by some bastard in a Porsche… took us months to get over it. The guy thought he was Michael Schumacher."

A murmur of sympathy ran round the table. They all knew the pain of losing a pet. "You should get another one," said Zadie, who owned the Alsatians. "It's the only way to stop the heartache."

There were nods of approval.

"So who's Fox?" asked Nancy.

Their faces blanked immediately, all sympathy gone.

She glanced at Wolfie, recognizing the eyes and nose. "How about you, friend? Are you going to tell me who Fox is?"

The child wriggled his shoulders. He liked being called "friend," but he could feel the undercurrents that swirled about the bus. He didn't know what was causing them but he understood that it would be a great deal better if these people weren't here when Fox came back. "He's my dad, 'n' he's going to be right mad 'bout you being here. Reckon you ought to leave before he gets back. He don't-
doesn't
-like strangers."

James bent his head, searching Wolfie's eyes. "Will it worry you if we stay?"

Wolfie leaned forward in unconscious mimicry. "Reckon so. He's got a razor, see, and it won't be just you he gets mad with… it'll likely be Bella, too… and that ain't fair 'coz she's a nice lady."

"Mm." James straightened. "In that case I think we should go." He gave a small bow to Bella. "Thank you for allowing us to talk to you, madam. It's been a most instructive experience. May I offer some advice?"

Bella stared at him for a moment, then gave an abrupt nod. "Okay."

"Question why you're here. I fear you've been told only half the truth."

"What's the whole truth?"

"I'm not entirely sure," said James slowly, "but I suspect that Clausewitz's dictum, 'war is an extension of politics by other means,' may be at the root of it." He saw her puzzled frown. "If I'm wrong, then no matter… if not, my door is usually open." He gestured to Nancy and Mark to follow him.

Bella caught at Nancy's fleece. "What's he talking about?" she asked.

Nancy glanced down at her. "Clausewitz justified war by arguing that it had political direction… in other words, it's not just brutality or blood lust. These days, it's the favorite argument that terrorists put forward to validate what they do… politics by other means-i.e., terror-when legitimate politics fail."

"What's that gotta do with us?" Nancy shrugged. "His wife's dead and someone killed her foxes and her dog," she said, "so I'm guessing he doesn't think you're here by accident." She released herself from Bella's grasp and followed the two men. As she joined them at the bottom of the steps, a car drew up in front of the barrier on the road and set the Alsatians barking. All three glanced at it briefly, but as none of them recognized the occupant, and the guardians and their leashed dogs moved to obscure the view, they turned toward the path through the Copse and headed back toward the Manor. Debbie Fowler, in the process of reaching for her camera, cursed herself roundly for being too late. She had recognized James immediately from her coverage of his wife's inquest. Now, that, alongside her shot of Julian Bartlett, would have been a picture worth having, she thought. Discord at the heart of village life: Colonel Lockyer-Fox, subject of a recent police investigation, drops in for a friendly chat with his new neighbors while Mr. Julian Bartlett, vermin-hater and player, threatens to put the hounds on them. She opened her door and climbed out, pulling the camera after her. "Local press," she told the two masked figures. "Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" "The dogs'll have you if you come any closer," warned a boy's voice. She laughed as she clicked the shutter. "Great quote," she said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think this whole script had been written in advance."