Fox Evil (23 page)

"Then why didn't you report him to the police? There are cases of child abuse in the courts at the moment that go back thirty years. The Colonel would face a lengthy prison sentence if these allegations were true. It would also support your contention that he beat Ailsa if you could demonstrate a history of brutality against his daughter." He paused. "Perhaps I'm being stupid, but I don't understand the logic behind these calls. They were done in such secrecy-even your husband didn't know you were doing it-so what exactly were they supposed to achieve? Is it blackmail? Were you expecting money in return for silence?"

Prue panicked. "It's not my fault," she blurted out. "Ask Eleanor. I told her it wasn't true… but she kept talking about a campaign for justice. She said all the girls from the golf club were phoning in… I thought there'd be dozens of calls… I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Why only women?" asked Mark. "Why weren't men involved?"

"Because they sided with Ja-, the Colonel." She glanced guiltily toward the old man. "I never felt comfortable," she pleaded. "You can tell that by the way I never say anything…" She petered into silence.

James stirred in the chair. "There were one or two calls at the beginning before I installed the answerphone," he told her. "They were much like yours-long silences-but I didn't recognize the numbers. I presume they were friends of yours who felt a single call discharged their duty. You should have asked them. People rarely do as they're told unless they take pleasure from it."

Shame turned to humiliation. It had been a delicious secret between the clique that she and Eleanor had formed around themselves. Nods and winks. Stories about near misses when Dick got up for a pee in the middle of the night and almost caught her crouched over the telephone in the dark. What a fool she must have seemed, trotting out her poodle-like obedience to Eleanor, while the rest of their friends were secretly keeping their hands clean. After all, who would ever know? If Eleanor's plan to "smoke James out" had worked, then they would take credit. If it didn't, Eleanor and Prue would have no idea how two-faced they'd been.

Memories of what Jack had said beat against her brain.
"…the toe-curling embarrassment of your phone calls to that poor old man… the only person who believes you is that idiot Bartlett woman…"
Was that how her friends perceived it, too? Were they as disgusted and disbelieving of her as her family was? She knew the answer, of course, and the last remnants of her self-esteem ran in tears down her fat cheeks. "It wasn't pleasure," she managed. "I never really wanted to do it… I was always frightened."

James lifted a concerned hand as if to absolve her, but Mark overrode him. "You loved every minute of it," he accused her harshly, "and if I have my way, the Colonel will take you to court-either with the help of the police or without. You've slandered his good name… slandered his wife's memory… weakened his health with malicious calls… aided and abetted the killing of his animals and the burglary of his house… placed his life and the life of his granddaughter in danger." He took an angry breath. "Who put you up to it, Mrs. Weldon?"

She hugged herself frantically, his doom-laden words whirling in her mind.
Blackmail… slander… malice… killing… burglary…
"I don't know anything about burglary," she whimpered.

"But you knew that Henry had been killed?"

"Not killed," she protested, "only dead. Eleanor told me."

"How did she say he died?"

She looked scared. "I can't remember. No…
truly
… I can't remember. I know she was pleased about it. She said the chickens were coming home to roost." She pressed her hands to her mouth. "Oh, that sounds so callous. I'm sorry. He was such a sweet dog. Was he really killed?"

"His leg and muzzle were smashed before he was dumped on the Colonel's terrace to die, and we think the same man mutilated
a fox
in front of Ailsa the night she died. We believe you heard him do it. What you described as a punch was the sound of a fox's head being crushed, which is why Ailsa accused him of insanity. That's the man you've been helping, Mrs. Weldon. So who is he?"

Her eyes widened. "I don't know," she whispered, playing the sound of the punch through her mind and remembering, with sudden clarity, the order in which events had happened. "Oh, God, I was wrong. He said 'bitch'
afterward
."

Mark exchanged an inquiring glance with James.

The old man gave a rare smile. "She was wearing Wellingtons," he said. "I expect she kicked him. She couldn't abide cruelty of any sort."

Mark smiled in return before shifting his attention back to Prue. "I need a name, Mrs. Weldon. Who told you to do this?"

"No one… just Eleanor."

"Your friend's been reading from a script. There's no way she could know so many details about the family. Who gave them to her?"

Prue flapped her hands against her mouth in a desperate attempt to find the answers he wanted. "Elizabeth," she wailed. "She went up to London to meet her."

Mark turned left out of the farm drive and headed up toward the Dorchester to Wareham Road. "Where are you going?" asked James.

"Bovington. You have to tell Nancy the truth, James." He rubbed his hand up the back of his head where his headache of the morning had come back in force. "Do you agree?"

"I suppose so," the Colonel said with a sigh, "but she's in no immediate danger, Mark. The only addresses on file are her parents in Hereford and her regimental HQ. There's no reference to Bovington."

"Shit!" Mark swore violently as'he slammed on the brakes, slewed the steering wheel to the left and bumped to a halt on the grass verge. He tugged his mobile from his pocket and punched in 192. "Smith… initial J… Lower Croft, Coomb Farm, Herefordshire." He switched on the overhead light. "Just pray God they've been out all day," he said as he dialed. "Is that Mrs. Smith? Hi, it's Mark Ankerton. Do you remember? Colonel Lockyer-Fox's solicitor…? Indeed, yes… I saw her, too… I'm spending Christmas with him. A real thrill. The best present he could have had… no, no, I have her mobile number. I'm phoning on her behalf as a matter of fact… there's a man who's been pestering her… yes, one of her sergeants… the point is, if he calls she'd rather you didn't tell him she was at Bovington… I see… a woman… no, that's fine… you, too, Mrs. Smith."

Bella wondered how long the child had been standing beside her. It was freezing cold and she was huddled in her coat and scarf, listening to
Madame Butterfly
on her Walkman. Zadie had taken the dogs back to her coach to feed them, and half the world could have crossed the rope barrier without Bella noticing. "Un bel di vedremo" swelled in her head as Butterfly sang of Pinkerton's ship appearing on the horizon and her beloved husband climbing the hill to their house to claim her. It was a fantasy. A hopeless, wrongheaded vision. The truth, as Butterfly would learn, was abandonment. The truth for women was
always
abandonment, thought Bella sadly.

She had looked up with a sigh to find Wolfie shivering in his thin jumper and jeans at her elbow. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she said roundly, tugging out the earphones, "you'll freeze to death, you silly kid. Here. Get inside my coat. You're one weird bugger, Wolfie. What's with all this sneaking around, eh? It ain't bloody natural. Why don't you never draw attention to yerself?"

He allowed her to wrap him inside the flap of her army greatcoat, snuggling up to her big squashy body. It was the most wonderful feeling he'd ever known. Warmth. Security. Softness. He felt safe with Bella in a way he had never felt safe with his mother. He kissed her neck and cheeks, and rested his arms along her breasts.

She put a finger under his chin and lifted his face to the moonlight. "You sure you're only ten?" she asked teasingly.

"Reckon so," he said sleepily.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

"Can't get in the bus. Fox's locked it."

"Jesus wept!" she growled crossly. "Where's he gone?"

"Dunno." He pointed toward Shenstead Farm. "He took off that way through the wood. Reckon he's gone for a lift."

"Who with?"

"Dunno. He makes a call and someone picks him up. I used to follow him when Mum was around. Don't bother no more."

Bella eased him onto her lap inside the voluminous coat and rested her chin on his head. "You know what, darlin', I don't much like what's going on here. I'd take me and my girls away tomorrow… 'cept I'm worried about you. If I knew what your dad was up to…" She lapsed into a brief, thoughtful silence. "How 'bout I drive you to the coppers tomorrow and you tell 'em about your mum? It'll mean you'll probably be fostered for a while-but it'll get you away from Fox-'n' back to your mum 'n' Cub in the end. What d'you reckon?"

Wolfie shook his head violently. "Na. I'm scared of coppers."

"Why?"

"They look for bruises, 'n' if they find them they take you away."

"Are they gonna find them on you?" she asked.

"Reckon so. Then you get sent to hell."

His skinny body shivered, and Bella wondered angrily why he had been fed such crap. "Why would you go to hell for having bruises, darlin'? It ain't your fault. It's Fox's fault!"

"It's against the rules," he told her. "Doctors get right angry when they find bruises on kids. You don't wanna be around when that happens."

God almighty!
It was a twisted mind that had come up with that disgusting piece of logic. Bella pulled him closer. "Trust me, darlin', you ain't got nothin' to worry about. You have to do somethin' really bad for doctors and coppers to get angry, 'n' you ain't done nothin' bad."

"
You
have," said Wolfie, who had listened to Bella's phone call from his hiding place under the blankets. "You didn't oughta tell Fox where Nancy is. All she ever did was untie the rope so she could make friends with you." He looked up at Bella's moon face. "You reckon he's gonna cut her with a razor?" he asked sadly.

"No chance, darlin'," she said comfortably, resting her chin on his head again. "I told him she was doing night ops on Salisbury Plain. It was crawling with soldiers three days ago-training for Afghanistan, I guess-so it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack… 'ssuming the needle was ever there, of course."

Message from Mark

Emergency. Phone me ASAP

Mark had one last try to get through, then thrust his mobile into James's hand and spun the wheel to take the Lexus back onto the road. "Do you know how these things work?"

James looked at the tiny machine in his palm. The buttons glowed for a second or two in the darkness, then went out. "I'm afraid not," he confessed. "The only mobile telephone I ever used was the size of a shoe box."

"No problem. Give it back to me when it rings." Mark floored the accelerator and drove at high speed up the narrow lane, scraping the bank with his tires.

James braced himself against the dashboard. "Would you mind if I give you a few facts of my life?" he said.

"Go ahead."

"Apart from the problem of IRA terrorism-which is an ongoing alert-there is now the threat of al-Qaeda terrorism. Both these factors mean military camps are no-go areas to anyone without documents and authority… and that includes army personnel." He flinched as the hedgerow loomed dangerously close in the headlights. "The best you and I, as civilians, can hope for is that we can persuade the sergeant of the guard to phone through and ask Nancy to come to the gate. He will almost certainly refuse and suggest we apply through proper channels tomorrow. Under
no
circumstances will we be allowed to wander around the camp, looking for her. Our friend on the telephone will be subject to the same restrictions."

They screamed around a bend. "Are you saying there's no point going?"

"I'm certainly questioning the wisdom of dying in the attempt," the old man said dryly. "Even if we do decide to proceed, an extra fifteen minutes will make no difference to Nancy's safety."

"Sorry." Mark slowed to a manageable speed. "I just think she needs to know what's going on."

"We don't know ourselves."

"Warn her, then."

"You've already done that with your message." The old man's tone was apologetic. "We're not going to find out anything by running away, Mark. Headlong flight smacks of panic under fire. Standing our ground will at least tell us who and what we're up against."

"You've been doing that for weeks," Mark pointed out impatiently, "and it's got you precisely nowhere. Also, I don't see why you're suddenly so laid-back about him knowing her name and address. It's you who keeps describing him as a madman."

"Which is why I'd like to keep him in my sights," said James calmly. "If we know anything in this present situation, it's that he's at our door. Almost certainly with the travelers. He's obviously been watching us… may even have followed us to Mrs. Weldon's… and if he did, then he'll have seen which way we turned out of her drive. At the moment, the Manor is undefended and that may have been what his last call was intended to achieve."

Mark's headlights picked up a break in the hedgerow a hundred yards ahead where a gate led into a field. He drew into it and was preparing to do a three-point turn when James laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"You'll never make a soldier, my boy," he said with a smile in his voice, "not unless you learn to think before you act. We need to decide on some tactics before we roar back the other way. I'm no more inclined to walk into a trap than that little boy this afternoon,"

Wearily, Mark killed his engine and switched off his headlamps. "I'd be happier if we went to the police," he said. "You keep talking as if you're in a private little war that has no bearing on anyone else, but too many innocent people are being dragged into it. That woman-Bella-and the little boy. You said yourself they were probably being used, so what makes you think they aren't in danger as well?"

"Leo's not interested in them," said James. "They're just his excuse for being here."

"So Leo's this Fox character?"

"Not unless he had a child he's never told me about… or the child isn't his." He handed Mark the mobile. "The police won't be interested until somebody gets hurt," he said cynically. "These days you have to be dead or dying to get any attention, and then it's lip service only. Talk to Elizabeth. She won't pick up the receiver-calls go straight to her answer machine-but I'm fairly sure she listens. It's pointless my speaking… she hasn't answered since Ailsa died… but she might talk to you."

"What do I say to her?"

"Anything that will persuade her to give us information," said James harshly. "Find out where Leo is. You're the word-smith. Think of something. There must be some trigger point that will persuade my only daughter to behave decently for the first time in her life. Ask her about this meeting with Mrs. Bartlett. Ask her why she's been telling lies?"

Mark switched on the overhead light again, and reached into the back for his briefcase. "Is that the sort of tone you use to Elizabeth?" he asked without emphasis, pushing back his seat and opening the case on his lap. He retrieved his laptop and balanced it on the lid, booting up the screen.

"I never speak to her. She won't pick up."

"But you leave messages?"

James gave an irritable nod.

"Mm." Mark waited for the icons to appear, then brought up Elizabeth's file. "Right," he said, casting an eye over the details, most of which related to her monthly allowance. "I suggest we bribe her with another five hundred a month, and tell her it's your Christmas present to her."

The old man was outraged. "Absolutely not," he spluttered. "I shouldn't be paying anything. I certainly won't increase it. It's only a few months since she had fifty thousand from her mother's will."

Mark smiled slightly. "But that wasn't your gift, James, it was Ailsa's."

"So?"

"It's
you
who wants a favor. Look, I know the whole subject drives you mad-and I know we've debated it endlessly-but the fact remains, you did set up a fund for her after her marriage failed."

"Only because we thought she'd been badly treated. We wouldn't have done it if we'd known the details of the divorce. She was little better than a whore… touting herself around the clubs and selling herself to anyone who'd buy her a drink."

"Yes, well, unfortunately the result was the same." Mark raised a calming hand. "I know… I know… but if you want information, then you must give me some leverage… and, frankly, beating her about the head isn't going to produce anything. You've tried that before. The promise of an extra five hundred will make her more amenable."

"And if it doesn't?"

"It will," Mark said bluntly. "
However
… as I'm planning to be pleasant to her, you either get out of the car now or you give me a sworn guarantee that you'll keep your mouth shut."

James lowered his window and felt the cold night pinch at his cheeks. "I'll keep my mouth shut."

There was no answer. As James had predicted, the call went straight to the answerphone. Mark talked until the time ran out, mentioning money and his regret that, as he hadn't been able to reach Elizabeth in person, payment would inevitably be delayed. He redialed a couple of times, stressing the urgency of the matter and asking her to pick up if she was listening, but if she was there she wasn't biting. He left his mobile number and asked her to call him that evening if she was interested.

"When did you last speak to her?" he asked.

"I can't remember. The last time I
saw
her was at the funeral, but she came and went without saying a word."

"I remember," said Mark. He scrolled down the screen. "Her bank's acknowledging receipt of the checks. Presumably they'd inform us if nothing was being drawn against the account?"

"What are you suggesting?"

The young man shrugged. "Nothing really… just wondering why the long silence." He pointed at an item dated the end of November. "According to this, I wrote to her a month ago with the annual reminder to review her house and contents insurance. She hasn't replied."

"Does she usually?"

Mark nodded. "She does, as a matter of fact, particularly when it's a cost that you've agreed to shoulder. The premium doesn't have to be paid until the end of next month, but I'd have expected to hear from her by now. I always threaten her with a visit if she doesn't provide me with an up-to-date valuation. The house and contents are nominally your property still, so it's a way of stopping her flogging them off." He clicked through to his diary. "I've given myself a reminder to chase her up at the end of next week."

James pondered for a moment. "Didn't Mrs. Weldon say Mrs. Bartlett had seen her?"

"Mm, and I'm wondering how she got hold of her. I can't imagine Elizabeth returning a call from Pokeweed." He was busy bringing up his email address book.

"Then perhaps we should be talking to Mrs. Bartlett?"

Mark looked at Becky's contact numbers on the screen and wondered if he'd left them there on purpose. He'd torn up everything else that would give him access to her-deliberately cleared his memory of the mobile number that had once been as familiar as his own-but perhaps a part of him couldn't bear to erase her entirely from his life. "Let me try this person first," he said, retrieving his mobile. "It's a long shot-she probably won't answer either-but it's worth a try."

"Who is it?"

"An ex-girlfriend of Leo's," he said. "I think she'll talk to me. We were pretty close for a while."

"How do you know her?"

Mark tapped in Becky's number. "We were due to get married in June," he said in a deadpan voice. "On March seventh she gave Leo an alibi for the night Ailsa died, and by the time I got home she was gone. They'd been having an affair for three months." He flicked James an apologetic smile as he raised the phone to his ear. "It's why I've always accepted that Leo wasn't in Shenstead that night. I should have told you… I'm sorry I didn't. Pride's a terrible thing. If I could put the clock back and do it differently, I would."

The old man sighed. "So would we all, my boy… so would we all."

Becky couldn't stop talking. Every sentence ended with "darling." Was it really him? How
was
he? Had he been thinking of her? She just
knew
he'd phone eventually. Where was he? Could she come home? She loved him so much. It was all a terrible mistake. Darling… darling… darling…