Fox Evil (25 page)

Wolfie shrank against Bella's legs.

"What do you call two rows of cabbages?"

No response.

"A dual cabbageway." Martin studied Wolfie's unsmiling face. "Heard it before, eh?"

The child shook his head.

"You don't think it's funny?"

A tiny nod.

Martin held his gaze for a moment, then dropped him a wink and stood up. The boy's fear was palpable, although whether he was afraid of policemen per se or of what a search of the camp might find, it was difficult to say. One thing was certain. If Bella had been looking after him for any length of time, he wouldn't be dressed in such inadequate clothing for a winter's night and he wouldn't be looking half-starved.

"Right," he said, "do you want to introduce us to your friends, Bella? My colleague here is PC Sean Wyatt, and you might like to make it clear that we're not interested in anything except the intruder at Shenstead Farm."

She nodded, taking Wolfie's hand firmly in hers. "Far as I know, there's nothing to find, Mr. Barker," she said with as much conviction as she could muster. "We're all families and we started this project the way we mean to go on… doing it by the book so the people round about wouldn't have nothing to complain about. There's the odd bit of dope stashed away, but nothing worse."

He stood aside for her to lead the way, noticing that she chose to start with the bus to the right of the semicircle-the most distant-where light leaked from cracks around the window blinds. He, of course, was more interested in the bus to the left, which drew Wolfie's eyes like magnets and appeared to be in total darkness.

DS Monroe passed the campsite on his way to Shenstead House and saw figures milling in front of the buses, thrown into relief by the headlamps of his colleagues' parked car. It was a reasonable assumption that the face at the window belonged to a newly arrived traveler, but he intended to exploit Mrs. Weldon's insistence that her friend had turned "peculiar" since she visited the site. It was an excuse of sorts to interview Mrs. Bartlett because there was nothing else to investigate. No complaint had been made against her, and the file on Mrs. Lockyer-Fox had been closed for months.

Nevertheless, Monroe was curious. Ailsa's death continued to play on his mind, despite the coroner's verdict. He had been the first on the scene and the impact of the sad little body, propped against the sundial, wearing a thin nightdress, a man's threadbare dressing-gown, and a pair of Wellington boots had been powerful. Whatever the final conclusion, it had always felt like murder to Monroe. The bloodstains a yard from the body, the incongruity of insubstantial nightclothes and solid Wellingtons, the inevitable conclusion that something had disturbed her sleep and she had ventured outside to investigate.

He had played down Prue's hysterical conclusion that Eleanor's "peculiarity" meant the face at the window was Darth Vader's-
"You have a habit of putting two and two together and making five, Mrs. Weldon"
-but he was interested in the coincidence of the travelers' arrival and the falling-out between the women. He was too experienced to assume a connection without evidence, but the possibility that one existed remained at the back of his mind.

He drew to a halt at the entrance to Shenstead Manor, still undecided about whether to talk to Colonel Lockyer-Fox before he spoke to Mrs. Bartlett. It would help to know exactly what the woman had been saying, but if the Colonel refused to cooperate then Monroe's already limited excuses for questioning the woman would vanish. He needed an official complaint, a fact that the Colonel's solicitor would certainly point out, assuming he was the one advising reticence.

It was this reticence that really intrigued Monroe. The idea that lodged in his mind-strengthened both by the need for a voice distorter and the lawyer's remark to Mrs. Weldon that her friend's knowledge of the family was very detailed-was that Darth Vader was closely related to the Colonel.

And he kept remembering that, in the hours following his wife's death, the Colonel had accused his son of murdering her…

It was julian who answered the bell. He looked at Monroe's warrant, listened to his request for an interview with Mrs. Bartlett, then shrugged and pulled the door wide. "She's in here." He ushered him into a sitting room. "The police want to talk to you," he said indifferently. "I'm going to my study."

Monroe saw the alarm on the woman's face change rapidly to relief as her husband announced his intention of leaving. He moved to bar Julian's exit. "I'd rather you didn't, sir. What I have to say involves everyone in this house."

"Not me it doesn't," Julian retorted coolly.

"How do you know, sir?"

"Because I only learned about these damn phone calls this afternoon." He stared at the sergeant's unresponsive face. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Monroe glanced at Eleanor. "Not precisely, no. Mrs. Weldon reported an intruder at Shenstead Farm and she seems to think your wife knows who it might have been. It happened shortly after Colonel Lockyer-Fox and his solicitor played some tapes to her of Mrs. Bartlett and a man making identical allegations against the Colonel, and Mrs. Weldon believes that this man was her intruder. I'm hoping Mrs. Bartlett can throw some light on the situation."

Eleanor looked as if she'd been sandbagged. "I don't know what you're talking about," she managed.

"I'm sorry. I obviously didn't explain myself very well. Mrs. Weldon believes her intruder to be the man who's behind a hate campaign against Colonel Lockyer-Fox. She further believes him to be one of the travelers camped in the wood above the village… and says you must have spoken to him this morning as you've been acting very strangely ever since. He uses a voice distorter to disguise his voice, but she says you know who he is."

Eleanor's mouth turned down in an unattractive horseshoe. "That's ridiculous," she snapped. "Prue's a fantasist… always has been. Personally, I think you should question whether an intruder ever existed because she's not above inventing one to get a little attention. I suppose you know she's had a row with her husband and he's talking about divorcing her?"

Monroe didn't, but he wasn't about to admit it. "She's frightened," he said. "According to her, this man mutilated the Colonel's dog and left him outside for the Colonel to find."

Her eyes darted nervously toward her husband. "I don't know anything about that."

"You knew the dog was dead, Mrs. Bartlett. Mrs. Weldon says you were pleased about it-" he paused for emphasis- "something to do with chickens coming home to roost."

"That's not true."

Julian's reaction was to throw her to the wolves. "It sounds like you," he said. "You never liked poor old Henry." He turned to Monroe. "Sit down, Sergeant," he invited, pointing to an armchair and taking another for himself. "I hadn't realized there was any more to this-" he made a gesture of distaste-"humiliating story than my wife and Prue Weldon making phone calls. It seems I was wrong. What exactly has been going on?"

Monroe watched Eleanor's face as he took the other chair. She was a different animal from her plump friend-stronger and tougher-but catastrophe was showing in her eyes just as clearly as it had been in Prue's.

A similar thought was running through Martin Barker's head as Bella tried to pretend that the reason there was no bed for Wolfie in her bus was because he preferred to curl up in a sleeping bag on the banquette seat. "He's a bit of a nomad is Wolfie," she said with feigned confidence while worry created wrinkles on her brow. "Don't go much for beds, do you, dar-lin'?"

The child's eyes widened yet further. Terror seemed to be his constant companion, stalking him relentlessly the closer they came to the darkened bus. Bella had made various attempts to leave him behind in the other vehicles, but he clung to her coattails and refused to be parted from her. Barker pretended not to notice, but he was seriously interested in the boy's connection with the bus.

Bella put a despairing arm around Wolfie's shoulders and turned him toward her. Lighten up, kid, she begged inside her head. If you shake any more, you're gonna collapse. It was like dragging a neon sign behind her, flashing:
sure we've got something to hide.
We're the brain-dead decoys while the fucker who brought us here is out casing the village.

Her anger with Fox was intense, and not just because he'd brought the police down on their heads. No one should make a child so afraid that the mere sight of uniforms struck him dumb. She wanted to take Mr. Barker aside and blurt out her concerns-the mother's vanished, the brother's vanished, the child says he has bruises-but what was the good if Wolfie denied it? She knew he would. His fear of authority was far greater than his fear of Fox. In any child's mind a bad parent was better than no parent at all.

At the back of her mind, too, was a worry that she only had Wolfie's word for it that Fox had ever left the camp. Supposing he was wrong? Or supposing Fox had slipped back through the woods and was watching from his bus? What then? Wouldn't the child's situation be a hundred times worse? And wasn't that what he was really afraid of? That Bella would do or say something to make Fox angry?

"He don't know what 'nomad' means," she explained to Barker. "He reckons it's something bad." She gave the child a comforting squeeze. "Why don't you stay with the girls, darlin', while I take these gentlemen to the last bus? Fox said he'd man the barrier tonight, remember, so he's likely asleep. He'll be that mad at being woken… and there ain't no reason for you to hear him cursin' and swearin' just because he's in a bad temper."

Barker's curiosity intensified.
Fox?
What were the odds on a relationship between a Fox and a Wolfie in a community as small as this one? He ruffled Wolfie's hair. "Your dad?" he asked amiably, raising an inquiring eyebrow at Bella.

No answer.

Bella gave a small nod. "Fox ain't much of a cook… so the poor kid ain't getting proper meals." She was staring at Barker as if she were trying to tell him something. "That's why he's stopping with me for a while."

Barker nodded. "So where's his mum?"

"Wolfie ain't too-"

Abruptly, the child pulled away from Bella's supporting arm. He had shadowed her from the moment she'd said his mother was away, because he knew the policeman would ask that question. "She's in Devon," he said in a rush.

Barker chuckled. "So you do have a voice!"

Wolfie stared at the floor, distrusting the way this man looked at people as if he could read their thoughts. He spoke in staccato sentences. "My mother's on holiday with my brother. They're staying with friends. I said I'd rather be with my father. He's very busy because he's the organizer of this project. That's why Bella's cooking for me. It's not charity. My dad's paying her. Mum and Cub will be joining us in a few days. Fox likes families. That's why he's chosen them to build this community."

It was arguable who was the more taken aback. Martin Barker because of the sophistication of Wolfie's speech when he finally opened his mouth-like Bella he had assumed the child was younger than he was-or Bella because he chose to ape his father's classy accent. She smiled weakly as the policeman frowned.
They'd be accusing her of kidnap next…

"He watches too much telly." She plucked a film out of the air. "Probably thinks he's-whatsisname-Mark Lester in
Oliver!
." She ruffled Wolfie's blond hair. "He's got the looks for it, even if he's more of an Artful Dodger at heart."

Barker raised amused eyebrows. "Which makes you Nancy, I suppose? The tart with the heart in Fagin's den of thieves?"

Bella grinned in response. '"Cept I'm no tart, this ain't no den of thieves, 'n' I sure as hell don't plan to get done in by Bill Sikes."

"Mm. So who's Bill Sikes?"

"Oliver Reed," she said firmly, wishing she'd chosen her film more wisely. "The sodding film's full of Olivers."

Barker bent down to look through her windscreen at the last bus. "How about Fox?"

"No chance," she said, squeezing past him to lead the way outside and feeling the tug on her coat as Wolfie followed. "
Oliver!
was a random pick so don't go reading Freud into it. The kid copies voices. I might just as well have said
Little Lord Fauntleroy
."

"Or
Greystoke… the Legend ofTarzan
," he suggested.

"Sure. Why not? He's a good imitator."

Barker thumped heavily to the ground behind her. "They're all films about orphaned boys being rescued by their grandfathers, Bella."

"So?"

He glanced past Wolfie's blond head, searching for the lights of Shenstead Manor through the trees. "Just curious about the coincidence."

James shook his head when Mark started to explain about Leo's alibi. "No need for details," he murmured gently. "I do understand. I've always wondered why you sided with the police when I accused Leo. Now I know. It can't have been easy for you." He paused. "Is his alibi still watertight?"

Mark thought of Becky's hesitation. He spread his hand, palm down, and made a rocking motion.

"I've always thought it must have been Leo that Mrs. Weldon heard that night," said James apologetically. "People often confused us over the telephone."

The younger man pondered for a moment. "Becky said Elizabeth's brain was shot the last time she saw her… some story about Leo having to rescue her from a police station because she'd forgotten where she lived."

James took the change of tack in his stride. "It was always on the cards. Ailsa's father went the same way-drank himself into dementia by the age of seventy."

"She must be in a pretty bad way, though, if she can't remember her address. She's only in her mid-forties." He scrolled down Elizabeth's file again, looking for correspondence details. "As far as I can make out, I haven't heard from her since June when she acknowledged receipt of Ailsa's fifty thousand… and the last time Becky saw her was July when she described her as paralytic. How many times have you phoned her?"

'Ten… twelve. I gave up when she didn't return my calls."

"When was that?"

"Soon after the nuisance calls began. It seemed pointless going on when I assumed she was a party to them."

"The middle of November, then?"

"More or less."

"But she hadn't answered any calls since March?"

"No."

"And you were always able to leave a message? You didn't get blocked out because the voicemail was full?"

James shook his head.

"Well, at least we know someone was deleting them. What about Leo? When did you last speak to him?"

There was a small pause. "Last week."

Mark glanced at him in surprise. "And?"

The old man gave a hollow laugh. "I spoke… he listened… he hung up. It was a one-sided conversation."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing very much. I lost my temper when he started laughing."

"Did you accuse him of being Darth Vader?"

"Among other things."

"And he didn't say anything?"

"No, just laughed."

"How many times had you spoken to him prior to that?"

"You mean since Ailsa died? Just once… the night of her funeral." There were slight breaks in his voice, as if his emotions weren't as well under control as he was pretending. "He… phoned at about eleven o'clock to tell me what a bastard I was for giving his name to the police. He said I deserved everything I got… and hoped someone would find a way to pin her death on me. It was very unpleasant."

Mark eyed him curiously. "Did he mention Ailsa?"

"No. He was only interested in lambasting me. It was the usual raking over of history where I'm always at fault… and he never is."

Mark thought back to James's two days of interrogation. "How did he know it was you who named him?"

"I imagine the police told him."

"I wouldn't think so. It was a concern I raised at the time-you were there when I did it-and we were given assurances that neither Leo nor Elizabeth would be told where the suggestion came from. The way Sergeant Monroe put it, close relatives are questioned as a matter of course when death is suspicious, so the issue wouldn't arise."

James hesitated. "Obviously the promises weren't honored."

"Then why didn't Leo call you after the police first visited him? It sounds as if somebody at the funeral said something, and he worked himself into a rage on his way home."

James frowned. "He didn't talk to anyone. He and Elizabeth stormed in and stormed out. That's what set the tongues wagging."

Mark scrolled through his address book again. "I'm going to phone him, James, and I'm applying the same rules as before. You either get out of the car or you keep your mouth shut. Agreed?"

The old man's chin jutted angrily. "Not if you offer him money, no."

"I may have to… so you'd better decide now how badly you want to know who Darth Vader is."

"It's a waste of time," he said stubbornly. "He won't admit to it."

Mark gave an impatient sigh. "All right. Explain some logistics to me. For a kickoff, how did Mrs. Bartlett get in touch with Elizabeth? Even if she had her phone number, which I doubt since Elizabeth's ex-directory, why would Elizabeth answer when she's not answering anyone else? Does she know who the woman is? Did she ever meet her? I can't imagine Ailsa introducing them. She loathed Mrs. Bartlett, and she certainly wouldn't have wanted a gossip finding out about Elizabeth's dirty laundry for fear of it being spread all over the countryside. Did
you
introduce them?"

James stared out of the window. "No."

"Okay. Well, all the same arguments apply to Leo. As far as I know, he hasn't been back to Shenstead since you paid off his debt-the nearest he's come was Dorchester for the funeral-so how did he meet Mrs. Bartlett? He's also ex-directory, so how did she get hold of his number? How could she write to him if she doesn't know his address?"

"You said he spoke to someone at the funeral."

"I meant it more loosely… on the
day
of the funeral. It doesn't make sense, James," Mark went on slowly, sorting ideas in his head. "If Leo's Darth Vader, how did he know Mrs. Bartlett was the one to approach? You can't just cold-call people and ask them if they're interested in a hate campaign. Mrs. Weldon was a more obvious choice. At least she's on record as giving evidence against you… but, if she's telling the truth, then she was never even approached…" He fell silent.

"Well?"

Mark picked up his phone again and punched in Leo's mobile number. "I don't know," he said irritably, "except that you're a bloody idiot for letting this go as far as it has. Half of me wonders if this hate campaign is just a fog to get you looking in the wrong direction." He jabbed an aggressive finger at his client. "You're as bad as Leo. You both want total capitulation-but it takes two to fight a war, James, and two to reach an honorable peace."

Message from Nancy

Your phone engaged. Am at the Manor. Where R U?

Bob Dawson's hackles rose as his wife sidled into the kitchen and disturbed his radio listening. It was the only room he could call his own because it was the one Vera usually avoided. Dementia had persuaded her that the kitchen was linked to drudgery, and she only visited it when hunger drove her to abandon the television.

She glared at him as she came through the door, her pinched mouth muttering imprecations that he couldn't hear.

"What's that?" he demanded crossly.

"Where's my tea?"

"Make it yourself," he said, laying down his knife and fork and pushing his empty plate aside. "I'm not your damn slave."

Theirs was a hate-filled relationship. Two solitary people, under a single roof, who could only communicate through aggression. It had always been so. Bob controlled through physical beating, Vera through spite. Her eyes glinted evilly as she noticed an echo of her own oft-repeated martyrdom.

"You've been stealing again," she hissed, clicking onto another well-worn track. "Where's my money? What have you done with it?"

"Wherever you hid it, you stupid bitch."

Her mouth twisted and turned in an effort to translate chaotic thought into speech. "It's not where it should be. You give it back, you hear."

Bob, never a patient man at the best of times, clenched a fist and shook it at her. "Don't you come in here accusing me of stealing. You're the thief in the family. Always have been, always will be."

"It wasn't me," she said obstinately, as if a lie repeated often enough acquired the stamp of truth.

His responses were as predictable as hers. "If you've been at it again since the missus died, I'll fling you out," he threatened. "I don't care how senile you are, I'm not losing my home because you can't keep your fingers to yourself."

"Wouldn't need to worry if we owned it, would we? A real man would have bought his own place."

He thumped his fist on the table. "Watch your mouth."

"Half a man, that's all you are, Bob Dawson. Tough as iron in public. Limp as jelly in bed."

"Shut up."

"Won't."

"Do you want the back of my hand?" he demanded angrily.

He expected her to cower away as usual, but instead a sly smile crept into her eyes.

Oh, good God! He should have known threats alone wouldn't work. He surged to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. "I warned you," he shouted. "Keep away from him, I said. Where is he? Is he here? Is that why we've got gypsies in the Copse?"