Fox Evil (9 page)

Wolfie was curled under a blanket in a corner of the bus, cradling a fox's brush against his mouth. It was soft, like a teddy bear's fur, and he sucked his thumb surreptitiously behind it. He was so hungry. His dreams were always about food. Fox had been ignoring him since his mother and brother had vanished. That was a long time ago-weeks maybe-and Wolfie still didn't know where they were or why they'd gone. Once in a while a lingering terror at the back of his mind told him he did know, but he avoided visiting it. It had something to do with Fox razoring off his dreadlocks, he thought.

He had cried for days, beseeching Fox to let him go, too, till Fox threatened him with the razor. After that, he'd hidden under the blanket and kept his mouth shut while he made fantasy plans about running away. As yet, he hadn't found the courage-his fear of Fox, the police, and social workers, his fear of
everything
-was too ingrained, but he'd leave one day, he promised himself.

Half the time his father forgot he was there. Like now. Fox had brought some of the others from the camp into the bus, and they were drawing up a twenty-four-hour rota to guard the entrance to the site. Wolfie, lying as still as a terrified mouse, thought his father sounded like a general instructing his troops. Do this. Do that. I'm the boss. But Wolfie was worried because the people kept contradicting him. Did they know about the razor, he wondered?

"Whichever way you look at it, we've got seven days before anyone takes action," said Fox, "and by then we'll have turned this place into a fortress."

"Yeah, well, you'd better be right about there being no owner," came a woman's voice, '"coz I sure as hell don't fancy breaking my back to build a stockade just to have bulldozers break it down the day after it's finished. Plus, it's fucking freezing out there, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I am right, Bella. I know this place. Dick Weldon had a try at enclosing it three years ago but gave up because he wasn't prepared to pay a fortune in legal fees with no guarantee that he'd win. The same'll happen now. Even if the rest of the village agrees to let him stake a claim to this land, he'll still have to pay a solicitor to force us out and he's not that altruistic."

"What if they all gang up together?"

"They won't. Not in the short term, anyway. There are too many conflicting interests."

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

There was a short silence.

"Come on, Fox, give," said a man. "What's your connection with Shenstead? Did you live here? What do you know that the rest of us don't?"

"None of your business,"

"Sure it's our business," said the other man, his voice rising angrily. "We're taking a hell of a lot on trust here. Who's to say the filth won't come in and arrest us for trespass? First you want us to rope the place off… then turn it into a fortress… And all for what? A million-to-one gamble that in twelve years anything we've built on it will be ours? The odds suck. When you put it to us back in August, you said it was open countryside… land for the taking. There was no mention of a fucking village rammed up against it."

"Shut up, Ivo," said another woman. "It's a short-arse Welsh thing," she added for the benefit of the rest. "He's always picking fights."

"I'll pick one with you if you're not careful, Zadie," said Ivo furiously.

"Enough. The odds
are
good." There was a steely edge to Fox's voice that sent shivers up Wolfie's spine. If the other bloke didn't shut up, his dad would bring out his razor. "There are only four houses permanently occupied in this village-the Manor, Shenstead House, Manor Lodge, and Paddock View. Otherwise it's weekenders or rentals… and
they
won't get exercised till women come down for extended breaks in the summer and start complaining to their husbands about their kids consorting with the trash at the Copse."

"What about the farms?" asked Bella.

"The only one that matters is Dick Weldon's. His land makes up most of the boundary, but I know for a fact there aren't any documents to prove Shenstead Farm ever owned it."

"How?"

"Not your business. Just accept that I do."

"What about that house we can see through the trees?"

"The Manor. There's an old man living there on his own. He won't be giving us any trouble."

"How do you know?" It was Ivo's voice again.

"I just do."

"Jesus Christ!" There was the sound of a fist thumping on the table. "Can't you say anything else?" Ivo fell into mimicry of Fox's more educated tones. '"I just do… not your business… accept it.' What's the deal, man? Because I'm telling you now, I'm not hanging around listening to you spout crap without some fucking explanations. For starters, why won't this old guy give us any trouble? I sure as hell would if I lived in a manor and some New Agers moved onto my turf."

Fox didn't answer immediately and Wolfie closed his eyes in fright, picturing him slicing at the other man's face. But the expected screams didn't come. "He knows this land doesn't belong to him," said Fox calmly. "He had his solicitors look into it when Weldon tried to take it, but there are no documents supporting his claim either. The reason we're here now is because he's the only person with enough money to foot the bill for the rest of them… and he won't do it. Might have done a year ago. Not now."

"Why not?"

Another short silence. "I suppose you'll hear soon enough. The rest think he murdered his wife and they're trying to have him arrested. He's a recluse, doesn't go out anymore, doesn't see anyone… his food's delivered to the door. He's not going to bother us… not with the problems he's got."

"Shit!" said Bella in astonishment. "Did he do it?"

"Who cares?" said Fox indifferently.

"Maybe I do. Maybe he's dangerous. What about the kids?"

"If you're worried, tell them to steer clear of that side of the wood. He only ever comes out at night."

"Shit!" she said again. "He sounds like some sort of weirdo. Why isn't he in a loony bin?"

"There aren't any left," said Fox dismissively.

"How old is he?"

"Eighty-odd."

"What's his name?"

"What the hell does it matter what his name is?" snapped Fox. "You won't be talking to him."

"So? Maybe I want to know who he is when he's talked
about
. It's not a secret, is it?" She paused. "Well, well… perhaps it is at that. Know him from before, do you, Fox? He the one give you all this information?"

"I've never met him in my life… I just know a hell of a lot about him.
How
is none of your business."

"Sure. What's his name then?"

"Lockyer
fucking
Fox. Satisfied?"

There was a ripple of laughter.

"Worried about the competition, are you?" said the woman. "Reckon there ain't room for two foxes in this place, maybe?"

"Shut up, Bella," said Fox with the edge back in his voice.

"Yeah… yeah. It was a joke, sweetheart. You've gotta learn to relax… get stoned… take happy pills. We're with you, darlin'… all the way. You've just gotta trust us."

"Obey the rules and I will. Break them and I won't. First rule, everyone works to the rota and no one shirks their turn. Second rule, no one fucks with the locals. Third rule, no one leaves this campsite after dark…"

Wolfie crawled out from his hiding place when he heard the bus door close and tiptoed to one of the windows overlooking the entrance to the Copse. It was hung with fox brushes, and he pushed them aside to watch his father take up position behind the rope barrier. There was so much he didn't understand. Who were these people in the other buses? Where had Fox found them? What were they doing there? Why weren't his mother and brother with them? Why were they building a fortress?

He pressed his forehead to the glass and tried to find meaning in what he'd heard. He knew that Fox's full name was Fox Evil. He had asked his mother once if that meant Evil was his surname, too, but she'd laughed and told him, no, you're just Wolfie. Only Fox is Evil. From then on, Wolfie transposed the words and thought of his father as Evil Fox. To his child's mind, always seeking balance and answers, it made more sense than Fox Evil, and Fox immediately assumed the virtue of a surname.

But who was this old man called Lucky Fox? And how could his father not know him if they had the same name? Excitement and fear collided in the child's heart. Excitement that Lucky Fox might be related to him… might even know where his mother was; fear of a murderer…

Mark retreated, closing the drawing-room door quietly behind him. He turned to the visitor with an apologetic smile. "Would you mind if we left the introductions for a few minutes? James is… er…" He broke off. "Look, I know he's going to be thrilled to see you, but just at the moment he's asleep."

Nancy had seen more than Mark realized and nodded immediately. "Why don't I come back after lunch? It's no trouble. I need to book into Bovington Army Camp by five o'clock this evening… but there's nothing to stop me doing it now. I can come back later." This was far more embarrassing than she'd imagined it would be. She certainly hadn't expected Mark Ankerton to be there. "I should have rung first," she finished lamely.

He wondered why she hadn't. The number was in the book. "Not at all." He placed himself between her and the front door as if afraid she might make a run for it. "Please don't go. James would be devastated." He gestured to a corridor on the right, rushing his words to make her feel welcome. "Let's go down to the kitchen. It's warm in there. I can make you a cup of coffee while we wait for him to wake up. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes or so."

She allowed herself to be shepherded forward. "I lost my nerve at the last minute," she admitted, answering his unspoken question. "It was all rather spur of the moment and I didn't think he'd appreciate a phone call last night or first thing this morning. I had visions of it getting very complicated if he didn't catch on to who I was. I thought it would be easier to come in person."

"It's not a problem," Mark assured her, opening the kitchen door. "It's the best Christmas present he could have had."

But was it?
Mark hoped his anxiety wasn't showing for he had no idea how James was going to react. Would he be pleased? Would he be afraid? What would a DNA test show? The timing was crazy. He could pluck a hair from Nancy's shoulder and she wouldn't even know he'd done it. The smile froze on his face as he looked into her eyes.
God, they were so like James's!

Discomfited by his stare, Nancy pulled off her woollen hat and fluffed her dark hair with her fingertips. It was a feminine gesture that belied the otherwise masculine way she was dressed. Thick fleece over a polo-neck jumper, cargo trousers tucked into heavy boots, all black. It was an interesting choice, particularly as she was visiting an elderly man whose tastes and opinions on dress and behavior were bound to be conservative.

Mark guessed it was a deliberate challenge to James's willingness to accept her because it said effectively, no compromise. Take me as I am or not at all. If a butch-looking woman doesn't fit the Lockyer-Fox mold, then tough shit. If you expected me to woo you with feminine charm, think again. If you wanted a manipulable granddaughter, forget it. The irony was that, quite unconsciously, she had presented herself as the antithesis of her mother.

"I'm on temporary secondment to Bovington as an instructor in field operations in Kosovo," she told him, "and when I looked at the map… well… I thought if I left at the crack of dawn I could use today…" She broke off to give an embarrassed shrug. "I didn't realize he had guests. If there'd been cars in the drive I wouldn't have rung the bell, but as there weren't…"

Mark made what he could of this. "Mine's in a garage at the back, and he and I are the only ones here. Truly, Captain Smith, this is-" he sought for a word that would put her at ease-"
brilliant
. You've no idea
how
brilliant, as a matter of fact. This is his first Christmas since Ailsa died. He's putting on a damn good show, but having your solicitor to stay isn't much of a replacement for a wife." He pulled out a chair for her. "Please. How do you like your coffee?"

The kitchen was warmed by an Aga, and Nancy could feel herself blushing in the heat. Her awkwardness deepened. She couldn't have picked a worse time to walk in unannounced. She imagined the Colonel's shame if he came looking for Mark with the tears still in his eyes and found her sitting at the table. "Actually, I don't think this is a good idea," she said abruptly. "I saw him over your shoulder, and he's not asleep. Supposing he wonders where you are? It'll devastate him to find me here." She glanced toward a door in the corner. "If that leads outside I can sneak away without him ever knowing I was here."

Perhaps Mark, too, was having second thoughts because he looked irresolutely toward the corridor. "He's having a pretty bad time of it," he said. "I don't think he's sleeping much."

She pulled on her hat again. "I'll come back in two hours, but I'll phone first to give him time to compose himself. It's what I should have done this time."

He searched her face for a moment. "No," he said, taking her lightly by the arm and turning her toward the corridor. "I don't trust you not to change your mind. My coat and wellies are in the scullery and the door from there takes us out on the other side from James. We'll go for a walk instead, blow the cobwebs away after your drive. We can take a discreet look through the drawing-room window in half an hour to see how he's getting on. How does that sound?"

She relaxed immediately. "Good," she said. "I'm much better at walking than coping with uncomfortable social situations."

He laughed. "Me, too. This way." He turned to the right and took her into a room with an old stone sink on one side and a litter of boots, horse blankets, waterproofs, and ulsters on the other. The floor was covered with lumps of mud that had dropped from the treads of rubber soles, and dust and grime had accumulated in the sink and on the draining board and windowsills.