The Fox in the Forest

by Gregson, J. M.

Then he said gnomically, “The crucial question about Webb is the one Sam Johnson from forensic asked.”

  23

  The tabloids moved into a new year with their Parliamentary comedians still in recess. So they homed in on Woodford.

  Margaret Parkin, who had helped out behind the bar of the Crown on New Year’s Eve, became ‘attractive fun-loving barmaid Meg Parkin’. For a small consideration, she informed a reporter that: “Every woman in the village is frightened to open her door. We go in terror of The Fox. Our fear grows every day as we wait for him to strike again. The police may be trying their best, but they can’t protect us: we’ve already seen that, haven’t we?”

  These observations from the voluble Ms Parkin were received in the area with a mixture of derision and outrage. In the Crown and the Women’s Institute, those twin centres of village enlightenment, she was rumoured to have been in more beds than ground elder. Perhaps the deaths in the forest had indeed cut down her nocturnal activities. But even the most charitable were driven to compute that she must now be at least sixty-two.

  The photographers had to go to the primary school in Ashbridge on the day when the schools re-opened, because Woodfood’s tiny village school had been closed for twenty years. They got their pictures of anxious mothers meeting their children and hurrying them home, conveniently ignoring the fact that the Woodford children now without exception travelled on the school bus.

  When invention flagged, there was always the ritual pillorying of the baffled police. THE FOX IS FOOLING WITH PC PLOD! the tabloids decided, while even the serious papers ran articles on previous serial killers and the omissions of the authorities. The press now got hold of the news that the second victim had been held by police for thirty-six hours, then released to be gunned down in the forest. HOW WRONG CAN YOU GET? roared the next day’s headlines.

  Lambert was glad that his Chief Constable was enjoying a well-earned rest on a Caribbean cruise.

  ***

  On a bitter grey January afternoon, almost everyone in the village attended the funeral of Peter Barton.

  Behind the coffin, three people wept steadily, losing not a shred of dignity as they did so. Barton’s parents had come down from Newcastle to a country world which they did not understand. They felt the warmth of the sympathy around them, but on this bitter day no heat would have been enough to burn away their outrage at the senseless obliteration of the boy who had promised to achieve so much.

  In front of them and immediately behind the coffin as it made its short, slow journey down the aisle of the packed church, Clare Barton walked as though in a trance. The crowded pews of the little church brought home what she had always known but not cared to acknowledge, the hold that Peter had taken upon the affections of his flock in four short years. Four years, she thought, when he had worked unremittingly, with only the most sporadic and ineffective support from the wife who should have been at his side.

  The bishop spoke over the coffin of the man who had been such a thorn in his side. And because that is the way of these things, he spoke movingly and well. Whatever the frustrations of the Anglican Church in the final quarter of the century, it had offered him thirty years of practice in the art of oratory. He had honed his skills, until he was effective now in almost any situation. He said generous things about the young man’s ministry. And, to be fair to the bishop, he meant them, even if they came a little too late. He was not insensitive to tragedy, and he felt it here, suffusing the very air of this village church above the multitude of bowed and weeping heads.

  A television camera crew waited outside the church, but its operations were carefully, almost apologetically, low-key. Some of the mourners did not even know the cameramen were there until they saw the brief sequence of the coffin and the grieving widow and parents on the regional evening news bulletins.

  Although there was only the lightest of breezes in the churchyard, it blew from the icy north-east. This congregation had supported Peter Barton only sporadically in his efforts during life. Yet only the most elderly and infirm among them failed to move to his graveside for the final rites of his death. Ashes returned to ashes, dust to dust, in the bishop’s high, clear tones. The coffin was lowered into the grave from the frozen fingers of the bearers, and the crowd broke up into small groups for the final, conventional regrets. There were no floral tributes: such monies had gone, as Peter would have wished, to famine relief. In half an hour, a rectangular mound of yellow earth would be all there was left to see of a man who had worked so hard for the people who mourned him.

  Lambert and Hook watched things from the edge of the crowd. They were more interested to see who was absent than to count those in attendance: the theory that the murderer likes to see his victim finally interred has long been dismissed by the CID as a romantic fiction. Charlie Webb was there, despite his grandmother’s robust dismissal of all things religious. Arthur Comstock, ramrod straight and looking even taller as a result, stood quietly at the back of the church, looking over the heads of everyone to the austerely decorated stone altar, speaking to no one during the ceremony in the churchyard.

  Tommy Farr was not present, though there could have been little custom in his village shop. More surprisingly, Harry Davidson, JP, that pillar of the local community, was neither in the church nor at the graveside. His wife, handsome and upright in the black which suited her, had an empty seat left beside her which made his absence conspicuous, for the villagers had obviously expected that he would have come. Rachel went over and said a few words to Clare Barton as they moved away from the grave, taking the small hand for a moment between both of hers.

  Clare’s face was very white, throwing the intense blue of her tear-washed eyes into vivid relief. A little of her golden hair had pushed itself obstinately out from beneath the tight black veil; she brushed it away from her small, perfect nose with her free hand. Rachel Davidson was a generation older than Clare, but an infinity of experience seemed in this moment to stretch between them. With her strong nose, her dark eyes and tightly bound black hair, Rachel stood erect and proudly Jewish in an ancient English churchyard. And she seemed to carry with her some of the suffering of her race, as though she were here to set this domestic English tragedy within the context of the millions in this century of savagery who had perished as Peter had, violently and without cause.

  ***

  As the crowds drifted away from the church, Lambert said, “Let’s go to see Tommy Farr.”

  They walked swiftly towards the village store; vigorous movement was a relief after the enforced stillness of the grave-yard in temperatures below freezing.

  Hook, whose only contact with the case during his four days in Cornwall had been the newspapers, said suddenly, “Do you believe in The Fox?”

  Lambert did not bite his head off, as he had half-expected. After a few seconds, he said, “No. If there were another killing of the same kind, I might be forced to. I’m almost afraid to voice that thought, in case it ushers in more blood. Not a proper quality in a detective, superstition.”

  Hook said, “What I can’t find is any connection between the two murders. Both of them in their different ways seem quite senseless.”

  “Hence the press’s creation of The Fox,” said Lambert. “Motiveless killings are always the work of a maniac. What our journalistic friends don’t wish to realize is that very few murders are motiveless, but occasionally the motives are not immediately obvious.” He was rehearsing the things he would like to say to the press, which he would probably never see translated into print. Perhaps there was something after all to be said for those television news conferences which made him so uneasy: at least you couldn’t be misquoted when you delivered your own answers to the camera.

  Hook said, “Very few of the men we’ve regarded as close to the killings have wives.”

  “Sexual frustration turning a man into a maniac? You’re beginning to think in tabloid terms, Bert, and I’m not sure I like it. In any case, someone as unbalanced as that kills women
, not men, in my experience.”

  “Unless, of course, the unbalanced psyche is that of a woman — she might kill men.” Bert Hook produced the idea triumphantly. Was it not Lambert who had told the press that he hadn’t ruled out the idea of a woman killer?

  “I’m going to put in an official complaint to that Open University, if it encourages detective-sergeants towards lateral thinking. I’m not sure that official police policy allows sergeants to think at all. All right, let’s have your thoughts about our deprived men.”

  “Well, there’s Tommy Farr to start with. His wife left him years ago. Arthur Comstock’s wife apparently left him earlier still long before he came out of the Army. Both of them are divorced now. Charlie Webb has no wife yet. Even Ian Sharpe didn’t have a woman in tow, as far as we’ve been able to tell.”

  “And Peter Barton’s wife was perhaps on the way to leaving him. Well, Holmes, what do you deduce from all this celibacy, enforced or otherwise?”

  Hook was ready for the question. “Nothing, really. I was just throwing up the idea. In case a superintendent could make more of it than a sergeant!” Bert stared straight ahead with the slightest of smiles. It was the smile he had once allowed himself on the area’s village green when he clean bowled a public schoolboy.

  Lambert grinned. Rushton would neither have understood nor approved this exchange. Well, he might be tomorrow’s man, but he could wait a while yet. “Our only husband and wife who have endured are Colonel and Mrs Harry Davidson.”

  “Not exactly endured. They only married five years ago, when Davidson was finished with the Army.”

  “True enough. But they appear to be pillars of the local community.” Both of them were silent for a moment then, thinking of the Rachel Davidson they had just seen, that cosmic tragic profile as she consoled the vulnerable, venal Clare Barton. Because they were detectives, the impressive cameo suggested to them among other things that Mrs Davidson was a woman with the nerve and intelligence for this sort of murder, if she thought it justified.

  “Why wasn’t Colonel Davidson at the funeral?” said Hook.

  “I’ve no idea. I’m surprised he wasn’t there, though. In his role as leader of the local community and Chairman of the Parish Council, it was almost obligatory. Particularly as I rather think he enjoys that role. No doubt there was some good reason. We might ask him what it was, later. Tactfully, of course.”

  They were at the door of the village stores now. Lambert paused only momentarily before they went in. “Let’s give Farr a hard time first, though.”

  ***

  The man didn’t look as though he would be easily intimidated. He lounged behind the old-fashioned counter inside his shop with his bottom supported by a high stool. Perhaps it was his broken nose that twisted his small smile of welcome into something nearer to a sneer, but Hook did not think so. Farr said, “Found your Fox yet then, PC Plodders?”

  Lambert looked him coolly up and down with a mirthless smile. “Do you think our man is a maniac, Mr Farr?”

  “Asking Tommy Farr for his opinion now, is it? God, you must be as baffled as they all say you are!” His voice was deep, even musical, taking the edge off the insult he intended, suggesting the male voice choir in which he had long ago held his corner against the Welsh tenors.

  “You didn’t answer me, though, did you, Tommy?”

  Farr glared at them aggressively for a moment, as though they had accused him of something. “I don’t have to, do I? But no, I don’t think you’ve got a maniac to catch, if you really want to know.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be so eager to go into the forest if you did, would you, Tommy?” said Hook.

  Farr whirled to confront him. He had been concentrating his contempt upon Lambert, not expecting any rejoinders from the stolid presence which had been examining the bank of cereals away to his right. For a moment, his features were twisted with the suspicion and hostility he did not trouble to conceal. Bert thought his pugilistic nickname was appropriate, even if it was obvious: Farr would not have been the man to take on in a pub brawl.

  The shopkeeper forced himself to relax: they could see the physical processes of it. “Keep your spies out, do you, Lambert? Bloody police state we’re living in now.” It was delivered sullenly, without passion, being no more than a ritual hostile response.

  “A double murder inquiry is in progress, Tommy. You must expect us to keep our eye on Woodford, and other villages in the area as well.” Hook was probing for a significant reaction, but he did not get one.

  “Fat lot of good it’s done you, so far.”

  Farr gave his sneer free rein but his words sounded a rather hollow note of defiance. He was wary of committing himself to more, wondering furiously how much they knew of his comings and goings. It was hardly news that he went daily into the woods still with Kelly: he would have expected so much to be observed by the more nosy among his customers, as well as by any more official presence. But did they know of his meetings in the wood?

  Lambert was smiling at him, baiting him a little even as on the face of it Farr was taunting him. He let the silence stretch now, surveying the broad wooden counter, the old-fashioned cash register, the neatly priced packets of flour and dried fruits. “It’s your duty to help us, not obstruct us, you know, Mr Farr,” he said without rancour. “You go just as freely into the woods as you did before these things happened. Some people would think that in itself suspicious. After two brutal murders, you seem to have no fear that you might become a third victim of The Fox, you see.”

  He had taken the name Farr had used in his opening jibe and thrown it back at the man. Tommy felt himself on the defensive; he was not quite sure how it had happened. He said, “I’m not going to let any bloody Fox spoil my way of life, see? And anyway, I have Kelly with me when I go in there.”

  “Proof against shotgun blasts, is he, Tommy? Remarkable dog, that.” Hook had moved round towards where the door led through to the storeroom behind the shop. There was a low whine from the Doberman in the kitchen as he creaked a board; perhaps the dog had caught his master’s use of the name.

  Farr said now, “Kelly would go for anyone who attacked me.” But he knew he had not answered Hook’s point.

  “And you take a shotgun with you, as an additional precaution, on occasions,” said Lambert quietly. “One of our problems, of course, is that we haven’t been able to pin down the shotgun used in these killings. Yet.”

  “You took mine in and examined it. Eliminated it,” said Farr roughly.

  “Not eliminated, Tommy. We can’t do that with shotguns.” Lambert was wondering just how much Farr did know about shotguns and their forensic implications. “We haven’t found a murder weapon for either of these killings. Probably it’s still in this area.”

  It sounded like a threat, and at least it succeeded in making Fan cooperative. He sounded almost conciliatory as he said in a low voice, “I saw Charlie Webb going into the forest.”

  “When was this?”

  “On the morning of the second killing, whenever that was.”

  Hook said, “27th December. We knew about Webb, Tommy. We also knew that you had probably seen him. It’s taken you until now to tell us. Not helpful, that.”

  Farr was silent, staring sullenly at the counter in front of him. A hundred yards away down the lane, a car pipped its horn. The village was coming to life again after the funeral. Soon there would be other people in the shop. Lambert said quietly, “And was young Webb carrying his shotgun at the time?”

  Farr looked up at them then, searching each face in turn in an attempt to follow their thinking. They were professionally inscrutable. He said hesitantly, “I — I don’t think so. He was well past the shop when I saw him; perhaps a hundred yards away. I didn’t see that he had his shotgun with him. But it didn’t seem important at the time, see. I suppose he might have been concealing it. Or it might have been already in the woods.”

  It was their turn to watch closely, trying to divine whether thi
s man suddenly so anxious to be helpful was speaking the truth, whether his hesitancy about Webb was assumed, whether his new attitude had anything of his own guilt in it.

  Lambert said suddenly, “Do you know why Colonel Davidson was not at the funeral?”

  He was rewarded with a tiny start of surprise from his man. Whether this was because of the question or because of his sudden switch away from Charlie Webb it was impossible to say. Farr said, with an attempt to recapture his early surliness, “No. Why should I? He doesn’t tell the likes of me about his plans, you know.”

  Lambert studied him coolly for a moment. Then, without taking his eyes off him, he said, “I think we’d better go to see Colonel Davidson right away, Sergeant Hook.”

  There was a flash of something in Tommy Farr’s eyes in the instant before he cast them down. Lambert could not for the life of him be sure whether it was alarm or elation.

  24

  There was not much of the short day’s light left by the time Lambert turned the big Vauxhall between the high wrought-iron gates of the Old Vicarage and drove carefully up the gravelled drive. The lights were on in the high Victorian conservatory, lighting the old glass more brilliantly than ever in its heyday. Inside it, they could see Colonel Harry Davidson, watching the approaching car.

  Mary showed them straight into the conservatory to see him when she answered the door. Normally she would have asked visitors to wait until she consulted her employer, but she had no formal instructions in these matters, and in her book the police overrode these social conventions. But if she hoped for a little vicarious excitement from the visit of detectives, she was to be disappointed.

  Davidson looked a little put out when they were ushered in, though he must have known they had seen him through the slight distortions of the old glass. He said stiffly to the maid, “You can go home now, Mary, before the dark. We won’t need you again today.” The girl thanked him and withdrew. There was nothing Victorian about the relationship of master and servant; far from bobbing her acceptance, she thanked him almost as though they were equals. Yet Davidson did not seem quite at ease with her. Lambert fancied he had been used in the Army to giving orders only to men. Perhaps it was Mrs Davidson who normally gave Mary her instructions; that would account both for the girl’s lack of servility and Davidson’s awkwardness with her.