Fox Evil

by Minette Walters

"Search me. Last time I saw him he was heading for the Manor."

  Ivo looked inquiringly at the rest of the gang but they shook their heads. "Jesus," he said disgustedly, "this fucker's got a nerve. Do this, do that. So what the hell's he doing? The rules as I remember them is that if we pull together we got a chance, but all he's done so far is play the ponce in front of a pissed-off farmer and a sad bitch in an anorak. Am I the only one with reservations?"

  There were mutters of discontent. "The farmer recognized his voice," said Zadie, who was married to the chainsaw operator. She tugged off her scarf and balaclava and lit a roll-up. "That's why he's got us wearing this shit. He doesn't want to be singled out as the only one trying to hide."

  "Is that what he said?"

  "No… just guessing. The whole thing sucks. Me and Gray came here to try and get our kids a house… but now I'm figuring it's a setup. We're the diversion. While everyone's looking at us, Fox is off doing his own thing."

  "He's mighty interested in this house," said her man, lowering the chainsaw to the ground and jerking his head toward the Manor. "Every time he vanishes it's in that direction."

  Ivo glanced thoughtfully through the trees. "Who is he, anyway? Does anyone know him? Seen him around?"

  They all shook their heads. "He's a type you notice," said Zadie, "but the first time we saw him was Barton Edge. So where was he before… and where's he been holed up the last few months?"

  Bella stirred. "He had Wolfie's mother and brother with him then, but there's no sign of them now. Does anyone know what happened to them? The poor little kid's frantic… says they left weeks ago."

  The question was greeted with silence.

  "It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" said Zadie.

  Ivo took an abrupt decision. "Okay, let's shift back to the buses. There's no way I'm breaking my balls on this crap till I get some answers. If he thinks-" He broke off to look at Bella as she put a warning hand on his arm.

  A twig snapped.

  "Thinks what?" asked Fox, sliding out from behind a tree. "That you'll follow orders?" He smiled unpleasantly. "Sure, you will. You don't have the guts to take me on, Ivo." He threw a scathing glance around the group. "None of you does."

  Ivo lowered his head like a bull preparing to charge. "Try me, you fucker!"

  Bella saw the glint of a steel blade in Fox's right hand. Ah. Jesus! "Let's eat before someone does something stupid," she said, grabbing Ivo's arm and turning him toward the campsite. "I signed on for my kids' future… not to watch a couple of Neanderthals drag their knuckles along the ground."

  15

  They ate lunch in the kitchen with James presiding at the head of the table. The two men prepared the food-the elegant fare that Mark had brought from London-and Nancy was put in charge of finding plates. For some reason, James insisted on using the "good" ones, and she was sent to the dining room to find them. She guessed it was an excuse to give the men a chance to talk, or a subtle way to introduce her to photographs of Ailsa, Elizabeth, and Leo. Perhaps both.

  From the way the dining room had been turned into a junk room for unwanted chairs and chests of drawers, it was apparent that it was a long time since it had been used. It was cold, and dust lay everywhere. There was the smell of the decay that Mark had mentioned earlier, although Nancy thought it was disuse and damp rather than rot. There were blisters in the paintwork above the skirting boards, and the plaster underneath was soft to the touch. It had obviously been Ailsa's domain, she thought, and she wondered if James avoided it as he avoided her garden.

  A dark mahogany table stretched the length of one wall, covered in papers and with piles of cardboard boxes stacked at one end. Some of the boxes had "RSPCA" inscribed in large letters across their fronts, others "Barnado's" or "Child Soc." The writing was strong and black, and Nancy guessed that this was Ailsa's filing system for her charities. Patches of mildew on the boxes suggested Ailsa's interests had died with her. A few were unmarked, and these lay on their side, with files spilling out across the table. Household bills. Garden receipts. Car insurance. Bank statements. Savings accounts. The stuff of everyday life.

  There were no paintings, only photographs, although pale rectangular patches on the walls suggested paintings had hung there at one time. The photographs were everywhere. On the walls, on every available surface, in a stack of albums on the sideboard that held the dinner plates. Even if she'd wanted to, Nancy couldn't have ignored them. They were largely historical. A pictorial record of past generations, of Shenstead's lobster enterprise, landscapes of the Manor and the valley, shots of horses and dogs. A studio portrait of James's mother hung over the mantelpiece, and in the alcove to the right was a wedding photograph of a younger, unmistakable James and his bride.

  Nancy felt like an eavesdropper, in search of secrets, as she stared at Ailsa. It was a pretty face, full of character, as different from James's square-jawed, black-haired mother as the north pole is from the south. Blond and delicate, with bright blue, impish eyes like a knowing Siamese cat's. Nancy was astonished. She hadn't imagined Ailsa like this at all. In her mind, she had transposed her late adoptive grandmother-a tough, wrinkled farmer's wife with gnarled hands and spiky personality-onto her natural grandmother, turning her into a daunting woman with a quick tongue and little patience.

  Her eyes were drawn to two more photographs that stood in a leather double-hander on the bureau beneath the wedding picture. In the left frame: James and Ailsa with a couple of toddlers; in the right: a studio portrait of a girl and a boy in their teens. They were dressed in white against a black background, a studied pose of profiled bodies, the boy behind the girl, his hand on her shoulder, their faces turned to the camera. "Trust me," Mark had said, "in a million years no one would mistake you for Elizabeth." He was right. There was nothing in Nancy that recognized this made-up Barbie doll with petulant mouth and bored eyes. She was a clone of her mother, but with none of Ailsa's sparkle.

  Nancy told herself it wasn't fair to judge a person by a photograph-particularly one that was so fake-except that Leo wore the same bored expression as his sister. She had to assume the whole setup was their choice, for why would James and Ailsa want such a bizarre record of their children? Leo interested her. From her perspective of twenty-eight years his attempts to look sultry were amusing, but she was honest enough to admit that at fifteen she would probably have found him attractive. He had his grandmother's dark hair and a paler version of his mother's blue eyes. It made for an interesting combination, although it disturbed Nancy that she saw more of herself in him than she did in his sister.

  She took against both of them, though she couldn't say whether her dislike was instinctive or a result of what Mark had told her. If they reminded her of anything-possibly because of the white clothes and Elizabeth's false eyelashes-it was Malcolm McDowell's deceptively innocent face in A Clockwork Orange, as he slashed and cut his victims in an orgy of violent self-expression. Was that their intention, she wondered? Was it a coded image of amorality that would amuse their friends and pass their parents by?

  The dinner service stood on the sideboard, covered in dust, and she lifted the stack of plates to the table to retrieve clean ones from the bottom. You could read too much into a picture, she told herself, recalling the unsophisticated snapshots of herself, mostly taken by her father, that littered the farmhouse. What did such unimaginative portrayals say about her? That Nancy Smith was a genuine person who concealed nothing? If so, it wouldn't be true.

  As she returned the plates to the sideboard, she noticed a small heart-shaped mark in the dust where they'd been standing. She wondered who or what had made it. It seemed a poignant symbol of love in that cold, dead room, and she gave a superstitious shiver. You could read too much into anything, she thought, as she took a last look at her grandparents' smiling faces on their wedding day.

  Fox ordered Wolfie back to the bus, but Bella intervened. "Let him stay," she said, pulling the child into her side. "The kid's worried about his mum and brother
. He wants to know where they are, and I said I'd ask you."

  Wolfie's alarm was palpable. Bella could feel the tremors through her coat. He shook his head anxiously. "It's o-k-kay," he stuttered. "F-fox can tell me later."

  Fox's pale eyes stared at his son. "Do as I tell you," he said coldly, jerking his head toward the bus. "Wait for me there."

  Ivo put out a hand to stop the child moving. "No. We've all got an interest in this. You chose families for this project, Fox… let's build a community, you said… so where's yours? You had a lady and another kid at Barton Edge. What happened to them?"

  Fox's gaze traveled around the group. He must have seen something in their collective expressions that persuaded him to answer, because he gave an abrupt shrug. "She took off five weeks ago. I haven't seen her since. Satisfied?"

  No one said anything.

  Bella felt Wolfie's hand steal into hers. She ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth to stimulate some saliva. "Who with?" she asked. "Why didn't she take Wolfie with her?"

  "You tell me," Fox said dismissively. "I had some business to see to and when I got back she and the kid were gone. It wasn't my choice she left Wolfie. He was stoned out of his head when I found him… but he can't remember why. Her stuff was gone and there were signs someone had been in the bus with her, so I'm guessing she put the kids to sleep in order to score. Probably for H. She couldn't go long without it."

  Wolfie's fingers squirmed inside Bella's hand, and she wished she knew what he was trying to tell her. "Where was this? Were you on a site?"

  "Devon. Torquay area. We were working the fairgrounds. She got desperate when the season ended and the clients dried up." He lowered his gaze to Wolfie. "Cub was easier to carry than this one, so I expect she salved her conscience by taking the smallest." He watched tears limn the child's eyes, and his mouth thinned into a cynical smile. "You should try living with a zombie, Bella. It fucks the brain when the only thing in it is obedience to a craving. Everything else can go to hell-kids, food, responsibilities, life-only the drug matters. Or maybe you've never thought about it like that… maybe your own addictions make you feel sorry for them."

  Bella squeezed Wolfie's hand. "My guy had a habit," she said, "so don't lecture me about zombies. I've been there, done that, got the sodding T-shirt. Sure, his brain was fucked, but I went looking for him every time till he OD'd. Did you do that, Fox? Did you go looking?" She stared him down. "It don't make no difference how she got her fix… she'd be on the streets again within half a second flat. So do me a favor. A lady with a kid in her arms? The cops and the social would have had her in safety before she even woke up. Did you go to them? Did you ask?"

  Fox shrugged. "I might have done if I'd thought that's where she was, but she's a whore. She's holed up in a squat somewhere with a pimp who'll put up with her as long as he has access to hits and she does the business. It's happened before. She had her first kid taken off her because of it… made her so scared of cops and social workers she won't go near them now."

  "You can't just leave her," Bella protested. "What about Cub?"

  "What about him?"

  "He's your son, ain't he?"

  He looked amused. "'Fraid not," he said. "That little bastard's some other fucker's responsibility."

  James wanted to discuss the travelers, for which Nancy was grateful. She wasn't keen to talk about herself or her impressions of photographs. On the various occasions that she and Mark exchanged glances across the table, she could see he was baffled by James's sudden curiosity about the squatters at the Copse, and she wondered what their conversation had been while she was in the dining room. The topic of mutilated foxes had been dropped very abruptly. "I don't want to talk about it," James had said.

  "Make sure the table's clean, Mark. She's obviously a very well-brought-up young lady. I don't want her telling her mother I live in a pigsty."

  "It is clean."

  "I didn't shave this morning. Does it show?"

  "You look fine."

  "I should have worn a suit."

  "You look fine."

  "I feel I'm a disappointment. I think she was expecting someone more impressive."

  "Not at all."

  "I'm such a boring old man these days. Do you think she'd be interested in the family diaries?"

  "Not at the moment, no."

  "Perhaps I should ask her about the Smiths? I'm not sure what the etiquette is in these circumstances."

  "I don't think there is one. Just be yourself."

  "It's very difficult. I keep thinking about those terrible phone calls."

  "You're doing great. She likes you a lot, James."

  "Are you sure? You're not just being kind?"

  James quizzed Mark on the law of adverse possession, land registry, and what constituted habitation and usage. Finally, he pushed his plate aside and asked the younger man to repeat what both Dick Weldon and Eleanor Bartlett had said about them.

  "How very odd," he mused, when Mark mentioned the scarves over the mouths. "Why should they be doing that?"

  Mark shrugged. "In case the police turn up?" he suggested. "Their mug shots must be in most of the nicks in England."

  "I thought Dick said the police didn't want to be involved."

  "Yes, he did but-" He paused. "Why so interested?"

  James shook his head. "We're bound to find out who they are eventually, so why hide their faces now?"

  "The lot I saw through the binoculars were wearing scarves and balaclavas," said Nancy. "Pretty heavily muffled, in fact. Doesn't that make Mark right… they're worried about being recognized?"

  James nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "but by whom?"

  "Certainly not Eleanor Bartlett," said Mark. "She was adamant that she'd never seen them before."

  "Mm." He was silent for a moment before smiling from one to the other. "Perhaps I'm the one they're afraid of. As my neighbors seem fond of pointing out, they are on my doorstep. Shall we go and talk to them? If we cross the ha-ha and approach through the wood we can surprise them from behind. The walk will do us good, don't you think?"

  This was the man Mark knew of old-Action Man-and he smiled at him before looking inquiringly at Nancy.

  "I'm game," she said. "As someone once said: 'know your enemy.' We wouldn't want to shoot the wrong people by mistake, now, would we?"

  "They may not be the enemy," Mark protested.

  Her eyes teased him. "Even better, then. Perhaps they're our enemy's enemy."

  Julian was brushing the dried mud off Bouncer's legs when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He turned suspiciously as Eleanor appeared at the stable door. It was so out of character that he assumed she'd come to tear strips off him. "I'm not in the mood," he said curtly. "We'll discuss it when I've had a drink."

  Discuss what? Eleanor asked herself frantically. She felt as if she were skating blindfolded on thin ice. As far as Julian was concerned, there was nothing to discuss. Or was there? "If you mean those wretched people at the Copse, I've already dealt with it," she said brightly. "Prue tried to pass the buck back to you but I told her she was being unreasonable. Do you want a drink, sweetheart? I'll fetch you one if you like."

  He tossed the grooming brush into a bucket and reached for Bouncer's blanket. Sweetheart…? "What do you mean Prue tried to pass the buck?" he asked, spreading the blanket over Bouncer's back and stooping to buckle it under his belly.

  Eleanor relaxed slightly. "Dick couldn't get hold of his solicitor so she asked me to put Gareth onto it. I said I didn't think that was fair, bearing in mind we have no claim to the land and you'd be paying Gareth's fees." She was unable to suppress her hectoring personality indefinitely. "I thought it was a bloody cheek, actually. Dick and James's solicitor had a row about it… then Prue rowed with Dick… so you and I were expected to pick up the pieces. I said to Prue, why should Julian cover the costs? It's not as though we've anything to gain by it."

  Julian made what he could of this. "Has anyone phoned the police?"
/>
  "Dick did."

  "And?"

  "I only know what Prue said," Eleanor lied. "It's to do with ownership of land, so it's a matter for a solicitor."

  He frowned at her. "So what's Dick doing about it?"

  "I don't know. He went off in a huff and Prue doesn't know where he is."

  "You said something about James's solicitor."

  She pulled a face. "Dick spoke to him and got blown out of the water for his pains-which is probably what put him in a bad mood-but I've no idea if the man's done anything about it."

  Julian kept his thoughts to himself while he filled the water pail and replenished the hay in Bouncer's trough. He gave the elderly hunter's neck a final pat, then picked up the grooming bucket and waited pointedly by the door until Eleanor moved. "Why would Dick phone James's solicitor? How can he help? I thought he was in London."

  "He's staying with James. He arrived on Christmas Eve."

  Julian shot the bolt on the stable door. "I thought the poor old boy was on his own."

  "It's not just Mr. Ankerton. There's someone else there as well."

  Julian frowned at her. "Who?"

  "I don't know. It looked like one of the travelers."

  Julian's frown deepened. "Why would James have travelers visiting him?"

  Eleanor smiled weakly. "It's nothing to do with us."

  "Like hell it isn't," he snapped. "They're parked on the bloody Copse. How did the solicitor blow Dick out of the water?"

  "Refused to discuss it with him."

  "Why?"

  She hesitated. "I suppose he resents what Prue said about James and Ailsa fighting."

  "Oh, come on!" said Julian impatiently. "He might not like her for it-he might not like Dick either-but he's not going to refuse to discuss something that affects his client. You said they had a row. What was that about?"

  "I don't know."

  He marched up the path to the house with Eleanor scurrying behind him. "I'd better call him," he said crossly. "The whole thing sounds totally ridiculous to me. Solicitors don't row with people." He pulled the back door open.