Fox Evil

by Minette Walters

  Julian frowned. "Why me? I'm not answerable for my wife's actions."

  "No, but you're answerable for your own, sir," said Monroe, heading for the door.

  The soundof tires on gravel reached Nancy on the terrace, and, with relief, she turned her head toward it. Her sergeant was right. Imagination was a terrible thing. The shrubs and trees on the lawn made too many shadows, and each one resembled a dark, crouching figure. She recalled James's words of earlier. "Which of us knows how brave he is until he stands alone?" Well, now she knew.

  She had remained rooted to the same spot for what seemed like hours, her back to the windows, torch beam flickering to and fro, unable to persuade herself to move. It was highly irrational. Her training and experience told her to return to her car, protecting her rear by hugging the contours of the house, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

  The climber-clad walls of the house held as many alarms for her as the garden. A thickly growing, unpruned pyracanthas, lethal with thorns, belled out between the drawing room and the library. Reason told her there was no one behind it. She had walked past it on her way to the French windows and would have seen a lurker in its shadow, but every time she held her breath she could hear breathing.

  "Who's there?" she asked at one point.

  The only answer was silence.

  In periods of darkness when the moon was hidden by cloud she saw the glow of light behind the hazel clumps in the Copse. Once or twice, she heard laughter and muted conversation. She thought about calling out, but the wind was in the wrong direction. Any sound she made would be swallowed by the house behind her. She couldn't have done it, anyway. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand, fear had persuaded her that inertia was safer than provoking confrontation.

  Fox raised his head, and the girl felt him do it. His senses so much better attuned than hers, caught the reaction. A flash of agonizing awareness as something-a vibration in the air, perhaps-heightened her fear. She had no idea where he was but she knew her danger had increased. Like her grandmother whose pleas to be let back inside had fallen on deaf ears but who had been too afraid to move because she believed death would come from the hammer and not from the insidious cold of the night.

  He could smell fear…

  …like a fox in a chicken run…

  25

  Martin Barker acknowledged the radio message while his colleague retrieved a couple of torches from the boot. He propped one foot on the doorsill and watched coated figures emerge from buses as Bella rousted everyone to look for Wolfie. "Yes, I've got that… intruder, Shenstead Manor… mm… it's a fair bet… the farm's less than half a mile away. Yes, we've one traveler unaccounted for… I'd say so… same guy… Nancy Smith? No… Hang on." He beckoned to Bella to join him. "What's Fox's full name?"

  She pulled a wry face as she approached. "Fox Evil."

  "Real name, Bella."

  She shook her head. "Sorry, Mr. Barker. That's all he gave us. Even Wolfie don't know. I asked him."

  "Has he ever mentioned a Nancy Smith to you?"

  She looked troubled. "Yeah, he got me to phone her parents to find out where she was. I didn't tell him, though. I said she was up on Salisbury Plain. Who is she? What's his beef with her? She came to the bus earlier, but Fox don't know that."

  Barker shook his head, narrowing his eyes to focus on Fox's bus. "He's driving an IVECO coach," he said into the radio, "cream and gray… battered condition… logo obscured… registration number L324 UZP… Will do. We were.heading there anyway. His kid took off in that direction about five minutes ago. Apparently the Colonel leaves his door open, so there's a possibility he's inside… Right. Tell Monroe we're on our way. Hang on," he said again, as Bella laid an urgent hand on his arm.

  "You wanna tell your blokes to be a bit wary, Mr. Barker. He carries a cutthroat razor. Wolfie's shit-scared of him. His mum and brother vanished a while back, and the rest of us are pretty worried about it."

  "The kid said they were in Torquay."

  "Only 'coz he's frightened of you. He heard Fox tell us she went off with a pimp after they worked the fairgrounds in Devon. But Wolfie don't believe it and neither do we. Why would she take one kid and leave the other?"

  Zadie came up behind her. "Fox's been acting weird ever since we arrived. He sure as hell knows Shenstead. I reckon he's lived here." She jerked her head at the Manor. "That's the draw. Heads off toward it every time our backs are turned."

  Barker spoke into the radio. "How much of that did you get…? Yes, cutthroat razor. Query, lived in Shenstead… query, missing woman and child… possibly Devon. Names?" he asked Bella, holding the radio toward her. "Descriptions?"

  "Vixen and Cub," she said. "Clones of Wolfie, both of them. Blond, blue-eyed, skinny. Sorry, Mr. Barker, it's the best I can do. I only saw them the once. The mother was stoned and the kid looked about three though Wolfie says he's six."

  Barker put the radio to his ear again. "I agree. Tell Monroe we'll meet him at the front." He switched off and dropped the radio into its rest. "Okay, this is how we're going to play it. Forget the search for Wolfie, I want you all in Bella's bus with the door locked. If Fox comes back, don't approach him and don't try to stop him leaving." He jotted a number into his notebook and tore off the sheet. "Presumably you still have your mobile, Bella? Good. This is the quickest way to get hold of me."

  "What about Wolfie?"

  "The sooner we flush out Fox, the sooner we can find him."

  "What if Fox comes back, and he's got the kid with him?"

  "Same instructions. Avoid confrontation." He put a hand on Bella's shoulder. "I'm relying on you. Keep everyone away from him. It won't help Wolfie if his father thinks there's no way out."

  Wolfie crept toward Fox's tree, his eyes straining through the darkness in search of his father. In the first heat of flight, his one confused idea had been to find Fox and tell him to make the policemen go away, but second thoughts had prevailed when his stampeding feet set twigs snapping like gunshots. Fox would lash out with his razor if Wolfie's wild approach alerted people to where he was.

  The child exerted tremendous willpower to slow his panicky heart, then circled around with the stealth of a cat to come at Fox from the slope where the hazel coppices grew. His father would be looking toward the Manor, and wouldn't know Wolfie was there until he put his hand in his. It was a good plan, he thought. Fox couldn't take out the razor if Wolfie had hold of his hand, and he couldn't be cross if Wolfie didn't make a noise. He shied away from thoughts of the hammer. If he didn't think about it, it didn't exist.

  But Fox wasn't by his tree, and fear gripped the child's heart anew. For all his father's failings, he had trusted him to keep the police away. What should Wolfie do now? Where could he go where he wouldn't be found? The cold was biting at his bones, and he had enough intelligence to know he couldn't stay outside. He thought about Lucky Fox, thought about his smiley face and his promise that his door was always open, thought about the size of the house and how easy it would be to hide in it. With nowhere else to go, he slid into the ha-ha and crawled up the other side onto the Manor lawn. The darkness of the building didn't trouble him. Time meant nothing without a watch, and he assumed the old man and his friends were asleep. More concerned about the police than about what lay ahead of him, he scampered on all fours, negotiating his way via the shrubs and trees that dotted the park and keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder. Every so often, when he peeked at the terrace to take a bearing, a light winked in one of the downstairs windows. He thought it was inside the house and paid it no attention.

  His shock was enormous then, when, fifty feet from the terrace, the clouds began to thin and he saw that it was a torch in the hand of a person. He could make out the bulk of a black-clad figure against the French windows, and the pale gleam of a face. He shrank into a trembling huddle behind a tree. He knew it wasn't Fox. He could always tell Fox's shape by his coat. Was it a policeman, put there to catch him?

  The cold dampness of the
ground seeped through his thin clothes, and a dreadful lethargy stole over him. If he went to sleep, he might never wake up. The thought appealed to him. It was better than being frightened all the time. He clung to the belief that, if his mother hadn't gone away, she would save him. But she had gone away, and his new, tiny voice of cynicism told him why. She cared more about herself and Cub than she did about Wolfie. He rested his head on his knees as tears spilled in hot streams down his frozen cheeks.

  "Who's there?"

  He recognized Nancy's voice and heard the fear in it, but he thought she was talking to someone else and didn't answer. Like her, he held his breath and waited for something to happen. The silence stretched interminably until nervous curiosity drove him to see if she was still there. He lay on his belly and squirmed around the base of the tree, and this time he saw his father.

  Fox stood a few yards to Nancy's left, his head bent to stop the moonlight catching his face, the silhouette of his hooded coat unmistakable against the stone wall of the Manor. The only movement either of them made was Nancy's switching of the torch beam to and fro. With his infinite capacity to understand fear, Wolfie knew that she was aware of Fox's presence but couldn't see him. Every time the light flicked in his direction, it lit a bush on the front of the house and failed to show the shadow behind it.

  Wolfie fixed his father with an intense gaze, trying to make out if he held his razor. He decided not. Nothing of Fox showed except the black shadow of his long hooded coat. There was no flash of blade, and the child relaxed slightly. Even if Fox was stroking it in his pocket, he was only truly dangerous when he held it in his hand. He didn't bother to question why his father should be stalking Nancy, guessing that her visit to the campsite had something to do with it. No one invaded Fox's territory without facing the consequences. His sharp little ears picked up the sound of tires on gravel, and he sensed Nancy's relief as she lowered the torch to light the flagstones at her feet. She shouldn't have done that, he thought, when Fox's only escape was to run past her to the back of the house. Panic-stricken, his eyes returned to his father, and he watched in alarm as Fox's hand slid from his pocket.

  Monroe drew in beside Nancy's Discovery and left his motor running as he climbed out to look through her windows. The driver's door was unlocked and he hoisted himself onto the seat, leaning across to retrieve a canvas bag from the floor in front of the passenger seat. He thumb-punched numbers into his mobile, while he flicked through the contents. "I've found a car," he said. "No sign of the owner but there's a wallet here-Visa in the name of Nancy Smith. The keys are in the ignition but I'd say the engine's been off for a while. There's precious little heat in here." He peered through the windscreen. "This side's certainly in darkness… no, the Colonel sits in the room overlooking the terrace." He frowned. "Out? So who reported it? The solicitor?" He frowned. "It sounds a bit flaky to me. How does the solicitor know this woman's in danger if he's halfway to Bovington? Who is she, anyway? Why the panic?" He was taken aback by the answer. "The Colonel's granddaughter? My God!" He glanced back up the drive as he heard the sound of an approaching car. "No, mate, I've no idea what's going on…"

  "You shouldn't have told them who Nancy was," said James angrily. "Have you no sense? It'll be all over the newspapers tomorrow."

  Mark ignored him. "Leo called her Lizzie's love child," he said, accelerating to ninety on a straight piece of road. "Is that how he usually refers to her? I'd have thought 'bastard' was more in his line."

  James closed his eyes as they approached the bend before Shenstead Farm at high speed. "He never refers to her as anything. It's not something we discuss. Never have done. I wish you'd concentrate on your driving."

  Again Mark ignored him. "Whose idea was that?"

  "Nobody's," said James irritably. "At the time it seemed no different from an abortion… and you don't revisit abortions over the lunch table."

  "I thought you and Ailsa had a row about it."

  "All the more reason for the matter to be closed. The adoption had happened. Nothing I said or did could reverse the decision." He braced his hands against the dashboard as the hedgerow slapped the side of the car.

  "Why did you feel so strongly about it?"

  "Because I wouldn't give a dog away to a total stranger, Mark. Certainly not a child. She was a Lockyer-Fox. We had a responsibility to her. You really are going much too fast."

  "Stop bellyaching. So why did Ailsa give her away?"

  James sighed. "Because she couldn't think what else to do. She knew Elizabeth would neglect the baby if she forced her to acknowledge it, and Ailsa could hardly pass it off as her own."

  "What other option was there?"

  "Admit our daughter had made a mistake and take responsibility ourselves. Of course, it's easy to be wise with hindsight. I don't blame Ailsa. I blame myself. She thought my views were so rigid that it wasn't worth consulting me." Another sigh. "We all wish we'd acted differently, Mark. Ailsa assumed Elizabeth would have other children-Leo, too. It was a terrible shock when they didn't."

  Mark slowed as a car's headlamps shone out from the Copse. He glanced in briefly as they passed, but couldn't see beyond the lights. "Did Lizzie ever say who the father was?"

  "No," said the old man dryly. "I don't think she knew herself."

  "Are you sure Leo's never had any kids?"

  "Absolutely sure."

  Mark dropped down a gear as they approached the Manor drive, watching the lights of the other car swing out behind him. "Why? He's been with a lot of women, James. By the law of averages he should have had at least one mistake."

  "We'd have heard about it," said the old man even more dryly. "He'd have enjoyed parading his bastards about the house, particularly after Ailsa took up the cause of child welfare. He'd have used them as leverage to get money out of her."

  Mark swung through the gate. "That's pretty sad, then," he said. "It sounds to me as if the poor guy's firing blanks."

  Monroe reached through his window to kill his engine as the two cars drew to a halt beside him. He opened the passenger door of the Lexus and leaned forward to look into the interior. "Colonel Lockyer-Fox, Mr. Ankerton," he said, "we've met before. DS Monroe."

  Mark switched off his ignition and climbed out the other side. "I remember. Have you found her? Is she all right?"

  "I've only just arrived myself, sir," said Monroe, putting a hand under James's elbow to help him to stand. "She must be close. She's left her bag and keys behind."

  Silence fell abruptly as Barker's engine stilled.

  Wolfie's first reaction was to cover his eyes with his hands. What he didn't see, he couldn't worry about. None of this was his fault. It was Bella's fault. She had done something bad by making the phone call for Fox. She had let the police onto the campsite. She had shown them Fox wasn't there.

  But he liked Bella, and in his heart he knew that the only reason he wanted to blame her was to feel better about himself. Somewhere in his mind, in fragments of memory that he couldn't retain, he thought he knew what had happened to his mother and Cub. He couldn't explain it. Sometimes it seemed like bits of a dream. Other times a half-forgotten movie. But he was afraid it was real, and it consumed him with guilt because he knew he should have done something to help, and hadn't.

  It was the same now.

  Nancy toyed with crying out. The car had stopped, but she could still hear the purr of its motor. It had to be James and Mark-who else could it be?-but why hadn't they come into the house and turned on the lights? She kept telling herself to keep calm, but paranoia was jumbling all sense in her head. Supposing it wasn't James and Mark? Supposing her screams provoked a reaction? Supposing no one came? Supposing… Oh God!

  Fox was cursing her in his head for remaining motionless. He might feel her, but he couldn't see her anymore than she could see him, and if he moved first it was she who would hold the advantage. Was she brave enough-or frightened enough-to strike out? The reflected torchlight on the flagstones told him nothing except that
the hand that held it was steady. And that worried him.

  It suggested a stronger adversary than he was used to…

  All three of them heard the sound of more cars arriving. They drove in at speed, churning the gravel as they slowed to a halt. With a sob of fear, knowing his father wouldn't wait any longer, Wolfie pushed himself to his feet and raced toward the terrace with all his turmoil and anguish for his lost mother pouring out in a high-pitched "NO-O-O!"

  26

  Afterward, when she had time to think about it, Nancy wondered how many adrenaline rushes a person could tolerate before their legs gave way. She felt she was bathing in the stuff, but when the child started screaming her glands went into overdrive.

  The whole incident remained sharp in her memory, as if the stimulus of Wolfie's cry cleared her brain for action. She remembered feeling calm, remembered waiting for the other person to react first, remembered switching off her torch because she didn't need it anymore. She knew where he was now because he swore under his breath as the wailed "No" reached him, and in the fraction of a second that it took him to move, she sorted and computed enough information to predict what he would do.

  More than one car suggested police. Someone had alerted them. There were lights at the encampment. The cry was a child's. Only one child had been scared. The psycho's son. This was the psycho. Fox. He carried a razor. His only route to safety was toward the parkland and the valley beyond. Without wheels he'd be trapped between Shenstead and the sea. He needed a guarantee of free passage. The only guarantee was a hostage.

  She began to move as soon as he did, cutting off his angled run toward the child's voice. With a shorter distance to cover-almost as if it were preordained-she caught him by Ailsa's last resting place in front of the sundial. His left side was toward her and she scanned for the flash of a blade in his hand. It looked empty and she gambled that he was right-handed. With a backhand swing of her torch, she chopped at his throat before bringing her left hand down in a slamming slice on his right forearm as he turned toward her. Something metal clattered to the flagstones.