"Will Wolfie work that out for himself?"
"I hope not, darlin'. He's gonna have enough trauma in his life without building Fox into a sodding icon."
They turned as they heard Mark come into the room. "It's hopeless," he said despondently. "If Ailsa ever kept a copy, it definitely isn't there now. We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed that the police locate theirs." He joined them at the window and put an arm around each of them. "How are they doing?"
"I think James must be telling him about the lobster industry," said Nancy. "I'm not sure the ulster's going to last much longer, though. It seems to be splitting at the seams."
"Good thing, too. It needs throwing out. He says he's been looking to the past too much." It was his turn to sigh. "I'm afraid the police are pressing for Wolfie to be handed over to social services. They want you both to persuade him to go."
"Oh, God!" said Nancy. "I promised him he wouldn't have to do anything until he was ready."
"I know, but I think it's important. They have experts to deal with children like him, and the sooner they can start the process the better. It's what Bella just said. He needs to put Fox into perspective and he can only do that with professional guidance."
"It don't make sense that he can't remember who he is or where he came from," said Bella. "I mean, he's ten years old and he's a bright kid. Yesterday lunchtime he told me he'd always been with Fox-today he's saying he thinks he lived in a house one time. But he ain't got no idea when. He just says it was when Fox wasn't there… but he don't know if it's 'coz Fox went away… or if it was before Fox. Do you reckon fear can do that?"
"I don't know," said Mark. "Put it this way, I shouldn't think drugs and permanent malnutrition helped."
"I know," said Nancy with feeling. "I've never been so scared in my life as I was last night. My brain stopped working completely. I'm twenty-eight years old, I have a degree, I'm a professional soldier, and I can't remember having a single thought for the whole time that I stood in front of these windows. I don't even know how long I was there. Imagine what it must have been like for a child to put up with that level of terror day in, day out for months on end. The miracle is he isn't a complete vegetable. I would have been."
"Yeah," said Bella thoughtfully. "No question Vixen and Cub were vegetables. Vera, too, if it comes to that. What's gonna happen to her, then?"
"I've managed to find a nursing home in Dorchester that will take her," said Mark.
"Who's gonna pay?"
"James," said Mark wryly. "He wants her off the estate as fast as possible and says he doesn't mind how much it costs if it'll keep him from killing her."
Bella chuckled. "The old guy's pretty hot on this blood money lark. Me and Nancy have been watching Ivo skulking in the wood, trying to wave to his woman. It's pretty funny. All she's done so far is give him the finger."
"She'll have to go soon. That's the other thing the police are pressing me on. They want the buses moved to a secure site. It's going to be a bit of a gauntlet-run, I'm afraid, because the press are lining the road, but you'll have a police escort the whole way."
Bella nodded. "How long?"
"Half an hour," said Mark apologetically. "I asked for longer, but they're using up too much manpower guarding the site. Also they want the house cleared so that James can make an inventory of anything that's missing. It looks as if the dining room's lost most of its silver."
The big woman sighed. "It's always the same. Just as you start getting comfortable the flaming cops turn up and move you on. Never mind, eh?"
"Will you talk to Wolfie first?"
"You bet," she said roundly. "Gotta tell him how to find me if he needs me."
31
The photographers weren't pleased that under sub judice rules none of their shots of Julian Bartlett resisting a search warrant could be used until after his trial. The police arrived in force at Shenstead House, and the man's fury when DS Monroe served him with the warrant was dramatic. He tried to slam the door and, when that didn't work, he seized a riding crop from the hall table and whipped at Monroe's face. Monroe, younger and fitter, caught his wrist in midair and twisted his arm up behind his back before frog-marching him toward the kitchen. His words were inaudible to anyone outside, but the reporters all wrote with confidence: "Mr. Julian Bartlett of Shenstead House was arrested for assault at 11:43." Eleanor sat in a state of shock while Julian was handcuffed and cautioned in front of her before being taken to another room while the search of the house began. She seemed unable to grasp that the focus of police attention was her husband, not herself, and kept tapping her chest as if to say mea culpa, the blame is mine. It was only when Monroe put a series of photographs in front of her and asked her if she recognized any of them that she finally opened her mouth.
"That one," she whispered, pointing to Fox.
"Could you name him for me, Mrs. Bartlett?"
"Leo Lockyer-Fox."
"Could you explain how you know him?"
"I told you last night."
"Again, please."
She licked her lips. "He wrote to me. I met him in London with his sister. I don't remember his hair being like this-it was much shorter-but I remember his face very well."
"Do you recognize any of the other photographs? Take as long as you like. Look at them closely."
She seemed to feel it was an order and picked up each one in shaking fingers and stared at it for several seconds. "No," she said at last.
Monroe isolated a picture from the middle and pushed it toward her. "That is Leo Lockyer-Fox, Mrs. Bartlett. Are you sure he wasn't the man you met?"
What little color she had left drained from her cheeks. She shook her head.
Monroe laid another series of photographs on the table. "Do you recognize any of these women?"
She hunched forward, staring at the faces. "No," she said.
"Are you absolutely certain?"
She nodded.
Again he isolated one. "That is Elizabeth Lockyer-Fox, Mrs. Bartlett. Are you sure she wasn't the woman you spoke to?"
"Yes." She stared up at him with tears in her eyes. "I don't understand, Sergeant. The woman I saw was so convincing. No one could pretend to be that damaged, could they? She was shaking the whole time she talked to me. I believed her."
Monroe pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. Time enough to put the fear of God into her when he had her husband in the bag; for the moment he wanted cooperation. "Probably because she was afraid of the man who was calling himself Leo," he said, sitting down. "Also, she may have been telling you the truth, Mrs. Bartlett… but it would have been her own story and not Elizabeth Lockyer-Fox's. Sadly, we believe the woman you met is now dead, although there's a chance we've found her passport. In a day or two I'll ask you to look at some more photographs. If you recognize any of those faces then we may be able to put a name to her and find out something about her history."
"But I don't understand. Why did she do it?" She looked at Fox's picture. "Who's this person? Why did he do it?"
Monroe rested his chin on his hands. "You tell me, Mrs. Bartlett. Two strangers weren't likely to know that you'd be interested in a fabricated story about Colonel Lockyer-Fox. How did they know you'd believe it? How did they know you had a close friend in Mrs. Weldon who would support a campaign of nuisance calls? How did they know you both thought the Colonel had murdered his wife?" He gave a sympathetic shrug. "Someone very close to you must have given them your name, don't you think?"
She really was deeply unintelligent. "Someone who doesn't like James?" she suggested. "Otherwise, what was the point?"
"You were a decoy. Your phone calls were designed to make the Colonel think there was no one he could trust… not even his son or daughter. Your role-" he smiled slightly-"which you performed extremely well-was to drive a defenseless old man to confusion and exhaustion. While he was concentrating on you-and by default his children because of what you were alleging-he was being robbed." He raised inquiring
eyebrows. "Who knew you well enough to set you up like that? Who knew you resented the Lockyer-Foxes? Who thought it would be amusing to let you do his dirty work?"
As monroe told his inspector afterward, it might be true that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but hell broke loose in Shenstead House when a scorned woman found she'd been framed. Once started, Eleanor couldn't stop. She had an absolute memory of their finances at the time of the move, the approximate value of Julian's portfolio, the amount of his early- retirement package and the minimal pension he was receiving until he turned sixty-five. She leaped at the chance to construct a list of her own expenditures since moving to Dorset, including the cost of every home improvement. The list she made of Julian's known expenses ran to two pages, with the gifts mentioned in the GS emails scored into the paper at the end.
Even Eleanor could see that expenditure far outweighed income, so, unless Julian had sold every share they possessed, there was money coming from somewhere else. She disproved the sale of shares by taking Monroe to Julian's study and locating the stockbroker file in one of his cabinets. She then assisted the police further by going through all his other files and isolating anything she didn't recognize. She grew more and more confident as evidence of her husband's guilt became apparent-bank and investment accounts that he'd never mentioned, receipts for goods sold that had never belonged to them, even correspondence with a previous mistress-and it was obvious to Monroe that she was rapidly beginning to see herself as the victim.
He had requested specifically that she look for a file containing letters from Colonel Lockyer-Fox to a Captain Nancy Smith, and when she finally unearthed it at the bottom of a rubbish bag which she remembered Julian taking outside that morning-"he's never so obliging usually"-she handed it over with a triumphant flourish. She was even more triumphant when one of the officers dug farther into the coffee grounds and sprouts and produced a Darth Vader voice distorter. "I told you it wasn't my fault," she said stridently.
Monroe, who had assumed a second voice distorter because of the number of calls Darth Vader had made, held open a polythene bag to take it. "Perhaps this is why he was so keen to go out," the other officer remarked as he dropped it in. "He was hoping to chuck them into a hedge somewhere on the other side of Dorchester."
Monroe glanced at Eleanor while he sealed the bag. "He'll deny all knowledge of them," he said matter-of-factly, "unless his wife can prove she's never set eyes on them before. There are two people living in this house and there's no evidence at the moment to say which one was responsible."
The woman gobbled like a turkey as all her fears resurfaced. It was a satisfying reaction. In Monroe's view, she was as much at fault as her husband. Her degree of involvemenl might have been less, but he'd heard some of her messages or tape and the pleasure she'd taken from bullying an old man had turned his stomach.
BBC News Online-
17 september 2002, 10:10 GMT
Death of a Fox
It was reported yesterday that "Fox Evil," the suspect at the center of one of the biggest murder investigations of the last 10 years, has died of an inoperable brain tumor in a London hospital. He was transferred there 10 days ago from the hospital wing of HMP Belmarsh where he was awaiting trial.
Brian Wells, 45, aka "Liam Sullivan," aka "Fox Evil," remained an enigma to the end. His refusal to cooperate in the murder investigation led to a "missing persons" search involving 23 police forces. Described by some as a charmer and by others as a terrifying night stalker, Wells's arrest last year caused huge public concern when police revealed he was suspected of the slaughter of three women and seven children, none of whose bodies have been recovered.
"We believe his victims were squatters or travelers," said a police spokesperson. "Either single mothers or mothers persuaded to leave their partners. Sadly, these are people whose whereabouts are seldom known to their extended families and their disappearances go unreported."
Police suspicions were aroused after Wells was taken into custody on 26 December last year. Camped with other travelers on waste ground in the tiny Dorset village of Shenstead, he was charged with a hammer attack on Nancy Smith, 28, an army officer, and the murder of Robert Dawson, 72, a gardener. Guns and stolen property were found in his vehicle and police began a search for underworld contacts.
The scope of the investigation widened after a witness reported seeing Wells murder a woman and child. Within hours bloodstained clothing belonging to seven toddlers and three women was found in a concealed compartment beneath the floor of his bus. Police feared they were looking at a sick murderer's "trophies."
Confirmation came earlier this year that two of the victims, a woman and her six-year-old son, had been identified. Their names were given only as "Vixen" and "Cub" to protect surviving family members. It is believed that DNA testing of the woman's relatives has shown genetic links to a woman's dress and a toddler's T-shirt. Police refused to comment further, saying only that the investigation was ongoing and travelers should not be afraid to come forward.
"All information will be treated in confidence," said a female detective. "We understand that some people may not want to give their real names but we ask them to trust us. Our only interest is to identify those who are genuinely missing."
The horror, particularly the brutal slaying of seven innocent children, touched a chord in the public psyche. As newspaper headlines emphasized, who cares if they never see a traveler again? "Not in my backyard," screamed one. "Out of sight out of mind," said another. "The invisible tribe." It was a shocking reminder of the vulnerability of people who live on the margins.
Wells himself could be said to be a man from "the margins." Born into a cradle of poverty in southeast London, he was the only child of a drug-addicted single parent. Described by teachers at his primary school as "gifted" and "sweet-natured," he was thought to have a future beyond the sink estate where he grew up. By secondary level this had all changed. Known to the police as an out-of-control teen, he had a string of cautions for petty theft, drug use, and drug dealing.
One of his teachers blames his altered personality on a fractured skull at 12. "His mother hooked up with some travelers. She said the bus was involved in an accident. Brian became very angry afterward." Others attribute it to his high IQ, which allowed him to exploit those around him.
Whatever the truth, his reputation for being a dangerous man to cross grew with the years. " Everyone was frightened of him," said an ex-girlfriend. "The smallest thing made him lose his temper." From 18 to 37, Wells spent a total of 12 years behind bars. Following his release in 1994 after a five-year term for illegal possession of a firearm and assault, he informed fellow inmates that he wouldn't be going back to jail.
"He said staying on the move was the only way to drop out of circulation," said a former friend. "He must have done it because we never saw him again. Probation and police are blaming each other for losing track of him, but at the time they were pleased to be rid of him. He was full of hate."
Tracking Wells's movements between 1994 and his arrest last year has proved difficult. Despite interviewing hundreds of travelers, police have been unable to establish where he was for long periods of that time. H is modus operandi was to move in on vacant property and exploit whatever possibilities arose.
"We've tied him to three squats," said a Scotland Yard detective in July. "On two occasions he accepted money to evict his fellow squatters. We are now concerned about what happened to these people. One owner remembers a woman and three children. We've found no trace of them and we don't know their names."
According to travelers who shared Wells's campsite in Shenstead, he was a chameleon. "He could mimic voices," said Bella Preston, 36. "Most of the time he talked as if he'd been to public school. I was surprised to hear he came from south London." Zadie Parrel, 32: "He'd be standing a couple of meters away and we wouldn't know he was there. I think he liked watching people to see what made them tick."
The two women still remember "Fox
Evil" with shudders of fear. "We were naive," said Bella. "It never occurred to us that one of our own was bad." "He wouldn't let strangers see his face," said Zadie. "It was a terrible shock when the police found guns in his bus. I realized he could have killed us all, and no one would have known who'd done it."
Wells's arrest followed an unsuccessful attempt to rob a Shenstead farmhouse. Farmer's wife Mrs. Prue Weldon spotted an intruder in her yard and alerted local police. A routine search of neighboring properties disturbed Wells's assault on Captain Nancy Smith in the grounds of Shenstead Manor. Granddaughter of the owner, Colonel Lockyer-Fox, she fought off her assailant, suffering a broken arm and ribs in the assault. Police have commended her for her bravery.
Wells's motives for murdering Robert Dawson and attacking Nancy Smith remain as puzzling as the man himself. He is known to have squatted in a cottage tied to the Manor for three months in 1997 with a woman and two small children. He is also known to have obtained goods fraudulently by impersonating the son of the owner, Leo Lockyer-Fox, whom he was said to resemble. Police have speculated that the presence of Dawson and Smith in the grounds of the Manor on Boxing Day night foiled Wells's attempt to burgle the house, and this led to the attacks.
Psychological profiler William Hayes offers a different interpretation. "Wells's alias, 'Fox Evil' implies a fantasy relationship with this family. He knew a great deal about them before he moved into their property in '97, possibly from traveler families who had visited the area before. His original intention may simply have been to exploit a likeness to the owner's son, but something seeded in his mind that became obsessional.
"He was treated with generosity when he first arrived, particularly by the owner's wife, who was concerned for the woman and toddlers in his care. Her kindness may have given him a false sense of belonging, but those feelings would have turned to anger very quickly when he discovered she was interested only in helping his partner break away from his influence. It is probable that this unknown woman and her children were his first victims. If so, his subsequent killings would have been strongly linked in his mind with the Lockyer-Fox family.
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