Fox Five Reloaded

by Zoe Sharp

  “Your mother’s a daunting woman,” I said, side-stepping his question. “Maybe, subconsciously, you’re trying to please her.”

  “By trying to kill myself?” He laughed, a far more melodious sound than in real life. “If I truly wanted to die in here, then I’ve sure had plenty of opportunities.”

  “But you were always a thrill seeker, weren’t you Asher—a risk taker? Where did it get you?”

  “It got me a business empire. If I hadn’t taken risks the company would never have gotten off the ground.” He nodded towards the Flyer as the Wright brothers swung the propellers and the engine spat and coughed and roared its way to life. “It’s amazing that thing ever did.”

  I ignored his attempt to change the subject. “The company has continued to prosper with your brother in charge, and I’ve never met a man more conservative. Must be tough to watch, especially for someone who considered himself indispensable.”

  Asher said nothing.

  “It would be enough to make anyone wonder what had it all been for?” I went on, just loud enough to be heard over the Flyer’s raucous exhaust note.

  “You think I want to keep dying in here?”

  “I think the prospect of dying is, for you, the last great adventure,” I said. “I think it’s all you have left to live for.”

  Orville Wright climbed through the tangle of bracing struts to lie on the lower wing. He took the Flyer’s control levers, revved the engine and released the wire holding him onto the track. The craft lumbered forwards and wobbled slowly into the air.

  A cheer went up from the assembled ground crew. Asher and I watched as the bi-plane gradually gained both altitude and airspeed.

  After a moment I nudged his arm. “If you are serious about your health, we should move.” And when he blinked at me, frowning, I added, “How long was the first powered flight supposed to last?”

  “Around twelve seconds…”

  Above us, the bi-plane went into a high banked turn and swooped downwards with increasing agility.

  “I get the feeling this has suddenly turned into the crop-duster scene from North By Northwest,” I said. “Move! Now!”

  There wasn’t a handy cornfield to hide in, but the wooden hangar where the Flyer had been stored was standing open and empty. I dragged Asher inside by the lapels of his overcoat and almost flung him against the back wall.

  The bi-plane buzzed the roof low enough to make the whole building shudder and raced away to make another run.

  “Are you hoping that if you die in here often enough, one day it will really happen?”

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “If I was trying to kill myself I could have removed the safeties and been dead long before now.”

  “But where’s the sporting uncertainty in that? Where’s the thrill?” I threw back. “And you’re forgetting—a man who won’t go against the Church to divorce his wife certainly wouldn’t countenance the sin of suicide.”

  I’d nailed it. I could see it in his face. I let go of his coat and stepped back.

  “Take this as my resignation,” I said. “Now get me out of this pantomime.”

  “Please, Charlie—”

  I silenced him with a glare. “I can work with a client who doesn’t want to die,” I said. “But there’s fuck all I can do with one who doesn’t want to live.”

  More to Read!

  If you liked this, then you may also like the later Charlie Fox novels, where she is in full-blown professional bodyguard mode. Why not take a look at Charlie Fox: Bodyguard eBoxset of books 4, 5, and 6? And please check out the rest of the series here.

  8

  Risk Assessment

  Ever since I first discovered that not only were the Sherlock Holmes stories first published in serial form in the Strand Magazine but that the magazine was still going—and still publishing crime fiction—it’s been a small ambition of mine to have a story appear in those pages.

  Then, a couple of years ago, one of my American publishers snagged the attention of the Strand’s editor, Andrew Gulli. He agreed to consider a story from me, but the brief was so open I had instant brain fade over what kind of story I should write.

  Not long afterwards, I happened to be renewing my motor insurance over the phone. As I happily gave all my personal details to the (blameless, I’m sure!) guy at the other end of the line, it gradually dawned on me that, if anyone was nefariously inclined, this might be a perfect opportunity for a serial killer to select his victims…

  The story appeared in Issue 51 of the Strand Magazine, with illustrations by Jeffrey B McKeever, and very proud I am, too.

  It’s her voice that lures him in. Kind of husky, as if she’s smiling as she speaks. As if she’s happy to be spending part of her Saturday morning on the phone, talking to someone like him.

  She tells him her name is Helen. From her date of birth, he calculates she is thirty-two. Seven years his senior, but he doesn’t care about a little thing like that. Her postcode puts her in the heart of the Derbyshire Peak District.

  “Lovely area of the country,” he says approvingly. “Except in the winter, I imagine.”

  “It can be a bit tricky when it snows,” she agrees. “But I’m on the edge of a village, and they usually plough the road for the school bus.”

  “I expect that pleases everyone—except the kids.”

  She laughs. “Yes…I expect it does.” Her tone suggests she’s never given it much thought.

  No kids, then.

  She’s divorced, she tells him, when he asks her marital status. There’s a cheerful note to her voice. If it gave her a bad time, it is now put firmly behind her. Maybe she was the instigator?

  Can’t have come out of it too badly, though. The property has a name rather than a number. And when she gives him the registration, make and model of her car, it’s a mid-range BMW coupé less than two years old. Not cheap, by any stretch. She’s never had an accident, and her licence is clean.

  “Do you have use of any other vehicles—belonging to another family member, perhaps, someone living at the same address?”

  “There’s nobody else here, only me. But I have a motorcycle. Does that count?”

  “Of course it does.” He’s surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “So, you’re a bit of a biker as well, are you?”

  “Oh yes. Nothing quite like it in the summer, especially through the Peak District National Park—you know, over Cat and Fiddle, or across Saddleworth Moor. Wonderful twisty roads.”

  “Bit isolated, though. Aren’t you worried about breaking down on your own in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Not really. Modern British bikes are a lot more reliable than they used to be in the bad old days.”

  “You be careful of the speed traps, then, or that licence of yours won’t stay clean much longer.”

  She laughs again. It plugs straight into his nervous system, zeros in on his groin. He shifts in his chair, uncomfortable, hurries on with his questions.

  Both the car and motorcycle are kept in the garage overnight, which is integral to the house.

  “And you always put the car away? Only, if you ever leave it out on the driveway, you’re better off saying so, just in case.”

  “No, no,” she says. “I have a remote for the up-and-over door, so when I get home from work I drive straight in.”

  “Very handy.”

  “It is! Especially if it’s raining. Lazy, I know, but useful for unloading shopping or what-have-you into the utility room.”

  “Is the garage covered by an alarm of some sort?”

  “I’ve never bothered. It’s very quiet round here. I don’t think there’s been a burglary anywhere in the village for years.”

  “Well, that should help, anyway.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Let me just have a little look and see what we can do for you…”

  He finishes keying in her information, hits Return and waits until his screen refreshes with quotes from all the major insurance compan
ies. For the cover she is after, the top quote is competitive. He scrolls down until he finds an alternative, one where the premium is almost double. He reads that out instead, his voice regretful.

  “I’m afraid that’s not as good as my current insurer,” she tells him. “I’ve had the renewal through, but I always like to check I’m getting a good deal.”

  “Ah, what a shame. Well, that’s the best price coming up on my system, I’m afraid. I hope you’ll give us another chance when your bike insurance falls due. Now, is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  After she disconnects he sits for a while, isolated in his cubicle with the hubbub of the office floor going on unheard around him. He is a submerged rock in a sea of choppy waters, unmoving and unmoveable.

  He taps on his keyboard, calls up Helen’s details again and takes another look. Remembering. Discreetly, he slides his smartphone from a pocket, photographs the information on the screen. Then he follows protocol, hits the Delete key and watches as every last traceable byte of her disappears into the server’s cyber shredder.

  He waits a month. Long enough for her to have phoned another half-dozen companies and brokers, gone through the details over and over. Long enough for her to have arranged new car insurance elsewhere and forgotten all about the company he works for and his name, which he takes such care to mumble. For the mindless sub-routines of her daily life to go on, unsuspecting.

  Long enough for him to research Helen on social media. She’s been cagey with how much she gives out on Facebook and Instagram, but he has her full name, address and birthday. She’s easy enough to identify.

  He takes the time to study photographs of her in a bikini on the beach in Mauritius. Snapshots posted of a holiday with her sister. To locate her house on Google Earth, and do a virtual drive-by on Street View to check out the proximity of her neighbours. He even runs a search on local police response times, and is heartened by the lacklustre result. All done, of course, using the downloaded Tor browser designed to cloak the user’s identity for his forays into the Dark Web.

  Helen is petite and blonde and pretty. Different enough in type from his last…selection to confuse the profilers.

  He takes the time to plan.

  And his anticipation grows into hunger.

  When the day arrives he is more than ready. He drives a nondescript Toyota borrowed from the office pool and signed for with an illegible squiggle. He has already lined the boot of the car with polythene sheeting, available from any builder’s yard, double-layered. He has temporarily disabled the boot’s internal release handle, too. Not that he expects she will be in any condition to operate it. But best to be sure.

  He dresses in clothing bought from charity shops spread around the city, including shoes a size too large, that have a wear pattern not his own. If you’re going to leave evidence, it may as well work for you as against you.

  He will burn everything when he is done.

  He drives the motorway miles sedately, baseball cap pulled down over his forehead, sunglasses covering his eyes. The registration number on the car is a match to a Toyota of the same model, year and colour—just not this one. The reg belongs to a vehicle currently in long-term parking at Heathrow while its elderly owners enjoy an anniversary cruise. He arranged their travel cover before the trip.

  He has left his smartphone at home, where its GPS chip is dutifully recording its blameless position, should anyone ever feel the need to check.

  He parks in a lay-by—another product of his Street View recces—and heads across the fields, following a footpath he located on a local ramblers’ website. It is chilly enough for hat, gloves, and scarf not to raise suspicions. Openly, he carries a lead for a nonexistent dog to both justify his presence and make it seem more innocuous.

  In his pocket is a knife, and a set of plastic zip-ties.

  He picks out the rear aspect of her house through the trees, but keeps walking all the way to the road, then turns around and slowly retraces his steps. It is a quarter to five in the afternoon in early March. He waits until lights start to come on in the far village. No lights come on in Helen’s house.

  He makes his move.

  The back door leading into the utility room behind the garage is UPVC with a double-glazed upper panel and a standard cheap euro cylinder lock. He bumps it in less than two minutes, using a custom key he made courtesy of a YouTube ‘How To’.

  And he’s in.

  For a moment he stands motionless on the doormat, listening to the sounds of an empty house. The cycle of the fridge compressor, the tick of a radiator valve in the hallway.

  Nobody home.

  He maps out in his mind the route she will take when she gets back from her office job in Administration. From garage to utility room and through to the kitchen. The garage has the usual detritus. Gardening tools, a barbecue and a muddy bicycle. There is a car-sized void in the centre of the space, years of old oil-stains on the bare concrete floor.

  The motorcycle she mentioned sits shrouded against the back wall. He’s tempted to take a look, but can’t risk her noticing any disturbance of the cover, bright in her headlights as she drives in.

  He wonders who will own it next.

  He shakes himself, checks the time, and closes the door between garage and utility on his way back into the house. Where to wait for her? Always the question. Deep enough inside that she won’t baulk from entering. Not so deep that she has a chance to turn and run.

  He decides on the kitchen itself. It is shaped so that he will be out of sight of the doorway, and Helen is tidy enough not to leave any possible weapons close to hand on the gleaming countertops.

  A shiver of excitement passes through him. The waiting is exquisite torture.

  He wishes it were over.

  He wishes it would last forever.

  Lights swing into the driveway at five-forty-three. He hears the whirr and clank of the electric garage door slowly rising. The car’s engine sounds louder, more boomy, as she pulls inside. Then dies away to silence.

  A car door opens and closes, the bleep of the alarm, together with the solid thunk of the door locks engaging. Footsteps, approaching…

  He is holding his breath.

  She enters the kitchen in a flurry of cold air, heads to the table to deposit her bag and the coat slung over her arm. He is close enough to smell her shampoo, her perfume. She turns away to reach for the kitchen light.

  Now.

  He steps up, steps in, grabbing her upper body from behind. The knife is out ready in his hand, the blade at her throat.

  Mine!

  It is the last thing he remembers.

  Awareness returns slowly. And with it pain.

  Pain in his limbs, his head, his gut. He is slumped in an upright chair with his chin propped on his chest. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, but when he raises his head his neck clicks stiffly.

  The room is stark and bright beyond his slitted eyelids. Cautiously, he rolls his shoulders, finds his hands secured behind him and feet bound at the ankles to the legs of the chair. He thrashes against the constriction on a surge of pure panic. Almost instantly he stills from the spike of pain as the bones grate in his right wrist and forearm. He fights back nausea.

  Eyes wide now, he realises he is in the dining room. Blood from his nose, his mouth, has splashed onto the front of his shirt.

  What the hell happened?

  There is a blank space where the memory should be. It terrifies him.

  So do the footsteps he hears in the hallway.

  The woman who enters is a stranger. Medium height, medium build. Without the long blonde wig, her hair is a choppy bob in shades of red and gold. She is wearing jeans, boots and a leather jacket. Over her arm, on a hanger, is the business suit she wore in her guise as Helen.

  But it is her hands that drag his focus.

  She wears black latex gloves, and is carrying a knife.

  His knife.

  “Wh–who—?”


  Carefully, she lays the suit across the dining table, moves to within a few feet of him and holds up the knife. Something about the practised way she does it sends another shiver through him. It is a long way from excitement this time.

  “My name’s Fox,” she says then. “I’d offer to shake hands but—,” a shrug, “—I see you’re a little tied up at the moment.”

  The name means nothing to him. He is certain he’s never had her details up on his computer screen. She sees his confusion, adds, “At this stage, Drew, all you really need to know is that I know exactly who you are. And what’s more, I know exactly what you’re about.”

  “Where is she?” He can’t help blurting out the question. He feels cheated, betrayed.

  “Helen? She isn’t here,” the woman says. “In fact, she was never going to be.”

  His mouth opens, gulps like a drowning fish.

  “But—?”

  The front door slams. The woman calling herself Fox steps sideways, calls over her shoulder, “In here.”

  Another woman comes in—taller, more elegant, long dark hair and long bones. Still not Helen. She pauses when she sees him, her expression one of guarded distaste. She also wears gloves, to hand over what looks like a set of keys…

  “Did you find it?” Fox asks.

  The other nods. “Just down the road. Fake plates,” she says, which jolts him as much as the knife. She is pale in the artificial light as she adds, “The whole of the back is prepped for a body dump.”

  “Of course it is,” Fox murmurs. She turns to him, inspecting the edge of the blade, the weight, and the balance. “So, now I’ve caught him for you, Madeleine, what do you want to do with him?”

  “Hand him over to the police?” the dark haired woman offers, but there’s a dubious note in her voice.

  “If that’s what you want, but you know as well as I do that you can’t prove what he’s done. As far as they’re aware, it’s a first offence. Given a half-decent brief, and a judge with a room-temperature IQ, he might even get away with it.”