Fox Evil

24

Leo answered at the first ring. "Lizzie?" he whispered softly, as if he were in a public place and didn't want to be overheard.

Leo's mobile wouldn't have recognized Mark's, but it was an odd leap to associate an unknown number with his sister. "No, it's Mark Ankerton." He strained to hear noise in the background, but there was none. "Why did you think it was Lizzie?"

"None of your business," said the other man aggressively, immediately raising his voice. "What do you want?"

"How about, Happy Christmas, Mark? How's my father getting on?"

"Fuck that."

"Where are you?"

A small laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Not particularly. It's Lizzie I'm after, as a matter of fact. I've been trying to raise her on the phone, but she isn't answering. Do you know where she is and if she's all right?"

"Fat lot you care."

"I wouldn't be calling if I didn't." He flicked a sidelong glance at James. "Your father's decided to raise her allowance. He's also considering your position. He's not happy about the row you had the other day… but he wants to be fair." He put a warning hand on James's arm as he felt the old man bristle with indignation.

Leo gave an angry laugh. "You mean the row he had. I never said a word. He's completely senile, shouldn't be in control of anything." He paused as if he expected Mark to answer. "You're down there as usual, I suppose, pulling his blasted strings. You'd better know I've put a solicitor onto challenging the wills. The old man's obviously been shot for years-Ma, too, probably-and you drew up new ones without ever questioning their competence."

Mark ignored the rant. "I'm down here, yes. I didn't want him spending Christmas alone." He tried again. "Where are you?"

Another angry laugh. "God, you're a patronizing bastard! You didn't want him to be alone. Do you know how sickening that sounds? Bloody Mark this… bloody Mark that… You damn well influenced my mother. Dad's dangled the estate over our heads since time immemorial, but Ma was always going to leave her money to us."

Mark allowed his own anger to surface. "If that's the kind of bullshit you're giving another solicitor you won't get far. You and Elizabeth were both shown copies of Ailsa's will. She wanted her money put to useful purpose, and she didn't believe that giving it to you and Elizabeth would serve any purpose at all, except your rapid dissolution."

"And who put the idea into her head?"

"You did when you sent Lizzie down to retrieve the Monets."

"They're hers."

"No, they're not. James's mother entrusted them to him until his death. Only then do they become Lizzie's. Ailsa was furious with you. She knew you'd take them and sell them… and it caused yet another screaming match with Lizzie. Frankly, you should be grateful Ailsa didn't close the door on you entirely by handing her fortune straight to charity. At least by passing it to your father, she gave you a second chance to prove yourselves."

"He's never going to leave it to us. Becky said it was all going to Lizzie's love child." A snort of derision. "How is she? I presume you took her back… she said you would."

Mark was caught off balance. "Becky?"

"Of course Becky. How many exes do you have? You're welcome to her, by the way… and you can tell her I said so. She's a two-faced bitch-" another laugh-"but you know that already. It served you right. All that Mandrake crap… you owed me one."

Mark ran a thoughtful hand around his jawline. "I haven't seen Becky since she left me for you. And, just for the record, I'd slit my throat before I took one of your castoffs. Damaged goods don't interest me."

"Fuck you!"

"Also for the record," Mark went on, "your mother wouldn't have left you a damn farthing if I hadn't influenced her. So how about thanking me for the fifty thousand?"

"I'd slit my throat first. So where are the Monets?"

Odd question. "Where they always were."

"No, they're not."

"How do you know?"

"None of your business. Where are they?"

"Safe," said Mark succinctly. "Your mother didn't trust you not to have another go."

"You mean you didn't trust me… Ma would never have thought of it herself." Another pause. "Have you really not seen her? She said she only had to crook her little finger and you'd come running."

"Who?"

"Becky. I assumed you'd been mug enough to cover her debts. It put me in a good humor, as a matter of fact. I liked the idea of you being fleeced. She's got the bug something chronic."

"What bug?"

"Work it out for yourself. Is Dad serious about upping Lizzie's allowance?"

Gambling…? "Yes."

"How much?"

"Five hundred a month."

"Jesus!" Leo said disgustedly. "It's a pittance. He hasn't put it up in two years. Couldn't you have pressed for a grand?"

"What's it to you? You won't get your hands on it."

"I don't expect to."

It would be a first, then, thought Mark cynically. "It's better than nothing. If she's already blown her mother's fifty thousand, then it's a guaranteed fifty bottles of gin a month… but James won't give it to her unless she talks to him."

"What about me?"

"I'm still negotiating."

"Well, don't expect gratitude. Far as I'm concerned the best place for you is six feet under."

"Fuck you!"

This time the laugh was amused. "It's my only option at the moment."

Mark smiled rather grudgingly at his end. "Tell me about it," he said dryly.

There was a second of mutual understanding. "You've obviously twisted Dad's arm for some reason," Leo said then. "In normal circumstances he'd cut it off before he gave us any more money, so what's this call really about?"

"Do you know Eleanor Bartlett? Lives at Shenstead House."

No answer.

"Have you ever spoken to her? Did you introduce her to Elizabeth?"

"Why do you want to know?"

Mark tossed a mental coin in his head, and opted for honesty. What did he have to lose? If Leo was involved, he already knew what was being said. If he wasn't… "She's accusing James of incest-says he's the father of Lizzie's child-and she's claiming Lizzie gave her the information. She's been using the telephone to threaten him, which makes it a criminal offense, and I'm advising James to go to the police. Before we do that, we want to know if Eleanor Bartlett's telling the truth about hearing the slander from Lizzie."

Leo's grin sounded in his voice. "What makes you think it's slander?"

"Are you saying it isn't?"

"It depends what it's worth."

"Nothing."

"Wrong answer, my friend. Dad's reputation matters to him. Reopen negotiations on that basis and find out how much he's prepared to pay to protect it."

Mark didn't reply immediately. "What about your reputation, Leo? How much is yours worth?"

"I'm not the one with the problem."

"You will be if I repeat this conversation to the police, plus the various allegations that Becky's making against you."

"You mean the garbage about me forcing her to borrow money?" Leo said scathingly. "It won't hold water. She's in hock up to her eyeballs on her own damn account." A suspicious pause. "You said you hadn't spoken to her."

"I said I hadn't seen her. I rang her about half an hour ago. She was very forthcoming… none of it complimentary. She's accusing you of abuse… says she's frightened of you-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Leo broke in angrily. "I never laid a finger on the bitch."

Mark glanced at James. "Wrong victim. Try again."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Work it out for yourself. You thought it was funny when it didn't apply to you, even suggested you could make money out of it."

There was a long silence. "Do you want to put that into words of one syllable?"

"In the circumstances, I wouldn't advise it."

"Is Dad listening?"

"Yes."

The line went dead immediately.

Nancy had received three conflicting messages in two hours. One from James in a deeply troubled voice saying that, much as he had enjoyed meeting her, he didn't feel it was appropriate in the circumstances for her to visit him again. A text from Mark, saying that James was lying, followed by another, talking about an emergency. Every attempt she'd made to call Mark's mobile had been diverted to voicemail, and her message to him had gone unanswered.

She had been concerned enough to abandon her unpacking and make the fifteen-minute drive from Bovington. Now she felt foolish. What circumstances? What emergency? Shenstead Manor was in darkness, and there was no response to her ringing of the bell. A fitful moon shone intermittent light on the facade but there was no sign of life anywhere. She peered through the glass panes of the library, looking for light under the closed door to the hall, but all she could see was her own reflection.

She felt uncomfortable. What would James think if he came back and found her peering through his windows? Worse, what was he thinking if he was watching her from the darkness inside? Whatever the circumstances he had referred to, presumably they still existed, and his message couldn't have been clearer. He didn't want to see her again. She remembered his tears of the morning, and her own embarrassment. She shouldn't have come.

She walked back to the Discovery and swung herself onto the driver's seat. She tried to convince herself they'd gone to the pub-it's what her parents would have done-but she wasn't persuaded. In the circumstances-were these the circumstances?-the arguments were all against them abandoning the house. Mark's messages. James's reclusive nature. His isolation. The proximity of the travelers. The trap set for James's dog. It didn't feel right.

With a sigh, she took a torch from the dashboard pocket and jumped to the ground again. She was going to regret this. She would put money on them sitting in the drawing room, pretending to be out; even more on seeing a terrible politeness cross their faces when she showed herself at the window. She walked around the side of the house and along the terrace.

The drawing-room lights were out, with the French windows bolted on the inside. She tested them, but they held firmly. She cupped her hand over her eyes to search the interior, but the muted glow of burning embers in the hearth showed the room to be empty. As a last lip service to duty, she stepped back to look at the rooms above, and a bad feeling prickled up her spine as she realized she was standing on or near the spot where Ailsa had died.

This was crazy, she thought angrily. A wild-goose chase, engineered by Mark bloody Ankerton, and ripples of superstitious fear because of a woman she'd never even met. But she could feel the weight of someone's gaze on the back of her neck… could even hear their breathing…

She whirled around, scything the torch beam in a wavering arc…

The older policeman hammered on the door of Fox's bus and showed little surprise when no one answered. He tested the handle to see if it was locked, then looked curiously toward Wolfie. Bella gave an irritated sigh. "Stupid fucker," she muttered under her breath, before gluing a smile to her face.

"Do you know where he is?" Barker asked.

She shook her head. "I thought he was asleep. Like I said, he's doing the night shift at the barrier… that's why I started at the other end… didn't want to wake him earlier than I needed to."

Barker switched his attention to Wolfie. "What about you, son? Do you know where your dad is?"

The child shook his head.

"Does he always lock the bus when he goes away?"

A nod.

"Does he tell you when he's going?"

A frightened shake.

"So what are you supposed to do? Freeze to death? What happens if there's no one like Bella around?" He was angry, and it showed. "What's in the bus that's more important than his kid?" he demanded of Bella. "I think it's time we had a chat with this mysterious friend of yours. Where is he? What's he up to?"

Bella felt a rush of movement beside her. "Oh, great!" she said crossly, watching Wolfie take off into the wood as if the hounds of hell were behind him. "Well done, Mr. Barker. Now what are we gonna do? 'Coz you're right about one thing, dar-lin', his dad won't care if he freezes to death… and neither will anyone else." She poked a finger at Barker's chest. "And d'you wanna know why? I don't reckon he's been registered, so the poor little tyke don't fucking exist."

Nancy's message came through as soon as Mark disconnected, and this time there was no discussion. He punched 999 into his mobile before lodging the handset into the car rest. "Police," he said curtly into the overhead microphone, before slamming the Lexus into a three-point turn.

It was a dog-eat-dog, thought Monroe, as the Bartletts tore into each other. He had no sympathy for Eleanor, but Julian's sneering grated on his nerves. The dynamics of their relationship were relentlessly aggressive, and he began to wonder if some of Eleanor's problems could be laid at her husband's door. For all his urbanity, the man was a bully.

"You're making an idiot of yourself, Ellie. Someone's obviously fed you a piece of gossip, and now you're trying to manufacture a war out of it. Where did all this rubbish about a tart come from?"

She was too fired-up to think through her answers. "The people at the Copse," she snapped. "They've been watching us."

He gave a surprised laugh. "The gyppos?"

"It's not funny. They know a lot about us… my name… what car you drive."

"So? It's hardly secret information. They probably got it off a weekender. You need to cut down on the HRT and Botox injections, girl. They're frying your brain."

She stamped her foot. "I looked in your computer, Julian. It's all there. Emails to GS."

Not anymore, thought Monroe, as Julian gave an amused shrug. It was too easy for him. He was a step ahead of her every time. Monroe's mobile started to vibrate in his breast pocket. He retrieved it and listened to the request to attend an incident at the Manor. "Will do. Three minutes." He stood up. "I shall want to talk to you again," he told Eleanor. "You, too, Mr. Bartlett."

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…