Minette Walters - Fox Evil

James was sitting hunched in his armchair by the time Mark returned to the drawing room. He looked a forlorn and diminished figure again, as if the energy that had possessed him during the afternoon had indeed been the result of a brief transfusion of blood. There was certainly no sign of the tough SCO who had opted for solitary confinement rather than barter his religion to Communist atheism.

Assuming the cause of his depression was Nancy's departure, Mark took up a position in front of the fireplace and announced cheerfully: "She's a bit of a star, isn't she? She'd like to come back tomorrow evening if that's all right with you."

James didn't answer.

"I said I'd let her know," Mark persisted.

The old man shook his head. "Tell her I'd rather she didn't, will you? Put it as kindly as you can, but make it clear that I don't want to see her again."

Mark felt as if his legs had been chopped out from underneath him. "Why on earth not?"

"Because your advice was right. It was a mistake to go looking for her. She's a Smith, not a Lockyer-Fox."

Mark's anger flared abruptly. "Half an hour ago you were treating her like royalty, now you want to ditch her like a cheap tart," he snapped. "Why didn't you tell her to her face instead of expecting me to do it?"

James closed his eyes. "It was you who warned Ailsa of the danger of resurrecting the past," he murmured. "A little belatedly, I'm agreeing with you."

"Yes, well, I've changed my mind," the younger man said curtly. "Sod's law predicted that your granddaughter should have been a clone of Elizabeth because that's exactly what you didn't want. Instead-and for God knows what reason-you get a clone of yourself. Life isn't supposed to be like that, James. Life's supposed to be a complete and utter bummer where every step forward takes you two back." He clenched his fists. "For Christ's bloody sake, I told her you were besotted. Are you going to make me a liar?"

To his dismay, tears welled through the old man's lids and ran down his cheeks. Mark hadn't intended another breakdown. He was tired and confused himself, and he'd been seduced by Nancy's conviction that James was the tough soldier of her imagination and not the shadow Mark had witnessed for the previous two days. Perhaps the tough soldier had been the reality of James Lockyer-Fox for the few hours she'd been there, but this broken man, whose secrets were unraveling, was the one Mark recognized. All his suspicions gathered like a knot around his heart.

"Ah, shit! " he said in despair. "Why couldn't you have been honest with me? What the hell am I going to say to her? Sorry, Captain Smith, you didn't come up to expectations. You dress like a dyke… the Colonel's a snob… and you speak with a Herefordshire accent." He took a shuddering breath. "Or maybe I should tell her the truth?" he went on harshly. "There's a question mark over your paternity… and your grandfather intends to disown you a second time rather than put himself forward for a DNA test."

James pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "Tell her anything you like," he managed, "just so long as she never comes back."

"Tell her yourself," said Mark, taking his mobile from his pocket and programming in Nancy's number before dropping the piece of paper in James's lap. "I'm going out to get drunk."

It was a foolish ambition. He hadn't appreciated the difficulty of getting drunk on Boxing Day afternoon in the wilds of Dorset and drove in aimless circles, looking for an open pub. In the end, recognizing the futility of what he was doing, he parked on the Ridgeway above Ringstead Bay, and in the rapidly fading light watched the turbulent waves thrash the coast.

The wind had swung to the southwest quadrant during the afternoon and clouds rode up the channel on the warmer air. It was a darkening wilderness of louring sky, angry sea, and mighty cliffs, and the elemental beauty of it brought a return of perspective. After half an hour, when the spume was just a phosphorescent glow in the rising moonlight and Mark's teeth were chattering with cold, he switched on the engine and headed back to Shenstead.

Certain truths had become clear to him once the red mist had faded. Nancy had been right to say that James had changed his mind some time between the first and second letter to her. Prior to that, the pressure to locate his granddaughter had been intense, so much so that James had been prepared to forfeit damages by writing to her. By the end of November, the pressure was working the other way. "You will under no circumstancesfeature in any legal documents relating to this family."

So what had happened? The phone calls? The mutilation of foxes? Henry's death? Were they linked? What was the order in which they'd happened? And why had James never mentioned any of it to Mark? Why write a fable to Nancy to refuse to discuss anything with his solicitor? Did he think Nancy might believe in Leo's guilt where Mark could not?

For all James's insistence that the man Prue Weldon had heard must have been his son- "we sound alike… he was angry with his mother for changing her will… Ailsa blamed him for Elizabeth's problems" -Mark knew it couldn't have been. While Ailsa was dying in Dorset, Leo was shafting Mark's fiancee in London, and, much as Mark now despised the airhead he had once adored, he never doubted she was telling the truth. At the time Becky had had no regrets at being cited as Leo's alibi. She thought it meant the affair-so much more passionate than anything she'd experienced with Mark-was leading somewhere. But Mark had listened to too many hysterical pleas for a second chance since Leo had unceremoniously dumped her to believe she wouldn't retract a lie that had been coerced.

It had made sense nine months ago. Leo-charismatic Leo-had taken an easy revenge on the lawyer who'd dared to usurp his friend, and, worse, refused to break his pledge of confidentiality to his clients. It was hardly difficult. Mark's long hours and disinclination to party night after night had presented Leo with a peach, ripe for the plucking, but the idea that wrecking his imminent marriage was anything but a malicious game had never occurred to Mark. Ailsa had even planted the idea in his head. "Do be careful of Leo," she'd warned when Mark mentioned the dinners he and Becky had had with her son. "He's so charming when he wants to be, and so deeply unpleasant when he doesn't get his own way."

"Unpleasant" was hardly the word for what Leo had done, he thought now. Sadistic-twisted-perverted-all were better descriptions of the callous way he had destroyed Mark and Becky's lives. It had left Mark rudderless for months. So much trust and hope invested in another person, two years of living together, the wedding booked for the summer, and the desperate shame of explanations. Never the truth, of course- she was being laid behind my back by a dissolute gambler old enough to be her father , only the lies- "it didn't work out… we needed space… we realized we weren't ready for a long-term commitment."

At no point had he ever had time to step back and take stock. Within twenty-four hours of arriving in Dorset to support James through the police questioning, he had had a weeping Becky on his mobile, telling him she was sorry, she hadn't meant it to come out like this, but the police had asked her to confirm where she was the night before last. Not, as she'd told Mark, shepherding a group of Japanese businessmen around Birmingham in her role as PR to a development agency, but with Leo in his Knightsbridge flat. And, no, it wasn't a one-night stand. The affair had started three months before, and she'd been trying to tell Mark for weeks. Now that the secret was out, she was moving in with Leo. She'd be gone by the time Mark came home.