Minette Walters - Fox Evil

"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?"