Minette Walters - Fox Evil

"Yes. So will Vera if she hasn't gone completely doolally."

"Is Lizzie with you? Can I speak to her?"

"No, on both counts. I can ask her to ring you if you like."

"Where is she?"

"Not your business. If she wants you to know, she'll tell you herself."

Mark placed a palm against the wall and looked at the floor. Pick a side… "It might be better not to mention that her daughter's here. I don't want her thinking she's going to meet the girl." He heard Leo's indrawn breath. "And before you blame your father for that, it's the girl herself who's not interested. She has a brilliant adoptive family, and she doesn't want her life complicated with the emotional baggage of a second. Also-and this is strictly between you and me-Lizzie is the one who will be hurt. There's no way she can measure up… either to the daughter or the daughter's adoptive mother."

"It sounds as if Dad isn't the only one who's besotted," said Leo sarcastically. "Is this your way into the family fortune, Mark? Marry the heiress and scoop the jackpot? A bit old-fashioned, isn't it?"

Mark bared his teeth into the receiver. "It's time you stopped judging the rest of us by your own standards. We're not all middle-aged pricks with self-esteem problems who think their fathers owe them a living."

The grin came back into the other man's voice to have finally got a rise. "There's nothing wrong with my self-esteem."

"Good. Then I'll give you the name of a friend of mine who's a specialist in male fertility problems."

"Fuck you!" said Leo angrily, hanging up.

By the time Martin Barker returned to the campsite, the search of Fox's bus had produced as much as it was going to. Doors, luggage compartments, bonnet had all been opened, but there was little to show for the search team's trouble. A table had been set up under arc lights with some items of little value across its surface-electric power tools, binoculars, a battery-operated radio-which may or may not have been stolen. Otherwise the only finds of interest were the hammer and razor that had been retrieved from the terrace and a metal cash box that had been under one of the beds.

"It's small beer," Monroe told Barker. "This is effectively it, and he doesn't even bother to keep it locked. There's a couple of hundred quid, a driver's license in the name of John Peters with an address in Lincolnshire, a few letters… and damn all else."

"Is the license kosher?"

"Nicked or bought. The John Peters at that address is sitting with his feet up in front of a Bond movie… deeply incensed to have had his identity stolen."

It was a common enough story. "License plates?"

"False."

"Engine number? Chassis number?"

The sergeant shook his head. "Filed off."

"Fingerprints?"

"That's about the only thing I'm optimistic about. The steering wheel and gear stick are covered in them. We should know who he is by tomorrow, assuming he has a record."

"What about Vixen and Cub? Anything to show where they are?"

"Nothing. Can't even tell if there was a woman and a second kid living there. It's a pigsty, but there's no female clothing, and barely any children's." Monroe pushed the box away, and started on a small pile of papers. "Jesus!" he said disgustedly. "The guy's a joker. There's a letter here from the Chief Constable, assuring Mr. Peters that the Dorset Constabulary is scrupulous in its dealings with travelers."

Barker took the letter and inspected the address. "He's using a P.O. box in Bristol."

"Among others." The other man shuffled through the remaining letters. "They're all official responses to queries about travelers' rights, and all to different P.O. box numbers and areas."

Barker leaned over to look at them. "What's the point? Is he trying to prove he's a bona-fide traveler?"

"I shouldn't think so. It looks more like a paper trail. If he's arrested he wants us to waste our time trying to track his movements round the country. He probably hasn't been to any of these places. The Bristol police could spend months looking for a trace of him while he was in Manchester all the time." He put the letters back into the box. "It's smoke and mirrors, Martin, rather like this flaming bus, as a matter of fact. It looks promising, but there's nothing in it-" he shook his head- "and that makes me seriously interested in what our friend is up to. If he's thieving where does he keep his stash?"

"What about blood?" asked Barker. "Bella's pretty convinced he's got rid of the woman and the younger kid."

Monroe shook his head. "Nothing obvious."

"Forensics might find something."

"I can't see them getting the chance. On this evidence-" he nudged the box-"we're more likely to be on the receiving end of a solicitor's complaint. If some bodies turn up, then maybe… but that's not going to happen tomorrow."

"What about traces on the hammer?"

"It won't help us without some DNA or a blood group to compare it against."

"We can hold him for the assault on Captain Smith. He beat her up pretty thoroughly."

"Yes, but not in the vehicle… and he'll probably claim self-defense, anyway." He glanced at the bag with the razor in it. "If that's his blood then he might be worse off than she is. What was he doing at the Manor? Does anyone know? Did you find any evidence of a break-in?"

"No."

The sergeant sighed. "It's bloody odd. What's his connection with this place? Why attack the Colonel's granddaughter? What's he after?"

Barker shrugged. "The best we can do is stake out the bus and wait for him to come back."

"Well, don't hold your breath, mate. At the moment I can't see there's anything for him to come back for."

Nancy lowered Wolfie to the floor and closed the door behind them. She gave him her hand. "You're too heavy," she told him apologetically. "My bones are beginning to creak."

"That's okay," he said. "My mum couldn't carry me neither." He looked nervously along the corridor. "Are we lost?"

"No. We just have to walk down here, and the stairs are round the corner at the end."

"There's a lot of doors, Nancy."

"It's a big house," she agreed. "But we're okay. I'm a soldier, remember, and soldiers can always find their way around." She gave his hand a small tug. "Come on. Best foot forward, eh?"

He held back.

"What's the matter?"

"I can see Fox," he said, as the corridor light went out.

Mark's phone rang again immediately with Nancy's message. He looked into the scullery. "I'm going upstairs," he told Bella. "Apparently Mrs. Dawson's upsetting Wolfie."

She dropped the freezer lid. "Then I'm coming with you, mate," she said forcefully. "This woman's getting on my tits something chronic. I've just watched a fucking rat poke its head out of the skirting board."

With every instinct urging "retreat," Nancy didn't bother to find out if Wolfie was right. She let go his hand and opened the door into the bedroom again, briefly flooding the corridor with light as she shoved him back inside. She didn't waste time looking behind her, instead she slammed the door and leaned her weight against it, feeling with her left hand for a key. Too late. Fox was stronger and heavier than she was, and all she could do was take the key to prevent him locking it against help.

"We're going to run into the far corner," she urged Wolfie. "Now!"

Vera hadn't moved from where Nancy had pushed her, but she did nothing to impede their dash. She even looked frightened when the door gave way and Fox erupted into the room, as if the sudden flurry of activity was alarming her. She drew back against the wall as he fell to his knees under the impetus of his forward momentum.

There was a brief hiatus when nothing happened except that Fox whipped out a fist to slam the door, then stared up at Nancy, breathing heavily, as she put herself between him and his son. It was a strange few seconds during which they were able to see and take stock of each other for the first time. She would never know what he saw, but she saw a man with blood on his hands who reminded her of the picture of Leo in the dining room. He smiled at the shock in her face, as if he'd been looking for it, then lumbered to his feet. "Give me the boy," he said.