Business of Dying (19 page)

Now, let me tell you something. Every day that passes means they're less likely to catch us. The trail gets that little bit colder. Like I've said all along, all you need to do is keep calm and every-thing'll be fine. If it's any consolation, the only person who's got any idea of your involvement is me, and I'm not going to say a word to anyone. So you're OK, understand?'

'Yeah, yeah, I understand. I'll make sure I keep shtum. It was just one of those things.'

'Look, now you've got some money, why don't you take a little holiday? Get away for a few weeks. It's got to be better than sitting around trying to think of all the things that could possibly go wrong.'

'Yeah, maybe you're right.'

'When was the last time you had a holiday?'

'Shit, I don't know. Ages ago.'

'Well, fuck it. Treat yourself. It's dogshit weather. You're not going to be missing much. And by the time you come back all this will have died down and everyone'll be talking about some other heinous crime.'

'You've got a point. Maybe I will.' There was a long pause. Eventually he spoke again. 'I'm sorry, Dennis. I really am. I won't fuck up like that again.'

'I know you won't,' I told him. 'I know you're not that fucking stupid.'

'What are you going to tell Jean?'

I thought about it for a minute. 'I'll tell her I
talked to you and that you've turned over a new leaf. Rather than aid and abet criminals in their criminal ways, you now try to put them behind bars where they belong. I'll tell her you're a police informant and that's how you've made some money, but that it's all very hush-hush and she can't talk about it to anyone for fear of blowing your cover. Hopefully that way she'll leave you alone. What do you think?'

'I think you're a cunning bastard, Dennis.'

'Take that holiday, Danny. OK?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.'

'I'll talk to you soon.'

I hung up and walked into the lounge, sitting down on the sofa with my cigarette. Had I managed to calm him down enough to cross him off my list of worries? It was a good question. What I'd said was eminently sensible, if not altogether true. I wasn't the only person who knew of his involvement in the killings. I'd been forced to give some details about him to Raymond before he'd allowed me to take him on the Traveller's Rest job. Armed with those details, if Raymond really wanted to find Danny, he'd probably be able to. There was no point telling Danny that, though. Hopefully he would take my advice and leave the country for a while. It would certainly make my life easier. If the truth be told, he was rapidly becoming a thorn in my side. For the first time I thought
maybe it would be better for everyone involved if I simply took him out, and quietened his fears for ever. Not that I seriously thought I could ever pull the trigger on Danny; I'd known the little bastard too long. But if I'd been a more ruthless man maybe I'd have done more than let the thought rumble through my mind. That was a measure of how concerned I was.

I finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray, remembering the mail John Claire was meant to have sent me. I got up, went through to the bedroom, and switched the PC on. While it booted up I went and got myself a beer from the fridge, feeling pleased that I was home for the night and cocooned for a few hours at least from the problems of the world.

Claire's email had arrived at 5.31, so at least he'd been true to his word. I opened up the attachment and saw that what he'd sent was a copy of the original document but with a third column tagged on containing the names of those to whom each individual number was registered.

I didn't recognize the first name on the list. It was a man, most likely a punter. The second name was a man's as well, again one I didn't recognize. The next number wasn't registered to a particular individual, which probably meant it was a pay-as-you-go mobile. Maybe it belonged to Molly Hagger. I thought maybe it would be a good
idea to phone it and find out. The third name was Coleman House, which stood to reason.

I didn't read the fourth name. Or the fifth.

I was too busy looking at the sixth.

And wondering why Carla Graham had lied to me when she said she hadn't known Miriam.

17

I really didn't know what to expect as I turned the car into the short gravel driveway that led up to the Fox residence. The house itself was an attractive and spacious two-storey building constructed in an L-shape with a thatched roof and lattice windows, set in enclosed gardens. It was on the edge of a small village a few miles west of Oxford towards the Gloucestershire border, so a fair drive for Malik and me. It had taken us about two and a quarter hours through the usual heavy traffic, and it was now just after eleven.

'Just in time for a nice cup of tea,' I said, pulling up in front of the house.

Malik looked a little nervous. I guess he too didn't know what to expect from this sort of visit. It was never going to be easy. These people had found out only four days ago that their daughter had been
murdered. They may not have seen her for close on three years, but they were still going to be in a state of shock. It would take years for their lives to return to normal, if they ever did.

To be honest, my mind was elsewhere. I wanted to know why Miriam Fox had phoned Carla Graham three times during the last fortnight of her life, twice to Carla's mobile, and why Carla herself had made two calls to Miriam's number, the last of them just four days before she was murdered. That many calls was no accident. Those two had known each other, and the only conceivable reason why Carla hadn't said anything to us about their relationship was that she had something to hide, although what that something could be I had no idea. I'd phoned Coleman House straight away, ostensibly to let her know that we'd charged Mark Wells, but also to arrange another meeting so I could ask her about it, but she'd left for the night. I'd tried her again before we'd left this morning but she was in a meeting. I hadn't bothered to leave a message. There was no point alerting her to the fact that I was trying to track her down. For the moment it could wait.

I straightened my tie and banged on the huge brass doorknocker.

The door was opened almost immediately by a largish middle-aged lady in a sweater and long skirt. Although she looked tired, with large bags under her eyes, she appeared to be bearing up
reasonably well. She had a light covering of makeup on and she even managed a smile of greeting. 'Detective Milne?'

'Mrs Fox.' We shook hands. 'This is my colleague, Detective Constable Malik.'

They shook hands as well, and then she stood aside for us. 'Please, come in.'

We followed her through the hallway and into a large, very dark sitting room. A fire blazed in the grate, and sitting in one of the seats facing it was a shortish bearded man with glasses. He stood up slowly on seeing us and introduced himself as Martin Fox. If Mrs Fox appeared to be bearing up well, then Mr Fox was the exact opposite. His whole body appeared slumped as if the guts had been knocked out of him, and even his speech was slow and forced. The gloom seemed to spread from him like an infectious cloud. I got depressed just being within five feet of the bloke.

We sat down on the sofa and Mrs Fox asked us if we'd like anything to drink. We both opted for tea, and she went off to make a pot.

While she was gone, Malik told Fox that he was very sorry about his loss. He sounded like he truly meant it as well.

Fox sat back with his head against the seat, not looking at us. 'Did she suffer?' he asked, speaking slowly as if carefully choosing his words. 'When she died, did she suffer? Please be honest with me.'

Malik looked at me for a bit of help on this one.

'She would have died very quickly, Mr Fox,' I said. 'She didn't suffer. I can assure you of that.'

'The newspapers said only that she was stabbed.'

'That's the only detail we released to the media,' I said. 'They don't need to know anything more than that.'

'Was she stabbed many times?' he asked.

'She died from a single wound,' I said, not mentioning anything about the mutilation.

'Why?' The question hung in the air for what seemed like a long time. 'Do they know, these people who commit these terrible crimes? Do they know the hurt they cause? To the ones who are left behind?'

I ached for a cigarette but knew without asking that this would be a non-smoking household. 'I think,' I said, 'that most really don't have a clue of the suffering they inflict. If they did, I'm sure a lot of them would think twice before doing what they do.'

'And do you think that this man . . . the one who killed my Miriam ... do you think he knew what he was doing?'

I thought suddenly about the families of the customs officers and the accountant. I knew what I'd been doing. Had always known. 'I'm not sure, Mr Fox. It could well have been a spur-of-the-moment thing.'

'It doesn't matter. People like that should be put down. Like dogs.' Maybe he had a point. 'I never
believed in the death penalty. I thought it was barbaric for a society to put to death its citizens, whatever their crimes. But now . . . now . . .' His face, still only visible in profile, was contorted with a terrible frustration. 'I'd pull the trigger myself. I really would.'

Before I could give him my standard police spiel that these feelings were understandable but ultimately counter-productive, Mrs Fox thankfully returned with the tea. Fox slipped into a sullen silence. Doubtless he'd been venting his spleen to her in similar vein all week. She sat down at the opposite end of the room to her husband so that we were between them, and poured the tea from a china teapot.

'The reason we're here,' I said, thinking that I really didn't have a clue what it was, 'is to update you on what's happening with the inquiry, and let you know what'll happen now that we've arrested someone.'

'Who is the man who's been charged?' asked Mrs Fox.

I told her who he was and what his relationship was to their daughter, careful not to give away too many details. Pre-trial, police officers have got to watch what they say in case they blurt out anything that might prejudice a fair hearing for the suspect.

'You think he's the one, then?' she said, when I'd finished.

'Bastard,' Fox added, with a violent snarl. Mrs Fox gave him a reproachful look, though she must have felt the same.

It was a good question. I was 50 per cent certain at best. Malik, from the conversation we'd had on the way down, was closer to 80 per cent. Like Knox, he couldn't see any viable alternative, which made drawing conclusions easier for him.

It was Malik who answered. 'We're very sure it's him, Mrs Fox. As sure as we can be. There's substantial physical evidence linking him to the scene of the crime.'

'Good. I don't think I could stand an acquittal. Not on top of everything else.'

'We can't predict the future, Mrs Fox,' I said, 'or juries. We can only do our best. But I think the case is very strong.'

'Bastard,' said Fox again, still not looking at us. I think he meant Wells, but it was difficult to tell.

'Mark Wells will spend a considerable part of the rest of his life in prison if he's found guilty, Mr Fox,' Malik told him. 'And we're going to do everything in our power to make sure that happens.'

'It's not enough. No prison sentence is long enough for him. Not after what he's done.'

It was, I thought, amazing how socially liberal people like Labour councillors soon changed their tune on crime when it actually had an effect on them. At that moment, Fox looked to be only a
couple of steps away from becoming a Charles-Bronson-type vigilante, although without the guns or the menace. Or, it seemed, the energy.

Mrs Fox looked across at her husband and gave him a brave smile. 'Come on, Martin. We've got to stop being so bitter. It doesn't help.'

Fox didn't say anything. I took a sip of my tea and decided to try to finish this interview as swiftly as possible. But before I could continue my spiel about how there was going to be a long wait for the trial and how we would keep in touch regularly in the meantime, Mrs Fox suddenly burst into tears.

Malik and I sat there respectfully. Fox continued to sit in exactly the same position he had been in for the previous ten minutes, staring at an ill-defined point somewhere in the middle distance. I thought he was being ignorant. I know he'd had an immense trauma, but sometimes you've just got to be strong.

'I'm sorry,' Mrs Fox said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 'It's just. . .'

I put on a stoic smile. 'We understand. You've had a terrible loss. You've got to let it out.'

'I know. That's what the counsellors have been saying.'

'Don't worry about us,' said Malik.

'You know,' she said, looking at both of us with an expression of disbelief, 'it's such an awful, awful waste. That's the hardest part. When you think
what she could have been. What she could have achieved if only she'd stayed here with us ... people who loved her. Instead she ended up dying such a lonely and degrading death. Why?' This was the second time that question had been asked this morning. 'Why did she have to run away and leave us like she did?'

'Leave it, Diane!' snapped Fox, swinging round in his seat and fixing her with a rage-filled stare. Malik and I looked at him, surprised at the violence of his outburst, and his features relaxed a little. 'Just leave it. There's no point going over this again.'