The Fox in the Forest (18 page)

Lambert looked at it, then handed it without a word to Hook. It had the trade name of the propagator and the date of the purchase; no time, of course. He said, “Where did you park in Gloucester, Colonel Davidson?”

“Well, I delivered my aunts straight to the station, of course. But then I parked in the multi-storey short stay park near Southgate.”

“Do you have the ticket?”

“No.” Davidson turned back to face them now, with a thin smile. They all knew that ticket would have recorded the precise time he had spent in the car park. “I probably left it behind with my payment. I usually get rid of litter as soon as I can. It’s an old Army habit, I suppose.”

Lambert smiled in turn, recalling the vast drill squares from which he and other basic trainees in that Army had long ago removed every shred of paper on winter mornings. “And of course you had no idea at the time that it might be useful.”

“No. I kept the receipt in case the propagator was defective, of course. There was a reason for that.”

“Did you go anywhere else after you left Gloucester?”

“No. I drove back here through the lanes in a very leisurely fashion, enjoying the day. It was a glorious winter morning, you may recall, bright and frosty.”

“I do indeed. Sergeant Hook and I were out in it ourselves, rather belatedly. Unfortunately, Douglas Robertson, alias Ian Sharpe, was killed some time around the middle of that splendid morning. The shotguns from this house which our forensic team examined were perfectly clean. Has either of them been fired in the last few days, Colonel Davidson?”

Davidson sat down again. Plainly he felt the crisis, if that was what it was, had passed. “As far as I am aware, neither twelve-bore has been fired in the last month, Superintendent.”

“And have you any idea at all who might have perpetrated this second violent killing?”

“None at all, I’m afraid. I’ve thought about it, like everyone else, no doubt. But I’ve neither seen nor heard anything since the crime took place which seems to me significant. Perhaps after all it is this maniac the yellow press is talking about as The Fox.” He smiled wryly, seeming perfectly at ease with himself now. It was a long time since he had stumbled over a word; Lambert wondered if his brain filtered out the T-words when he framed his speech, as he had known happen with stammerers much worse than this man.

“We shall have to see Mrs Davidson in due course.”

Davidson frowned, then thrust away his irritation with a deliberate effort. “If you must, then you must. But I’m afraid she will be able to offer you no more assistance than I have been able to do.”

“Probably not. But sometimes when one puts several accounts together, they suggest something we might have missed. Thank you for your help. No doubt if you come across anything you think might be of interest, you’ll get in touch with us immediately.”

They left him in the conservatory. As they reversed carefully over the crunching gravel to point the car down the long drive, Bert Hook saw him staring steadily at the bank of bright Indian azaleas on the other side of the structure. Hook said, “He has a cast-iron story for the vicar’s murder. He could have been anywhere when Sharpe was killed. I doubt whether anyone in the place where he says he had coffee at Gloucester will remember him. His appearance is too average. The uniform men have already checked the purchase of that propagator. The shop has no recall of the time it was sold.”

“No.” Lambert drove a full mile before he said, “But I always distrust a man who begins with a lie.”

25

Mary Cox was a sensible girl. She had lived all her young life in Woodford, so she was not afraid of the dark. Those who have not been accustomed to street lamps have less fear of shadows than city-bred folk.

Still less did she fear the forest. It was the scene of some of her most happy memories of childhood and adolescence, a place of innocent laughter, dappled sunlight, and the warm, resinous scents of woodland in summer. Even the short memories of twenty-year-olds have a habit of filtering out the duller and harsher moments from the past.

As she walked home from the Old Vicarage, she looked at the outline of the evergreens against the sky on her left. The wood sprawled against the blue-grey sky like some huge recumbent animal. This dusk was too cloudy to allow her a glimpse of the early stars. As she marched briskly along, she thought of the man the papers called The Fox: she would have been less than human had she not done so. But you couldn’t believe everything you read in the papers; every one said that. Mrs Davidson, who was so easy to talk to that sometimes you forgot she was an employer, did not believe in The Fox: she had told Mary that only this morning.

In any case, the place where the murders had taken place was well away from her route, over on the other side of the village: she reminded herself of that now. All the same, she was glad that Colonel Davidson had told her to go home early. The dark would drop in swiftly today, for the sun had never shown itself. That stiff man who hardly ever spoke to her had given her the last streaks of grey light to help her home. She wrapped her thick woollen coat around her and walked briskly, wondering what it was that the CID men were talking about with the Colonel.

The wood crept closer to the lane here, until it was only the width of a narrow field from her. As she approached a gate in the high, straggling hedge, she became aware of a snuffling presence and checked her step for a moment. But it was only a curious, wide-eyed highland cow, its breath condensing in long snorts between its wide-set horns, its outline in the semi-darkness like the pictures of medieval oxen she remembered from her school books.

Two days ago she had walked this very lane with her boyfriend. It had been a brilliant frosty day then, with a robin following them in little swoops along the hedge at noon and the sun picking out the details of the winter scene with an almost unnatural clarity. Now her boyfriend had gone back to his work in Leicester, and the sun seemed to have departed with him.

But she was not far from home now; half a mile, at most. She could see the first lights of the village over the low hawthorn hedge to her right. In a couple of minutes, she would reach the little rise where she would be able to see the illuminated sign of the Crown. She looked forward more than usually to that comforting picture today; it was bitter cold indeed.

She was still two hundred yards short of the point where she would see the sign when she heard the rustling behind the hedge on her left. She thought at first that it was some small wild creature. Then she realized that the sound was following her progress along the road. It stopped when she stopped, moved forward when she chose to walk on. Mary fought to control an urge to run, struggled with a dread of the unknown that plunged a sensible girl straight back into the nightmare of childhood. But this time she would not wake up to the warm darkness of the small cottage bedroom and the steady breathing of the smaller sister who slept beside her.

She snatched a quick glance behind her. The lane wound away blank and empty towards the Old Vicarage. There was no relief from that quarter; her racing brain told her that those two tall detectives in the big car would not be coming this way yet, even if they turned towards the village when they left the house. She listened for a moment with ears strained towards the invisible village ahead of her, hoping to hear the sound of Arthur Comstock and Mrs Davidson returning in the Rover.

There was only that deep silence of the country on the edge of dark, which sometimes seems more significant than any sound. It seemed so now, for it gave Mary the message that she was here utterly alone. Or very nearly alone: the rustling on the other side of the bushes began again as she moved forward urgently.

Something illogical but utterly convincing told her that if she could reach the abrupt rise of the road which would show her that bright red neon outline of the Crown and the fairy lights which surrounded it, she would be safe. She could see the grey ribbon of tarmac for all that distance now. It had almost a sheen upon it against the dark, high hedge and the hidden presence it screened.

It was not far to the ridge, but the metalled road seemed to stretch beneath her feet like elastic as she thrust her steps along it. She wanted to shout, but the noise caught in her throat and was trapped there. And suddenly she knew that if her scream was ever released, she would lose all control of her limbs and fall a helpless prey to whatever it was that was moving so closely beside her.

It was at that moment that she heard the first chuckle. It seemed to her outraged senses so near that it was nearly in her ear. She told herself she was imagining the sound, that she was being stupid and childish. Then, as she tried to picture her mother’s comforting face, ridiculing her fantasies and banishing her fears with comforting contempt, the chuckle came again. It was low, unmistakable, instinct with an obscene, dangerous mirth.

Now Mary Cox abandoned all pretence and tried to run. Her legs, which had earlier been so anxious to charge forward, now refused to obey. Her limbs flailed disjointedly, so that her arms whirled wildly in an attempt to activate the rest of her body into the racing movement which was now her only thought. And the chuckle roared into a laugh.

It was at a small gap between two straggling willows that the thing confronted her. It was too dark now for her to see more than a dancing outline against the dark sky. She saw ragged legs, a cloak which reared itself above her on the outstretched arms like an immense bird of prey. And she heard laughter; crazy, insane laughter, which terrified her more than any threat in the world.

But it was what she saw at the top of this awful vision that finally doused her raging senses. The last image that imprinted itself on her mind as she fell into unconsciousness was that of the head which topped her attacker. It had russet cheeks, pointed snout and bared fangs. It had rough red hair flaring about its edges.

The face of The Fox.

26

“He won’t be pleased,” said DS Hook.

“Lambert? He’ll be bloody furious,” said DI Rushton.

“That’s what I said,” said Bert Hook.

Both of them looked at the uniformed man who sat at the next desk, united for once in their understanding of where the blame for this catastrophe could be laid. Policemen in such circumstances are not without sympathy, but they tend to be clear-sighted. A training with so much emphasis on the retention of a clean nose has its effects.

Sergeant Williams gave up his pretence of being engrossed by the report form in front of him. He was newly made up to sergeant, unsure of his status yet with CID men in a serious crime inquiry. This was his first murder, except for a single obvious domestic crime. “It’s my fault,” he said. The two heads alongside him nodded as though activated by a single string. “I’ll have to carry the can.” If he was looking for comfort, he had chosen the wrong quarter: the two faces inclined together again with glum satisfaction.

Rushton looked at the columns of print beneath the picture of Mary Cox’s drawn face. FRISKY FOX FOOLS THE FORCE proclaimed the headline. And beneath it:

The fox is getting bolder. Last night he came out from the forest, came almost into the hamlet which the folk in the region are now calling the village of terror. A young woman was assaulted by him, saved from death only by whatever it was that surprised the monster at his play.

The girl was still too shaken last night to speak to me. But her mother told a horrifying tale of The Fox laughing crazily as he prepared to despatch another victim, of his sadistic mockery of a girl who had done him no harm and was merely going about her innocent business.

There was more in the same vein, then a portrait of quiet Mary Cox through her mother’s eyes as a girl who was universally popular around the village, given to helping old and young with equal willingness and cheerfulness. The folk-tale of Beauty and the Beast was skilfully if conventionally evoked. The copy ended with the ritual denunciation of police inefficiency. It was the omissions of the force which had so emboldened The Fox as to bring him right into the terrified village, defying the police who were supposed to be protecting its frightened occupants.

Lambert took in the scene at a glance. “Get that rag out of here!” he said to Rushton, who had folded the paper too late to conceal it. “Into my office,” he said to Williams. The others heard “How in hell’s name —” before Williams got the door closed. Lambert, unlike most senior officers, was not a big swearer, even when things went wrong. It made his anger more fearsome, less of a ritual, than that of those for whom obscenities and blasphemy had become the normal safety valves.

Williams said as soon as he could get a word in, “The man’s in the cells now, sir.”

“Shut the bloody stable door then, have you?”

“We’d questioned him before, sir, during the house-to-house. He was

obviously an oddball, but —”

“Why wasn’t I told about him?”

Williams took a deep breath, knowing they had reached the nub of the matter. “He is mentioned, sir, among the other reports.” He gestured his head towards the pile of sheets on the left of the Superintendent’s desk.

“You mean you think you’ve covered yourself. Well, it takes more than a scrap of bloody paper to do that. You didn’t see fit to mention the local nutter when we had our conference and you reported the findings from the house-to-house team.”

“No, sir. At that time, we had cleared him, to our own satisfaction. I’d still stake my pension that he wasn’t involved in either of the killings.” Williams spat the phrases out quickly, afraid that he would be interrupted if he did not do so. He was standing rigidly at attention still, his thick fingers stretched towards the floor as though he was afraid to move them, his eyes kept rigidly to his front.

His appearance spread Lambert’s irritation from the Sergeant to himself. “Oh, for God’s sake! Sit down, Dave. Tell me why you thought he was no danger. And you’d better make it good.”

Williams perched himself on the edge of the chair, as though he was afraid it might bite his substantial bottom. “Johnny Pickering, his name is,” he said. “He’s admitted it was him. He hadn’t much option: we found the Fox mask straight away in the drawer of his sink unit. He was so delighted with himself that he hadn’t even been able to bring himself to throw it away. He’s not twelve pence to the shilling, you see, sir.”

“So I understand,” said Lambert sourly. He wondered how long it would be before the vernacular went decimal. “So why have we left him roaming the lanes and frightening harmless girls half to death?” He felt vaguely guilty himself, having watched the girl begin her journey only a few minutes before the incident.

“We — we had no reason to hold him, sir. In any opinion, he’s not fit to be living on his own, but the law doesn’t allow us to bring him in because of my opinion.”

Lambert sighed resignedly. “Fill me in on the background, Dave.” With this second use of the forename, both of them were aware that Williams was half way to safety.

Sergeant Williams needed no notes. The details of the man they had questioned and dismissed from their deliberations were etched upon his mind now. He had thought what had happened last night had lost him the rank he had worked for years to secure; now it seemed he might after all get away with it. He did not look Lambert in the face yet, lest his reactions might impede the smooth delivery of his defence.

“Johnny is forty-three now. He hasn’t had much out of life. He was born retarded. Classed as educationally sub-normal at the age of eight and sent to a special school. While his parents were alive, he lived at home and didn’t get into any trouble. Did various labouring jobs, but never anything permanent. Always someone better to employ, I should think.”

“Was this in Woodford?”

“No. Away on the far side of Ashbridge. He had an aunt here, that’s all. He was born when his mother was forty-three. His father died when he was twenty-four, his mother about ten years ago. Johnny moved into a house in Tewkesbury, with a warden. There was about half a dozen of them there, and he managed well enough, as long as there was someone to keep an eye on him. I spoke to the man who used to be the warden myself. He said Johnny was quite harmless, as long as there was someone around to give him a bit of guidance. The tests said he had a mental age of twelve. The warden reckoned it was more like nine or ten, especially under stress.”

“How did he come to leave?”

Williams almost smiled. These CID men were insulated from the day to day troubles of men on the beat. A uniformed man would have guessed what had happened to Johnny: they came across plenty of his kind. “The law changed a few years ago, sir, as you know. Our masters decided that people like Johnny were able to fend for themselves in society. The group lost the warden. Johnny was bound over for shoplifting not long afterwards. He came to live near his aunt, in an old farm labourer’s cottage which had been empty for several years. The aunt died two years ago.”

“But Johnny’s still in the cottage?”

“Yes. It’s not much more than a hovel, with a hole in the roof. About a hundred yards from where he sprang out on Mary Cox. We’d interviewed him about the murders, but more in the hope that he’d have seen something than been our villain. It’s — it’s like going back a century when you go into that place, sir. I don’t know how he survives there.”

“Doesn’t he have any help at all?”

“The social worker goes in from time to time. I spoke to her this morning. Apparently she had some accommodation lined up for Johnny in a home a few months ago, but he refused to go. I think she’s rather given him up since then, but she can’t admit that, of course.

One or two of the villagers used to go in to see him, but they’re busy most of the time with their own concerns. And I don’t think he always made them very welcome.”

Lambert thought for a moment about the complications introduced by this pathetic flotsam of the welfare state. “You’ve researched your man very thoroughly, Dave. It would have been useful if you’d let me know about his existence, that’s all.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Williams could scarcely believe it. He was going to get away with it, after all. He still didn’t see how anyone could have prevented what had happened to Mary Cox, but he knew that if you were unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at times like this, the system made you the fall guy.

“You say you have him in the station now?”

“Yes, sir. As much for his own protection as anything. The villagers aren’t happy about what has happened. The Cox family has been here for generations, and they’re respected people. We can charge him with disturbing the peace, possibly with assault, if we have to, just to keep him in custody.”

“Do that. We can drop the charges later, if we think it’s appropriate. It might even get the press off our backs for a while. Nothing like ‘Police said last night that a man has been charged…’ to finish off a story.”

Williams nodded, looking at Lambert for the first time, like a man trying his first tentative steps after an operation. “Do you want to see him, sir?” It was a genuine inquiry; only when it had been spoken did he realize that it also passed the buck firmly upwards.

Lambert thought for a moment. There were a lot of other things he needed to do, and he was confident now that Williams had given him a good summary of the situation. But sometimes one had to trust to instinct. “Bring him up to an Interview Room in twenty minutes. I’ll see him with Bert Hook. Neither of us has met him previously.” Williams wondered if this tight-lipped reminder was the nearest he would come to an official rebuke.

***

Johnny Pickering was like a nervous animal in the small room. It took them a full minute even to persuade him to sit down properly on the canvas chair on the far side of the square table. Lambert spoke softly into the microphone to announce the commencement of an interview with Superintendent Lambert and DS Hook, expecting the man to be further disturbed by the move. Curiously enough, Pickering seemed to be calmed rather than threatened by the recording. He was as fascinated as a small boy by the technology, watching the silently turning cassette as if it were some absorbing new toy.

It was Hook who put his finger on it when he said, “You’re important enough for us to want to keep a record of what you say, see, Johnny.” The man giggled delightedly; the laughter was an outlet for his nervousness. Looking at his face at that moment, it was difficult to see him as either forty-three years old or a serious threat to women of any age. Lambert went to the door and conveyed a low-spoken request to Williams in the office beyond it. Then he sat down beside Hook and looked without speaking at the man they had come here to see.

Pickering looked his age when his face was in repose. He had lines across his brow, and two deeper furrows ran down from the edges of his chapped lips. His face was the shiny red of a child who has been out in cold weather for too long. Above it, his grey hair was greasy and knotted, as though it had not seen a comb for weeks. His ancient cardigan had a button missing, and was spotted with food stains. The shirt beneath it had its collar torn half away on one side. He was wearing only one sock; beneath the table, the outside of his naked left foot winked persistently from the point where the battered upper of its shoe was parting company with the sole. He smelled of old clothes and dried sweat.

“You the boss sergeant?” he said to Lambert.

“Sort of.” Lambert gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“Can I have Foxy back?”

Hook said, “He means the mask, sir. The men who picked him up brought it in. And he seems to call everyone in uniform Sergeant.”

Johnny Pickering did not mind them talking about him as if he was not there. Officialdom had always treated him like that. He wondered what it had in store for him next. He was dimly aware that his life would not go on as it had for the last two years, though he was not quite sure why. He said, “Foxy’s my mate. Like Bonzo used to be.” He grinned happily at the memory of some childhood stuffed toy.

Hook said, “You did silly things with Foxy, Johnny. Frightened someone, didn’t you? Badly.”

Johnny allowed a secret grin to steal across his red face, twisting the broad nose, narrowing the blue eyes, making the whole of his lower face into lips and teeth. “Scared ‘er good an’ proper, didn’ I? Should ‘ave ‘eard ‘er screaming! Silly great girl!” He chuckled then, the secret chuckle Mary had heard following her along the hedge, full of his own cleverness. It was not often Johnny outwitted anyone. His merriment lapsed eventually into great hee-hawing guffaws, accentuated horribly in the tiny, stifling room. Presently, he seemed near to choking hysteria, and Hook was contemplating springing round the table to thump his back.

But when he saw that these serious men who he had hoped were his allies were not joining in his laughter, it stopped as though someone had turned off a tap. His face turned abruptly surly; he dropped his eyes from their faces and began to scratch his left ribcage furiously. “Weren’t no ‘arm in it,” he grumbled, to himself as much as to them.

“There was, Johnny,” said Hook firmly. “You’re a man, you know, now, and you can’t go round frightening women.”

“Girls,” said Pickering, spitting the word as though it were a curse. “They did always make fun of I.”