Fox Evil by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online

to travelers on his doorstep. The man was deeply lazy, so Fox's best guess was that he would leave it to James Lockyer-Fox and Dick Weldon to sort out. If nothing happened by the beginning of January, Woodgate might make a phone call to his employers, but there'd be no urgency until the letting season got under way in spring.
    By contrast, Fox could predict exactly how the Dawsons would react. They would bury their heads in the sand as they always did. It wasn't their place to ask questions. They lived in their cottage courtesy of James Lockyer-Fox and, as long as the Colonel honored his wife's promise to keep them there, they would pay lip service to supporting him. In a bizarre echo of the Bartletts, Vera was glued to
EastEnders
and Bob was closeted in the kitchen, listening to the radio. If they spoke at all that night, it would be to have a row, because whatever love they had once shared was long since dead.
    He lingered for a moment to watch the old woman mutter to herself. In her way she was as vicious as Eleanor Bartlett but hers was the viciousness of a wasted life and a diseased brain, and her target was invariably her husband. Fox had as much contempt for her as he had for Eleanor. In the end, they had both chosen the lives they led.
    He returned to the Copse and picked his way through the wood to his vantage point beside the Manor. It was all good, he thought, catching sight of Mark Ankerton sitting hunched over the old man's desk in the library. Even the solicitor was on hand. It wouldn't suit everyone, but it suited Fox. He held them all to blame for the man he had become.
     
    The first person to see the encampment was Julian Bartlett, who drove past at eight o'clock on Boxing Day morning on his way to the West Dorset meet at Compton Newton. He slowed as he spotted a rope across the frontage with a painted notice saying "keep out" hanging from its center, and his gaze was drawn to the vehicles among the trees.
    Dressed for the hunt, in yellow shirt, white tie, and buff breeches, and towing a horsebox behind his Range Rover, he had no intention of becoming involved and speeded up again. Once out of the valley, he drew onto the side of the road and phoned Dick Weldon, whose farm the land abutted.
    "We have visitors in the Copse," he said.
    "What sort of visitors?"
    "I didn't stop to find out. They're almost certainly fox lovers, and I didn't fancy taking them on with Bouncer in the back."
    "Saboteurs?"
    "Maybe. Most likely travelers. Most of the vehicles look like they've come from a scrap-metal yard."
    "Did you see any people?"
    "No. I doubt they're awake yet. They've slung a notice across the entrance saying 'keep out', so it might be dangerous to tackle them on your own."
    "Damn! I knew we'd have a problem with that piece of land eventually. We'll probably have to pay a solicitor to get rid of them… and that's not going to be cheap."
    "I'd call the police if I were you. They deal with this kind of thing every day."
    "Mm."
    "I'll leave it with you then."
    "Bastard!"
said Dick with feeling.
    There was a faint laugh. "It'll be chicken feed compared with the melee I'm heading for. Word is the sabs have been seeding false trails all night, so God only knows what sort of a shambles it's going to be. I'll call when I get home." Bartlett switched off his mobile.
    Irritably, Weldon pulled on his Barbour and summoned his dogs, calling up the stairs to his wife that he was going to the Copse. Bartlett was probably right that it was a job for the police, but he wanted to satisfy himself before he phoned them. His gut feeling said they were saboteurs. The Boxing Day meet had been well publicized and, after the ten months' layoff because of foot-and-mouth, both sides were spoiling for a fight. If so, they'd be gone again by the evening.
    He bundled the dogs into the back of his mud-spattered Jeep and drove the half-mile from the farmhouse to the Copse. The road had a hoar of frost on it and he picked up Bartlett's tire