Fox Evil by Minette Walters Read Free Book Online Page A

tracks coming from Shenstead House. There was no sign of life anywhere else and he guessed that, like his wife, people were making the most of their bank-holiday lie-in.
    It was a different story at the Copse. As he drew into the entrance, a line of people spread out behind the rope barrier to block his way. They made an intimidating array with balaclavas and scarves hiding their faces and thick coats bulking out their bodies. A couple of barking Alsatians on leads lunged forward as the vehicle stopped, teeth bared aggressively, and Dick's two Labradors set up an answering clamor. He cursed Bartlett for driving on by. If the man had had the sense to demolish the barrier and call for reinforcements before these buggers could organize, instructions to keep out would have had no validity. As it was, Dick had a nasty suspicion they might be within their rights.
    He opened his door and climbed out. "Okay, what's this all about?" he demanded. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
    "We might ask you the same thing," said a voice from the middle of the line.
    Because of the scarves across their mouths, Dick couldn't make out who had spoken, so he homed in on the one at the center. "If you're hunt saboteurs, I don't have much of an argument with you. My views on the subject are well known. The fox is not a pest to arable farmers so I don't allow the hunt across my land because of the damage it does to my crops and hedgerows. If that's why you're here, then you're wasting your time. The West Dorset Hunt will not come into this valley."
    This time it was a woman's voice that answered. "Good on yer, mate. They're all fucking sadists. Riding around in red coats so the blood won't show when the poor little fing gets ripped to pieces."
    Dick relaxed slightly. "Then you're in the wrong place. The meet's in Compton Newton. It's about ten miles to the west of here, on the other side of Dorchester. If you take the bypass and head toward Yeovil, you'll see Compton Newton signed to the left. The hunt is assembling outside the pub, and the hounds will be called for an eleven o'clock start."
    The same androgynous woman answered again, presumably because she was the figure he was looking at: big and burly in an army-surplus overcoat and with an accent straight from the Essex marshes. "Sorry, mate, but I'm the only one that agrees with you. The rest couldn't give a shit one way or the other. You can't eat foxes, see, so they ain't much good to us. It's different with deer 'coz they're edible, and none of us can see the point of letting dogs 'ave their meat… not when there's humans like us needs it."
    Still hoping for saboteurs, Dick allowed himself to be drawn into discussion. "There's no deer hunting with dogs in Dorset. Devon possibly… but not here."
    "Sure there is. You think any hunt will pass up the chance of a buck if the hounds get wind of it? It ain't no one's fault if a little Bambi gets killed 'coz the dogs go after the wrong scent. That's life. There ain't nothing you can do about it. Numbers of times we've set traps for somefink to eat, and we end up with a poor little moggy's foot in the workings. You can bet your bottom dollar there's an old lady somewhere, weeping her heart out 'coz Tom never came home… but dead is dead, never mind it ain't what you planned."
    Dick shook his head, recognizing that argument was futile. "If you're not prepared to tell me why you're here, then I'll have to call the police. You've no right to trespass on private property."
    The remark was greeted with silence.
    "All right," said Dick, taking a mobile phone from his pocket, "though be warned, I
will
prosecute if you've caused any damage. I work hard for the environment and I'm sick to death of types like you ruining it for the rest of us."
    "Are you saying it's your property, Mr. Weldon?" said the same well-spoken voice that had answered him at the beginning.
    For the briefest of moments he had a sense of recognition-it was a voice he knew, but