"You shouldn't have told them who Nancy was," said James angrily. "Have you no sense? It'll be all over the newspapers tomorrow."
Mark ignored him. "Leo called her Lizzie's love child," he said, accelerating to ninety on a straight piece of road. "Is that how he usually refers to her? I'd have thought 'bastard' was more in his line."
James closed his eyes as they approached the bend before Shenstead Farm at high speed. "He never refers to her as anything. It's not something we discuss. Never have done. I wish you'd concentrate on your driving."
Again Mark ignored him. "Whose idea was that?"
"Nobody's," said James irritably. "At the time it seemed no different from an abortion… and you don't revisit abortions over the lunch table."
"I thought you and Ailsa had a row about it."
"All the more reason for the matter to be closed. The adoption had happened. Nothing I said or did could reverse the decision." He braced his hands against the dashboard as the hedgerow slapped the side of the car.
"Why did you feel so strongly about it?"
"Because I wouldn't give a dog away to a total stranger, Mark. Certainly not a child. She was a Lockyer-Fox. We had a responsibility to her. You really are going much too fast."
"Stop bellyaching. So why did Ailsa give her away?"
James sighed. "Because she couldn't think what else to do. She knew Elizabeth would neglect the baby if she forced her to acknowledge it, and Ailsa could hardly pass it off as her own."
"What other option was there?"
"Admit our daughter had made a mistake and take responsibility ourselves. Of course, it's easy to be wise with hindsight. I don't blame Ailsa. I blame myself. She thought my views were so rigid that it wasn't worth consulting me." Another sigh. "We all wish we'd acted differently, Mark. Ailsa assumed Elizabeth would have other children-Leo, too. It was a terrible shock when they didn't."
Mark slowed as a car's headlamps shone out from the Copse. He glanced in briefly as they passed, but couldn't see beyond the lights. "Did Lizzie ever say who the father was?"
"No," said the old man dryly. "I don't think she knew herself."
"Are you sure Leo's never had any kids?"
"Absolutely sure."
Mark dropped down a gear as they approached the Manor drive, watching the lights of the other car swing out behind him. "Why? He's been with a lot of women, James. By the law of averages he should have had at least one mistake."
"We'd have heard about it," said the old man even more dryly. "He'd have enjoyed parading his bastards about the house, particularly after Ailsa took up the cause of child welfare. He'd have used them as leverage to get money out of her."
Mark swung through the gate. "That's pretty sad, then," he said. "It sounds to me as if the poor guy's firing blanks."
Monroe reached through his window to kill his engine as the two cars drew to a halt beside him. He opened the passenger door of the Lexus and leaned forward to look into the interior. "Colonel Lockyer-Fox, Mr. Ankerton," he said, "we've met before. DS Monroe."
Mark switched off his ignition and climbed out the other side. "I remember. Have you found her? Is she all right?"
"I've only just arrived myself, sir," said Monroe, putting a hand under James's elbow to help him to stand. "She must be close. She's left her bag and keys behind."
Silence fell abruptly as Barker's engine stilled.
Wolfie's first reaction was to cover his eyes with his hands. What he didn't see, he couldn't worry about. None of this was his fault. It was Bella's fault. She had done something bad by making the phone call for Fox. She had let the police onto the campsite. She had shown them Fox wasn't there.
But he liked Bella, and in his heart he knew that the only reason he wanted to blame her was to feel better about himself. Somewhere in his mind, in fragments of memory that he couldn't retain, he thought he knew what had happened to his mother and Cub. He couldn't explain it. Sometimes it seemed like bits of a dream. Other times a half-forgotten movie. But he was afraid it was real, and it consumed him with guilt because he knew he should have done something to help, and hadn't.
It was the same now.
Nancy toyed with crying out. The car had stopped, but she could still hear the purr of its motor. It had to be James and Mark-who else could it be?-but why hadn't they come into the house and turned on the lights? She kept telling herself to keep calm, but paranoia was jumbling all sense in her head. Supposing it wasn't James and Mark? Supposing her screams provoked a reaction? Supposing no one came? Supposing… Oh God!
Fox was cursing her in his head for remaining motionless. He might feel her, but he couldn't see her anymore than she could see him, and if he moved first it was she who would hold the advantage. Was she brave enough-or frightened enough-to strike out? The reflected torchlight on the flagstones told him nothing except that the hand that held it was steady. And that worried him.
It suggested a stronger adversary than he was used to…
All three of them heard the sound of more cars arriving. They drove in at speed, churning the gravel as they slowed to a halt. With a sob of fear, knowing his father wouldn't wait any longer, Wolfie pushed himself to his feet and raced toward the terrace with all his turmoil and anguish for his lost mother pouring out in a high-pitched "NO-O-O!"
26
Afterward, when she had time to think about it, Nancy wondered how many adrenaline rushes a person could tolerate before their legs gave way. She felt she was bathing in the stuff, but when the child started screaming her glands went into overdrive.
The whole incident remained sharp in her memory, as if the stimulus of Wolfie's cry cleared her brain for action. She remembered feeling calm, remembered waiting for the other person to react first, remembered switching off her torch because she didn't need it anymore. She knew where he was now because he swore under his breath as the wailed "No" reached him, and in the fraction of a second that it took him to move, she sorted and computed enough information to predict what he would do.
More than one car suggested police. Someone had alerted them. There were lights at the encampment. The cry was a child's. Only one child had been scared. The psycho's son. This was the psycho. Fox. He carried a razor. His only route to safety was toward the parkland and the valley beyond. Without wheels he'd be trapped between Shenstead and the sea. He needed a guarantee of free passage. The only guarantee was a hostage.
She began to move as soon as he did, cutting off his angled run toward the child's voice. With a shorter distance to cover-almost as if it were preordained-she caught him by Ailsa's last resting place in front of the sundial. His left side was toward her and she scanned for the flash of a blade in his hand. It looked empty and she gambled that he was right-handed. With a backhand swing of her torch, she chopped at his throat before bringing her left hand down in a slamming slice on his right forearm as he turned toward her. Something metal clattered to the flagstones.
"Bitch," he snarled, backing away.
She flicked on the torch, blinding him. "You touch the kid and I'll fucking cripple you," she snarled back, locating the razor with her foot and sweeping it behind her against the sundial plinth. She raised her voice. "Stay away, friend, and stay quiet!" she called to the child. "I don't want you hurt. I'll give your dad a chance to get away as long as you don't come any closer."
Something like amusement flickered briefly in Fox's eyes as Wolfie fell silent. "Get over here, Wolfie. Now!"