But then it all went bust. In 2003 Foster contracted a supplier, DRC Distribution, to manufacture Ulva Shield exclusively. But by 2005 his liabilities were £2.8 million higher than his assets, presumably because he’d spent so much on mansions and Porsches and guns and membership to various fancy clay-pigeon-shooting clubs. In desperation, Foster sourced a California supplier who could manufacture Ulva Shield cheaper. DRC found itself lumbered with a warehouse full of Ulva Shield it couldn’t sell because it was patented to Foster. DRC sued and won.
At the Royal Courts of Justice, on February 28, 2008, Lord Justice Rimer said Foster was “bereft of the basic instincts of commercial morality. He was not to be trusted.” And so it all came crashing down. DRC took control of the Ulva Shield patent. Foster may have been lacking in commercial morality, but he certainly knew how to invent a good new fireproof chemical formula. Under DRC’s less flashy stewardship, Ulva Shield has become a huge deal in the oil-rig world, supplying to Exxon, BP, Shell, and thirty-nine other giants. Foster, meanwhile, suddenly found he had nothing to do but stay home and look after the horses and the fifteen acres.
We reach Ian’s barn. It really is spotless. The hay is as smooth as a freshly made bed at a posh hotel. “Our horses are our lives. They’re everything to me and the children. I’m going through a divorce at the moment—”
“Anyway,” I interrupt, “something weird happened a month before the murders . . . ?”
“Oh yes,” Ian says. “I was at Osbaston House when there was an almighty crash. A massive branch, as big as a tree, had come off a willow and crashed onto the path. Chris came running up. He said his tractor had been parked exactly where the branch had landed, but he’d decided for absolutely no reason to reverse it forty yards out of the way a few minutes earlier. It was a lucky escape.” Ian falls silent. Then he adds, “Although if it had hit him, it would have been a godsend for the other two.”
“Is that the weird incident?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ian says.
“It doesn’t seem that weird,” I say.
“Well, think about it,” Ian says.
Ian says it didn’t strike him as weird, either, at first, “but after the murders I was just so gutted, I started obsessively watching the news. . . . There was something about going to that place that was so nice. It was the welcome you had, from both of them, but especially Jill. She was bubbly, always had that same smile, always turned out very well, but not flash, just very well-groomed. Kirstie was very quiet but polite. And Chris would always give you a big handshake.” Ian pauses. “So I was watching the news, and I saw those pictures of the burned-out tractor, and it hit me. Chris had had absolutely no reason whatsoever to move the tractor that day. He said it himself. He didn’t chalk it up to anything. He just moved it. This was a man who invented a product. You have to be pretty active in your brain to invent something. And now he had so little in his life that he needed to fill his days by just moving a tractor up and down a path for no reason.”
We head inside. Ian makes me another cup of tea. We sit in silence. Then Ian says, “What Chris did has put thoughts in my own head, I must admit.”
“Sorry?” I ask.
“I empathize with Chris,” Ian says. “And I feel guilty for empathizing.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Ian says. “There’s no way I could harm my children. But I’m going through a divorce at the moment. It’s looming. I probably seem normal and relaxed to you, but inside I’m finding it very stressful. My chest is real tight. I get this pain down here.” Ian points to his left side.
“What’s the point of keeping all that stress hidden away?” I ask.
“We’re supposed to be manly,” Ian replies. “We’re not supposed to get upset. We’re supposed to be the breadwinners and the providers, especially in our children’s eyes. We’re supposed to do miracles.”
As I sit in Ian’s kitchen, it suddenly makes sense to me that Chris Foster would choose to shoot Jill and Kirstie in the back of their heads. It was as if he was too ashamed to look at them. Maybe the murders were a type of honor killing, as if Foster simply couldn’t bear the idea of losing their respect and the respect of his friends. I ask Ian if he thinks Foster planned his night of mayhem or if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. “Oh, he was meticulous that night,” Ian says. “That’s weeks of planning, isn’t it?”
“When do you think he did the planning?” I ask.
“Probably in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. That’s when people’s brains start thinking about that kind of thing, isn’t it?”
• • •
A FEW WEEKS LATER, I drive to Hodnet, near Maesbrook, to the West Midlands Shooting Ground, where I’m due to meet Graham Evans, an old friend and shooting partner of Foster’s. Clay-pigeon shooting was one of Foster’s great hobbies. He used to come to Hodnet every Tuesday night. It was, in fact, how he spent his last day on earth: clay-pigeon shooting at his neighbor’s barbecue.
On the way, it starts to rain, and so, by the time I arrive, Graham Evans and the other shooters are crammed into the bar, passing the time until they can shoot by telling incredibly offensive jokes.
“What’s the difference between a prostitute and crack cocaine?” says Bill (not his real name). “A prostitute can clean her crack and resell it.”
Everyone laughs. There are an awful lot of tasteless jokes floating around here today. In fact, the minute I arrived at the club—practically before I was out of the car—someone asked if I knew the one about the black woman in the sauna. Then there was the sign on the gate of the pretty wisteria-covered farm next door to the shooting range: “Every third traveler [meaning ‘Gypsy’] is shot. The second has just left.” In the old days, I think, jokes such as these were intended to display superiority, but now they seem to do the opposite. Although this is a lovely, rustic, and quite posh shooting club, the men here seem a bit sad and ground down.
“I’m sure there are jokes we can do about Fossie,” says a club member called Simon (not his real name). “Let’s see. Did you hear the one about the barbecue that ran out of Fosters . . . ?” Everyone looks at Simon.
“Um . . .” he says. He falls silent. “That doesn’t really work,” he says.
“I can understand why Fossie might want to kill himself,” Bill says. “I’ve thought about doing myself in loads of times. . . .”
Nobody seems at all surprised by this blunt admission, so casually made. Who knows: Maybe Bill is always going on about killing himself. Or maybe lots of the men here have considered the option. There are racks of rifles for sale all over the place—Berettas and Winchesters and so on. Perhaps being in proximity to so much weaponry invariably turns a man’s mind to thoughts of suicide.
“I even know the place where I’d do it,” Bill continues. “There’s a lovely spot up over there on that hill near the satellite dish.”
There are a few murmurs along the lines of “That is a nice spot.”
“But to shoot your own daughter . . .” Bill says. He trails off.
“Anyway,” Graham Evans says. “The rain’s stopped. Do you want a go at shooting?”
“OK,” I say.
We head outside. Graham hands me a shotgun. I aim, shout “Pull!” and proceed effortlessly to blow to pieces every clay pigeon that has the misfortune to fly past my magnificence. I’m a natural at this, and clay-pigeon shooting turns out to be an incredibly exciting thing to do.
Suddenly, lots of the other shooters start yelling, “Whoa! Whoa! Jon! Steady on!”
“What?” I say, perplexed.
“You’re doing this,” says Graham. He does an impersonation of a crazed person waving a gun terrifyingly around.