‘To clear up my husband’s murder.’
‘You’re sure in your own mind that it was murder?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Did you say as much at the time? I don’t recall the newspapers mentioning it.’
‘To be quite honest with you, I was a little bit afraid.’
Fox accepted this. ‘But all you have are suspicions – no actual evidence?’
‘No more than you’ll have gleaned,’ she conceded, placing her hands on her lap.
‘And suicide…?’
‘Not an option: Francis was too much of a coward. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently. I told them I was coming off the chemo and everything else – it was too, too much. There’s morphine for the pain, but you can still feel it, just beyond the cotton wool. Suicide had to be considered, but that particular course of action takes a certain bravery. I’m not brave, and neither was Francis.’
‘He wasn’t ill, was he?’
‘Strong as an ox.’
‘Despite the cigarettes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had there been a falling-out?’
‘No more so than usual.’
‘That stormy relationship again?’
‘Stormy rather than rocky. Has anyone used the word “firebrand” in connection with him?’ She watched as Fox nodded his reply. ‘I’d be disappointed had they not – that was Francis, you see: in his life, his work, his politics. He didn’t care if you were for him or against him, so long as you had fire in your belly.’
‘There’s a cairn near where he died…’
‘Charles had it placed there.’
‘And the yearly bouquet?’
‘From me.’
Fox leaned forward a little. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mrs Vernal?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The period leading up to his death… had he been worried about anything?’
‘No.’
‘He thought he was being watched.’
‘That pleased him: it meant he was “getting to them”.’
‘Who?’
‘The establishment, I suppose.’
‘And how was he getting to them?’
‘His speeches. His power to change people’s minds.’
‘The polls suggest he wasn’t changing too many minds.’
She dismissed this with a toss of her head. ‘Everyone he met… he had an effect on them.’
She paused and watched Fox bring out the photograph of her husband with Chris Fox.
‘Do you know this man?’ he asked her.
‘No.’
‘His name’s Chris Fox. He died in a motorbike crash, a few years before your husband. It happened near Burntisland.’
She considered this. ‘Not so far from where they killed Francis. You think there’s a connection?’
‘Not really.’
‘He shares your surname.’
‘He was my father’s cousin.’
She looked at him. ‘Did he know Francis well?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Fox studied the picture again before returning it to his pocket. He took another sip of tea. ‘I’ve heard break-ins mentioned…’
‘Yes – here and at the office. Two in as many weeks.’
‘Reported to the police?’
She nodded. ‘No one was ever caught.’
‘Was much taken?’
‘Money and jewellery.’
‘None of your husband’s papers?’
‘No.’
‘Did Francis ever discuss breaking the law himself?’
‘How do you mean?’ She seemed to be focusing on the view from the window, even though it was now dark and the garden was invisible.
‘He was said to be close to certain groups…’
‘He never spoke about it.’
‘But it’s not exactly news to you?’
‘He knew a lot of people, Inspector – I dare say one or two wanted to take the struggle that bit further than the law of the time would allow.’
‘And he would have supported that view?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Do any names come to mind?’
She shook her head. ‘You’re thinking,’ she said, ‘that political friends sometimes turn into foes. But if Francis had enemies – real enemies, I mean – he kept them to himself.’
‘But you know he supported paramilitary groups? Mr Mangold seems to think you’d no inkling.’
‘Charles doesn’t know everything.’
Fox took another sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. The room was silent for the best part of a minute. He got the feeling that when she was left alone, this was how she sat – calm and still and waiting for death, staring at her reflection in the window, the rest of the world lost somewhere beyond. He was reminded of his father: I don’t sleep… I just lie here…
Eventually, he cleared his throat. ‘What do you think he was doing on that particular road?’ he asked.
‘Politically, you mean?’
He smiled at the error. ‘No, the road between Anstruther and St Andrews.’
‘It was the weekend,’ she said, her voice fading a little. ‘He often spent weekends in Fife.’
‘On his own?’
‘Not with me.’
He knew from her tone what she meant. ‘Other women?’ he suggested. She gave the slightest of nods. ‘Many?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He used the weekend house?’
‘I suppose so.’ She looked down at her lap and brushed something from it, something Fox couldn’t see.
‘And Anstruther…?’ he prompted, waiting her out. Eventually she gave a sigh and took a deep breath.
‘That’s where she lived.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘I was quite a catch when Francis met me, but maybe you know what it’s like.’
‘A little,’ he offered, since she had waited for his response.
‘She was a student too. Alice Watts – that was the name.’
‘He told you?’
She shook her head. ‘Letters from her. Hidden in his office desk. It was months before I came across them – there was so much to be gone through.’
‘She lived in Anstruther?’
Imogen Vernal was staring at the window again. ‘She was studying politics and philosophy at St Andrews. He gave a talk to the students and she met him afterwards. I suppose you’d call her a groupie.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘I’ve not told anyone about her.’
