I didn’t read the fourth name. Or the fifth.
I was too busy looking at the sixth.
And wondering why Carla Graham had lied to me when she said she hadn’t known Miriam.
17
I really didn’t know what to expect as I turned the car into the short gravel driveway that led up to the Fox residence. The house itself was an attractive and spacious two-storey building constructed in an L-shape with a thatched roof and lattice windows, set in enclosed gardens. It was on the edge of a small village a few miles west of Oxford towards the Gloucestershire border, so a fair drive for Malik and me. It had taken us about two and a quarter hours through the usual heavy traffic, and it was now just after eleven.
‘Just in time for a nice cup of tea,’ I said, pulling up in front of the house.
Malik looked a little nervous. I guess he too didn’t know what to expect from this sort of visit. It was never going to be easy. These people had found out only four days ago that their daughter had been murdered. They may not have seen her for close on three years, but they were still going to be in a state of shock. It would take years for their lives to return to normal, if they ever did.
To be honest, my mind was elsewhere. I wanted to know why Miriam Fox had phoned Carla Graham three times during the last fortnight of her life, twice to Carla’s mobile, and why Carla herself had made two calls to Miriam’s number, the last of them just four days before she was murdered. That many calls was no accident. Those two had known each other, and the only conceivable reason why Carla hadn’t said anything to us about their relationship was that she had something to hide, although what that something could be I had no idea. I’d phoned Coleman House straight away, ostensibly to let her know that we’d charged Mark Wells, but also to arrange another meeting so I could ask her about it, but she’d left for the night. I’d tried her again before we’d left this morning but she was in a meeting. I hadn’t bothered to leave a message. There was no point alerting her to the fact that I was trying to track her down. For the moment it could wait.
I straightened my tie and banged on the huge brass doorknocker.
The door was opened almost immediately by a largish middle-aged lady in a sweater and long skirt. Although she looked tired, with large bags under her eyes, she appeared to be bearing up reasonably well. She had a light covering of make-up on and she even managed a smile of greeting. ‘Detective Milne?’
‘Mrs Fox.’ We shook hands. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Malik.’
They shook hands as well, and then she stood aside for us. ‘Please, come in.’
We followed her through the hallway and into a large, very dark sitting room. A fire blazed in the grate, and sitting in one of the seats facing it was a shortish bearded man with glasses. He stood up slowly on seeing us and introduced himself as Martin Fox. If Mrs Fox appeared to be bearing up well, then Mr Fox was the exact opposite. His whole body appeared slumped as if the guts had been knocked out of him, and even his speech was slow and forced. The gloom seemed to spread from him like an infectious cloud. I got depressed just being within five feet of the bloke.
We sat down on the sofa and Mrs Fox asked us if we’d like anything to drink. We both opted for tea, and she went off to make a pot.
While she was gone, Malik told Fox that he was very sorry about his loss. He sounded like he truly meant it as well.
Fox sat back with his head against the seat, not looking at us. ‘Did she suffer?’ he asked, speaking slowly as if carefully choosing his words. ‘When she died, did she suffer? Please be honest with me.’
Malik looked at me for a bit of help on this one.
‘She would have died very quickly, Mr Fox,’ I said. ‘She didn’t suffer. I can assure you of that.’
‘The newspapers said only that she was stabbed.’
‘That’s the only details we released to the media,’ I said. ‘They don’t need to know anything more than that.’
‘Was she stabbed many times?’ he asked.
‘She died from a single wound,’ I said, not mentioning anything about the mutilation.
‘Why?’ The question hung in the air for what seemed like a long time. ‘Do they know, these people who commit these terrible crimes? Do they know the hurt they cause? To the ones who are left behind?’
I ached for a cigarette but knew without asking that this would be a non-smoking household. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘that most really don’t have a clue of the suffering they inflict. If they did, I’m sure a lot of them would think twice before doing what they do.’
‘And do you think that this man … the one who killed my Miriam … do you think he knew what he was doing?’
I thought suddenly about the families of the customs officers and the accountant. I knew what I’d been doing. Had always known. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Fox. It could well have been a spur-of-the-moment thing.’
‘It doesn’t matter. People like that should be put down. Like dogs.’ Maybe he had a point. ‘I never believed in the death penalty. I thought it was barbaric for a society to put to death its citizens, whatever their crimes. But now … now…’ His face, still only visible in profile, was contorted with a terrible frustration. ‘I’d pull the trigger myself. I really would.’
Before I could give him my standard police spiel that these feelings were understandable but ultimately counter-productive, Mrs Fox thankfully returned with the tea. Fox slipped into a sullen
