“Great, send me a transcript, then join me. We’ll call it a working lunch,” she says then leaves the station, closing the door behind her.
Bird thinks she’s so clever, and she is, but she still doesn’t know how well I knew Eden Fox. Nobody does, thank god. Eden came to visit me at the station a few weeks ago. She told me someone had been outside Spyglass watching her and she thought she should report it. That was the first time we met, but not the last.
I liked her. She had a lot of questions about the village, and seemed fascinated by the poster on the noticeboard advertising the annual Day of the Dead festival in Hope Falls. She spotted it when putting up a poster about her exhibition, and I remember I laughed when our little festival seemed to shock her—I suppose it does sound a bit strange if you’re not from around here—but then I explained that it was a local tradition celebrated by all the towns and villages within Blackmoor National Park.
Every year, on the day after Halloween—the first of November—the villagers gather at The Smuggler’s Inn for a few drinks before a procession from the church cemetery through the village all the way to Blackwater Bay. We call it the Day of the Dead, paint our faces like skeletons, and carry flaming torches through the streets. It mightsound strange to outsiders but it’s a lot of fun. When I told Eden about it,sheseemed like a lot of fun. Said we could go together, because nobody would know it was us if we were wearing fancy dress. She was flirting with me, despite being married, and I confess I might have flirted back. I noticed how lonely Eden Fox was the first time we met. She seemed starved of affection and I found myself wanting to give it to her. She wore a polka-dot dress with buttons all the way down the front that day in the station, and her long blond hair shone in the light. I liked the way she spoke, the way she smiled, the way she smelled. Normally I couldn’t care less about art, but I sat and I listened to her talk about her paintings and I thought I’d probably like the way she tasted.
Then I saw the bruises on her arms.
I think he did that to her. The husband. How else could it have happened?
From the moment I met Eden Fox I imagined saving her. From him and whatever else caused the sadness she tried to hide behind a smile. That wasn’t all I fantasized about. I imagined her coming back to the station scared that someone was still watching her, sitting on my desk, undoing all those buttons down the front of her dress and opening her legs nice and wide. Soft white flesh. Matching underwear. She was so lovely. So lonely. So hungry for it. So grateful. She wanted me inside her, right there and then, but it didn’t happen. It was just a fantasy. A daydream…
I dreamed of fucking Eden Fox.
And I dreamed of saving her.
Now she’s gone.
32
Interviewer:Sergeant Luke Carter (LC)
Interviewee:Diana Harris (DH)
Date:October 31, 2025
Location:Saltwater Gallery, Hope Falls
LC:Thank you for your time and for closing the gallery.
DH:I just can’t believe it. Last night she was standing right where you are. It was the best event we’ve had here for years.
LC:Tell me about Eden Fox.
DH:You met her too. She was just a lovely human being, and so talented. Are you sure that she—
LC:How did you meet her?
DH:Well, I didn’t technically meet her until yesterday. Until the actual exhibition. But we spoke on the phone.
LC:Who called who?
DH:She emailed in the first instance. Said she was moving to the area and would I be interested in selling one or two of her paintings. I confess when I get emails like that my heart sinks. Everyone thinks they are an artist these days, just like everyone thinks they have a book in them, and most of the time when people get in touch like that the work on offer is mediocre at best. But this was different. She sent me a link to some of her paintings and I fell in love instantly. They were all of the sea, and there was something very unique and special about them. That’s all we sell: art about the sea. Paintings, prints, pottery, greetings cards—
LC:What happened after that first email from Eden?
DH:We had a very pleasant phone call and I offered to take all her paintings. I knew I could sell them when the tourists came back.
LC:The tourists aren’t back yet, and you don’t normally do events out of season. How did the exhibition come about, was it your idea?
DH:No. It was his.
LC:Who?
DH:The husband. He came in to the gallery one day—dressed in a very nice suit, tailored, expensive. He had a good head of hair and nice-looking hands, short clean fingernails. You can tell a lot about a man from his hands.
LC:Good to know. And Mr. Woolf talked to you about his wife?
