Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  A travel update on the radio warned of long delays in the area. The A272 around Haywards Heath was singled out, as was the A273 towards Brighton. These were the main routes for casualties to be ferried to hospital, and for police and forensic vehicles to reach Chilton.

  Craig stayed on the A23 until Albourne, which was slightly south of the village, but meant spending less time on slower, single-lane roads. It was heavy going through Hurstpierpoint, but when he reached the adjoining town of Hassocks he knew a couple of short-cuts that got him on to the B2112. He set off north, with the Downs behind him, and almost immediately joined a slow-moving line of traffic.

  It took almost fifteen minutes to cover the next mile. There was virtually nothing coming the other way. Craig was sorely tempted to pull out and overtake, until the driver behind him tried just that, only to encounter an ambulance with a police escort.

  He was about half a mile from the turn-off to Chilton when the queue came to an emphatic halt. Up ahead he could see cars pulling on to the grass verge. By now all the incidental traffic had given up and turned around. Those who remained had only one destination in mind.

  It wasn't until he got out and approached on foot that Craig appreciated the scale of what was happening. The road ahead was a mass of people, abandoning their cars and trudging towards Chilton. It reminded him of big outdoor events, rock festivals or the South of England Show at nearby Ardingly, but with one major difference.

  There was no jollity. No excitement or anticipation. Just an oppressive silence and an air of undisguised dread. Faces dull with shock and worry. Eye contact was made reluctantly, accompanied by embarrassed smiles. No one was about to ask why he had come, because no one wanted to be confronted with the answer. They were all here for the same reason.

  They were here to find out if their loved ones were alive.

  He crested a low hill and saw what had stopped the traffic. There was a roadblock just south of the turning to Chilton, and another to the north. The road in both directions was an identical scene of haphazardly parked cars and grim clusters of people making for the police cordon.

  Next to the junction was a large grassy area, not quite big enough to be called a field. It was thronging with people, many in uniform, erecting tents and tables, setting up for a long operation. There was a catering van doing a brisk trade, and a lorry unloading portaloos.

  An ambulance sped along Chilton Way and paused briefly at the junction. Police and civilian workers in orange tabards held back the crowd, some of whom screamed and wailed at the sight of the ambulance. One group of onlookers surged forward and began photographing both the ambulance and the emotional reaction to it. Craig noticed TV vans parked on the verge, satellite dishes mounted on their roofs: the media were already here in force.

  It struck him that Nina was right. He would be competing with dozens of equally concerned relatives for what meagre scraps of information were available. He knew how chaotic such operations were in the early stages. Keeping the public informed was a low priority, and the police knew better than to release information until it could be confirmed beyond any doubt.

  Then someone from the crowd turned in his direction. A slim, elfin woman with short dark hair. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she peered at him and smiled. Abby.

  'I thought you'd be here already,' she said as they hugged briefly.

  'Nina's at work. I had to find someone to have the kids.'

  She nodded, looked at him closely. 'I hate to say this, but it might be a wasted journey.'

  'Are they in a mess?'

  'Not too bad.' She indicated the tents behind them. 'This is the command post, which is as far as anyone gets. They're setting up a casualty bureau and a media-briefing room. They've got the fire brigade and civil defence volunteers trying to seal off the entire village.' She grinned. 'Breaking the cordon doesn't go down well, as some of my colleagues have discovered. One of them reckons he got chased away at gunpoint.'

  Craig shook his head. They both turned and stared in the direction of the village. Fields and trees and bushes in a hundred shades of green, still sparkling with melted frost, and the grey church tower peeking above the treetops. It looked an idyllic scene, utterly benign. How could there be anything wrong here?

  'Beautiful part of the world,' Abby murmured. When he didn't respond, she added, 'Your father was campaigning against development in the village, wasn't he?'

  Craig nodded. He caught her use of the past tense. She coloured slightly.

  'I'm sorry. I wasn't implying . . .'

  'I know.' He stared at the trees. Until a breeze caused them to sway, he could almost believe they were false; painted scenery that might fall away and expose the horror of what had happened here.

  'Makes me think of that John Wyndham story, The Midwich Cuckoos.'

  Abby frowned. 'Was that the film with those creepy blond kids?'

  He nodded. 'Village of the Damned.'

  Something in his voice must have affected her, for she reached out and patted his arm. Then she indicated a couple of officers sitting at folding metal tables, a large queue forming in front of them. 'That's where they're taking details of friends and family.'

  There was a ripple of noise and movement from the crowd. They turned to see a car approaching at speed from the north, sounding its horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. It was a brand-new Jaguar XJR with tinted windows. Craig could just make out a man behind the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.

  A policeman stepped into the road and raised his hand. For a moment it looked as though the driver would ignore him. Onlookers gasped, fearing another tragedy, but the Jaguar braked sharply and stopped just in time. There were a few jeers, and shouts of, 'Send him back.'

  The driver's window opened. The officer walked round and they conferred in low tones. The photographers moved closer, raising their cameras. Just before they blocked his view, Craig saw who was in the car.

  'That's George Matheson.'

  'Ah. I wondered if he'd be putting in an appearance.'

  Craig was surprised she knew who he was, until he remembered her comment about his father's campaign.

  'Lucky he wasn't here this morning.'

  'Very lucky,' Abby echoed, with perhaps a trace of sarcasm. 'But then they have several homes. Villas in Nice and Antigua, and a town house in Knightsbridge, I believe?'

  It sounded like she was fishing, but Craig wasn't going to bite. 'You know more about him than I do.'

  The shouts from the crowd increased as the police officer stepped away and the Jaguar jerked forward, probing a path through the photographers. George Matheson's gaze was set straight ahead, while his wife, cloaked in sunglasses and a headscarf, raised a hand to cover her face. They turned into Chilton Way and increased speed.

  'One rule for the rich . . .' Abby said, only partly in jest.

  'Tell me something I don't know,' said Craig.

  Thirteen

  George Matheson had become a master at denial. Bit by bit his life was falling apart, yet here he was, still functioning. Still pretending none of it was happening. He stared through the windscreen and allowed his world to shrink to just the road ahead, but even his wellconstructed emotional forcefield couldn't suppress a twinge of fear at the prospect of what he was driving into.

  If Vanessa was troubled by the shouts and catcalls, she gave no sign of it. He couldn't even tell if her eyes were open. She had barely said a word on the drive from London, so maybe she was asleep. The medication often knocked her out.

  He would never forget his first sight of the village. Normally so serene, it had been transformed into something resembling a war zone or a refugee camp after a huge natural disaster. What seemed like dozens of police cars and ambulances were parked along the High Street. Everywhere he looked he could see armed police, doctors and paramedics, grim-faced search teams and forensic officers in white suits.

  There was another roadblock outside the village store. George gave his name and waited while the
officer consulted a list on a clipboard. His eye was caught by a man unloading something from a van. Bodybags, made of heavy-duty vinyl, folded and stacked on the village green.

  'They're waiting for you at the manor,' the officer said. 'Watch how you go.'

  As he set off again he glanced at Vanessa, hoping she was asleep and wouldn't have to witness this. But she was staring, transfixed, her hand cupped over her mouth as if to hold in her shock. He wanted to offer some comfort, but had no idea what to say.

  He drove slowly, stopping to let an ambulance get past a Royal Mail van. There was a tent set up behind the van; George glimpsed a man's leg and a pool of dried blood on the road. A group of emergency workers stood nearby, drinking from Styrofoam cups and stamping their feet to keep warm. They all turned and stared as the big Jaguar glided past, and something in their blank unwavering gazes seemed to transmit a sense of the carnage they had encountered. He shivered.

  Hurst Lane provided a brief respite. For a few seconds it was almost possible to believe this was just a terrible dream. Then he reached the fork in the road and took the right-hand path, drawing down the blanket of denial over any speculation about the fate of the Caplans. He would know soon enough.

  The gates to Chilton Manor were open, presumably a forced entry by the police. He drove along the wide gravel driveway and saw a black Vectra parked next to a patrol car. DI Sullivan was standing by the driver's door. He was wearing a heavy blue parka the size of a tent, along with grubby-looking jeans and trainers: weekend clothes. As he turned, George searched the detective's face for some tiny hint of reassurance. He got nothing.

  They shook hands. Sullivan's was freezing cold, and the tip of his nose was red. George said, 'Did you check the farm?'

  The policeman nodded, wiped his nose on his sleeve. 'We found the adults dead in the kitchen.'

  George had been expecting it, virtually since he'd first spoken to Sullivan, but for a moment he felt utterly destabilised. He groped for the Jaguar behind him and half leaned, half sat on the bonnet.

  'And their daughter?'

  'Smothered with a pillow. She's been airlifted to the Royal Alex in Brighton. They don't expect her to survive.'

  There was silence. Nothing to say to news like that. George realised the passenger door was opening, Vanessa slowly easing herself out of the car. Sullivan followed his gaze and said, 'It might be better if she waits here.'

  George exchanged a glance with his wife. She glared at Sullivan and shut the door.

  'I'm afraid the house will be out of bounds for a while,' Sullivan said. 'There's been a break-in. We think the killer did it.'

  'The shotgun?'

  'It's gone.' Sullivan was staring straight at George. 'Did you have any other firearms? Any handguns?'

  'No. Absolutely not.'

  Sullivan nodded, but looked no happier. 'What about the alarm system?'

  'I set it myself yesterday morning. Why?'

  'It's deactivated, and it doesn't appear to have been tampered with. Are you certain you set it?'

  'I think so.' George faltered. 'It's such an automatic thing to do, I can't remember precisely, but I'm sure I would have . . .' He tailed off, aware of how feeble he must sound.

  'There's no one else living here? No staff?'

  'Not full-time. There are gardeners, and we use a cleaning company twice a week, but they don't have keys or the alarm code.'

  Sullivan sighed. He rolled a bit of loose gravel back and forth beneath his shoe. 'You say you left here yesterday morning?'

  'Yes.' George drew himself up, exploiting his height advantage over the detective. 'Am I suspected of something?'

  'Don't be silly. We're just trying to build up a picture of what happened.'

  Stung by the ridicule, George was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'May I see where he broke in?'

  Sullivan nodded. 'Wait a second.'

  He opened the Vectra and picked up a digital camera, which he slipped into the pocket of his coat without explanation. George saw Vanessa watching them and detoured to the car. He told her what Sullivan had said. She listened, lips pursed, and said, 'Be careful. He's an odious man.'

  George grunted, concerned that Sullivan would hear her. 'We'll be better off in London anyway,' he said.

  'What have they taken from the house?'

  'Apart from the gun, I don't know.'

  She gave a curt nod and turned away from him. Conversation over.

  'One bit of advice,' Sullivan said as they followed the stone path around the perimeter of the house. 'Not a word to anyone about our past association or I'll be kicked off the case. And I'm no help to you then.'

  'What makes you think I'm going to need your help?'

  Sullivan didn't respond, but the way his breath whistled through his nostrils made him seem habitually scornful. He said, 'Take me through your itinerary yesterday.'

  'We left here around ten o'clock. I was in meetings all afternoon. Vanessa had an appointment in Harley Street this morning, so we stayed up in town.'

  'Nothing serious?'

  George made an almost involuntary sound in his throat, but didn't answer the question. Instead he said, 'My shotgun. Was it used at the farm?'

  Sullivan met his eye, and nodded. 'I'm afraid so.'

  They reached the corner of the house. Wide lawns covered almost an acre, leading on to a tennis court, a Victorian walled garden and a small orchard. Beyond that, miles of open farmland: not a road or a building in sight.

  Sullivan, gazing at the view, said, 'How long had you known the Caplans?'

  'Oh, it must be at least six, seven years. Keith was a very capable farmer. They were nice people. I counted them as friends, not just employees.'

  The detective nodded thoughtfully. They walked on in silence. The western side of the house had a ground-floor extension added in the late nineteenth century, and it was here that one of the windows had been smashed. A uniformed officer was standing guard on the path.

  'Is there much damage inside?'

  'Superficial. Cupboards and shelves emptied. I can't say whether any valuables have been taken, but it seems unlikely.' Sullivan looked to be fighting a smirk. 'He also took a dump on your dining-room table.'

  George shuddered, then remembered what had occurred to him during the phone call. 'Do you think this was premeditated, or done on the spur of the moment?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'The fact that he came here to steal my shotgun. How was he to know the place was empty?' He glanced in the direction of the village. 'If we'd been at home, perhaps none of this would have happened.'

  'As far as we know he already had the pistol with him. He might have blasted in here, killed the two of you and taken the shotgun anyway.'

  It was an odd sort of consolation to offer someone. Sullivan took the camera from his pocket and turned it over several times, pondering something.

  'Right now, there's a lot we don't understand.' He glanced at the uniform, who read his expression and turned away as if rebuked. There was a whirring noise as the camera powered up.

  'I reckon you might be able to help us,' he went on. 'Take a look at this.'

  He held up the camera for George to see. There was a tiny screen on the back, no more than an inch or so square, but the image displayed on it was perfectly clear. It was a man's head, taken at close range but with part of it obscured, perhaps deliberately, by a sheet of paper. Concealing a wound, George guessed. But there was enough of the face visible for him to understand two things.

  The man was dead. And he was familiar.

  'That's Carl Forester.'

  Sullivan's eyes widened. 'Who is he?'

  'He used to work for me, some years ago. He helped out on the farm.' Remembering something else, George felt the blood drain from his face. Fortunately Sullivan had chosen that moment to switch the camera off, and by the time he looked up George had recovered.

  He would have to tell the police at some point, of course. But not now.

  'He
lived locally, then?' Sullivan said.

  'Falcombe, I think. He had a very disruptive home life. Father's long gone. Mother is an alcoholic. Carl himself was a bit of a tearaway, I believe.'

  'So we'll find him in our records?'

  'I imagine so. Motoring convictions. Petty theft, perhaps.'

  'Any sex offences that you know of?'

  George felt dizzy again. 'What?'

  Sullivan shoved the camera back in his pocket and looked George squarely in the eye. 'Mrs Caplan was raped before she died.'

  Fourteen

  It was nearly two in the afternoon when Craig got home. He turned into the cul-de-sac and saw Nina's Citroën on the driveway. He remained in the car for a minute, not so much collecting his thoughts as dispersing them. His preoccupations felt like steel cables, coiled so tight they might suffocate him.

  While Abby rejoined her colleagues in the media tent, he had stood in line at the grandly named Friends and Relatives Reception Centre. Eventually he spoke to a community support officer, who by now had been politely resisting demands for information for several hours and could reel off official platitudes while simultaneously filling out forms and keeping an alert eye on potential troublemakers further along the line.

  Craig had envisaged that he would insist on learning his father's fate. Refusing to budge until he knew the facts. Probably everyone else in the queue thought the same. But when the moment came, faced with the implacable barriers of bureaucracy and innate politeness, almost everyone accepted they couldn't be told anything right now. The priority was to secure the scene and give help to the injured. To protest would be not only unseemly, but also an insult to the victims.

  'Best thing is to go home,' the officer told him. 'Soon as we know something definite, we'll be in touch.'

  Craig looked for Abby before he left, but couldn't find her. He had his press card and no doubt could have talked his way into the media tent, but it was bound to lead to trouble. He knew exactly the kind of morbid humour that journalists employed at times like this, and he'd just end up picking a fight with someone. He had no desire to mix with people for whom this was little more than a thrilling carnival.