by Tom Bale
Now he forced himself from his car, knowing he didn't really have the stomach for a fight with Nina either. It was tempting to turn around and drive away, except that he'd told the police he would be at home.
She opened the door while he was fumbling with his keys. She looked emotional, under strain, but also immaculate. He'd always marvelled at the way she could do a demanding job, bring up two children and still devote time to hair and clothes and make-up. Some of her friends teased her about it, calling her 'Superwoman', and although Craig joined in he was secretly proud. Today, though, it irked him. She had no right to look so good.
She stepped forward as if to embrace him, but perhaps sensing it wouldn't be welcome, settled for lightly caressing his arm. 'Is he all right?'
'No news yet. They said they'll let me know.' Again she reached out, but he brushed her off and made for the living room. He felt her freeze, slightly incredulous that she had been shunned. 'What are they saying on TV?'
'Mostly speculation,' she said, 'recycled over and over. Reporters interviewing each other because no one will speak to them.'
Craig grunted. He threw himself on to a sofa. Sky News was showing what appeared to be the same aerial footage from earlier. The voiceover said, '. . . now confirmed to be one of the worst spree killings in recent years.'
'Where are Tom and Maddie?'
'Still at Mum's. They can stay over, if need be. I thought it was best . . .'
Craig nodded, rested his head back and stared at the ceiling. He ran his hands through his hair and down around his neck, holding them there as if he wanted to throttle himself.
'Where were you this morning?'
Nina flinched, but hid it well. She turned to the armchair behind her and found some comics to tidy away before sitting down.
'I was at work,' she said, imbuing the words with a scorn that implied he had insulted her by asking.
'No you weren't. The guy I spoke to told me he'd looked everywhere. He said your PC was on standby, and your coat and bag were gone.'
The words tumbled into the room like grenades, turning their familiar living room into hazardous territory.
Nina's eyes sparkled with tears. She shook her head. 'Don't do this now.'
'What do you mean, Don't do this now? How can you say that?'
'I mean, let's have this conversation another time. When we know your dad is safe.'
He isn't safe, said a voice in his head. He's dead.
He sighed. She had as good as told him already, hadn't she?
'Who is it?'
'Craig, please. You're upset because of this, and we're still—'
'Who?'
'No. Listen to me.'
'Just tell me. Tell me his fucking name.'
She leaned forward, pressed her knees tight and hugged her arms together, as if making herself as small as possible. He looked away, disgusted with himself as much as with her.
She breathed in, held it, breathed out. Then she said, 'Bruce Abbott.'
She got up and left the room. He listened to her putting on shoes and a coat, pick up her keys and leave the house. She over-revved the Citroën and the wheels squealed as they fought for grip.
Six hours ago he'd been lying in bed, contemplating a weekend of relaxation and marital harmony. Now he might have lost both his father and his marriage. What was next?
He stood up. He knew exactly what was next.
As a rule they didn't keep much alcohol in the house. Red wine, mostly, which Nina drank, and sometimes a bottle of white. Beer was a no-no, and had been for more than four years. Four years, three months and ten days, in fact.
Spirits were also barred, but there was a bottle of good malt which Nina had won in a raffle at Christmas and not yet given away. That would do for starters.
Two cars tailed them back to London, and when they turned into Cadogan Place there was a TV van and a group of people waiting outside the house. George had expected as much. He wasn't a particularly high-profile figure, but from time to time he featured in the financial pages. For an event of this magnitude, that was probably more than sufficient to single him out for attention. Vanessa gave a cry of alarm when she spotted them.
'We won't stop,' he assured her. True to his word, he almost ploughed into them as he passed the house. Vanessa twisted away from the lenses, covering her face with her hands. He quite understood her reaction, but knew it would only encourage the use of the photos. It made them look guilty of something.
Oblivious to their own safety, the reporters pursued them along the street, hurling questions as they ran.
'What did you see in Chilton?'
'Will you give us your reaction to the massacre?'
'What did the police tell you, Mr Matheson?'
He ignored them all. Kept that same steely gaze and drove on until he found somewhere to park. He kept telling himself that later he would allow himself some time to reflect. He sensed that his life had changed beyond recognition: the ramifications of this were impossible to predict.
It came as a greater shock to realise, an hour or more after they were safely ensconced in their respective refuges – she in her bedroom, he in his study – that he had given no reaction, nor barely any thought, to Vanessa's news.
Weeks. She had only weeks to live.
Alone in his study, toying with a brandy, he tried to imagine himself a widower. He had known it would happen. The initial diagnosis had been about as bleak as they come. What he had never imagined was that he'd have to combine it with this . . . devastation.
People might look to him, he realised. Despite everything, it caused a tiny swelling in his heart. He might be called upon to give a lead.
Ironic, really, considering that until now he'd been depicted as the would-be destroyer of Chilton's perfection.
But it might take weeks, perhaps months for the dust to settle. And in the meantime . . . everything would be in limbo. His life would be in limbo.
The tears came without warning, a hot rush suddenly there on his cheeks, and a single deep sob that convulsed his chest. His life was over. Destroyed.
Afterwards he didn't feel better, as everyone always predicted if 'you just let it out'. He felt worse. Utterly wretched and exhausted, and wishing he could drop dead right there and be spared all the trials that now lay ahead of him, as unavoidable as night after day.
Starting now, he decided.
Starting with Kendrick.
The phone was picked up on the third ring. 'Yes?'
'It's George Matheson.'
'What a nice surprise.' The sly amusement made George furious. It was bad enough that he couldn't speak to Kendrick directly. Having to go through Vilner, of all people, was nothing short of humiliating.
'I assume you've seen the news?'
'Watching it now,' Vilner said. 'I told myself, someone had better have a bloody good reason to drag me away from it.' He laughed. 'I guess you qualify.'
'I need to see Kendrick as soon as possible. I'm sure he'll want to discuss the . . . implications.'
Another throaty laugh. 'Implications?' he repeated, as though it were an absurd euphemism.
'Yes,' said George firmly. 'If you let me have his number I'll call him myself.'
'I'm seeing him later. He'll get the message.'
'See that he does.'
Vilner's tone hardened. 'Toby all right these days?'
George grunted. That was the next call he had to make.
'So where does this leave the development?' Vilner went on. 'Seems to me it could go belly up.'
'Not necessarily. But it does seem prudent to consider all eventualities.'
'Yeah, you can spill out that bollocks till the cows come home. Just don't forget what you owe me. If I'm not getting the contract Toby promised, then I want the cash instead.'
George fought back his rage, and said quietly, 'You will get it.'
'When?'
'I can't possibly say.'
'Listen, George, I've been more than patient. I
won't let anyone make a fool of me.'
'We'll talk again soon,' George said. His hand trembled as he dropped the phone in its cradle. Dealing with Vilner always left him feeling squalid.
He had intended to call Toby as well, warn him to keep his mouth shut, but he simply wasn't capable of it. Overcome by a craving for oblivion, he thought of Vanessa's painkillers. It really could be that easy.
'Oblivion,' he murmured, reaching for the brandy.
* * *
Craig was drunk when the doorbell rang. After years of abstinence the alcohol hit him like a train. He'd bypassed the pleasurable stage altogether and gone straight to hangover. Instead of giddy euphoria there was just disgust that he'd added weakness of character to his many other flaws.
He saw the police car draw up outside and was at the door before they rang the bell. There were two of them, both men: one uniformed and very young, the other CID and about Craig's age. It was almost fully dark outside, just a few streaks of purple and red in the western sky, the temperature probably below freezing.
Despite the cold an obnoxious neighbour was standing across the way, blatantly waiting to see what might happen. For that reason as much as anything Craig made an attempt at sobriety and ushered them inside. Stumbling in the doorway didn't help, but if they disapproved they gave no sign of it.
'Offer you a drink?' he said, trying hard not to slur.
'Good idea,' the detective said. 'My colleague will put the kettle on.'
Not hearing, Craig took a couple of steps towards the kitchen. The uniform waylaid him, directing him to a seat like an errant child.
'Is your wife here, Mr Walker?'
Craig shook his head. 'Left me,' he said.
'Oh.' The detective seemed flummoxed by this. Craig thought he should elaborate, then decided he lacked the energy. But he did need to sharpen up a bit.
He slapped his face a couple of times, the sound echoing in the quiet house. He was surprised to find moisture on his fingers. He touched his cheeks again, dabbing gently, like a man tracing a leak.
'I won't put you through any more agony,' the detective said. 'I'm afraid your father, Philip Anthony Walker, was a victim of the gunman in Chilton this morning.' He waited a second. 'He was fatally injured and died at the scene. I'm very sorry.'
Fifteen
James Vilner had come a long way in his thirty-eight years, both geographically and socially. He reflected on this as he drove his Range Rover into the basement car park of one of London's most exclusive hotels.
Born in Scarborough, his life had changed at the age of seven when his father died in an industrial accident. Denied compensation by a legal blunder, his mother moved to a poor district of Leeds, where financial hardship drove her to supplement social security benefits with prostitution. Young Jimmy quickly learned that to survive in this harsh new environment, he had to be financially independent.
He stole his first car stereo at the age of nine, and within two years had become a proficient thief. At twelve his mum kicked him out, and he was happy to go, happy to be away from her creepy punters and her violent new boyfriend. He slept on the back seat of stolen cars, camped out with friends whenever he could, and sometimes he slept rough, curling up in bus shelters or office doorways in the quiet streets around Park Row.
One night a fat, middle-aged businessman took him for a rent boy. Never one to miss an opportunity, Jimmy began to lure men into toilets on the promise of sex, then produce a Stanley knife and demand their money. It was a good earner, but several times he picked the wrong targets, and once he came close to being raped by two men.
Then, at fourteen, he lost control of a stolen XR2 on the Armley Interchange and flipped it, killing his passenger, a fellow thief. Jimmy was caught trying to flee the scene, despite a broken leg and half a dozen cracked ribs. He was in hospital for three weeks, and then a young offenders' institute for two years. It was like attending a crime academy, and when he graduated he immediately began putting his newly acquired skills to good use.
In 1989 his life went tits up again. He and two other men held up a sub-post office in Roundhay Road, but the Pakistani family who ran the store put up a fight. Jimmy discharged his shotgun during his escape, injuring the shopkeeper's daughter, and then fired blindly from the car while trying to shake off the police on the inner ring road. He was sent to Wakefield prison at the age of twenty-one and served just over six years.
It was a much smarter operator who emerged. Moving to London, he made use of prison contacts to find work as an enforcer, and within a few years he'd built enough of a reputation to set up on his own. With the approval of one of the big North London crime families, he carved himself a share in several clubs and restaurants, using the proceeds to set up similar, legitimate ventures. A small chain of video and DVD rental shops was particularly successful, and soon he was laundering money for others, before diversifying into money lending.
Now he had a four-bedroom home near Finsbury Park and a couple of cars each worth more than the houses he'd grown up in. By any measure he was a success, but somehow it wasn't enough. He was aware of a whole other league above him: people with so much money they didn't even think about money any more. That's what he wanted, and his aim was to get there by the time he was forty – the age at which his mum had died of a brain haemorrhage.
At first he had no idea how such a grand ambition would be realised, but he was a patient man, with an optimistic outlook. The right opportunity was out there somewhere. All he had to do was find it.
And then, one day, he did.
He found the Mathesons.
He was ten minutes early, but not from any desire to be here. He had no time for posh functions in posh hotels, and no idea why Kendrick had told him to attend. If it was about a show of strength, Kendrick had plenty of his own muscle. As soon as Vilner stepped out of the lift he saw two of them, stationed outside the Dorset Room. Gorillas in tuxedos.
One of them recognised him, nodded him past. He pushed through the double doors, into a room that was a little smaller than he'd expected, but beautifully laid out. A huge ice sculpture shaped like leaping dolphins formed the centrepiece of the buffet table, flanked by ice luges. The catering staff seemed to be exclusively female and stunningly attractive. A smart move, considering the majority of guests would be male and middle-aged.
There were none here yet, he noted. Just the waitresses buzzing around, and half a dozen of Kendrick's men eyeing them up. Then a door opened at the side of the room and Jacques emerged. He was a thin, dapper man with slicked-back hair, pale brown skin and very dark, almond-shaped eyes. Whereas the muscle was mostly locally recruited, Jacques had come from the Caribbean. It was clear he'd worked hard to install himself as Kendrick's right-hand man, and he was pathologically jealous of anyone who might threaten his status.
'You've left it too late,' the little man declared. He had a prissy voice that perfectly suited his pinched features.
'No, I haven't,' said Vilner evenly. 'I only need two minutes.'
'Well, you'd better hurry. The first guests will be here presently.'
Vilner strode away, not waiting to be dismissed. He went through the side door and found himself in a small, functional anteroom. Max Kendrick was sitting at the only table, tapping deftly on a laptop. There was a leather bag at his feet and a glass of water on the table next to him. He looked up as Vilner approached. Nodded and almost smiled. Almost, but not quite.
'With you in a moment,' he said.
'Okay.' It was only then that Vilner noticed the woman in the corner, sitting so still that she might have been part of the furniture. A young black girl, barely out of her teens, she was tall and willowy, wrapped up in a tight velvet dress like a gift too exquisite to open. She had flawless skin and long, glossy hair. Vilner's stomach contracted at the sight of her. She risked only a single glance in his direction, then cast her eyes back to the floor. She had the nervy poise of a beauty contestant facing the flare of cameras for the first time, whil
e a voice in her head screamed: This is not me!
With a pianist's flourish, Kendrick stopped typing and rested back in his chair. A year or two older than Vilner, he was a handsome man who also had a slightly disquieting appearance. His striking features were obviously the product of a confusing array of genes. From what Vilner had gleaned, Kendrick was from Trinidad, the son of a successful businessman with interests in the Caribbean ranging from leisure and tourism to insurance and oil. His father was a white Englishman, but his mother's heritage was a complicated mix of native Caribbean, Venezuelan, Indonesian and Dutch. Perhaps this explained the dark, wavy hair, flecked with grey, the coffee-and-cream complexion and brilliant blue eyes.
The unmistakable Caribbean lilt was equally disconcerting, mostly because of its similarity to the patois adopted by a generation of white kids who'd never travelled beyond the M25.
Kendrick said, 'Been quite a day, hasn't it?'
'I had a call from George Matheson.'
A thoughtful look warmed Kendrick's face. He stared at the laptop for a while, then leaned forward and snapped it closed. 'What did he say?'
'Not much. He'd like a meeting with you.'
Kendrick chuckled. 'Well, I guess I can spare some time next week. You heard anything more from the playboy?'
'Toby? No. He's on his best behaviour.' Vilner wanted to ask why Matheson hadn't been invited along today, but thought better of it. No doubt Kendrick had his reasons.
He said, 'I'm not sure why I'm wanted here, to be honest with you.'
'As a guest, James. This is a celebration of future success, and you're as entitled as anyone to share in that.'
'You don't think it'll seem insensitive, celebrating on a day like this?'
Kendrick nodded towards the function room, where the hum of conversation suggested his guests were arriving. 'You think these people care about anything except preserving their own pampered existence?' He chuckled, but there was no mistaking the contempt in his voice. 'You could wipe out half the population before this group took any notice.'
