by Tom Bale
Vilner shrugged: if you say so. Kendrick put on his suit jacket, then reached into the leather bag and brought out a small black revolver. Noticing Vilner's frown, he held it out to him.
'Smith & Wesson 686, four-inch barrel. It's a beauty, isn't it?'
'What do you need it for?'
It was a gut response, and came out harsher than Vilner intended. Anger crossed Kendrick's eyes. He slipped the gun into his waistband and made sure it was concealed by his jacket. Checked his watch.
'You'll see,' he said.
Sixteen
Toby Harman had spent most of the day slumped on his long white sofa, skipping from one news channel to the next like a junkie chasing bigger and bigger hits. It was a grim lesson in the law of diminishing returns, but by now he was too lethargic to do anything else.
Toby was twenty-six years old, five feet ten and weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. He wasn't muscular and he wasn't flabby. He belonged to an expensive gym but rarely attended it, and although he liked to eat well in restaurants he was lazy about cooking at home. During periods of social inactivity he could subsist for days on cheese and Ritz crackers.
He wasn't particularly good-looking, but he wouldn't have changed a thing about his appearance. He had a long face, dark wavy hair and thick black eyebrows. His upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower, with pronounced crests that made him seem to be sneering, or about to blow a sarcastic kiss. Women were either entranced or they found him repulsive: he enjoyed both reactions equally, although the latter made for a more satisfying conquest.
When the phone rang, it sent a bolt of energy through him. About time.
'I thought I should warn you,' George said, 'the media are camped on my doorstep. They followed me back from Chilton.'
'You've been in Chilton? Today?' In fact Toby already knew this, because several channels had reported it, but he wasn't going to give George the satisfaction of letting on. He thought he might get more information if he played dumb.
'Terry Sullivan wanted me there. Ca— the killer apparently broke into the manor.'
Toby nearly dropped the phone. 'You know who it is. What did they tell you?'
George sighed. 'I'm not in the mood for this.'
'It'll come out soon enough. I don't see why you can't let me—'
'Christ, Toby. The Caplans were murdered today, along with God knows how many others.'
'The latest is twelve dead, according to the BBC. CNN say fourteen.'
A noise from George: a stifled groan.
'What about Philip Walker?' Toby said. 'Is he one of the victims?'
'I've no idea.' George seemed taken aback by the question, as though he hadn't considered it. Surely you have, Toby thought.
'If he is, then who knows what could happen?' he suggested. 'Let the dust settle for a few weeks. The protestors might not have the stomach for a fight.'
'Listen to me,' said George in a steely voice. 'If one whisper of what you've just said were to leak out, can you imagine the flak it would attract?'
'Calm down. I'm just thinking aloud.'
'It's bad enough that I still have to keep Vilner off our backs.'
Toby sighed. So that's what was really irking George. 'What's he saying?'
'If he doesn't get the contract you promised him, he'll want another instalment.'
'Tell him to piss off.'
'Don't lecture me,' George shouted. 'It's your bloody debts I'm sorting out, remember?'
Toby grunted. No point going down that route.
'Anyway,' he said, 'this affects my earnings as well. What if we do have to wait longer for a second application? How am I supposed to live in the meantime?'
For a second there was a silence so intense that Toby could imagine George vibrating with indignation.
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that,' said George quietly, and put the phone down.
Vilner didn't feel much like a guest. No one paid him any attention. No one tried to flatter him or talk to him. Kendrick ignored him completely, and so did Jacques. Even the catering staff were a bit slow to offer him their trays of champagne.
That suited him, he decided. He preferred Coke, anyway. Piling a plate from the buffet table, he found a chair on its own in the corner. He ate slowly, scanning the room, and wondered exactly what it was that Kendrick was trying to prove.
He didn't have to wait long to find out.
It was a select gathering, a couple of dozen people at most. Nearly all male. Everyone looked prosperous and smug. The ruling class. Until he'd moved to London, Vilner had been sceptical about the concept. He thought it was a cliché of the past, watered down if not washed away altogether. Yet here they were, all around him: florid cheeks and braying laughs, bred to give orders and recognise only their own kind. You could see it in the way they wafted drinks into their hands, as though the tray had floated up to them on strings.
Vilner couldn't distinguish much of what was said, but it did seem to him as though a low thrill passed through the crowd at each mention of the shooting in Chilton. An equally powerful thrill accompanied Kendrick's presence as he moved from group to group, skilfully working the room. At first Jacques followed, trying to join in with his boss's conversation, but gradually it sunk in that he wasn't welcome. He ended up standing by the wall opposite Vilner, gazing into his glass and pretending solitude was a deliberate choice.
It's like an old-time dance hall, Vilner thought. And we're the boys who can't dance . . .
Then Kendrick moved in front of the ice sculpture, and one of his men clapped his hands for silence. Kendrick began by grinning modestly.
'Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. For those who don't know me so well, let me tell you a bit about myself. I was born in Trinidad, to an English father and Trinidadian mother.'
His audience were listening intently, but there were fixed smiles, and one or two quiet sniggers. Laughing at his accent, Vilner realised.
Kendrick sensed it, too. He hesitated, the grin still in place, and Vilner saw that dangerous look in his eye again. The moment passed and Kendrick spoke a little about his childhood. About his troubled teenage years and his time in the wilderness. His triumphant return to the family fold in his late twenties, and the decision to knuckle down and build on his father's legacy.
Now his voice wavered with emotion. 'I wish he had lived to see me now, on the brink of a whole new chapter. My mother, too. But I know how proud they would be. I didn't let them down.'
Vilner watched people grow fidgety; Kendrick was in danger of losing his audience, but now he ramped it up.
'I want to thank all of you,' he said. 'It's a thrilling journey we're embarking on together.'
His accent was momentarily stronger: a trillin journey we're embarkin on . . . Vilner had no doubt it was deliberate. He wanted them to think he was a country bumpkin, the God-fearing boy from the Third World.
'Some of you have already worked with me, here and back in the Caribbean. I'm hoping you all want to be on board as we grow and diversify in the UK, and I tell you now, I haven't come all this way just to start small and slow. I'm already in discussion to acquire a major business in the UK with interests in land, property, leisure and construction.'
That's why George Matheson wasn't invited, Vilner thought. His presence would have given the game away.
Kendrick acknowledged the exclamations of surprise and admiration. 'Your support is warmly appreciated,' he went on, 'but I need to know how far that support goes. Some of the places I've done business, the rule of law can't always be relied on, you understand?'
There were nods and grunts, but they sounded slightly confused. They sensed a subtle change in tone, and so did Vilner.
'Trust,' Kendrick declared. 'In business, it means everything. You agree with that, Maurice?'
His attention zeroed in on a short, overfed man with thinning ginger hair and a freckled scalp. He stared at Kendrick, red in the face and blinking furiously. His mouth dropped open, and when Vilner turn
ed back to Kendrick he saw why.
Kendrick was holding the revolver. He opened the cylinder and displayed it to his audience. There were six chambers, five of them empty. Just a single, ominous round in the gun.
Kendrick spun the cylinder and slapped it back into place. 'Come here, Maurice,' he said.
There was silence in the room. Nobody moved. Vilner noticed the catering staff had made themselves scarce. The gorillas were standing in front of the doors, discreetly preventing entry or exit.
'Don't be scared, Maurice.'
Nudged by the man next to him, Maurice took a couple of reluctant steps towards Kendrick.
'Maurice here kindly lent his assistance on one of my last deals back in the Caribbean. Told me about a hotel in Jamaica, ripe for redevelopment. Promised he could get me the best price for it, and offered to act as go-between.'
Maurice was now only two feet away from Kendrick. There was sweat dribbling down his cheeks. Everyone else had shuffled as far back as they reasonably could without drawing attention to themselves. But nobody protested, Vilner noticed. Nobody put Maurice's wellbeing ahead of their own morbid curiosity.
Kendrick said, 'What I didn't know was that Maurice had a stake in the business, which someone else was already keen to buy. News of my interest sent the price much higher, which was his plan all along.'
Silence, except for Maurice's high, wheezing breath.
'Now I'm sure Maurice and his partners didn't intend me any harm. It was a tactic, that's all. Using me to make a little more money for themselves. And it didn't cost me much, financially. Some lawyers' fees. Including this lawyer right here.' He prodded Maurice in the belly with the Smith & Wesson. Maurice squealed and shut his eyes.
'But it cost me time,' Kendrick said, emphasising every word. 'And it damaged my reputation. Some people think I was beaten to a deal. Well, I can live with that, I guess. But others know I was set up.'
At this, Maurice finally seized the courage to protest, but Kendrick cut him off.
'Professional suicide,' he declared, raising the gun and jamming it against his own temple. 'That's what I'm talking about. Betraying trust is professional suicide.'
He squeezed the trigger. There was an audible click. A woman screamed. An elderly man sank to the floor, his face ashen.
Kendrick looked grimly satisfied. He hadn't even broken a sweat. He let the gun fall away, then pointed it at Maurice, holding it level with the man's face. 'Your turn.'
Maurice opened his mouth again, but couldn't speak. Someone behind him exclaimed and pointed at his legs. There was urine running off his shoes, pooling on the floor.
'Russian Roulette is a fool's game,' Kendrick said. 'I know you're not a fool, Maurice. None of you here are fools, are you?'
It took a second for the question to penetrate, then there was a chorus of overeager nods. No one was laughing at him now. Vilner even detected a certain loathing directed at Maurice for embroiling them in such an unsavoury scene.
'To succeed in life, it's essential to be lucky,' Kendrick concluded, tapping the gun against his chest. 'I guarantee my luck by careful preparation, and by working with people I can trust. I know none of you are going to let me down.'
More nodding. More keen murmurs of assent. It was a masterful performance, thought Vilner, and it worried him that Kendrick had wanted him to see it.
Did Kendrick suspect him of disloyalty, and if so, why?
Seventeen
The police were professional and sympathetic and practical. They encouraged him to drink two mugs of strong coffee, and by the time they left Craig felt almost sober.
It was seven o'clock, and he still hadn't heard from Nina. He had no idea where she was, or if she was coming back. The rest of the evening yawned ahead of him: he could either stay like this or get drunk all over again.
Before he could decide, the doorbell rang. He went to answer it, wondering if the police had forgotten to tell him something. But it was Abby Clark, looking tired but oddly exhilarated. She was holding a pizza box from a local takeaway.
'I know this is an imposition . . .'
'But?'
'Can I eat in here? I'm very cold and very hungry.' She moved closer, wafting melted cheese and pepperoni fumes under his nose. There was an audible growl from his stomach.
'Sounds like you could do with something.'
He shrugged. 'No appetite. The police have just left.'
'I know. I watched them go.'
He couldn't help smiling. 'So you waited just long enough . . . ?'
'Not too long. Pizza would have gone cold.' The twinkle in her eyes was like a laser, obliterating any resentment he might have felt. She followed him into the hall and shrugged off her coat. 'Isn't Nina here?'
'No.' He paused on the threshold to the lounge. 'Do you want a plate? Cutlery?'
'Nah. And I insist on sharing.'
She sat beside him on the sofa, dragged the coffee table closer and opened the box. She tore out a thick cheesy wedge and thrust it at him. 'Eat.'
He took a desultory bite. Chewed, swallowed, winced. It felt like cardboard in his gullet, but at least it would help soak up the alcohol.
'Bad news, I take it?' Abby said, hooking a long strand of cheese from her chin.
He nodded. He went to tell her his father was dead and found himself speechless. He'd assembled all the right words in his head but his mouth just wouldn't let them out.
It should have been Nina who comforted him, not Abby, but right now that didn't matter. This was grief so raw and unexpected that it couldn't be suppressed. Its ferocity shocked him. He cried for practically the first time since his children were born, without once feeling self-conscious or stepping back to scrutinise his feelings in the way he was usually given to doing.
To her credit, Abby was up to the task. She didn't shirk from holding him close. Didn't complain when his tears ran down her neck and dampened her shirt. She smelt warm and wonderful, thrillingly unfamiliar, and when that thought filtered into his head he knew it was time to break apart.
'Sorry,' he said. 'And thank you.'
'You'd do the same for me. Albeit with an erection.'
It was such a frivolous comment, and yet so true, it surprised a laugh from him. He felt briefly guilty, then much better. Better than he'd felt all through this long and dreadful day.
'I'll warm the pizza up,' he said.
'Good idea. Cup of tea would be bliss.'
Accompanying him into the kitchen, she spent a few seconds admiring the units, and then said, 'So where's Nina?'
'No idea. She doesn't even know about Dad yet.' He stopped short, felt another pang of guilt. 'She's been seeing someone else, and today wasn't exactly the ideal time to find out.'
'You're kidding me?'
He shook his head.
'Is it serious?'
He dropped the pizza on to a baking tray and turned to face her. 'Does it matter?'
'Yes. It doesn't have to destroy your marriage. Not if you don't want it to.'
'Would you say that if Nigel slept around?'
'We split up last year.'
'Did you? Oh God, I didn't realise. Was there anyone else involved . . . ?'
'Sort of.' Now she blushed slightly, something he'd never seen her do.
'Are you with someone now?'
She nodded. Studied him and laughed. 'Don't look so disappointed.'
'I wasn't.'
She narrowed her eyes. 'I was just teasing.'
'I know.' He busied himself filling the kettle. After a respectable pause, he said, 'What's he like?'
'Very nice, thanks. Only it's a she.'
'Oh.' He was suitably gobsmacked.
'I don't broadcast it. Early days. But we're very happy.'
He nodded, thinking back over all the years he'd known her, wondering if she'd ever given any hint.
Reading his mind, she said, 'It was just about the last thing I expected. As much a surprise to me as anyone else.'
'How has Nigel
reacted?'
A snort. 'He doesn't know whether to challenge her to a fight or suggest a threesome.'
They took the pizza back into the lounge, and he went over what the police had said. He'd been told to expect a long and detailed investigation, but off the record the facts were pretty clear: a young man had gone on a killing spree. In the next day or two he'd have to make a formal identification of his father's body. An inquest would be opened and adjourned, and the body released for burial. Every affected family had a police liaison officer assigned to them, available for information, guidance and support over the coming weeks.
Abby listened solemnly and then ran through her own experience. The police had held their first full press conference at two o'clock, hosted by the detective chief superintendent in overall command of the operation. By that time all the injured had been conveyed to hospital.
'How many victims in total?' he asked.
'Fourteen confirmed dead at the scene. Another four wounded, three of them seriously.'
Craig let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. 'So the death toll might rise?'
She nodded. 'A girl from the farmhouse is in a coma. And there was the woman who fell out of a tree.'
'What?'
'I got that little nugget by chatting up one of the search team.' She winked; some of her natural exuberance leaking out at last. He couldn't reproach her for it. This was the type of event that could make a journalist's career.
'They think she was chased by the killer,' Abby went on. 'She must have tried to hide in the tree, but he shot her and she fell.'
'Will she live?'
'Anyone's guess at the moment,' Abby said. 'After going through that, I hope so.'
Another sigh from Craig. He cradled his mug in both hands and held it close, although it was virtually empty. 'What do you know about the killer?'
'Young. Male. Possibly local. That's all we've got.'
'Nothing on the grapevine?'
Abby shook her head, then grew pensive. 'Craig, I don't know how you'll feel about this, but I'd like to mention your dad in my article. He was obviously a high-profile figure in the village.'
Craig gave her a sidelong glance. 'So this wasn't just a social visit?' She looked suitably abashed, but before she responded he said, 'Don't worry. I don't blame you.'
