by Tom Bale
'They must have got my good side.'
'What happened? Were you locked in a bakery for five years?'
'Yeah, I wish. It's called getting older. What can you do about it?'
'Exercise?' Craig snapped back. 'Eat well? Drink less?'
Sullivan raised his glass with perfect timing. 'Another Guinness, cheers. And get me some peanuts.'
Craig glared at him, but turned to the bar without a protest. Whatever it is, he must want it badly, Sullivan thought.
He was contemplating what it might be when a bag of dry roasted plopped into his lap. Cursing, he looked up and noticed Craig slopping beer from each glass as he set them down. Now Sullivan took in the trembling hands, the red-rimmed eyes. 'Looks like you're a fine one to give advice on healthy living.'
Craig just smiled. Gripped his glass with a real effort and raised it in a toast.
Sullivan finished the dregs of his first pint, smacking his lips noisily. 'So how come you're not putting the world to rights any more? From what I hear, you're interviewing C-listers and reporting on the sports events no one else wants to go to.'
'I moved on.' He stared at Sullivan. 'Got tired of dealing with all the lying, cheating scum.'
'I know that feeling. That's why I do my best to put 'em behind bars, where they belong.'
'What about Chief Inspector Kennedy? Did he end up where he belongs?'
Sullivan chuckled. 'He's got a very nice place in Malaga.'
Craig laughed with him, but there was a bitter edge to it. 'Along with the rest of the villains. You still see him, do you?'
'Been out there once or twice. Too hot for me, but he's a changed man. Really taken to retirement.'
'You won't be following him over there, then?'
'Nah. It's Bournemouth for me.'
'It'll be a wooden box if you don't get your act together.'
'Nice of you to worry.' Sullivan picked up the Guinness, drained a third of the pint and wiped the foam from his lips. 'Kennedy's old news. And I had no idea he was bent.'
He tore savagely at the bag of peanuts and it split open, spilling half a dozen on the table. He tipped the bag up and poured them into his mouth, part of him relishing Craig's disgust.
'You covered for him. And I fell for it.'
Sullivan chewed, swallowed, but still sprayed a few fragments as he answered. 'I was a lowly fucking DS. All I did was give him the benefit of the doubt, and I asked you to do the same. End of story. Now tell me what you want or piss off.'
Craig settled back in his seat, apparently pleased that he'd provoked a reaction. 'I hear you're part of the Chilton investigation.'
Sullivan nodded. Deciding it was time to cool the atmosphere, he said, 'I'm sorry about your old man.'
He waited, watching Craig assess the sincerity of his comment. He wondered if Craig was aware of his connection to George Matheson.
'I want to know what happened,' Craig said.
'Carl Forester went on the rampage.'
'That's really all it was?'
Sullivan didn't answer. He thought about the scene at the farmhouse. The woman assaulted. The dying husband forced to watch.
'What do you reckon it was?' he said.
'I think there's a connection to George Matheson. You must know that everyone in the village was opposed to his plans.'
Sullivan was careful not to react. He shook his head slowly. 'You're barking up the wrong tree.' Then he laughed.
'What?'
'You know about the woman who fell out of the tree?'
'I heard about her. Julia Trent.'
'That's right. We still haven't been able to speak to her yet, but from what we've pieced together, it looks like Carl chased her on to the village green. Somehow she managed to climb the tree, even though he would have been hot on her heels.'
Sullivan paused, waiting to see if Craig had caught his emphasis.
'Somehow?'
'Did they tell you your dad was shot twice?'
'Two bullets, you mean?'
Sullivan shook his head. 'Two separate occasions.'
The colour drained from Craig's face. He sat forward, gripping the sides of his chair as if he feared being hurled into space. 'What?'
'The first one was a chest wound. Serious, maybe even fatal. But not necessarily.' He waited again, let the words sink in.
'You mean Carl went back to him . . . ?' Craig faltered. 'But why?'
'Maybe because of the woman. It's only speculation, but it looks like your dad opened his front door and tried to intervene. Carl made a detour to shoot him before he dealt with Trent.'
'So he could have stayed inside? And he might have survived?'
'Yep.' Sullivan also leaned forward, putting on his best 'straight talking' demeanour. 'I'm telling you this because I want you to understand it was just an act of random craziness. If you want to start blaming people, fine. But in that case Julia Trent got your dad killed, as much as anyone else. There was no grand plan, and certainly nothing that involved George Matheson. If he'd been in Chilton that day, he would have been one of the victims, I'm sure of that.'
Craig was quiet for a moment. When he spoke he sounded much calmer than Sullivan expected, his tone measured and oddly respectful.
'You say you haven't interviewed her yet? When you do, will you tell me what she says? And before you say it, I'm not going to threaten you. But if you're honest with yourself, and you truly didn't know Kennedy was on the take, then you'll agree you still owe me a favour or two.
' 'How do you work that out?'
'Because if I hadn't kept my mouth shut, all kinds of shit would have been thrown at him, and at you, and I'm willing to bet that some of it would have stuck.'
Craig stood up, bumping the table and almost knocking the glasses over. Sullivan instinctively grabbed his pint. Craig gave him a thin smile.
'Go on,' he said. 'Surprise yourself. Do the right thing.'
Twenty-One
Friday. She had to keep telling herself it was Friday. It mattered a lot, that she could keep track of the date, just as it bothered her that three days had effectively vanished. A trivial thing to be concerned about, compared to everything else, but it produced a strange disorientation. It felt like it should be Tuesday.
Julia thought about her class, probably still lethargic after the Christmas break. January was a tough month to get their enthusiasm stoked up. Still, she'd give anything now to be standing in front of them, suffering any number of bad jokes and impressions from TV shows they shouldn't even have been watching. Little Britain had been like a curse on teachers: just how many times could you hear a prancing child declare, 'I'm a laydee!' and not want to commit murder?
Her thoughts hit a brick wall. Shouldn't have used the M word.
The memories of what happened had returned, not gradually but in a rush. Finding the postman dead behind his van, trying to save Moira, the chase, seeing the first killer shot. Then the second killer, staring at the grass, knowing he had guessed where she was. The gun coming up . . .
The doctor had explained that amnesia was quite normal after such a period of unconsciousness, but equally that she might be completely unaffected. So far she had been cagey about what she told them, and no one had pushed her on it. Yet.
Her brother had been delighted by her recovery. Tears rolled down his face the first time he spoke to her. Once again she'd felt a stab in her heart, realising it was because their parents were gone. Neil had been terrified of losing her as well.
After chatting for a few minutes, he asked, 'How much of it do you remember?'
'Enough,' she said, a cue that she wasn't yet ready to discuss it.
But he had taken her hand in his, and said, 'They've identified the gunman. A local man, Carl Forester. The typical oddball. He killed himself . . . afterwards.'
For the briefest moment she was exultant. Her eyes must have lit up, for her brother smiled and said, 'They found his body on the green. I thought you'd want to know he's dead.' He squeezed
her hand. 'He can't hurt you any more.'
She smiled back, managed a nod. He meant the first gunman. Not the man in black.
She opened her mouth to tell him, but fear and confusion held her back. She knew he'd watched it on TV, read the newspapers, perhaps even spoken to officers directly involved in the case. And if he believed there was only one killer . . .
So did everyone else.
The cold, clear spell had given way to milder weather, a succession of low pressure systems trudging along the south coast, bringing rain and wind and heavy skies. Even at midday most of the traffic on the main road had their headlights on, and in the roads around the hospital some of the street lights were still illuminated.
Parking close to the hospital was virtually impossible, but he had expected that. He found a space half a mile away. He was driving a ten-year-old Ford Escort, bought in Milton Keynes three days ago. Same routine as with the Kawasaki: private sale, cash purchase, false details.
He wore jeans and trainers and a hooded top. He knew there would be CCTV everywhere, but he also knew the images were frequently useless. Eyewitnesses would notice only what he wanted them to notice: the slicked-back hair, the goatee beard, the tinted contact lenses.
He walked briskly and confidently on to the hospital site. Took out his mobile phone and dipped his head as he passed the cameras above the main doors. Once inside, he slipped the phone into his pocket and concentrated on looking as though he knew exactly where he was going.
Her consultant was Mr Chapman, a rotund man in his fifties who reminded her of a badger. Black and white hair, big bushy eyebrows, more hair sprouting from his ears and nose, and a solemn but sprightly manner. It had fallen to him to describe the emergency laparotomy to establish the extent of the damage, and the subsequent three-hour operation to repair it.
'The bullet was lodged in retroperitoneal tissue between your right kidney and the inferior vena cava, which brings blood from the lower part of the body to your heart. There was slight damage to the pancreas, but not the main pancreatic duct. In many ways, you were extremely fortunate.' He smiled, acknowledging that she might not feel that way. 'The bullet was a .22, low velocity, fired from some distance. A larger calibre or a shot fired at closer range would have carried far more destructive force.'
In addition, she had sustained dozens of minor lacerations and widespread bruising from the fall. She also had a badly sprained ankle and a laceration to her leg that differed in nature from the others.
'Another bullet,' she'd said, and Mr Chapman had nodded to himself, as if he'd suspected as much. She could see him regarding her with a mixture of pity and horrified fascination. It was her first experience of feeling like a circus exhibit, and she knew it would get much worse when she told them what really happened.
Maybe it would be better to say nothing at all.
* * *
He had allowed himself one reconnaissance mission, the day before. He had wandered the corridors, taking note of the myriad signs and instructions, trying to calculate the risks involved and weigh them against the potential benefits. Then he sat in the cafeteria, sipping a coffee and relishing the knowledge that she was very close now. Almost in his grasp.
He took the elevator to Level Eight and stepped out into an empty corridor. Turned towards a set of green double doors with three porthole windows arranged vertically on each door. As he pushed through them he saw a nurse at the far end of the corridor, but she was standing with her back to him.
Perfect.
In the days after the shooting, media interest in the survivors had been predictably intense. The hospital was besieged with reporters, who had to settle for regular updates, when what they really craved was access to the patients themselves. This interest subsided when some of the survivors came forward to recount their experiences, but in Julia's case it was judged that a general ward wasn't sufficiently secure. After being discharged from Intensive Care, she was moved to a side room on her own.
Julia knew very little about the media coverage. She hadn't once switched on the TV in her room, and her brother's offer to bring in newspapers had been politely declined. He'd visited this morning, bringing some toiletries and a couple of books from her flat. He told her that Donna and the children couldn't wait until she was well enough to come up and stay.
She had smiled, recalling the disastrous Christmas dinner, but said nothing. Soon afterwards she felt herself getting dozy, and he had kissed her forehead and quietly left the room. The consultant had told her that daytime naps should be a feature of her recuperation for several weeks at least. Another reason she wouldn't be able to take up Neil's offer: no chance of sleeping with three boisterous children in the house.
She woke quickly, at some kind of disturbance. A noise outside the door.
She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the unit beside her bed. It was just after midday. The door opened slightly and one of the nurses, Shauna, peeked into the room. She was a chatty young Irish woman, very friendly but with a tendency to outstay her welcome. On occasions Julia had faked sleep to end a conversation.
'Oh good, you're awake,' Shauna said. 'Someone here to see you. He says he'll not stop long if you don't feel up to it.' She glanced back over her shoulder, then mouthed at Julia: 'He's police!'
Julia frowned. All visitors were supposed to be cleared by her consultant.
Then something else occurred to her. It hit her like a thunderbolt.
The second killer might come after her. She had no idea what he looked like. No idea who he was. What if he had heard she was still alive, and tried—
'I can't reach Mr Chapman,' Shauna chattered on, 'but you're making such good progress, I thought if you're all right to see him . . .'
She stepped into the room, and Julia saw the man was right behind her. He was in his early forties, quite tall, with neat dark hair and a serious face. He didn't look like a killer, but then he didn't look like a policeman either. He met her gaze and gave an uncertain smile.
'I don't think . . .' Julia began, but it was too late. The man stepped around the nurse and began to produce something from inside his jacket. The gesture took her right back to the green, to the moment the second killer had brought the gun up and aimed it at her hiding place.
He had found her. And this time she had nowhere to hide.
Twenty-Two
The door had a porthole window at eye level. He could see her lying in bed, surrounded by the equipment that had saved her life. Little good that would do her now.
His hand was on the door when a voice called out, 'Help you?'
He looked round and saw a policeman ambling towards him, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and clutching several chocolate bars in the other. He was tall but paunchy, with a swarthy complexion and suspiciously dark hair. He looked the way Elvis might have done had he made it to his fifties with no great modifications in his lifestyle.
He could probably be overcome, the killer thought. He looked fat, lazy, probably marking time till retirement. It wasn't until the policeman came a bit closer that he saw the hard edge in his eyes. Maybe not such a pushover.
The policeman was shaking his head. 'You fellers disappoint me, you know.'
The killer frowned. Waited for him to elaborate.
'Fair enough, you have to earn a living, but trying to sneak a picture of a nine-year-old girl lying in a coma.' He tutted, then took a slurp of coffee. 'Poor little mite doesn't deserve that.'
The killer shrugged. 'Yeah, well, I got an editor on my back. Thought it was worth a punt.'
'I'm gonna let it go this time. Try it again and I'll have you up the station, explaining yourself to my sergeant. You get me?'
The killer nodded ruefully and turned away. He heard the rustle of chocolate wrappers. 'Oy!' the policeman called, and his heart skipped a beat.
He looked back. The policeman was jabbing a Mars bar at him.
'And I haven't forgiven you lot for Princess Di, either.'
; Leaving the hospital, he reflected that it wasn't all bad news. He'd verified that the girl was still in a coma, nearly a week after she'd been smothered. There must be a good chance that she would never wake up. And if the policeman was only there to protect her from the media, it meant they didn't anticipate any other kind of threat.
The one potential danger to him was the woman in the tree. But he knew from the newspapers that she'd now regained consciousness, and since there hadn't been any suggestion of a second gunman in the media, he was guessing she probably had amnesia – in which case he was safe.
Relatively safe, at least.
Suddenly the room was full of people. The nurse was shouting, and a doctor shouldered his way through. Julia was dimly aware that she was hanging half off the bed. The man who had caused the panic was trying, haplessly, to lift her back into position. There was a woman in police uniform just behind him, looking very upset.
Above the shouts and running footsteps she could hear an awful keening noise. It sounded inhuman, like something from her nightmares. Gradually she realised it was coming from her. Then she realised the distress on everyone's faces was only mirroring her own distress.
They gave her a sedative. Slowly the noise drifted away, and she felt herself sinking into warm sand. She recalled wanting to talk to the police, wanting to give them her side of the story, but that didn't matter any more. Nothing mattered any more.
Twenty-Three
On Friday there were several reporters camped outside the house. It wasn't the first time this week, but today Craig decided he couldn't face them. He ignored the doorbell and kept his phone off the hook all morning, which meant he didn't find out why they were there until Nina returned from shopping in Crawley.
He was in the kitchen, cradling a coffee and brooding on last night's meeting with DI Sullivan. When he'd first spotted the detective in a TV news bulletin, it had seemed like a good idea to try and call in a favour, but now he wasn't so sure. The revelation that his father had been shot twice was a terrible blow, and one that he wasn't yet ready to discuss with anyone.
