by Tom Bale
Nina came in, holding a newspaper open to the middle pages. She let it slide on to the worktop in front of him. 'That's your friend, isn't it?'
He glanced at the byline, saw Abby's name. 'Yeah.'
'You might want to read it,' Nina said, then turned and left the room.
It had been like that all week: an uneasy truce. She'd returned late on Saturday night and found Craig dozing on the couch, the pizza box and empty bottle of Scotch lying on the floor. When she woke him, he groped his way upstairs and collapsed on the spare bed.
The next morning she brought him coffee and offered to talk. He gave her a brief account of what he knew, and he mentioned seeing Abby, without divulging that she'd been here and shared the pizza with him. Didn't want to risk conceding some moral high ground, maybe.
Nina was keen to explain the affair, but he couldn't listen. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold his temper in check. Instead he went out and was gone all day, drifting from pub to pub, drinking alone. Dozing in a park in the January cold like a tramp. He thought seriously about never going back, and then saw what a remarkably easy process it was, how from a single tragic event you could fall through the cracks. He woke drunk and frozen on a bench and had a vision of himself in five years, wild-eyed and ranting in some shopping precinct, not even his own children able to recognise him.
So he went home, resolving to lay off the booze. At first the kids were delighted to see him, then quickly mystified by the peculiar atmosphere in the house. They'd never experienced this sort of tension before, and the false bonhomie which he and Nina displayed in their presence wouldn't have fooled anyone.
Now Maddie was throwing tantrums at every little disappointment and refusing to go to school. Tom was wetting the bed. And Craig's abstinence had lasted only until Monday afternoon, when he was driven to Brighton mortuary to identify his father's body. Since then he'd managed to sustain a permanent state of semi-intoxication. It made sharing the house with Nina slightly more bearable, while simultaneously adding to the strain on their relationship.
He sat and waited a moment, listening to Nina's footsteps on the stairs, and then read the article. It was a long, reflective piece, the kind of writing Abby excelled at. She had the tone exactly right, judging that by now the horror at what happened, while still fresh, wouldn't feel quite so raw. The first scabs were forming, and here she was to gently pick at them. She said some nice things about his father, but left the controversy until last:
At the moment the consensus is that the massacre has finished off George Matheson's plans for a large housing development in Chilton. But others aren't so sure. 'Maybe it'll clear the way,' says Craig Walker, son of murdered campaigner Philip. 'After all, who's left to fight him now?'
'Oh, Abby,' he said. He tried to think himself back to Saturday night. He thought she had quoted him pretty accurately, maybe even word for word.
Perhaps, he thought bitterly, she had recorded the whole thing.
It was Friday afternoon before Kendrick deigned to see George Matheson. For some reason he suggested they meet in Brighton, on the roof of the multi-storey car park in the Marina. George understood the other man's desire for anonymity, but surely there were better venues he could have chosen.
Kendrick's Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked at the far end of the roof, well away from the exit ramps. There were only a handful of other cars up here, and no one else in sight. George parked his Jaguar and got out, buttoned up his overcoat and shivered.
It was a dismal day, low cloud clinging to the hills above the city, reducing the horizon to no more than a mile or two. Seagulls hung and drifted in a blustery wind, and the grey-green water seethed like something alive.
As George walked towards the Jeep, the front passenger door opened and Kendrick got out. There were two other men in the car, but they stayed in place.
George offered his hand. Kendrick held it a few seconds longer than necessary, staring deep into George's eyes. It was all he could do not to step back and wrench his hand free. This was only the third time he'd met Kendrick in person, and he knew that he hadn't yet got the measure of the man.
'I had some business down this way. Hope you don't mind.'
'I'm honoured,' said George drily. 'I did wonder if I'd be seeing Vilner instead.'
Kendrick grinned as if he appreciated the joke, but his eyes said he didn't. 'We're busy men. Sometimes we have to delegate.'
'It's to whom we delegate that concerns me.'
'Vilner's a bit rough and ready, but you wouldn't deny he's useful.'
George grunted. 'I don't appreciate the way he's become your emissary. It certainly wasn't my idea to have him involved in my organisation.'
'No. Another of Toby's messes?'
George wasn't going to answer that. He turned away, stared at Brighton Pier, ghosting from the gloom, its multicoloured lights smeared on the water. Kendrick stood alongside him, hands thrust in his pockets. A picture of relaxation.
'I came to England once before, when I was ten years old. I couldn't believe how people could live somewhere so cold and grey.'
'Hard to believe this is a top tourist destination, isn't it?'
'Oh, it's got a certain charm. As it happens, Trinidad is mainly geared around industry. Much better beaches on some of the other islands.'
George nodded. 'I have a villa in Antigua. Don't get so much time to spend out there these days.'
'Maybe you will soon, eh?'
'You tell me.'
'What happened Saturday makes a big difference. From now on there's going to be a lot more scrutiny.'
George said nothing. He'd heard enough opening gambits in his time to know what was coming.
'That has to affect the value of the business, wouldn't you say?'
'Not necessarily,' George said. 'I agree it's very sensitive at the moment, but things change. People have short memories.'
'So you will be looking to make another application?'
'It depends on the timescale. But if you acquire the land along with the business, I don't see why it couldn't be pursued.'
Kendrick chuckled. 'You mean I take on the headache of getting planning approval?'
'It might not be a headache. As I say, attitudes change.'
'Philip Walker's son made just the same point in The Times this morning. You've seen that?'
'Yes. A vindictive little piece.'
'But maybe he's right. Not a lot of opposition left.'
'An ironic charge, given that he seems intent on taking up the baton.'
'Still,' said Kendrick. 'Quite a few empty properties in Chilton at the moment. And maybe some survivors who decide they can't face living there any more.'
'I'm aware of the potential. It's in hand.' George turned, wandered towards the northern perimeter wall. 'The last few months you've given some very conflicting signals. I'd like to know if you're in or out.'
'Do you have other buyers beating down your door?'
'You don't expect me to answer that question?'
'George, you don't need to.' Kendrick clapped him on the back as if they were friends. 'I think we can work something out. Let's watch how the dust settles, then discuss what adjustments are needed.'
George gave him a sidelong glance. 'Adjustments?'
'To the deal, as a whole. To the price.'
George snorted. He stared at the cliffs that ran behind the marina. Brilliant white from a distance, at closer range he could see the chalk was studded with flint, as well as clumps of mud and weeds. A catch fence had been bolted in place to prevent rockfalls.
Kendrick leaned his hands on the wall and looked over at the drop. He spotted a pebble at his feet, picked it up and placed it on the wall. He toyed with it for a moment, then flicked it over the edge.
'I threw someone off a roof once,' he said in a matter-of-fact tone. 'Only four floors up. Or maybe five.' He shrugged. 'It's not a pretty sight.'
Twenty-Four
Craig tried to phone Abby, but got her voicem
ail. He thought about emailing her, and while he considered what to say he scanned the rest of the paper.
There were more stories about the gunman, Carl Forester, whose upbringing had been mercilessly scrutinised. The usual debate had taken place: at what point does personal responsibility overcome the effects of an abusive childhood? His widowed mother, Peggy, had been arrested late on Saturday, after attacking one of the officers sent to take her into protective custody. Now, at her own insistence, she was being released. A tabloid had captured a shot of her being escorted from the station, thrashing beneath the blanket that was supposed to safeguard her privacy. THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN BRITAIN, the headline raged.
Another article confirmed what Sullivan had said, that the police were still waiting to interview Julia Trent. Under the title DOUBLE TRAGEDY OF CHILTON VICTIM, it disclosed that Julia's parents had died shortly before Christmas, as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning, and quoted an unnamed 'friend' who raised fears about her mental stability. An invented quote to give the story a little more punch, Craig guessed.
He heard movement in the hall and the door opened. Nina.
'They're still out there,' she said. 'What am I going to do about collecting Tom and Maddie from school?'
Craig sighed. 'Do you want me to go?'
'No. I don't want the children getting dragged into this.'
She was right, but the vehemence of her tone stung him. 'When it's time, I'll go out and keep them busy,' he said. 'You can slip past while I'm talking to them.'
Nina nodded, but remained in the doorway. 'Did Abby make it up? Or did you really say that?'
'I wasn't thinking clearly. I was angry, upset.'
'Drunk?'
'It was stupid. I know that.'
She didn't contradict him. 'It's awful having people try to photograph you every time you step out the door.'
'We're not exactly Brad and Angelina, for Christ's sake.'
She folded her arms, resolute. 'Maybe not, but I think . . . well, perhaps one of us should move out.'
Craig took a moment to reply. He could see Nina was having the same fight to keep her emotions in check. This wasn't just about Abby's story.
'Yeah, I've been thinking the same thing. Maybe I'll go and stay at Dad's for a while.'
Nina looked surprised. 'You don't want to live there, do you?'
'I can't avoid the place for ever. And at least it draws the media attention away from here.' He was going to add that it would only be a temporary move, but decided to wait and see if Nina said it.
Instead there was an awkward silence. Then she nodded. 'Well, it's probably for the best.'
Returning to their cars, Kendrick said, 'How are you going to respond to Craig Walker's comment?'
'I won't, publicly. That's not how I conduct my affairs.'
'Glad to hear it.' They were nearly at the Jeep. The man behind the wheel snapped to attention as his boss came into view.
'And Toby?' Kendrick said. 'He still doesn't know about the deal?'
'No.'
'Good. I want it kept secret until it's signed and sealed. He doesn't strike me as reliable.' He added, 'How do you think Toby will react when he finds out?'
'I don't particularly care. It's time he made his own way in the world.'
'So why let him work for you?'
'He's Vanessa's nephew. She argued that he should have a role, and at the time I couldn't see a reason to object.'
'Blood is thicker than water.'
'Exactly.' George felt uncomfortable. Something about the way Kendrick's lilting tone played with the word blood. 'Anyway, he won't be destitute.'
'He will if he goes on throwing his money away in casinos. And borrowing from men like Vilner.'
George gave him a sharp look. 'I don't see that this needs to concern you.'
'What about your wife?' Kendrick went on, as if George hadn't spoken. 'How will she take it?'
'Vanessa won't—' He stopped, registering Kendrick's expression. 'You know, don't you?'
'I do my homework, George. It's how I guarantee my good fortune.' A malicious light danced in his eyes. 'I know all about you.'
His hand shot out as if to punch George, slowed at the last moment and clasped his shoulder instead. He got into the Jeep. The engine fired up and it reversed sharply, pulling away with a squeal of tyres. George watched it descend the exit ramp and disappear.
He stood in the car park, Kendrick's parting shot still ringing in his ears.
I know all about you.
Twenty-Five
Craig moved out on Sunday afternoon, after a long and heated discussion. Nina had assured him the affair with Bruce was over, but she wouldn't countenance changing her job. That meant she would still be working with him, sometimes closely, sometimes going away together to visit clients or attend conferences.
'So it's over till the next time you're in a hotel, and you've had a few drinks, and you're lonely?'
She shrugged. 'If you can't trust me, say so. We'll make this separation permanent.'
They were alone in the kitchen, while Tom and Maddie played upstairs. The children had been told that Craig had to go and live in Granddad's house for a while, and would keep coming back to see them. Tom seemed happy with that explanation, but when it was time to leave Maddie clung to him and howled.
'I don't want you to go. Please, Daddy.'
His voice choking, Craig said, 'It won't be long. Just until I've sorted everything out.' He glanced at Nina, who looked away.
'But Granddad died there,' Maddie said. She clung to him, pressing so tightly against his chest that her next words were too muffled to hear.
Craig lifted her, bringing her face up to his. 'What is it, darling?'
'I'm scared, Daddy,' she said. 'What if you die there, too?'
* * *
Her question played on his mind as he drove to Chilton. He already had misgivings about taking up residence, but he was facing an uncertain future, and with his freelance career on hold he couldn't justify booking into a hotel when the house was standing empty.
His foreboding intensified as he turned off the B2112. There was a single police van parked on the corner of Chilton Way, the grass around it trampled into wet mud. There were cars parked all along the approach road, and at the foot of the High Street he was forced to stop for a coach as it laboriously negotiated the corner. It was packed with people, and the driver looked disgruntled. What the hell was going on?
The answer was clear as he drew alongside the shop. The village was swarming with tourists, staring and pointing at the cottages, the church, the pub. A large cluster stood around the tree, peering at something on the ground. For a terrible second Craig wondered if something had been overlooked during the police investigation: a splash of blood, a fragment of bone. Then he realised they were looking at bouquets of flowers, left there by well wishers.
He drove on, forced down to walking pace by people who strolled across his path as if he wasn't there. Everyone had cameras, and many had video cameras as well. He saw a couple struggling to flatten out the pages of a newspaper, trying to compare a photograph of the village with the real thing.
Incredibly, there was another coach parked outside the church, and more visitors wandering along Hurst Lane, as dumb and unresponsive as cattle. His father's house was on the corner, with a garage at the back, accessible from the lane. Before he could put the car on the drive, he glimpsed movement behind the hedge to his left.
There was someone in the front garden.
He jammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, attracting some mild curiosity from people nearby. His father's garden gate was open. There was a man on the path, short and thickset, taking photographs of the front door with a neat little digital camera.
'What are you doing?' Craig said, with a calmness that surprised him.
The man ignored him until he'd taken his photo, then he turned. He was perhaps sixty, with lank grey hair and bad teeth. He didn't look fazed by Craig's challenge
.
'One of 'em died right there, in the doorway,' he confided.
'Is that right?'
'Shame there's no blood, but I can soon fix that.' The man winked. 'Photoshop. They fetch more that way.'
'You'll sell the pictures?'
'Limited-edition prints, in sets of ten,' he said proudly. 'Great market for this stuff on the net.'
Craig nodded as if impressed. 'I'll bear that in mind. Maybe I'll cut up the hall carpet and sell it in chunks.' The man's eager expression was quickly overtaken by a frown. 'Was this . . . ?'
'My father lived here,' Craig said. 'Now get the fuck off my property.'
The man flinched. 'All right, chum. No need to be like that.'
'No?' As the man edged past, Craig grabbed the camera and wrenched it from his grasp. He strode across the road and hurled the camera into the air. It sailed over the heads of the tourists by the tree and landed in the pond.
'Hey, now that's not on—' the man began. Craig whirled round and glared at him. The man took one look at his face and stomped away, grumbling to himself.
Craig realised that most of the tourists on the green were now staring at him, and his fury redoubled.
'What are you looking at?' he shouted. 'Is this not enough for you? You want a floorshow as well, do you?'
There were a few tuts, a few shrugs. Most just stood and gaped, blinking impassively. They reminded him of Nick Park's plasticine animals in Creature Comforts.
'People died here,' he said, lowering his tone a little. 'This isn't a fucking theme park. We're not selling tea towels and commemorative plates. People died. And they deserve respect.'
More mumbling. A few people shifted their weight from foot to foot, signalling their discomfort.
'You should be ashamed of yourselves,' Craig said. 'Get back on your bus and leave us alone.'
There were a few muttered comments. Some of the tourists had the good grace to turn and amble in the direction of the coach, but even as they went they continued snapping away at the cottages, the church, the green, the flowers.
And if they could, Craig had no doubt, they would photograph the bodies, the blood, the pain, the loss.
