Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  Twenty-Six

  The killer felt he'd justified what had happened at the hospital, but Decipio clearly didn't agree.

  Don't dress this is up as anything other than failure. She's still alive, and therefore still a threat. You'd better pray she doesn't wake up.

  His email had also made oblique reference to the campaigner's son, Craig Walker. He'd warned that if something wasn't done, people might start to make a connection between the massacre and the planning application. Despite raising a valid concern, his instructions were merely to keep an eye on Walker: nothing more. The message had ended with:

  Remember: this is your neck on the line. Not mine.

  He stared at the screen until every word was burned into his memory. No loose ends, the previous message had said. Well, there were loose ends. There was the girl. There was the woman in the tree. And then it struck him: from Decipio's point of view, of course, there was potentially one other loose end.

  Him.

  He saw how easily he could be offered up, like a sacrificial lamb. He was in a very precarious position. While he had his suspicions, he still didn't know for certain who Decipio was. The name sounded like something out of Shakespeare. When he'd looked it up, he discovered it was Latin. It meant ensnare, deceive, trap. Very appropriate. And perhaps another hint at the fate that awaited him.

  But not if he fought back. Got in a pre-emptive strike.

  Certainly it was time he stopped taking instructions. From now on he would act as he saw best. Protect his own interests, and no one else's. If that meant eliminating anyone who posed a threat, so be it.

  PART TWO

  Twenty-Seven

  February brought a spell of clear days with light winds and enough warmth to tease the early spring flowers into bloom. Perfect walking conditions, and the vast empty beach at Camber Sands was ideal terrain on which Julia could exercise, gradually building her strength.

  Most of the time she felt surprisingly optimistic. She had been incredibly lucky. That was how she had to view it. And not just in the past tense: she was incredibly lucky. With each day she grew a little stronger, a little more confident; another step closer to resuming her life.

  Until the day she saw him.

  The old town of Rye is a charming warren of ancient buildings and narrow lanes, perched on a hill overlooking the river Rother and the Romney Marshes. The most picturesque area, known as the Citadel, is at the top of the hill, where apart from the ever-present cars and road signs, the streets around the twelfth-century church have barely changed since the days when the likes of Henry James resided here.

  After finding Lamb House, once home not just to James but to E F Benson and Rumer Godden, and now owned by the National Trust, she was disappointed to learn it was only open to the public from March to October. After resting for a few minutes, she decided to return to the High Street and find a café. It had been a slow, punishing climb from the bus stop, and the descent, on wet cobblestones, would be almost as taxing.

  Thankfully she was past the stage where every movement had to be carefully planned in advance, but still her limitations came as a fresh shock every time her brain sent a signal that her limbs couldn't instantly obey. Despite this, she refused to be defined by her physical condition.

  She moved at the pace of a much older woman, in short, shuffling steps, grateful for the walking stick she'd been bullied into taking with her. She wore a long coat and a fabric baker's cap that offered both warmth and protection. Although she still attracted plenty of glances, because of her obvious frailty, she hadn't been recognised.

  Yet.

  It was as she walked along the High Street that she became aware of a man on the opposite pavement keeping track with her, pausing each time she stopped to examine a window display. She turned and stared at a collection of watercolours in a gallery window, and in the reflection she saw him hesitate, then dart inside a newsagent's.

  For a moment she felt nothing but an all-consuming panic. Not only were the events of 19 January flooding back, but the thought of being stalked evoked memories of a much older scare. Every instinct told her to run, to get away quickly, but that was the one thing she couldn't do.

  She thought about stopping a passerby. Grab someone who looked trustworthy and plead for their help. Then the sense of panic abated. The quickest route back to the bus stop was down another steep hill, but it wasn't far to go. The man hadn't yet emerged from the newsagent's. She still had a chance.

  She crossed the road, gesturing with her stick to acknowledge a motorist who'd braked to avoid her. Focusing on the path ahead, she started her descent, her feet and stick clacking on the pavement in a little three-note rhythm. She wasn't going fast by any means, but a cold sweat broke out on her skin. Her ankle throbbed and in her abdomen she felt an unnatural tightness. In her head she could hear the smooth professional tones of her consultant, setting out the many potential risks and complications of an inadequate recuperation. Two words in particular had summoned a ghastly vision of a sudden, unforeseen collapse: internal bleeding.

  Several times she glanced back, and once thought she saw the man duck out of sight. At the bottom she rested for a few seconds, panting like a dog. An elderly woman touched her arm and asked if she was all right.

  'Fine,' Julia gasped. She managed a smile, but the woman looked horrified.

  'Oh, my dear,' she said. 'I thought you were—'

  Julia didn't wait to hear what the woman thought. She rammed the stick down and used it to propel herself forward, once again crossing the road with little thought for the traffic. She suspected part of her didn't care much if she was knocked down and killed.

  A bus pulled in as she reached the stop. She was relieved to see plenty of passengers, offering safety in numbers. She got on and settled on a seat halfway back. Conscious of a few curious gazes, she turned towards the window, resting her cheek against the cool glass. The gruff diesel engine seemed to vibrate at the same frequency as her nerves. At last the doors closed with a whoosh and the bus pulled out. She turned and saw no sign of her pursuer.

  She let out a breath. Shut her eyes and she was back in Chilton, watching the gun swing round in her direction. She captured an image of the man in black, picturing his height, his build, and compared it to the man she had just seen. She asked herself: could he fit?

  In her nightmares, she never saw his face. Even when he stood over her, pumping bullets into her body, his face was always covered by the visor.

  He didn't exist. He was a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her psychosis, brought on by extreme trauma. That's what the police had told her, and during the day she could almost believe it. But at night, awake or asleep, he was always there, a menacing shadow in the background. She would picture him lying awake somewhere, thinking about her just as she was thinking about him. A little bit of unfinished business.

  You're stalling, she told herself. Answer the question.

  But she already knew the answer.

  The answer was yes. He could fit.

  It was just over a week since she'd left hospital, and more than two weeks since the police had first tried to speak to her. That disastrous attempt had provoked a furious altercation between her consultant and the detective. It was also the last Julia saw of the Irish nurse.

  Negotiations between the police and her doctors had taken several days. The police were under intense pressure to complete their investigation, while the medical team had a responsibility to protect their patient, whose mental state was judged to be extremely precarious. Eventually it was Julia who insisted on consenting to an interview, against her consultant's advice. Afterwards she wished she'd listened to him.

  Perhaps she was too tearful and inarticulate to be taken seriously. Perhaps the detectives – a woman chief inspector and a young male sergeant – had arrived with too many preconceptions. Or perhaps they were exhausted and simply wanted to put a gruelling investigation to bed. Whatever the reason, it was no less of a disaster tha
n the first attempt.

  Almost from the start, her memory refused to co-operate. Had she seen the postman's body before she went into the shop, or afterwards? Had she tried to get help from the cottage or did she run straight to the church? Had Carl really invited her to run before giving chase? Every attempt to describe her ordeal gave her the shakes. Her throat constricted and made it physically impossible to speak.

  She would never forget the reaction when she first mentioned the second killer. They might as well have terminated the interview there and then. She read it in the glance they exchanged. She heard it in the scrape of chair legs on the vinyl floor: an unconscious attempt to distance themselves from her.

  After that, the questions took on a weary, half-hearted tone. On the surface they remained polite but sceptical, creating a vicious circle that she recognised but couldn't break. Their refusal to listen made her increasingly upset, and the more distressed she became, the more it reinforced their opinion that she was unstable. A basket case, raving about a man in black leathers who killed Carl Forester and then turned his gun on her.

  At the end, the sergeant left the room first. The DCI was a kind, matronly woman, but with a certain severe intelligence that warned against taking her lightly. She reminded Julia of a head teacher she had once worked with: steel wrapped in cotton wool.

  'I know this has been dreadful for you,' she said. 'You're obviously still very confused and upset. In time I think you'll realise your memory is playing tricks, and hopefully then you can put this behind you and move on with your life.'

  Julia nodded, as though these platitudes meant something. By now all she wanted was to be left alone.

  'I must offer you one bit of advice,' the DCI went on. 'However much you're tempted, don't breathe a word of this to the newspapers. Whether they believed you or not, they'd eat you alive.'

  Afterwards Julia spent a lot of time reflecting on that advice. She didn't doubt its wisdom, but saw that it had one very serious consequence. If she kept her mouth shut, it meant she was completely on her own, with the killer still out there. Still a threat. And perhaps one day he would decide to conclude his unfinished business.

  Perhaps today.

  Twenty-Eight

  The land east of Rye is unlike anywhere else in Sussex. The bus trundled over marshland and fields of winter crops where an occasional tractor went about its solitary work. Electricity pylons marched across the landscape in mighty columns, like a robot army hatched from the great brooding power station at Dungeness. In winter it was a bleak, cold, unforgiving place. Until today, she had thought it was perfect.

  She was staying at a private hotel called Bayside; the result of another compromise with her consultant. He had strongly recommended a nursing home that specialised in convalescent care. Appalled by the thought of what she saw as confinement in an establishment better suited to geriatrics, she had gratefully leapt at an alternative suggestion from the DCI. Bayside had just a dozen rooms, and it specialised in a women-only clientele. The proprietor, Kate, was a former police officer, and the hotel was sometimes used to accommodate vulnerable prosecution witnesses.

  Now, as she grew calmer, Julia began to consider the other possibilities. Maybe the man she'd seen hadn't been following her at all. At worst, maybe he was a journalist. To avoid media attention, she had left the Royal Sussex County late at night, via a back entrance, and her brother had driven her to Camber Sands. Very few people knew she was here – her only visitors so far had been a couple of old friends and the head teacher at her school – but there was always a chance someone had talked. She felt sickened to think someone she knew and trusted might have leaked her whereabouts in return for money.

  The hotel occupied a substantial plot of land right on the coast, with a golf course on one side and a scattering of large private homes on the other. The upper floor offered spectacular views of the bay and the wide expanse of sand that gave the area its name.

  As a precaution she stayed on the bus until it had gone past the hotel, then got off at the next stop. None of the passing traffic aroused any suspicion. She walked along to the hotel and checked the car park for unfamiliar vehicles. There was a laundry van backed up to the entrance. The driver slammed the rear doors and nodded at her as she passed.

  Kate was behind the reception counter, talking on the phone. She was a tall, striking woman in her early fifties, with long white hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing Julia, she quickly finished the call and gave her a stern look.

  'I told you it was too soon to be venturing out.'

  'What?'

  'You look shattered. If you're not careful, you'll end up back in hospital.'

  'I'm okay. Just need a lie-down.'

  'You need to start listening to good advice, that's what you need.' Kate tutted, then looked regretful. 'There was someone here this morning, asking for you.'

  Julia clasped a hand to her chest. 'When?'

  'About half ten. Not long after you left. I said I'd never heard of you.'

  'What did he look like?'

  Kate thought about it. 'I'd say mid-thirties. Slim, dark hair. Wearing black jeans and a blue tailored jacket.'

  Julia nodded, struggling to keep her panic in check. 'Journalist?'

  'I think so. I acted dumb, so hopefully he's long gone.'

  'No. He was following me in Rye.'

  'Oh, bugger.' Kate turned towards the door as if expecting him to burst inside. 'What do you want to do?'

  'Nothing. Just let me know if he comes back.'

  The stairs seemed twice as steep as usual, and each one brought another twinge of pain. Hauling herself up, Julia felt drained of hope as well as energy. If one journalist had found her, soon there would be more. Either she would have to give them what they wanted, or else move on to the next hideaway, the next sanctuary. And what kind of life was that?

  Her room was at the end of the corridor on the first floor. It was a good size, clean and nicely decorated in neutral tones, but it wasn't home. She'd brought a single suitcase, packed by her brother on her instructions, but after a week she'd hardly unpacked, almost as though unconsciously she'd been preparing for sudden flight.

  She propped the walking stick by the door and shrugged off her coat. The room felt a little stuffy, but as she went to open the window she stopped in her tracks.

  The tide was a long way out. The distant sea looked glassy and unreal. A thin haze of cloud diffused the sunlight, giving the air a strange vanilla glow. Fishing boats bobbed in the distance, and seagulls dipped and swooped over the beach. The sand lay flat and damp and brown beneath her, and there wasn't a soul in sight except for one man.

  He was about a hundred yards away, standing perfectly still, feet set apart, arms crossed. Patient and resolute. He was staring in her direction, but with the light reflecting off the glass she had no idea if he could see her.

  He must have come straight here, she realised. He knew her destination, and if he had a car he would have beaten her by ten minutes or more. All that effort to evade him, the risks she'd taken with her health, all for nothing.

  There was a stick lying at his feet, probably driftwood. From this distance it looked like a small dark snake. She understood what it was only a second before she registered what it had been used for.

  Just behind him, in letters six feet high, he had etched a single word.

  SORRY.

  There was a knock on the door. She jumped, aware that she had been caught in a daze. She couldn't even recall what she'd been thinking. The man on the beach was still there, still staring at the hotel.

  Kate had brought her a tuna sandwich and a glass of cranberry juice. When Julia protested, she said, 'You're meant to eat regularly, and you'll forget otherwise.'

  Julia nodded. Thanked her, and then said, 'Come and see this.'

  Kate stepped past her and stood at the window, her head slightly tilted and her arms crossed in a pose that exactly mirrored the man she was looking at.

  'That's the guy
from this morning,' she said. 'What's he sorry for? Hassling you?'

  'I suppose so,' Julia said, keeping her voice neutral.

  'Very polite, for a hack.' Kate studied him for a long moment. 'Still, I wouldn't kick him out of bed.'

  Julia snorted. 'Perhaps I should find out what he wants?'

  'Don't do anything hasty. Have your lunch first, at least.'

  She left the room, shutting the door gently behind her. Julia took a bite of her sandwich and sat down on the bed. The angle was tight, but she could still just about see him. After a minute or two he stretched and turned round, examining the message he'd written. She caught a definite air of despondency in his posture.

  He turned back, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. Without quite knowing why, Julia stood up and stepped to the window, moving her face to the glass. Seeing her, he gave a small, hesitant wave. He picked up the stick, moved to a clean spot of sand and began inscribing a new message.

  Julia tutted, not sure whether to be amused or alarmed. She waited for the words to form and tried not to second-guess, but found herself doing so anyway.

  I'M

  I'm sorry? she wondered.

  I'M NOT

  I'm not a journalist? Not a sleaze ball? Not here to cause more pain?

  But the message, when he stood clear to reveal it, was something far more shocking. She nearly choked on her sandwich.

  I'M NOT HIM.

  Twenty-Nine

  He knows, she thought. He knows there was a second killer. He's trying to reassure me.

  Then she thought: How can he know? She hadn't told anyone, other than the police. And they hadn't believed a word of it.

  She went on staring. The man dropped the stick and approached the hotel, coming right up to the back fence. He bent over and retrieved a black laptop bag. Delved inside it and produced a thick brown envelope, which he raised for her to see. He inclined his head, as if to say, May I?