by Tom Bale
He sat back, satisfied that he'd proved George wrong about not earning his directorships. This idea alone was worth a few million. But George seemed to think differently. He stared at Toby as if he'd just proposed moving the village to Neptune.
'Well, why not?' Toby tried to press home his point. 'You've said yourself, the place is full of ghosts. We just need the right PR to get the message across.'
'And what about the listed buildings? What about the twelfth-century church?'
Toby flapped his hands. 'You've ignored restrictions like that in the past. The point we have to make is that a new development would be in everyone's best interests.'
'You don't think the thirty-five-million-pound profit might strike anyone as offensive? The fact that our best interests happen to be rather more rewarding than anyone else's?'
Toby shrugged. 'If you're worried about public opinion, why are you trying to buy up the village?'
'To help the victims. I know it'll be misinterpreted, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. We just need to be patient, otherwise it will look as though Carl Forester did us a huge favour.'
Mentioning Forester seemed to suck some of the light from the room. Already the name had come to represent more than just the man himself. It was the byword for a tragedy. A media event.
'Well, maybe he did,' said Toby carefully. 'Is that so terrible to admit?'
George said nothing. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cardboard folder. He tossed it across the desk and glared at Toby.
'You'd better read this,' he said.
Julia said, 'What do you mean?'
'Maybe there's some way we can flush him out.' Rather than elaborating, Craig asked a question of his own. 'You know about Matheson's planning application?'
'You could hardly miss it, thanks to your father. It seemed like there was a story in the Argus every week.'
'Mmm. Dad could be an objectionable old sod, especially when he got the bit between his teeth.'
'You didn't agree with him, then?'
'I had mixed feelings. I doubt if he or the others would have cared if it had been happening in someone else's back yard. But for all their selfishness, it doesn't invalidate their argument. It's a beautiful place. Matheson shouldn't be allowed to dump housing estates all round it and walk away with twenty or thirty million quid.'
Julia gasped. 'You're kidding?'
'At least that much. He owns hundreds of acres around the village, so even if only a fraction gets developed he'll make a fortune. And if he uses his own construction company to build the homes he'll profit twice over.'
'That's shocking. I didn't realise there was so much money involved.'
'That's a conservative estimate, allowing for the downturn in the economy. The fact is, for years we've had a severe shortage of housing in the most affluent part of the country. For landowners and developers, the stakes have been raised to the point where all kinds of corruption become tempting. So you start off, perhaps falsifying a report here and there. You put pressure on councillors, planning officers, you offer bribes and inducements. But if the bribes don't work, maybe you have to use threats?' He paused, stared at his coffee, seeming to make a conscious effort to calm down.
Then he looked up at Julia. 'Once you get started down that road, where do you stop? We're living in a world where people will kill for the loose change in your pocket. What do you think someone would do for twenty million?'
It was a peculiar experience to read about such devastating violence, described so dispassionately. Toby would much rather have studied the report alone, away from his uncle's brooding presence. Glancing up, he saw George pouring himself another sherry.
'What's the latest on the Caplans' daughter?'
'No change.' George cleared his throat. 'I visited her earlier this week. Keith's sister is there every day. I've offered to cover the cost of a private clinic, but really they're doing all they can for her.'
'Getting very generous in your old age,' Toby muttered.
George grunted and waited for him to finish reading. Then he said, 'It's this Julia Trent that worries me.'
'I don't see why. The police clearly think she's delusional.'
'It could still attract some unwelcome attention, especially after that quote from Craig Walker.'
'I saw that. Are you going to sue him?'
'Don't be ridiculous. Philip Walker died a hero. The last thing I can afford is a slanging match with his son.' He picked up his sherry, swilled it round and looked at it with sudden distaste. 'He's asked to see me.'
'Craig?'
George nodded. 'Hopefully I can forestall any more bad publicity.'
'Do you want me to come along?'
A look of amusement warmed his uncle's face. 'I'm perfectly capable of dealing with him.'
Toby shrugged, biting back an urge to respond. George quickly grew morose again. 'Do you really see Carl Forester dreaming up something like this?'
'Who knows what his state of mind was like?' Toby waited a beat, then added quietly: 'The police obviously think losing his job was a factor.'
'I had no choice, after that business with Laura. And it was two years ago. Surely that wasn't sufficient provocation for . . . what he did?'
'We'll never know, will we?' Toby lifted the report. 'I haven't read this properly. Can I take a copy?'
George considered for a moment. 'Make sure you keep it safe. And don't show it to anyone.'
Toby nodded and switched on the photocopier. While it warmed up he poured himself another coffee.
'I know this has been very stressful,' he said. 'Why not take some time off? A couple of months in the Caribbean would do you the world of good. Leave things to me for a while.'
'I'll take a holiday when I'm good and ready,' George snapped. 'When I know the business is in safe hands.'
Toby felt his face heating up. 'If you'd let me liquidate my assets, I would never have had to borrow from someone like Vilner.'
'Rubbish,' George barked. 'You'd have squandered that money as well. Anyway, you can't unload shares when a business is struggling. It sends all the wrong signals.'
Toby said nothing. When his uncle was in one of these moods there was no sense arguing with him. He fed the report into the photocopier, a flash of light as each page gave birth to another. He allowed a reasonable interval to pass before he made another appeal.
'At least let me start on the paperwork. I could get the plans for the access road amended.'
George let out a sigh. 'You're prepared to knuckle down, are you?' he said. 'No return to the old habits?'
'I promise.'
There was still doubt on George's face, but at last he nodded. Toby suspected it was more to get rid of him than anything else: a tactic Toby had exploited successfully in the past.
'All right. But don't do anything that could jump up and bite us. We're not filing anything till we've got public opinion firmly on side.'
They shook hands on it, more like business acquaintances than family. George followed him downstairs and through the wide entrance hall. At the door Toby said, 'Give my regards to Vanessa,' with his customary lack of sincerity.
'I will,' said George in a matching tone.
Toby jogged to his car without looking back. He had a lot to consider, not least of which was his uncle's behaviour. He'd never seen the old man like this. Definitely losing the plot.
Thirty-Five
Julia absorbed what he'd said, then shook her head. 'That's quite a leap to make,' she said. 'You can't go accusing someone like George Matheson of mass murder.'
Craig shrugged. 'Actually, I already have.'
'What?'
'Someone asked me if I thought the application could ever be revived. I pointed out that George might be in a better position because of the massacre.'
'Someone?'
'A person I trusted,' he said. 'But she's also a journalist.'
'Oh.' Julia grimaced. 'What was Matheson's reaction?'
'Not a
lot in public. But I received a nicely crafted letter from his solicitors, drawing my attention to the laws of libel and defamation.'
'I don't suppose you can blame him.' In the same conciliatory tone, she said, 'Just because he stands to benefit, it doesn't mean Matheson had anything to do with what happened. It could just be a dreadful coincidence.'
'And if I choose to disagree, I'm . . . what? A nutty conspiracy theorist?'
Julia grinned. 'I can't rule it out.'
'Okay.' Now he was grinning too. 'In that case, maybe we should find out one way or the other.'
'What?'
'George Matheson. I've arranged a meeting with him tomorrow.'
Julia felt her heart speed up. 'Tomorrow? And you want me to come?'
He held up his hands to placate her. 'Hey, I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. Forget I mentioned it.'
Julia frowned. She lifted her coffee cup but it had gone cold. There was a film of grey scum on the surface.
'Time I was getting back,' she said.
He nodded. She stood up and put on her coat. He went to help, but she turned and shrugged it on herself. She picked up the walking stick and propped it under her arm like a baton. She wanted to make the return journey without using it.
A cold blast of air assaulted them as they stepped outside. The wind had strengthened, picking up grains of sand as it whipped over the beach. Julia shielded her face with her hand, and Craig muttered, 'Should have brought the car.'
'Sorry.'
'It's okay. I understand now why you were so wary of me.'
They set off in silence, then Julia said, 'What exactly did you mean about "flushing out" the second killer? You want to investigate what happened in Chilton?'
'Yes.'
'But how? We're not detectives.'
Her use of the plural wasn't lost on him. She cursed herself for the slip of the tongue.
'To start with, we talk to Matheson. And we find out more about Carl Forester.'
'And supposing we uncover evidence that someone else was involved? What then?'
'Turn it over to the police, of course. I'm not some kind of vigilante.'
'That isn't what I mean. We're looking for a man who took part in a killing spree, then calmly murdered his partner and made it look like suicide.' She looked him in the eye. 'So what will he do when he realises we're on his trail?'
Vanessa waited until she was sure Toby had gone. Then she waited a little longer, to see if George would come to her. He didn't.
It took whole minutes to get up from her chair and walk along the hall to his study. In the weeks since the last diagnosis – the terminal diagnosis – a strange separation had occurred. There was Vanessa; and there was Vanessa's body. Vanessa's body was an appalling creature, weak and pain-wracked and crumbling from within like a gutted building. It transformed the simplest of tasks into an extraordinary effort of will. It had nothing to do with Vanessa: the person, the lifeforce.
And yet, when the body finally expired, Vanessa the person would go with it. That didn't seem fair. Sometimes, at night, she screamed out her fury at the unfairness of it. She screamed until her eyes poured with tears and her throat burned and her chest throbbed.
But she never made a sound. Because George mustn't know how she felt.
Outwardly she remained stoic, composed, even brave. 'You're so brave,' her friends had said, right up until the last few months. Until she stopped seeing them.
George didn't dare use the B word. But then he hardly spoke to her at all.
The door to his study was heavy, with an antique porcelain doorknob. She needed both hands to twist it.
He looked up, genuine surprise on his face. He was at his desk, the report open in front of him. Something else as well, which he'd just slipped between the pages. A furtive glance to make sure it was hidden.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I meant to come and see you.'
'I'm not a cripple.' To prove it, she remained standing. She walked over to the photocopier and rested both hands on the lid. It was warm. She turned to George and he blanched, as if she could see inside him.
'I let him take a copy of the report.'
'Was that wise?'
'I told him to be discreet.'
Vanessa chuckled at the thought. 'And what did he make of it?'
'Dismissive. He's all gung-ho to prepare another application.'
'I take it you've not yet told him about Kendrick?'
'No.' His eyes narrowed. 'Do you think I should?'
'It's your business. You're entitled to do with it as you wish.'
George nodded slowly. 'But?'
'I mean it. Toby's as much a disappointment to me as he is to you. He ought to be fending for himself.'
George went on studying her. Still anticipating a barbed comment, an incisive criticism. It was one of the most enduring features of their long marriage, and she knew he had developed an almost masochistic attachment to them.
He closed the report and patted it reassuringly, along with whatever treasured document was concealed within it.
'I told him about Craig Walker. He asked if I wanted him to be there.'
Vanessa dipped her head to acknowledge the humour. 'You might consider having someone present. James Vilner, perhaps.'
George frowned. 'Why?'
'Walker's father was brutally murdered, and from what he said to the press it seems he blames you. His judgement is blunted by grief and anger. He'll need to vent that anger somehow.'
George looked dismissive. 'I doubt he's coming here to attack me.'
'Perhaps not. But Vilner's presence could achieve much more than any solicitor's letter. At a fraction of the cost.'
She had been ready for George to scoff, but instead he pursed his lips, which was his habitual and quite unconscious signal that he intended to appropriate someone else's idea.
'I'll give it some thought,' he said.
Which meant yes.
Thirty-Six
Just before they reached the hotel there was a gap in the dunes, allowing a glimpse of the sea. The tide was coming in, filling the deeper channels and racing across the sand from several directions at once. Julia thought of Craig's message, wiped smooth and gone for ever.
'You know, I think it's partly because he's still at large that I came here,' she said as they entered the car park. 'I'm hiding from him.'
'That's understandable,' said Craig. 'But remember how you felt when you locked yourself away at university. It doesn't work for ever.'
'No. I know. I'm just not sure if I'm ready right now.'
Craig unlocked the Golf and put his bag on the back seat. Julia glanced at the hotel. Against the winter sky, its lights blazed warm and enticing.
'The trouble is,' he said, 'we don't have a lot of time. That report's supposed to be confidential, but I reckon we've got a week at most before the media get their hands on it. Everything leaks eventually.'
Julia's face fell.
'Of course, there's a chance they'll overlook what you said,' Craig went on. 'But if they don't . . .'
'They'll eat me alive. That's what the police told me.'
Craig nodded. 'And once your allegations are made public, the danger you're talking about will exist regardless of what you do.' He waited a second. When she didn't speak he smiled and patted her arm. 'Anyway, you need to get inside. It's cold out here.'
He opened the driver's door and climbed in. Julia watched him reverse from the space and thought about the report, almost wishing it hadn't made any reference to her allegations. Then Craig wouldn't be here, and she wouldn't be facing this dilemma.
There was a flash of brake lights as he reached the pavement. She felt an odd gnawing in her stomach. Not fear, exactly. Indecision. Regret. Shame.
During interviews she was highly emotional.
'Wait!' she shouted. She took a couple of wobbly steps forward, fumbling with the stick and waving her hand until he spotted the movement in his wing mirror. He backed up alongside her and o
pened his window. She clutched the door handle and knelt down.
'All right. I'll come with you.'
The doubts began to appear almost the second she said goodbye. She still wasn't sure what to make of Craig. On one level he was perfectly friendly, but there had been moments when she had sensed a definite hostility in him.
She crept into the hotel like a teenager breaking her curfew, and saw with guilty relief that the lobby was deserted. She had barely reached the stairs when Kate burst into view and bore down on her with all the wounded ferocity of a hoodwinked parent.
'I thought you were popping outside to speak to him, not gallivanting off somewhere.'
Julia raised her hand in an appeal for mercy. 'It was hardly that. We went to the café. And I'm quite capable of looking after myself.'
'Really?' Kate glanced pointedly at the walking stick. 'So who is he? What does he want from you?'
'His name's Craig. He's the son of Philip Walker, one of the Chilton victims.'
At this, Kate's temper seemed to dissipate, but she continued to look troubled. 'And is he a journalist?'
'Yes, but nothing relevant to this.'
'I'm not so sure. That name sounds familiar.' She sighed, examining Julia's face as if for signs of wear and tear. 'I hope he's going to leave you alone now.'
Julia tried to look non-committal, but Kate saw through it immediately.
'You're supposed to be recuperating.'
'I've agreed to go somewhere tomorrow. Just for a few hours.'
Kate pursed her lips. In that moment, Julia was tempted to tell her all about the police report and the second killer. By now she knew Kate well enough to trust her, but then considered the reaction she was likely to get. It wasn't difficult to imagine Kate confining her to her room, or worse still, sending her back to hospital.
Having gambled on successfully persuading Julia to work with him, Craig had avoided a long return journey by booking a room at a B&B a couple of miles away on the Lydd road.
In contrast to the enticing photographs on its website, Seascape turned out to be a semi-detached house with a brown pebbledash exterior and moss on the roof. Inside, the decor was tired but clean. The owner was a woman of a certain age, widowed or divorced, with improbably big hair and make-up applied on an operatic scale. When he got to his room, the first thing Craig did was make sure the door locked from the inside.
