Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  The second thing he did was have a drink. He'd packed an overnight bag with just the essentials: a change of clothes, toiletries and a litre of Scotch. He had to use a plastic beaker from the bathroom, but that barely affected the flavour. He'd have swigged it from the bottle if need be.

  It wasn't as full as he expected. Then he remembered having a few mouthfuls on the beach, while Julia was reading the report. At the time he'd been jittery about her decision. It had been a close call, but in the end he'd won her over. That was an achievement to celebrate.

  While he drank, he allowed himself to feel a twinge of guilt, but no more than that. There was a lot at stake here, and it wasn't as though he'd lied to Julia. He just hadn't told her everything.

  After a long, relaxing soak in the bath, Julia ate alone in the hotel dining room, reflecting on her encounter with Craig. Then she sat in the guests' lounge for a while, playing cards with a reticent young woman who was appearing as a witness at the Crown Court in Maidstone. In an hour they exchanged no more than a dozen words.

  Kate pounced as she was about to call it a night. If anything, she looked even more worried than she had earlier.

  'I've Googled him.'

  'What?'

  'Craig Walker. He might have been telling the truth about what he writes nowadays, but that's not what he used to do.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'He was an investigative reporter. A damn good one, by the look of it. Worked on quite a few cases involving organised crime.' Kate paused, and Julia couldn't understand why she looked quite so tense until she added: 'He had a bee in his bonnet about police corruption.'

  'Ah.'

  'I'm not criticising him for that,' Kate added quickly. 'I know full well that some police officers are corrupt. If someone brings that to light, all well and good. But it means you need to be careful. It's possible he has a completely different agenda to yours.'

  It took several minutes of solemn assurances that her advice would be heeded, before Julia could finally extricate herself and return to her room. She now felt even more thankful that she hadn't mentioned the second killer, but also wondered if she ought to rethink her decision about tomorrow. The trouble was, she didn't have Craig's mobile number to call and cancel. There was no option but to wait and see how she felt in the morning.

  It was ten o'clock when she got to bed. Sleep came easier than she expected, but it was fitful and troubled. Amid many disjointed dreams was one of startling clarity and impact, quite unlike any she'd had before.

  It was a cold, clear night. She was on the beach at Camber Sands, the tide far out, foamy waves gleaming in the distance. In the centre of the beach the yew tree from Chilton's village green loomed over her. She approached it barefoot, feeling her toes sinking into the sand. The upper branches of the tree swayed gently. Maybe from a light breeze. Maybe not.

  He was hiding. Waiting for her.

  She carried a heavy iron bar. A poker, perhaps, or a crowbar. Its solidity lent her a courage she had no right to feel. Reaching the trunk of the tree, she paused a moment. She ran her hand over the smooth bark and the tree responded, its shiver of pleasure dislodging the intruder who had dared to conceal himself in its embrace.

  The man in black dropped from the upper branches and landed on his back. He lay still, but she could see his chest rising and falling. His head was encased in the black helmet.

  Then her perspective changed and she saw herself as if from a distance, slowly leaning over and lifting the visor. She gasped, stepped back, and she was inside herself again, reeling with a terrible knowledge.

  She had seen his face. She knew who he was.

  The first blow came almost as a surprise to her. It shattered his visor and sent shards of plastic flying across the beach. Fragments of bone, too, and a spray of blood that splattered her legs. The man let out a gurgling exclamation. Julia gripped the crowbar tighter, using both hands to bring it down with all her strength, again and again.

  It went on until long after he was dead. She didn't cease until every bone was shattered, every organ pulped, every inch of him pummelled into dough, and blood and sand clung to her legs like treacle.

  Then she stopped. Dropped the gore-slicked crowbar and stood, breathing hard, her muscles vibrating with energy. She heard the waves sucking on the sand, closer now. The tide would come in and cover this abomination, and when it retreated the world would be clean again. And safe.

  She looked up and saw her parents, watching from an upper window of the hotel. The sad, solemn faces of ghosts. Seen through their eyes, she had resorted to a savagery that made her no better than the killer. It was clear from the tilt of her father's head that he was ashamed. This isn't how we brought you up to behave.

  'No!' she screamed. She would rather die than suffer his disapproval.

  Grabbing the crowbar, she took a few steps away from the body. A full moon lit up the sand as she carved out her message.

  I'm not her, she wrote. Over and over, while the blood dried on her legs and sweat ran into her eyes and dripped from her nose on to the sand.

  I'm not HER.

  Telling herself she could make it true. She could turn back the past and become a different person.

  She woke, drenched in sweat, and threw herself out of bed. Stood stock still in the middle of the room, the thudding of her heart eclipsing all the tiny noises of the hotel at night. The dream continued to parade in her head: eyes open or shut, it made no difference. All she could see was the body exploding under the barrage of blows. Her parents' terrible shame.

  I'm not her.

  Please, God.

  I'm not her.

  Thirty-Seven

  Max Kendrick was always up early. Even after more than a decade of freedom he found prison hours the most natural routine. Illogical, perhaps, but if he lay in bed there was always a nagging sensation that he was missing out on something.

  He was renting a large house in Berkshire, overlooking the Thames. Seven bedrooms and four bathrooms at twelve thousand pounds a month. Not cheap, but probably better than a hotel in the long term, given that he was housing half a dozen of his team.

  It was an attractive, peaceful location. He liked having the river nearby, liked the plop and slosh of the water as pleasureboats drifted past. He liked the tall willow tree that hung out over the water as if straining for freedom. He imagined it would look spectacular in summer, dripping blossom like tears, but he had no idea if he'd be here to see it. He never stayed too long in the same place.

  There was a small gym adjoining the master bedroom. He worked out on the machines for twenty minutes, then took a run, a mile or so each way along the exclusive private road. Two of the team accompanied him; at least one of them armed at all times. Probably not necessary, but another old habit he found hard to break.

  On the way back, the place was coming to life. He nodded greetings to a professional golfer and the chairman of a FTSE100 company, while ignoring the platoon of ghostly Eastern Europeans who cooked and cleaned for them. It amused him to realise how seamlessly he'd made the transition to First World supremacy.

  He found running useful. Something about the rhythm of pounding footsteps helped him to think. He had taken to business like a natural, but he was conscious that he lacked a proper education. To compensate he prided himself on thinking longer and harder than anyone else. Preparation was his watchword. Know everything: then you couldn't be outsmarted.

  It was thorough research that had uncovered Toby Harman's gambling debts, and led him to James Vilner. He knew George Matheson had been furious when Vilner was appointed as Kendrick's go-between, but there was little George could do about it. Which made his request for Vilner's help today all the more intriguing. Matheson was meeting the dead campaigner's son, Craig Walker, and wanted Vilner present. No reason given.

  When Kendrick got back to the house, Jacques was in the kitchen, nursing a tall mug of freshly brewed black coffee. Jacques hated running, or physical exertion of any kind. He
stayed thin because he had no interest in food or alcohol. No vices at all, in fact, except killing.

  They had met in August 1997, when Kendrick was one of ten highrisk prisoners transferred to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to serve out the rest of a sentence for aggravated burglary. Volcanic eruptions had forced a closure of Montserrat's prison and destroyed its capital city, Plymouth.

  By that time an even more momentous encounter had taken place; the one that was to transform Kendrick's life. It was Jacques who quickly recognised the potential of his plan, and suggested he set his sights much higher. From then on he had served as a faithful lieutenant. It was Jacques who'd willingly helped remove any of the obstacles in his path. And it was Jacques alone who knew his real identity.

  'Refreshed by your run?' the little man scoffed.

  'Will be when I've had a shower.'

  'Shari was down here looking for you.'

  Kendrick scowled. 'Why?'

  Jacques assumed a hideous falsetto: 'Why does he bring me all the way to England if he don't wanna see me or be with me?'

  'That's what she said?'

  'That's what I made sense of. She was weepy and whispering.' Jacques smiled. 'She's scared of me.'

  'She's right to be,' Kendrick muttered. He pondered for a minute. Got himself some grapefruit juice from the large American-style refrigerator. Jacques waited, puppy-like. Not exactly panting, but not far off it.

  'It's time she went,' Kendrick said at last. 'I don't need the distraction.'

  'Plenty of women over here if you want one.' Jacques sounded vaguely contemptuous of the idea.

  'That's your repressed homosexuality talking,' Kendrick said, and Jacques laughed mirthlessly.

  'I'll give her the news, then?'

  'Nothing to tell. Just get someone to pack her bag, put her in a car and send her back.'

  'Alive?'

  Too late, Kendrick had tipped the carton to his lips. He spluttered juice from his nostrils and laughed.

  'Yes. Alive.' He pinched his nose, then sniffed. 'If I wanted her dead, I'd have said so. Wouldn't I?'

  Jacques looked slightly crestfallen. 'Always pays to ask.'

  When Julia woke on Wednesday, she immediately thought about the nightmare. It was the first one where she had been the attacker, rather than the victim, although that gave her precious little comfort.

  It was also the first dream where she had lifted his visor. She could clearly recall the powerful sensation that accompanied the sight of the killer's face, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't recreate that image in her mind. It was maddening and frightening, and it led her directly to her next thought.

  She was about to spend the day with a man she hardly knew, and they were intending to pay a visit to George Matheson. And that, she realised with a start, almost certainly meant going back to Chilton. Just the thought of driving through the village made her fluttery with panic.

  You've got to face it sometime, she told herself. And you've got to start trusting people again.

  But not today, a skittish voice spoke up. Kate's right. You don't know anything about his motives. You could tell him it's too soon. You're not physically strong enough yet.

  The warring voices continued while she showered, dressed and went down for breakfast. Just because Craig hadn't mentioned his investigative work, it didn't automatically follow that he was concealing it from her. On the other hand, she'd sensed a lot of pent-up anger. Although he'd said he wasn't a vigilante, she couldn't rule out that his objective was to make someone pay for his father's death.

  Unless . . .

  Her sudden intuition as to the reason for his hostility towards her was almost as shocking as last night's dream. She should have seen it straight away. The question now was: should she confront him, or try to ignore it?

  She sat down at a table in the dining room. Reflecting on yesterday's conversation, she knew one fact was beyond debate: sooner or later a journalist was going to read the police report and sniff out allegations of a conspiracy. When that happened, there was no telling what the consequences would be.

  Kate wandered into the dining room, holding a mug of tea in both hands. She perched on a chair opposite Julia and gave her a contrite smile. 'Sorry if I was a bit heavy with you last night.'

  'That's all right. I know you've got my best interests at heart.'

  'Are you going with him today?'

  'I think I have to.'

  'And I can't persuade you otherwise?'

  'Sorry. No.'

  Kate nodded slowly, as if she had guessed as much. Her name was called from the kitchen and she took a quick gulp of tea, then stood up.

  'Just be careful, okay?'

  Julia was in the lobby just before nine. The presence of a police car outside made her jump, until she saw they were here to collect the woman appearing as a witness.

  Craig's Golf turned in a couple of minutes later. As she went outside, Julia realised it felt good to be doing something active. Scary but exhilarating, like the first day in a new job. The weather was beautiful for mid-February, almost springlike, with a clear blue sky and a light breeze.

  She strode over to his car with a decisive, almost normal gait. She had decided to dispense with the walking stick altogether today. It wasn't about vanity, she told herself. It was about independence.

  Craig looked relieved when she opened the passenger door and got in. 'You're definitely up for this?'

  She nodded, then saw the weariness in his face. 'Rough night?'

  'Not great.'

  'I suppose it was a long drive over here?' she said, realising she had no idea where he lived.

  Craig looked away, sheepishly, and put the car in gear. 'I stayed in a B&B down the road.'

  'Oh,' she said, surprised.

  'I booked a room on the off chance that you'd agree to this. Sorry. It was a bit presumptuous of me.'

  'Mm,' she agreed, but resolved not to let it upset her. She owed him this one, she decided.

  They settled into a pattern of alternating silence with small talk, starting neutral and easing towards the personal. She asked him about his journalism and he made light of it, claiming to write a lot of frothy nonsense.

  'Surely you get to attend some big sporting events?'

  'Sometimes. More often I'm stuck on a broken-down train at the arse-end of the country, on my way to watch a bunch of overpaid idiots hoofing a ball around a field in the pissing rain.'

  She chuckled. 'I hope it pays well.'

  'When you're freelance it can be patchy. Luckily my wife's an accountant. Partner in a large firm in Crawley.'

  'Quite high-powered, then?'

  'Oh yes,' said Craig, with a sardonic edge. 'She's climbing the corporate ladder, all right. Almost one of the boys.'

  It was an odd comment, delivered with unmistakable bitterness, and it served to kill off the discussion for a while. They had reached Hastings, where even the sunshine and a glassy blue sea couldn't compensate for the poverty and neglect evident in the once-magnificent seafront buildings.

  'Tell me about your teaching,' he said. 'I saw that thing on the local news.'

  Julia smiled. While she was in hospital, a TV crew from the local station had visited her school and filmed touching get-well messages from her pupils. She'd watched a recording of it at the hotel and it had brought her to tears.

  'They're a fantastic bunch. I can't wait to get back to work, hopefully after Easter.'

  'Must be pretty stressful, though, controlling a whole class of kids?'

  'Sometimes. But the children have so much energy, it seems to transfer itself. It's very invigorating.'

  'I wouldn't have the patience,' he said. 'I find it hard enough with my two.'

  'You've got children?' She registered the surprise in her voice and scolded herself. Why shouldn't he have children?

  'Tom and Maddie,' he said. 'They're a handful sometimes, but great with it, of course.' A pause, during which his gaze grew distant and inexpressibly s
ad. Then he said, 'What about you? Do you have a partner?'

  She made a dismissive gesture. 'I was with a guy, Peter, for nearly six years. He was head of English at a secondary school in Brighton. He'd always been very skilful at avoiding talk of marriage and babies, so last year I got sick of it and I put him on the spot.' She laughed. 'Basically he did a runner on me. Said he wasn't interested in settling down. It turned out he'd been looking into a teaching exchange programme. A few weeks later he buggered off to America, and that was that.'

  'What a bastard.'

  'Better to find out when I did. After that I had the classic rebound relationship. Met a guy called Steve at my local gym.' She gave a rueful chuckle. 'He visited me once in hospital. Tried to persuade me to sell my story to the papers, and then go travelling with the proceeds. I haven't spoken to him since.'

  'Doesn't seem like much has gone right for you,' he said. 'I heard you lost your parents last year.'

  Encouraged by the sympathy in his voice, she told him about finding their bodies, realising what had happened to them. Talking about it wasn't as difficult as she had feared.

  'We still have the inquest to come, in a couple of months. And there's the house to clear.'

  'If you need a hand with that, let me know. I'm in Chilton a lot of the time.'

  'Are you?'

  'Staying at my dad's place. The media attention wasn't fair on the kids. It also means I can keep an eye on the house.'

  'How do you manage with the children?'

  'Nina works from home some days. Her parents help out. And three times a week I collect them from school, then stay with them till Nina gets in.'

  He sounded casual enough, but she had a feeling he was holding something back. It reminded her of Kate's warning about him, and for a few minutes she gazed pensively out of the window, unsure whether to say anything.

  As if he sensed her unease, Craig became restless, tapping out little tunes on the steering wheel. Then he said, 'I have a small confession to make.'