by Tom Bale
She swallowed back a memory of her nightmare. 'Go on.'
'We're not actually seeing George until this afternoon. There's someone else I want to visit.'
'Who?'
'Carl's mother. Peggy Forester.'
The killer had received another message last night. Once again there was an implicit threat to betray him.
Craig Walker is asking questions. It's possible he suspects a conspiracy.
He'll be at Chilton Manor tomorrow. Go over everything you did and make sure you're watertight. Can anyone link you to our halfwitted friend?
Remember: one slip-up and you're finished.
The situation was becoming intolerable. It only reinforced his view that he had to take control. Find some way to turn the tables on Decipio. And yet, he couldn't ignore the warning. Was he watertight?
The instant he asked himself the question, one word popped into his head.
Peggy.
Thirty-Eight
'Stop the car.'
'What?'
'I mean it. Stop the car.'
Craig muttered an objection, but he checked his mirrors and pulled in at the kerb. They were on the outskirts of Hastings, heading towards Bexhill. Julia opened her door a couple of inches before she felt Craig's hand on her arm.
'What are you doing?'
'I'll get a bus back to Camber.' She glared at him until he retracted his hand.
'Jesus, you're overreacting, aren't you?'
'Am I? What else haven't you told me, Mr Big Shot Investigative Reporter?'
He looked flabbergasted. 'Where did you get that from?'
'Kate, at the hotel. She used to be a police officer.'
He snorted. 'That makes sense. Okay, so I used to do some serious journalism, and now I don't. It's no big secret.'
'Kate thinks you might have ulterior motives. Perhaps you're just out to discredit the police.'
Craig looked disgusted. 'That bastard killed my dad, remember? All I want is to get the truth. If the trail leads to bent coppers, or anyone else for that matter . . . then so be it.' He spread his hands. 'I'm gonna go where the facts take me. If you don't want to come along, fine. But I happen to think you're owed the truth as well.' He reached down and pressed the button that released her seatbelt, then folded his arms and waited.
Julia pushed the door open a little further, but made no move to get out.
'Why didn't you tell me about Peggy?'
'I didn't want to load it all on you at once.'
'Because you knew I'd say no?'
He answered with a grunt. 'Probably. It was stupid of me. You can stay in the car if you want. I'll see her on my own.'
Julia nodded, then pulled the door shut. She felt cheated, but she was also conscious of a terrible fascination at the idea of meeting Peggy Forester.
'All right,' she said at last. 'But from now on, you're going to be straight with me, okay?'
Falcombe was two miles east of Chilton, just off the A275 between Lewes and Chailey. The oldest part of the village wasn't much bigger than its neighbour, but whereas Chilton had remained unspoilt, Falcombe had long since succumbed to the lure of expansion. Estates spread out like tree rings, from a cluster of post-war prefabs near the centre to insipid twenty-first-century boxes around the perimeter. The sight of the tightly packed homes gave Julia renewed appreciation for Philip Walker's crusade.
Peggy Forester lived in a council estate dating back to the Fifties, about a mile from the main road. Unlike the newer developments, it was a wide street with grass verges and generous front gardens. Unfortunately the houses, set well back from the road, were little more than drab brown pebbledash shelters.
Craig reduced his speed as they looked for number 88. Ignoring their right of way, a tatty old BMW emerged from a driveway and hurtled round a parked Land Rover, forcing Craig to brake sharply.
'What happened to manners?' he said.
Julia's murmur of assent turned into a groan as she counted off the properties. In a street of virtually identical homes, Peggy Forester's wasn't hard to miss. Sheets of hardboard had been nailed to every window, and another board covered the pane in the front door. Graffiti had been sprayed all over the wood, none of it complimentary about the occupant. The front garden was devoid of grass or shrubs, a dark bumpy landscape that Julia assumed was freshly turned soil.
She was wrong. The smell hit them the instant they opened the car doors.
'Oh, Jesus,' said Craig, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'
Julia was half out of the car, breathing in shallow gasps. She shook her head, her mouth clamped shut on rising bile.
The entire front garden was filled with dogshit. Dozens of turds, accumulated over several weeks. Some of them fresh and glistening, some dry and crumbling, some a mouldering paste. Scraps of plastic lay trapped in the muck, indicating that many people were bagging them up and then throwing them in the garden. There were also half a dozen little white bundles that Julia identified as soiled disposable nappies, planted in the excrement like obscene bulbs. A larger shape caught her eye, rotting and pulpy with a suggestion of fur. She pointed and made a questioning sound.
'Maybe a fox?' said Craig, twisting away in revulsion. 'We'll try round the back.'
They got in the car and sped off, Craig opening the windows once they were clear of the house.
'You don't seriously think she's living there?' Julia said.
'As far as I know.'
'That's appalling. No matter what Carl did, how can anyone treat his mother like that?'
'The tabloids love to stir up a frenzy, then they skip along to the next story. This is what they leave in their wake.'
He navigated a route that brought them roughly parallel to Forester's road. They parked outside another row of grim council houses.
'Are you sure you're up for this?' he said.
'I'll give it a try. How are we going to get in?'
'I don't know. There's usually a twitten or something.'
There was, but it was narrow, and overgrown with brambles and nettles. It took them a few minutes to pick their way to the point where they guessed they were level with Forester's back garden. It was bordered by a thick hedge, at least eight or nine feet high, that had obviously gone untended for years. Buried deep within it was a rusty iron gate. Craig reached out and tested it, then brushed the metal flakes from his hand.
'We can probably force it open.' He looked at Julia. 'Unless you'd rather go back to the car?'
She shook her head. 'Not now I've come this far. But you're going first.'
'Fair enough.' He began wrenching the gate back and forth, breaking off the foliage that blocked its path. Once he'd created a big enough gap, he knelt down and wriggled through. Julia watched him, unimpressed.
'I must be mad,' she muttered. 'What if she's got a dog?'
'No sign of one,' Craig called back. 'You'll be all right. There's plenty of room now.'
Her resolve wavered briefly as she crouched down, imagining how Kate would react if she could see her now. Turning sideways, she eased herself between the gate and the hedge in awkward crablike steps, wincing as a stray branch clawed at her hair.
On the other side Craig was waiting to help her up, and they both plucked leaves and twigs from their clothes. Peggy's back garden was a jungle of weeds and long grass. A crumbling concrete path led to the back door, which was half glazed and intact. There were no boards over the rear windows, and as Julia looked up she glimpsed movement in the kitchen.
They heard a lock turning, and the door opened. Carl Forester's mother was small and wiry, dressed in jogging pants and a faded grey sweatshirt. She had greying brown hair in wild curls and a mean face with a raw, mottled complexion. Julia could feel the hostility radiating from her.
'Get off my place! This is mine!' she yelled. Her voice was slurred and indistinct. She tottered as she spoke.
'Mrs Forester?' Craig took a couple of steps forward. The
woman turned slightly, raising her arm. She was brandishing a bread knife.
'Leave me alone! Go away!'
Craig motioned to Julia to stay where she was, then dug in his pockets and produced a roll of notes.
'Mrs Forester, it's all right. I've brought the money you're owed.'
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Money?'
'From the newspaper. You remember they did an article about you.'
They could see her searching her memory. She looked confused, but slightly less suspicious. 'All fucking lies.'
'I know. The man who wrote it was fired.'
'Fucking should have been.'
'They still you owe you a fee,' Craig said, showing her the money. 'Here it is. A hundred pounds.'
Peggy Forester blinked a few times, her brain working so furiously they could almost hear the cogs turning. Then she put the knife on the draining board and nodded. Held out her hand.
'Give it here.'
Craig approached cautiously. 'We have to come in, I'm afraid. You need to sign a receipt.'
The woman eyed him, as if she didn't understand. Craig stopped a couple of feet from her. She thrust out her hand. 'Give it.'
'I can't do that, Mrs Forester. You have to sign for it.'
There was a stand-off for maybe thirty seconds. Craig held her gaze, showing no fear, offering no possibility of a compromise. Moving closer, Julia saw her face was a mass of broken blood vessels. Her eyes were milky and restless. Her hands shook as if under someone else's control.
Craig looked at his watch. He gave the tiniest of shrugs, turning to Julia as if preparing to depart.
A flash of panic showed in Peggy's eyes. 'Come on, then,' she said. 'Get it over with.'
The killer was either very lucky or very unlucky. He couldn't decide which. A few minutes either way could have made all the difference.
The VW Golf had passed him while he was still planning his approach. He watched them pull up outside her house. Saw the man get out and realised it must be Craig Walker. It took him slightly longer to identify the woman, and at first he couldn't believe it was really her. He didn't want to believe it.
He sat very still, controlling his reaction. He watched them recoil at the state of the garden. When they got back in their car he dared to think he'd had a lucky escape, but he didn't entirely believe it. They wouldn't give up this easily.
He got out and explored on foot. He soon found the overgrown path that ran along the back, and sure enough, he could hear them thrashing through the weeds. He moved back, well out of sight, and reflected on his luck. If he had acted perhaps ten, fifteen minutes earlier, there would be no one for them to talk to.
On the other hand, he might have left the house and walked straight into them. That would have been a catastrophe.
He returned to the car and drove it round the corner, parking at a safe distance from the Golf. He wanted to see them when they came out. Perhaps something in their body language would hint at what they'd discovered.
Peggy Forester stood back to let them enter, then shut and locked the back door. The kitchen was a small square room with hideous green units that might have been the originals from the Fifties. The floor was brown lino, cracked and split with age. There was a small Formica table and two chairs. A coffee mug and a half-empty bottle of supermarket-brand vodka sat on the table. An old saucer doubled as an ashtray, overflowing with butts.
The kitchen's inner door was shut, so they couldn't see any more of the house. Julia shivered. She felt claustrophobic and frightened. The room wasn't big enough for three adults, especially when one of them reeked of alcohol and had a knife within reach.
But Craig admired the room with the relaxed enthusiasm of an estate agent at a viewing. 'Nice kitchen,' he said without a trace of irony.
Peggy grunted. 'It's my place.' Then she turned her head and muttered, as if to someone standing behind her.
Julia exchanged a glance with Craig, whose eyes briefly widened. He indicated the chairs but Julia shook her head. She felt safer standing.
'Why don't you sit down, Peggy,' he said, taking the other seat for himself. 'Terrible mess out the front,' he added conversationally.
'Never go out there,' she said. 'Not safe.'
'You mean you're not safe?' Craig asked.
'Not safe anywhere. Only here. I don't go nowhere.'
Julia couldn't help shrinking back as Peggy crossed the room. Thankfully she'd left the knife on the draining board. She poured some vodka into the mug and slurped it down.
Craig produced a sheet of paper and smoothed it out on the table. It was filled with text and had two dotted lines at the bottom for a signatory and a witness.
'I don't suppose you get many visitors?' he said.
'Eh?'
'People coming to see you. Carl's friends, for instance. Do they visit you?'
Peggy's eyes narrowed hatefully, perhaps at the mention of her son's name, or perhaps because she'd deduced what Craig was doing. Her hands twisted together, working out her agitation. Her left leg was juddering to the same tempo as her hands.
'Don't see no one,' she said. 'Got my money?'
'Yes, a hundred pounds.'
She nodded hungrily.
Craig said, 'What if I gave you two hundred?'
She nodded again. 'Two hundred.'
'Yes, but I need you to tell me something. Something about Carl.'
'I don't know nothing. Told the police. That fucking bitch.' She tottered to her feet, searching for the knife. Craig gently took her arms, easing her back down.
'It's all right, Peggy. We're not the police.'
'Fucking police. Hate 'em.'
'I'm sure you do. I want to know about Carl's friend. The one who helped him on January nineteenth. Do you understand what I mean?'
Her eyes roved the room, anxious not to make contact with him. Didn't know him.'
'You didn't know the other man?'
'What other man?'
Craig exchanged a glance with Julia. The conversation had the rhythm of a comedy routine, but no one was laughing.
'Are you talking about Carl?' he asked, confused.
'Little bastard stole from me. Always thieving. Tried to make him learn. He was mine. You're allowed to hit 'em if they're yours. To make 'em learn.' She grabbed the mug and drank greedily. A dribble of alcohol ran down her chin and she caught it with her hand. Then she licked her palm like a child with an ice cream.
Craig suppressed a shudder. He turned to Julia: What now?
On impulse she said, 'Mrs Forester, did Carl have a motorbike?' Peggy reacted as if she hadn't known Julia was in the room. She scrutinised her closely, deciding if she posed a threat.
'It wasn't his. Too nice for him. I said he must've stole it.'
Julia stared at Craig. Her heart was thumping so loudly she imagined he could hear it. She had to moisten her lips before she dared speak again.
'He stole a motorbike?'
'He said it was a lend. Giving it a ride.'
'Who lent it to him, can you remember?'
'Said it was secret. Thieving little bastard.'
'Why was it a secret?' asked Craig.
'Wasn't allowed to tell. Said he'd kill me.' She took another mouthful of neat vodka, swallowing it as though it were water.
Craig was frowning, trying to make sense of what she'd said. 'Carl threatened to kill you?'
She spat with disgust. Craig recoiled from the fine spray of vodka.
'Not Carl,' she said.
Julia understood. 'You mean the other man?' she said. 'Carl's friend would kill you. Is that what Carl told you?'
'Said he'd come here. In the night. Said he'd kill me.'
'And did you tell this to the police?' Craig asked.
Peggy addressed Julia as if she hadn't heard him. 'Fucking police. Saying I made him wrong. I stuck my knife in her.' Her eyes glittered with pleasure. 'Serves her right. Bitch copper.'
'Mrs Forester, what about the other man? Why did he tel
l Carl he'd kill you?'
''Cause he could. He could do anything, Carl said.' She raised the mug, then stopped and looked directly at Julia. 'Carl said he was the Devil.'
Thirty-Nine
In all the long months of planning and preparation, he'd only been unlucky twice. That was how he saw it. He hadn't made mistakes. He hadn't fucked up. He'd been unlucky.
The first incident, he'd dealt with it promptly and effectively. It was old news now. He barely gave it a thought.
The second incident, he'd needed to visit Forester at home. Some important last-minute instructions. He made sure the mother was out on one of her extended drinking sessions, but still he'd worn a suit and carried a briefcase. He had a cover story ready, in case Peggy walked in on them. Carl, dumbfuck that he was, couldn't see why one was necessary.
'So I don't have to kill her, remember?'
Just as he was finishing up she blundered in, pissed and incoherent and bleeding from the nose. She'd got into a fight with two men over a game of darts and been thrown out of the pub.
He introduced himself as an insurance salesman. Could he interest her in a life policy at a modest monthly premium? Peggy went ballistic, accusing him of trying to take advantage of her dimwitted son. At this, Carl had scowled angrily and said nothing.
After screaming at him for letting a stranger into the house, Peggy slapped her son's face hard enough to leave a handprint on his cheek, while Carl just stood there and took it. Too scared and stupid to fight back. The next time they met, Carl was sporting a black eye and a split lip. But he swore he'd kept to the story. And Peggy had swallowed it.
Even so, there was a slim chance she would remember him. If she did, she might be able to identify him. And that made her a threat.
He'd been there about fifteen minutes when he saw movement in his rear-view mirror. Walker and Trent emerged from the footpath and crossed the road towards their car. It was difficult to read their mood at this distance, but he thought the woman looked a bit shaky, a bit unsteady on her feet. In contrast, Walker seemed fired up, as though it had been a successful visit.
