by Tom Bale
So what had Peggy given them?
He sat very still and waited until they had driven past. Then he made sure he had what he needed, and opened his door.
Time to find out.
They didn't talk much on the way back. Squeezing through the hedge, Craig tore his shirt and swore loudly enough to set a dog barking further down the block.
When he got in the car he looked uncharacteristically sombre. 'I've spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like, meeting the mother of the man who killed my father. I thought I would hate her, but really I just felt sorry for her.'
'What was all that about a newspaper owing her money?'
'I made it up. I knew she'd be reluctant to talk.'
'You know she'll just spend it on booze.'
'Yeah, and do you know what?' he said. 'I don't blame her.' He started the car and pulled away. 'We'll get some lunch, shall we?'
She didn't argue, although the encounter with Peggy Forester had sapped her strength. She wanted to stand in the shower and scrub away every trace of the visit.
They decided on the Half Moon in Plumpton, tucked away on a quiet country road. It was the kind of place her parents had loved, Julia thought sadly, thinking of all the major family occasions they'd celebrated with a meal in a cosy Sussex pub.
As she got out of the Golf, a sudden cramp in her stomach made her gasp. She doubled over, retching a couple of times. Craig hurried round to her and tentatively rubbed her back.
'Are you all right?'
'Fine,' she managed, still coughing. She straightened up, her vision distorted by tears, and forced a smile. 'Just need to rest for a while.'
'Do you want me to take you home?'
She shook her head, hoping he wouldn't see how tempted she was.
'Let's see how I feel after we've eaten.'
He went in the same way as Walker and the woman. There were no other options.
First he waited a minute or two, watching for movement at the neighbour's windows. He held a mobile phone to his ear in case anyone came along the path. When he'd decided it was clear, he took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. He pushed open the gate and scurried towards the house, keeping low so Peggy wouldn't see him.
Pressed tight against the wall, he ducked beneath her kitchen window, then reached out and tapped lightly on the back door: the kind of noise a cat would make. Even if she didn't have a cat, she was bound to be curious.
He heard her muttering as she unlocked the door. As soon as it opened he sprang up and launched himself into the house, shoving Peggy in the chest. She stumbled backwards, yelping in surprise. A half-smoked cigarette fell from her mouth. She struck the table and fell to the floor. A bottle of vodka toppled over and began slopping out its contents. Perfect.
Peggy was still too shocked to scream, but he didn't have long. He pushed the door shut with his heel and grabbed her arms as she floundered, trying to grip the table and get to her feet. He kicked her in the stomach, just hard enough to knock the wind from her.
She made a groaning sound. Her head was flopping loosely on her neck, eyes wild and disorientated. She was drunk, he realised. She couldn't make sense of what was happening.
Even better.
He knelt on her chest and pinned her arms to the floor. Put his face close to hers and watched carefully as her eyes swam into focus. They were wide with incomprehension, but they contained no recognition. She didn't remember him. Maybe he was in the clear.
'Those visitors,' he said. 'What did they want?'
She blinked several times. 'Money,' she said, perhaps thinking he was here to steal from her. 'Hundred quid. You can have it.'
He shook his head. Pressed his knee harder. 'What did you tell them?'
'Nothing. Told 'em nothing.'
'You're lying. They asked you about Carl. Tell me.'
'They wanted to know about the bike. I said it wasn't his.'
'A bike?' For a second he was genuinely confused. 'What sort of bike?'
'Someone gave him a lend. Noisy fucking thing. Green, it was.'
Then it clicked. The Kawasaki. On one occasion he'd brought it down to try it out over the fields. He'd let Carl take it for a ride, and the stupid bastard had disappeared for nearly an hour. He claimed he'd just taken it round the country lanes, but he must have gone home and showed it to his mother. And now Walker and Julia Trent knew about it.
One slip-up and you're finished.
'No,' he said aloud. He wasn't going to let that happen.
Craig ordered a cheddar ploughman's and a pint of Harveys bitter; Julia had soup and sparkling water. She found a vacant table and sat down. Combined with last night's dream, Peggy Forester's reference to the Devil was resonating powerfully in her mind. When she lifted the visor, was it the shock of recognition that had caused her to recoil, or something far worse?
She jumped as Craig touched her arm. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing,' she said. 'Just a silly idea.'
'What?'
She shook her head. She couldn't tell him. Instead she said, 'Even if Peggy told the police what she just told us, they'd still dismiss it. They'd assume it was Carl who threatened to kill her.'
'Maybe. But we're not the police. We know there was someone else involved, and Peggy Forester has just confirmed it.'
Julia pulled a face. 'I wouldn't go that far. Even if what she said is true, we're no closer to identifying who this man is.'
Craig grudgingly assented, then took a long drink of beer.
'Still, it gives us some leverage with Matheson, don't you think?'
Peggy Forester just stared at him. Sobering quickly, but still too befuddled to know what was going on.
He grabbed her arms and half lifted her, yanking her upright until she was on her knees. Then he used all his strength to slam her head against the edge of the table. She hit it high on the skull with a thick, heavy sound. Her eyes rolled up in her head and blood gushed from the wound. When he let go she dropped like a dead weight, collapsing into the puddle of vodka around the table.
He plucked up the cigarette, saw it was still alight. He turned and examined the room. The kitchen window was open a couple of inches. The ledge was thick with grime. It was home to a bottle of washingup liquid and a small army of dead flies.
He removed the key from the back door, then returned his attention to Peggy. She was unconscious. Not dead. That was better, really, for his purposes. But the next bit was tricky. He needed her to stay unconscious. He needed to be sure.
The floor was obviously uneven, for the vodka had spread in an arc, a little finger jutting out towards the hallway. Careful not to tread in it, he reached over and picked up the bottle. He poured the rest of the alcohol over Peggy's shoulders and hair.
Then he stepped back as far as he could and tossed the cigarette on to her body. It landed in the crook of her neck, disappearing in the folds of her sweatshirt. He'd assumed it would ignite the alcohol with an almost clear flame, like a sambuca or a Christmas pudding. But nothing happened.
Shit. He'd have to rethink. Perhaps light a match.
And then he saw something which made him smile. A tendril of grey smoke emerged from the sweatshirt. Then another, slow and sinuous. Then several at the same time. Fascinated, he took a couple of steps closer. He could see little yellow flames blinking in and out of existence within her clothing. The sweatshirt was melting, turning black. And still Peggy lay immobile.
He realised he was going to have to stay and watch. Not just to make sure the fire took hold, but because it was so absorbing. How many times did you get the chance to see someone burned alive?
It took a few minutes for the fire to get going, and by then it had burned through to her skin. The vodka on the floor ignited, scorching the cheap linoleum and producing foul-smelling smoke. He retreated to the door, covering his mouth with his hand. It was almost time to leave.
He left the kitchen window open a fraction, partly to draw in oxygen for the fire. He took the key,
stepped into the back garden and locked the door behind him. Then he slipped the key through the window and dropped it on to the ledge.
He retraced his route through the hedge and along the footpath. He was back at his car, sipping from a bottle of Evian, when he saw a plume of smoke rising over the rooftops.
It was another ten minutes before a fire engine thundered past. His car shook in its slipstream.
'Hurry up, lads,' he muttered. 'You'll miss the barbecue.'
Forty
They stretched lunch out to well over an hour, and by the time they left the pub Julia felt physically refreshed and in far better spirits. The jitters didn't set in until they were a mile or so out from Chilton, and it suddenly struck her that they were about to confront the man who might have masterminded the slaughter on 19 January.
'Tell me about George Matheson,' she said.
'The classic self-made man,' Craig said. 'Came from an ordinary middle-class family. Not academically brilliant, but very bright, very tough. They reckon you could never get one over on him. Had a lot of luck, as well. Moved into property at the right time, got out of equities before the stock market dived.'
'Good at reading the future, or inside knowledge?'
'Bit of both, I imagine. In interviews he's always boasting about his instinct. When he buys a company, he doesn't care about all the due diligence and formal paperwork. He visits the premises, talks to the staff on the shop floor. If he gets a good feel about the place, he'll buy it regardless of what the balance sheet says.'
'And it's always worked?'
'Not so much lately. There are rumours that he's overreached himself. He's sold off quite a few assets in the past few years, mainly to help prop up the core business, but there are signs that it hasn't worked.'
'Hence the planning application?'
Craig nodded. 'Twenty or thirty million in the coffers, I guess that's going to ease the financial pressure.'
Julia mulled it over. She knew they were both thinking the same thing. Was Matheson desperate enough to countenance mass murder for that money?
'What about his wife?'
'Vanessa. They've been married for thirty years. She comes from one of those old families with oodles of class but no money. He was the bit of rough who went out and made a fortune. She gave him the respectability and the contacts he needed on his way up.'
'Sounds like a good match.'
'By all accounts it's a pretty empty relationship these days,' said Craig. 'Whether he's got someone on the side, I've no idea.'
'Do they have children?'
'No. They tried for years, according to one article I read. But there was some kind of problem. Of course the fertility treatment wasn't as sophisticated as it is now.'
'That's sad.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'You feel sorry for him?'
'In that respect, yes.' She matched his disdain. 'We don't know he's done anything wrong. Let's not prejudge, eh?'
'All right,' he said. But he sounded a little grumpy, and once again she wondered if it was a mistake to get involved. Did she really have the appetite for this?
Tall wrought-iron gates barred their entrance to the property. Craig pulled up alongside an intercom and pressed the button. After a few seconds a gruff male voice said, 'Yes?'
'Craig Walker, to see George Matheson.'
There was a pause. The speaker clicked off and the gates began to move apart.
'Was that a servant, or the man himself?' Julia said, as they drove along a winding gravel drive.
'I'm not sure if he has any servants,' Craig said. 'Apparently they live quite frugally.'
'Really?' Frugal wasn't the word she'd use to describe the stunning white mansion gliding into view behind a screen of immaculately trimmed poplars.
Craig heard her intake of breath and said, 'Parts of it date back to the fifteenth century. Something like eighteen rooms, plus a pool, tennis court and a couple of acres of formal gardens.'
They parked next to a brand-new Jaguar saloon. Julia shut her eyes for a moment, steadying her nerves.
As she got out, George Matheson emerged on to the grand portico. He was taller than she'd expected, six feet or thereabouts, but a little stooped. He had thick grey hair and unruly eyebrows, framing strong features and a ruddy complexion. He looked more like a retired builder than a wealthy entrepreneur.
At first she was concentrating so hard on walking without any sign of impairment that she failed to register the confusion on Matheson's face. It was only when she reached the steps she saw him staring at her as though she were a ghost.
He looks terrified, she thought. But the insight did little to ease her own anxiety.
'This is Julia Trent,' said Craig as he walked up the steps.
'Yes. I, ah . . . yes.' George shook hands with Craig, then abruptly turned before Julia had time to offer her hand.
Leading them inside, he indicated where they could hang their coats and then strode across a vast entrance hall. The walls boasted a tasteful selection of oil paintings, mostly landscapes, some preciouslooking urns and an imposing grandfather clock in the corner. Julia had a moment to admire the wide double staircase and galleried landing, before they entered an equally vast living room. This time the artwork was mostly watercolours and a few pencil drawings: all figurative, probably originals, probably very valuable.
Sensing movement in her peripheral vision, she turned to see a man in a black suit step away from one of the immense sash windows. He was about as tall as George, with a slender but powerful physique and close-cropped fair hair. He was good-looking in a slightly coarse way, with a large nose and well-defined cheekbones. His skin was taut but blotchy, with traces of acne scars beneath both ears. His eyes narrowed, emanating hostility.
'This is James Vilner,' said George. 'He's, uh, an associate of mine.'
Vilner nodded curtly, but he didn't say a word in greeting. He directed his gaze at each of them in turn, then resumed his position at the window. The sight of his broad back and apparent indifference sent a chill through her. The effect was somehow more intimidating than if he'd marched up and stood looking over their shoulders.
George indicated a haphazard selection of sofas and chairs, and asked if they wanted a drink.
'Just had lunch,' said Craig.
Julia also declined, and caught Matheson's relief. He kept snatching furtive glances at her, his eyes feasting on her body as if mentally undressing her. Not ogling her breasts, she realised. Trying to picture her wounds.
'You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,' he blurted when she caught him at it.
'Thank you.'
He turned his attention to Craig. 'And can I offer my condolences. As far as I'm concerned, your father's campaign was never personal. I bore him no ill will, and I'm sure he felt the same.'
Craig nodded slowly. 'I guess I owe you an apology, as well. What I said about the development was never intended to be made public.'
At first George looked gratified, then grimly amused. 'But you stand by your comments?'
'I'm here to see if you can change my mind.'
'And how would I do that?'
'Give me a cast-iron commitment that there'll be no second application. You'll guarantee the land around Chilton won't be developed under any circumstances.'
George gave a little bark of laughter, and shook his head regretfully. Julia glanced at Vilner, sensing that he had absorbed every word.
'That's asking the impossible,' George said, his gaze also flickering towards Vilner. 'No one can predict the future. It's quite feasible that, in time, opinions will change.'
'So you do intend to make a fresh application?'
'I don't necessarily intend anything of the sort,' George said. Julia thought she detected a degree of emphasis on the I, but Craig didn't seem to pick up on it.
'You know the police have completed the preliminary report?' he said.
George shook his head, but his eyes slid away. 'What's that got to do with a
nything?'
'It's a whitewash,' Craig declared. 'Julia wasn't shot by Carl Forester. There was another man there. Dressed in motorcycle leathers and a full-face helmet. He killed Carl and made it look like suicide. He got away before the police arrived.'
George's mouth tightened. There was another darting look at Vilner, and it struck Julia that perhaps George found the other man's presence just as unnerving as they did. But if so, why was he here?
Then she realised Vilner had turned and was staring right at her.
'Is this correct?' George asked.
Julia nodded. 'Yes.'
Vilner spoke for the first time. 'What did the police say?'
'They didn't . . . they thought—'
'That you'd imagined it?' George answered for her.
Her shoulders dropped and she turned away, determined not to let him rile her.
'We've just spoken to Peggy Forester,' said Craig, drawing their attention away from Julia. 'Carl had befriended someone, but he wouldn't tell his mother who. According to him, this friend said he'd kill her if she ever found out about him.'
'And Peggy confirmed the friend had a motorbike.'
George waited a second, then forced a laugh. 'And you regard that as proof of your theory? The woman's a hopeless alcoholic, isn't she?'
'She was lucid enough this morning,' said Craig.
Vilner took a few steps towards them. His eyes were still narrowed, unreadable. 'So what are you after, really?' he demanded.
George raised a hand to quieten him. 'Whatever it is, I don't think this meeting will achieve anything.'
Emboldened by the knowledge that Vilner could be held in check, Julia said, 'What happened at the farm?'
George looked taken aback. 'I beg your pardon?'
'The report mentions an incident, a couple of years ago. Carl assaulted the farmer's wife.'
'Laura Caplan, yes,' said George. He cleared his throat. 'Carl let himself into the house. He had a selection of her underwear spread out on the kitchen table. When Laura walked in she found him masturbating over them. Her daughter also witnessed it. They were very distressed.'
'He was sacked as a result?'
'Yes. Of course, the police told me they think it was a factor in . . . in what he did.' He shifted in his seat. 'Believe me, I've examined my conscience on many an occasion since then, and I'm absolutely certain I was right to fire him.'
