Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  Feeling about seven years old, Julia repeated, 'Walk slowly. Don't run.'

  'No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.'

  'No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.'

  'I will adopt a lifestyle appropriate to a sensible young woman recovering from a serious gunshot wound.'

  'No,' said Julia. 'That's just too condescending.'

  The doctor laughed. 'Yeah, I was pushing it a bit, but you get the point, don't you?'

  It was nearly midnight before she was able to leave. She was touched to find Craig waiting for her, and even more gratified when he insisted they take a taxi back to Lewes.

  'But it'll cost a fortune,' she said. 'Surely there are still trains running?'

  'You're not getting a train after what you've been through, and neither am I.'

  After hushed negotiations at the taxi rank, and a quick detour to a cashpoint, they drove home in relative comfort. Sitting together on the back seat, sharing an exhausted, intimate silence, there was a moment when Julia was tempted to raise the one thorny issue that remained between them. She was still debating how to broach the subject when she fell asleep, and she didn't awake until they reached the Cuilfail tunnel on the approach to Lewes. She opened her eyes to find Craig watching her, a gentle smile on his face, and knew she couldn't mention it now.

  Her flat was one of six in a double-fronted Edwardian villa in a narrow road behind the castle. When the taxi pulled up, Craig insisted on seeing her safely inside. Her main set of keys had been left in the hotel, but fortunately one of her neighbours kept a spare set. Even more fortunately, she didn't resent being woken by Julia.

  Craig followed her up the stairs and waited while she unlocked her door. 'You sure you're going to be all right? You're welcome to the spare room at my dad's place.'

  'I have to get used to living here again at some point. Might as well be tonight.'

  Craig didn't look happy about it, but finally relented. 'I guess there's no reason to assume the killer has your address, but don't answer the door to strangers. Don't let anyone in here.'

  'Craig, I've lived on my own for years. I know the score.'

  'Yeah. Sorry. But ring me if you need anything.'

  His farewell was accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, and Julia was struck by the contrast with the last time they'd parted; how morose she had felt that their journey together might have ended.

  Once inside she had gone straight to bed. Her sleep was deep and dreamless, and she'd woken this morning with the feeling that she was entering a new phase of her life. The fire at the hotel had interrupted her recuperation, but also served as a warning that she had to take the whole process more seriously from now on.

  In the meantime, the day stretched ahead of her with the promise of nothing more than simple domestic chores. After so long away from her home, it was a blissful prospect.

  At seven-thirty she made coffee – black, because there was no milk – and took it back to bed. After a little more daydreaming she picked up the diary, which she'd kept with her like a talisman at the hospital, careful never to let it out of her sight. She was aware of a reluctance to intrude on her father's privacy, and at first she could only skim the pages, as if this way she was merely skipping lightly through her parents' lives, rather than trampling all over them.

  Until a name stopped her dead. Left her gripping the diary, staring at it in disbelief.

  Carl Forester.

  It appeared in the second week of August. Earlier entries had revealed her father fretting over the conifer trees in the back garden. They'd grown too high and become unmanageable. The publican at the Green Man recommended Forester, described by her father as a local chap, from Falcombe, willing to do odd jobs.

  Feeling a tightness in her chest, she turned the page to the following week. She spotted the name again, in the entry for 17 August.

  Carl Forester here this afternoon. Cut the conifers by eight or nine feet. I should be able to handle them from now on. Charged £30 cash. Seems a good deal. A nice enough lad, but very quiet. Possibly not 'all there'.

  She read it half a dozen times before it sank in. Then she shut the diary, unable to face any more.

  Carl Forester had known her parents. He had been in their house. He'd probably been offered endless drinks while he was working. Perhaps he'd eaten their biscuits or some home-made cake.

  She had an image of him standing in their garden, his spiky hair wet with sweat. A glass of lemonade in one hand, perhaps a chainsaw in the other. Her father doing his best to make conversation, perhaps pointing out the rose bushes or the shed he'd so proudly assembled.

  At any moment Carl could have snapped. He could have killed them. Was the rage already building? Was he harbouring fantasies about unleashing death on the village?

  She lay back on the bed and tried to make sense of it. She knew her response was irrational, but to discover her parents had had a seemingly innocent encounter with Forester, with the man who had tried to kill her, affected her in ways she couldn't explain.

  She closed her eyes and a rush of images ran through her mind. The chase across the village green. The second killer striding towards Forester. Carl's whoop of celebration as the two men exchanged a high five.

  Then she remembered something that made her sit up with a jolt.

  The whoop. The sound he'd made.

  And she knew she had to go back to Chilton.

  Forty-Eight

  Three or four times a week DI Sullivan ate breakfast at a transport café on the A3, a few miles from his home in New Malden. It was his cardinal rule that these breakfasts were consumed without interruption, so any and all incoming calls were ignored for the duration of the meal. On Thursday morning this proved hugely beneficial.

  Only when he'd wiped the plate with the last piece of toast, drained his mug of tea and wiped a blob of ketchup from his shirt did he pick up his phone. There was a short, terse message from Craig Walker, wanting to arrange a meeting. The hint of a demand irked Sullivan, so he decided to make Craig wait.

  First he rang George Matheson and gave him the inside track on the fire at Peggy Forester's place. The body they'd recovered from the ruins was almost definitely hers.

  'What about the cause?'

  'There's not much left for forensics to work with, but it's about fifty– fifty between accident or foul play. Some evidence of an accelerant in the kitchen, but it was probably the booze she was always chucking down her throat.'

  'That's interesting,' George said. 'Have you identified any recent visitors to the house?'

  Sullivan's antenna twitched. 'Sounds like you know something.'

  'Craig Walker was there yesterday morning. Along with Julia Trent.'

  'I'll check, but I don't think they've come forward.' He whistled. 'Do you think they topped her?'

  'I wouldn't like to say,' George quickly added. 'Obviously I'm telling you this in an unofficial capacity.'

  'Of course. Do you want to make it official?'

  'I'm not sure if that's altogether wise.'

  'Could be more useful to sit on it for now.'

  George cleared his throat. 'Well, yes. That was my thinking.'

  Sullivan barely ended the call before a cackle of laughter burst out. Talk about lucky. He pulled at his mouth a couple of times, trying to form a solemn expression for his next conversation.

  Craig must have been getting his kids ready for school. There was a girl whingeing in the background.

  'What's this about a meeting?' Sullivan said.

  'We need to discuss my investigation.'

  'What's that got to do with me? I gave you the report and the address of the hotel. That's me done.' He stopped there, careful not to overplay his disinterest.

  'I think you'll want to hear this.' Craig sounded subdued, hard to make out above the whining girl. Sullivan wondered why he didn't just give her a slap.

  'All right,' he said. 'I can spare you half an hour this afternoon.'

  Julia had several misgi
vings about going out so soon, but justified it on the basis that she wasn't breaking her pledge to the doctor. She didn't intend to do any running, jumping or anything else. And he hadn't said she mustn't drive.

  Leaving the flat, she was half convinced her Mini wouldn't start, although a friend who lived locally had been keeping an eye on it for her. The handbrake was a bit sticky, but the car started on the third attempt. Apart from religiously checking her mirror for signs of someone following, it was a wonderful feeling to be driving again: another big step towards regaining her independence.

  She was in Chilton at just after eight. The good weather was holding, and by the time she parked outside the church it was probably fifteen degrees warmer than it had been on 19 January. Certainly mild enough for just a cotton top and a light jacket.

  Aside from that, there were some disturbing similarities with the morning of the massacre. No one in sight, and little sound apart from the coarse cry of the rooks. Her muscles kept flexing as she crossed the green, her body willing her to jump in the car and drive away.

  A couple of For Sale boards had gone up in Arundel Crescent. At number two the trap window in the upstairs bedroom was open, just as it had been on 19 January. As she reached the front door Julia heard thumping inside, then a clamour of voices. She rang the doorbell, wondering if it stood any chance of being heard.

  After a few seconds an internal door banged shut, muffling the noise. There was the rattle of a chain, and the front door opened a few inches. A man peered out.

  'Gordon Jones?'

  'Who wants to know?'

  'My name's Julia Trent. I wonder if I could speak to your wife?'

  He scrutinised her carefully. 'You were here, on the nineteenth?'

  'Yes.'

  Removing the safety chain, he opened the door and seemed to relax. He was in his forties, Julia guessed, with thin limbs but a large torso. He had grey hair and a thick moustache that aged him by at least five years. His forehead was creased into a permanent frown.

  There was another loud bang from inside the house. Gordon turned and shouted, 'Stop fighting! You've got ten minutes to get ready.'

  Julia offered a sympathetic smile. 'I need to talk to your wife.'

  'She doesn't live here now.' His voice was flat, as though all the emotion had been wrung from him long ago. 'She had a . . . a nervous breakdown. I tried to help her. We all did. But she insisted on moving out. She was worried the children might be taken away from her.'

  A piercing shriek was followed by raucous laughter. Gordon flinched.

  'I have a childminder while I'm at work, and my mother helps out when she can. But it's not the same.'

  'How often does she visit?'

  'She doesn't. It's too upsetting.' He pushed a hand through his hair and let out a juddering sigh. 'That bastard ruined a lot of lives. Sometimes I wish he hadn't shot himself. I'd like to . . .' He trailed off, his gaze focusing on a different future. Then he snapped back to the present. 'I'll get you the address.'

  When he opened the living-room door, Julia glimpsed two small boys wrestling on the floor. An older girl danced round them, pumping her fists and chanting: 'Fight, fight, fight!'

  Gordon returned with a notepad and pen. 'It's a rented flat in Brighton,' he said as he wrote it out.

  'You go to see her?'

  'Once or twice a week.' Almost shamefully, he added, 'She never answers the door.'

  'Why not? You didn't do anything wrong.'

  'I was away, the day it happened. On a damn stag weekend, of all things. I don't think she'll ever forgive me for making her cope on her own. That's my role, isn't it? Husband and father. I'm supposed to protect my family.'

  But nothing happened to them, Julia almost said. She knew Alice's response had nothing to do with what was logical or rational. Gordon probably knew it too.

  A sob escaped his throat. Embarrassed, he tore the page from the notebook and held it out. 'Tell her we miss her,' he said. 'Tell her to come home.'

  The buzz of his intercom woke him at some ungodly hour. Toby ignored it, but then his mobile rang. His business phone, which narrowed the range of callers somewhat.

  Swearing, he threw back the covers and rubbed his eyes. After checking the mobile's display, he swore again and got up to answer the intercom. A familiar voice growled, 'You've got about thirty seconds to make yourself decent.'

  He pulled on jogging pants and a t-shirt, and was taming his hair with water when Vilner rapped on the door. Toby lived in a sixth-floor apartment in Chelsea Harbour, which cost a straight million five years ago but had already appreciated by nearly fifty per cent.

  He opened the door. Vilner was alone, looking fresh and relaxed and dangerously cheerful. He was wearing jeans and a suede jacket over a white shirt. He grinned when he saw Toby.

  'Not a morning person, then?'

  'No. What do you want?'

  'Coffee would be good, for starters.'

  Toby scowled, but didn't argue. Vilner followed him into the living room, where he made a show of admiring the apartment. Drawn by the view, he wandered over to the balcony doors and looked out at the marina and the Thames beyond. Toby went into the adjoining kitchen, put the kettle on and found an old jar of instant coffee. He wasn't going to brew fresh for Vilner. When he returned to the living room, Vilner let out a long whistle.

  'So this is how you rich boys live? Bit bloody different from where I grew up.'

  'You know, I'm surprised you can walk with the size of the chip on your shoulder.'

  A flash of anger from Vilner, then a grudging smile. His eyes roved the room and settled on one of the few things that looked out of place. A little pile of paper on the floor.

  'As it happens, I had a very modest start in life,' Toby said quickly. 'My mother never had any money. My aunt and uncle offered help, but she didn't always take it.'

  'Why's that?' Vilner was ambling towards the document.

  'They didn't approve of her lifestyle. There were always conditions attached. Sometimes she wouldn't meet them.'

  'So you lost out as a result?' Vilner leaned over and examined the title page.

  'Not really,' Toby said, adding smugly: 'Not once they put me in boarding school.'

  But Vilner wasn't listening. He knelt a little awkwardly and picked up the report. The report Toby had sworn not to show to anyone else.

  'Where'd you get this?'

  'George. Someone leaked it to him.'

  Vilner wore a triumphant smile. 'You won't mind if I have a look?'

  'Go ahead.' There was nothing he could have done, Toby told himself. He made the coffee and brought it out. Vilner was leafing through the report.

  'Craig Walker's seen this,' he said. 'Him and Julia Trent were at your uncle's yesterday.'

  Before Toby could put on a poker face, it was too late. Vilner tutted. 'Oh dear. I don't think our Toby's in the loop any more.'

  Toby sipped his coffee, and grimaced. The question he wanted to ask was, What were you doing there? But instead he said, 'What did they want?'

  'A guarantee there won't be a second application.'

  'I hope George didn't give it to them. He's agreed I could get started on preliminary work for the development.'

  Vilner exuded a vague sense of pity as he searched Toby's face, as though looking for something he already knew was absent. It made Toby uneasy.

  'I know my uncle's getting worked up about this,' he said, keen to break the silence. 'But I don't see the problem myself. I think we'll be fine.'

  'Well, that's a comfort,' said Vilner with a dry insincerity. Still holding the report, he set his coffee down and wandered out of the room as if this were his own apartment.

  'Where are you going?'

  'Having a look round.'

  Toby felt a sense of dread as he followed Vilner into the spare bedroom, which was used as an office. There was a large pinboard on the wall, covered in architectural drawings and site plans and an artist's impression of the finished development in sump
tuous watercolours. There was also a double-page spread from the Daily Express, showing a photograph of Carl Forester as a mischievous gap-toothed schoolboy beneath the headline: THE MAN WHO KILLED A VILLAGE.

  Vilner stood and examined the board, the blond stubble on his chin glittering under the recessed lights. He tutted, shaking his head. Just as Toby went to ask what was wrong, Vilner dropped the report and grabbed the front of his t-shirt. His other hand was now holding a pistol.

  That's why he was wearing a loose shirt, Toby thought. That's why he couldn't kneel properly.

  Vilner slammed him against the wall. Toby groaned and tried to protest, but Vilner forced the gun into his mouth, drawing blood that mingled with the oily taste of the metal.

  'I'm getting sick of this,' Vilner growled. 'You. George. All these different fucking agendas, and I reckon at the top of every one it says: screw Vilner.'

  Toby did his best to shake his head. Not true.

  'You owe me over a quarter of a million quid. You promised me a contract worth a million or more. But I'm starting to think I'm being sold a pup.'

  His pressure on the gun eased up a little. Enough for Toby to splutter and say, 'You're not. I swear it. No one's trying to rip you off.'

  'Then sell this place. Pay me what you owe.'

  'I can't.' Toby swallowed blood. 'It's in George's name.'

  Vilner shook his head. 'You useless fucking parasite.'

  'The development,' Toby said, hating the way it came out as little more than a gargle. 'It'll be worth the wait.'

  'Yeah? Well, you'd better make bloody sure it happens. Otherwise I'll find another way to get what I'm owed. The messy, painful way. You understand?'

  Toby nodded. Vilner stepped back, swept up the report and marched out of the room. Toby waited until the front door slammed shut before sinking to the floor and covering his face with his hands.

  Forty-Nine

  As she crossed the green, Julia's gaze was fixed on the grass ahead. She wasn't aware of anyone nearby until someone said, 'Miss Trent?'

  She started, almost dropping the note, and found George Matheson beside her. Registering her alarm, he stepped back. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.'