Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  She said nothing. Her heart was beating wildly; her body clammy with panic. To her relief, a man emerged from one of the homes in the crescent. She wasn't alone. She had witnesses.

  George's face was creased with anxiety. A sheen in his eyes suggested recent tears. While she regained her composure, he studied the floral tributes heaped around the tree.

  'Isn't it peculiar how grief has to be paraded these days? I've always found it rather off-putting, but there's no doubting the sincerity.'

  Julia said coolly, 'I suppose we each do what's best for us.'

  'Absolutely.' He nodded towards the crescent. 'I take it that wasn't a social visit?'

  'I wanted to see Alice Jones.'

  'Still determined to unearth a conspiracy?'

  Stung by his derision, she said, 'I have my own reason to speak to her.'

  He waited for an explanation, but she was determined not to supply it.

  'You've heard about Peggy Forester?' he said.

  'The fire? Yes. It's a terrible tragedy.'

  'I imagine the police might take a more cynical view.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'You and Mr Walker visited her yesterday. Surely you've offered to make a statement?'

  His confidence demolished any hope that she could lie. Instead she responded with a challenge. 'No, we haven't yet. Why? Do you think we killed her?'

  George let the question hang in the air. While she waited, Julia decided to say nothing about the firebombing at the hotel. Better to see if he already knew.

  Eventually he conceded the point. 'All right. It may have been no more than an unfortunate accident.'

  'Or maybe someone didn't like what she told us.'

  'That Carl once borrowed a motorbike from a friend? I hardly think that constitutes a threat to anyone.' His tone softened as he gestured at the green around them. 'Isn't it possible you were mistaken about a second killer? In such a stressful situation, your state of mind must have been . . .'

  'Deranged?' She let out a laugh.

  He dipped his head in apology. 'That was insensitive of me. And please don't feel I'm being unsympathetic. I admire the way you've coped with your ordeal. And I know what it's like to lose a loved one.' He gestured in the direction of her parents' cottage. 'Will you keep the house, do you think?'

  Thrown by the change of subject, she faltered. 'I, er, I haven't decided yet.'

  'If you want to sell, I'm willing to pay the market value in cash. No surveys or quibbles.'

  She gaped at him, staggered that he could be so blatant.

  'It's an offer open to all the residents,' he went on. 'Oh, I know some of them will attribute the murkiest of motives to it. Craig Walker certainly will. But this has nothing to do with the development. I simply want to help in any way I can.'

  'And if I say no?'

  He spread his arms. 'Your prerogative. I'm making the offer because the massacre may have a detrimental effect on values.'

  Julia nodded. She hated to admit it, but it was possible his intentions were genuine.

  'I'll bear it in mind,' she said. 'I still have their effects to clear out.'

  'Another harrowing task.' Looking wistful, he said, 'I remember when my mother died, sorting through her papers and getting an entirely new perspective on her life.'

  His sympathetic tone invited Julia to confide in him. 'I've been reading my father's diary,' she said. 'It turns out my parents knew Carl Forester. He cut down some trees for them last summer.'

  'I believe he did casual work for a lot of people round here.'

  'It was just such a shock, seeing his name. Knowing he'd been inside their house.'

  'You're wondering how it didn't seem obvious to them, what he was capable of?'

  'Yes. I suppose that's it.'

  He expelled a long, heartfelt sigh. 'It's scant consolation, but I've done much the same thing myself.'

  Craig made it from Chilton to Crawley by seven-thirty, via two taxis and a train. He'd shaved, showered and was wearing clean clothes, but when Nina opened the door her first words were: 'What the hell's happened to you?'

  His hand had risen to the cut on his head. There was a nasty lump, but it was concealed by his hair. Maybe something showed in his eyes.

  He gave her a brief update, making light of the accident. He didn't mention the second killer, or the fact that he'd been drinking. Nina's only comment about Peggy Forester was: 'Serves her right. She belongs in hell, doesn't she?'

  Craig gave a half-hearted shrug, which earned him a dirty look. Nina thought he was disagreeing out of spite. She picked up her travel case and said goodbye to Tom and Maddie.

  'Where is it again?' he asked.

  'Manchester. I'll be back in time to collect the kids tomorrow afternoon.'

  He accompanied her to the front door, the unasked question writhing in his head like a trapped bird. Is Bruce going with you?

  She didn't kiss him. Didn't even say goodbye.

  After speaking to DI Sullivan, he walked the children to school, then popped into a bakery and bought croissants for breakfast. He had several hours before he was due to meet the policeman, and in the meantime he had to notify a claim for the damaged Golf and sort out a replacement car.

  Abby Clark rang while he was walking back. 'Got that bio you wanted. And you were right.'

  It took him a second to remember the favour he had asked. 'Vilner?'

  'A decidedly shady character. Be careful how you tread there.'

  'What's his connection to George Matheson?'

  'Seems to be a link with George's nephew, Toby Harman. Gambling debts, from what I can make out. Among his other talents, Vilner does a lucrative line in moneylending.'

  'George's nephew owes money to Vilner?'

  'A lot. And I suspect neither he nor George are all that flush with cash at the moment. It seems Vilner was set to provide site security for the housing development, no doubt using the same thugs he employs for debt collection and door staff.'

  'So he's counting on the planning application going through?'

  'They all are,' said Abby. 'And there's another name I've picked up. A man called Kendrick. He's from Trinidad, apparently.'

  'Where does he fit into this?'

  'No idea. So far I haven't found anyone who knows him. But I'm starting to get that special tingly feeling. You remember that?'

  He snorted. 'Yeah. Just about.'

  'I'll go on digging, let you know when I find something.'

  Fifty

  Alice's flat was in a purpose-built block on a hill to the west of London Road, not far from the Withdean sports stadium. As Julia got out of the car a train thundered past, concealed by a bank of trees, and she realised the flats backed on to the main railway line. That aside, it was a peaceful, pleasant spot. An ideal refuge, Julia thought.

  The block was divided into four flats on two floors. There was a glazed front door with an intercom for visitors. She pressed the buzzer, imagining how wretched Gordon Jones must feel each time he stood here. Through the glass she could see a bland communal hallway and a steep flight of steps to the upper flats.

  A minute passed with no response. Julia pressed the buzzer again, and a door opened at the end of the hall. A shadow appeared but came no further.

  Julia crouched down and pushed her hand into the letter box, lifting the flap up. 'Alice? Is that you? I'm Julia Trent. I don't know if you—'

  'Are you alone?' a voice hissed.

  'Yes.'

  'Do you swear?'

  'Yes. Of course.'

  A pause, then the shadow moved closer. Although she'd only glimpsed her face in January, Julia thought she had a pretty good idea of what Alice looked like. Seeing her now, Julia's first reaction was that the wrong tenant had answered. This woman looked about fifty, wrapped in a faded pink dressing gown, her face etched with worry lines, her hair more grey than brown. It was only when they made eye contact that Julia recognised her.

  'Did Gordon send you?'


  Julia nodded. 'You don't seem surprised.'

  'I knew you'd come one day,' said Alice with weary resignation. She led Julia along a narrow hallway that had a vaguely institutional feel to it: plain magnolia walls, a tiled floor and an overpowering smell of industrial detergent.

  Alice's flat was equally functional, clearly a product of the buy-tolet craze of recent years. Julia entered a good-sized living room that could have come from a daytime makeover show: cheap laminate flooring and a fake fireplace with a seashore theme. There was little sign that Alice had done anything to personalise it. No ornaments or photographs. Not even pictures of her children.

  'I never thought you'd survive,' Alice said. She sank on to a pale fabric sofa. Julia noticed a pillow and a duvet neatly stacked on the floor and wondered what was wrong with the bedroom.

  She sat at the other end of the sofa. 'What do you mean?'

  'I watched them putting you into the helicopter. It was like they were holding a smashed china doll. You were bundled up, but you looked broken inside. They were trying to keep all the pieces so they could glue you back together.'

  'I hadn't considered it like that,' Julia admitted. She noticed Alice's eyes were glittering with an unnatural fervour. The pitch of her voice rose and fell as she spoke. At times it was unnervingly high, but Alice didn't seem to be aware of it.

  'I almost wish you hadn't,' she added, with no trace of rancour. 'It wasn't our destiny to survive. He should have killed you, and then me. He should have finished the job.' Her laugh sounded like plates of metal grinding together.

  'I don't agree,' said Julia. 'I think your destiny is what you make it. I'm proud I came through this. And you should be too.'

  'What do I have to be proud of? I was hiding in the corner like a timid little mouse. My children were—' She choked up. 'My children were braver than me.'

  'You kept them safe. You did the right thing.'

  Alice's eyes narrowed. 'You mean you didn't want me to open the door and let you in?'

  'Would it make you feel better if I said I hated you for it?'

  'Do you?'

  Julia shrugged. 'I don't know. Chances are, I'd never have made it anyway.'

  Alice shook her head as if unconvinced, mumbling something under her breath. Julia sighed. She could see now why Gordon had been so despairing.

  'You were at the window when Carl chased me out of the churchyard. You told the police you didn't see anything after that.'

  Alice turned and found Julia staring at her. She tried to look away but the intensity of Julia's gaze seemed to hold her spellbound.

  Julia said, 'I told them there was another man involved. He killed Carl and then shot me. But when Carl first greeted the other man, he made a noise. He whooped.' She hesitated, took a deep breath. 'Your bedroom window was open. The little trap window at the top. You must have heard him.'

  A fleeting look of relief, but Julia didn't stop to reflect on it. She leaned closer, her eyes locked on Alice's, daring her to break free. Daring her to lie.

  'Please,' she said. 'Tell me what you heard.'

  Alice swallowed. Her body was rigid, vibrating with tension. Julia could feel it through the sofa.

  'I'm a terrible person,' Alice said at last. 'I lied to the police. I lied to everyone.' She began to weep. 'I don't deserve to be alive.'

  * * *

  Vanessa spent most of her day in the largest of the first-floor bedrooms. As well as the bed and a wardrobe, there were two easy chairs and a desk. George had also thought to add a TV and music system, a kettle and a small fridge. When Vanessa first saw what he'd done, she said, 'It's like some ghastly motel room. Did you include a trouser press as well?'

  When he returned from his walk in the village, she was resting in the armchair, a folded Telegraph on the table alongside an untouched cup of tea, her laptop closed at her feet like a sleeping pet.

  He made himself a cup and sat in the armchair opposite, stirring his spoon slowly so as not to wake her. There was a tiny clink as he put it down, and he turned back to find her eyes wide open and watching him. The shock made him slop some tea into his lap. He plucked at his trousers, wincing at the heat.

  'Careful,' Vanessa said, nodding at his groin. 'You might need it again one day.'

  He grunted, unsure how to respond. After taking a sip of tea, he said, 'I've just seen Julia Trent in the village.' He ran through the conversation, recounting Julia's intention to find Alice Jones, and her discovery that Carl had worked for her parents. 'I offered to buy the cottage,' he admitted.

  'Pointless,' Vanessa said. 'She'll see it for what it is. Another tactic.'

  George said nothing. In her final weeks he'd vowed not to rise to the bait.

  'What about Peggy Forester?' Vanessa asked.

  'She was very defensive about their visit. They haven't told the police they were there.'

  Vanessa's eyes lit up. 'That's worth knowing.'

  'I'm not sure it has any real value. Not unless I'm prepared to use it.'

  'Aren't you?'

  George sighed. 'I don't know. I've a feeling it may be counterproductive. Better for us all if the fire was purely an accident.'

  Vanessa regarded him sadly. 'Oh, George, I do believe you're losing your nerve.'

  'It won't do you any good,' Alice said. 'I can't get involved.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Alice responded with another question. 'You know why I'm here? Why I had to leave my children?'

  'Gordon said you had a breakdown.'

  'It was a bit more than that.' She gave another grating laugh. 'Our neighbours, the Grangers, actually slept through the whole damn thing.'

  Julia nodded. She remembered reading it in the police report.

  'About a week later I happened to see Brian in the crescent. He was in a foul mood because his car had been damaged on 19 January. He thought one of the emergency vehicles scraped it, but the insurance company was denying liability. He went on and on about it, as if that was the only important thing that happened.'

  Alice shook her head. 'I just went ballistic. I had some shopping with me. I took out a bottle of wine and hurled it through his livingroom window.'

  Julia gasped. 'Was anyone inside?'

  'His wife, but she was upstairs, luckily. Then I went indoors, opened another bottle of wine and drank most of it straight down. Then I swallowed two packets of paracetamol. It was only because the Grangers called the police that they found me in time.' She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. 'After that, there was no chance anyone would trust me with the kids.'

  'I'm very sorry,' Julia said. 'Weren't you offered help?'

  'Oh, yes. All sorts of fancy counselling. They thought I had posttraumatic whatever it is.'

  'PTSD. It's nothing to be ashamed of.'

  'Maybe not in your case. All I did was run and hide. I don't deserve any help.'

  She hunched over, her head tipping almost to her knees. She covered her face with her hands and her body shook with silent tears. Julia watched helplessly for a moment, then shifted closer and laid her hand on Alice's back, rubbing it gently.

  'You don't have to go on suffering like this.'

  'Yes I do,' said Alice. 'Because it's not PTSD or anything like that. It's guilt.'

  And now Julia understood. She knew why Alice had come here. Why she had chosen to run and hide all over again.

  'You heard him, didn't you? The second killer.'

  There was a long silence. Then, in a whisper, Alice said, 'I saw him.'

  Julia said nothing. She was aware of a heavy weight in her stomach. Eventually Alice straightened up, uncovered her face. Her eyes were raw with pain.

  'I heard something that didn't make sense. I waited a bit, then decided to have another look. You must have been up in the tree by that stage. I saw him, a man in motorcycle leathers. He was standing over Carl, holding the gun.'

  'This was after he'd shot Carl?'

  'Yes. I didn't know if it was good news or not, so I
waited till I heard the police siren.'

  'Why didn't you tell them?' said Julia, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice.

  'When they took my statement, nobody asked me about him. They were all talking as though Carl had shot himself. I already felt like a coward for not trying to help you. I thought . . . if I told them, they'd probably just laugh at me.'

  Julia could only nod sadly. Recalling the scepticism that had greeted her own statement, there was a good chance Alice was right.

  'And that's why you're here, isn't it?'

  'I'm so scared,' Alice said. 'I'm so scared he'll track me down.'

  Julia took her hand. 'Hiding's not the answer. I felt exactly the same, but it didn't work.' She paused, debating how much to disclose. Alice sensed it and gave her a questioning look.

  'The hotel where I was staying was firebombed.'

  Alice gasped. 'Was it him?'

  'I think so.'

  'And the police? Do they agree with you?'

  There was a knowing look on Alice's face, a strength born of cynicism. Julia suspected she was pursuing a hopeless cause, but felt compelled to go on trying.

  'We should both go to them. With two of us, there's a better chance of convincing them.'

  Alice was defiant. 'What if the killer finds out? What if he targets my children?'

  Julia sighed. In her heart she knew Alice was right.

  'Your husband thinks it's his fault,' she said. 'He misses you terribly.'

  'I can't tell him,' Alice said. 'I have to carry this alone. They're safer this way.'

  'What about when the killer's caught?'

  'He won't be. How can they catch him if they don't even know he exists?'

  'Exactly. That's why you have to come forward.'

  'It's catch-22,' said Alice bitterly. She pulled her hand free of Julia's. 'And you shouldn't be stirring up trouble. You should just forget it ever happened.'

  'I can't do that,' Julia said.

  'Then you're a fool,' Alice declared. 'Because he'll come after you again. And this time he'll kill you.'

  Fifty-One

  When the phone rang George was in his study, brooding on his wife's advice. Putting Walker and Trent in the frame for Peggy Forester's death might well neutralise the threat they posed to him, but there was also a danger it could backfire. For one thing, the media might choose to portray them as vigilante heroes, which would only increase the potential audience for their conspiracy theories.