Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  His gloom deepened the instant he recognised Toby's voice.

  'Vilner. We should pay him off. Whatever it takes. Just get rid of him.'

  George smiled at the use of the word 'we'. 'What's brought this on?'

  'He's a loose cannon. It was a mistake to offer him the security contract. I accept that now.'

  'You still haven't told me what's happened.'

  'He came here this morning. He was . . . aggressive. Unstable.'

  Toby fell silent, but George waited, sensing there was more to come.

  'He took my copy of the report.'

  George swore under his breath. 'Did he say what he was going to do with it?'

  'Not specifically. But it's leverage.'

  Kendrick, thought George, nearly saying it aloud. He wasn't ready to break the news to Toby just yet.

  'What makes you think he'll be bought off?'

  'Everyone has their price,' Toby said.

  George snorted. And what makes you think I can afford it? But he didn't say that either. Knowing Toby's cavalier attitude to money, it would have little effect.

  'I realise I have no right to ask you,' Toby added. 'But if something's not done now, we all stand to lose out.'

  'I'll consider it, although I wouldn't be terribly optimistic. Vilner's no fool. Exploiting weakness is what he's good at.'

  It was a deliberate dig at Toby, and his nephew knew it. For once there was no protest, no retaliation, just a meek, conciliatory, 'Thank you.'

  George put the phone down, almost wishing Toby had lost his temper. In the heat of an altercation he might have found it easier to deliver the bad news about Kendrick. He also saw how discharging Toby's debts could be regarded as a fair way to conclude their relationship. Severance pay.

  As ever when his problems threatened to overwhelm him, he unlocked his desk and took out the photograph he kept hidden at the bottom of the drawer. He placed it on the desk and tenderly stroked his finger across the perfect, beautiful face.

  One o'clock, and Sullivan was ensconced in a quiet corner of a comfortable boozer on the edge of Ashdown Forest, polishing off a meat pie and leafing through the Daily Mail. He considered buying a third pint but decided to wait and let Walker get it for him.

  Craig was predictably punctual, stalking into the pub a moment later. He spotted Sullivan, who lifted his empty glass and mouthed, 'IPA.'

  'It's your bloody round,' Craig said when he returned with the drinks. He didn't slop any this time, Sullivan noticed.

  'Least you can do after dragging me out here,' he said, raising his glass. 'So what have you got that's so interesting?'

  Perhaps he misjudged the tone, because at first Craig looked reluctant to speak.

  'Julia Trent told me about the second gunman. I don't know why her allegations weren't taken more seriously.'

  'Because there was no evidence found at the scene, and no one else saw him.'

  'But the report basically implied she was a headcase. I don't think she is.'

  'She was given a rough ride, I'll grant you that.'

  'So you accept she's telling the truth?'

  Sullivan merely shrugged, lifting his glass to help conceal his growing excitement.

  'We have other proof he exists,' said Craig. 'He firebombed Julia's hotel last night, and he ran my car off the road.'

  When Sullivan remained silent, Craig's frustration showed. 'I'm not making this up, for Christ's sake. I think the same man might have murdered Peggy Forester.'

  'Peggy Forester?' Sullivan repeated thoughtfully. 'Why do you say that?'

  Craig faltered. 'Well . . . the fire at her house.'

  'Do you possess information suggesting it was started deliberately?'

  The formal language clearly spooked Craig. He sat back, struggling to rein in his emotions. 'I've just told you what happened to us yesterday. This isn't just coincidence, or paranoia. Surely you can see that?'

  'Oh, I'm open to the idea of another killer,' Sullivan said. 'Though I'm not sure how many of my colleagues would be.'

  Craig's relief was palpable. 'So you will make some inquiries?'

  'What makes you think I'm not already working on it?'

  'What do you mean?'

  Sullivan drank, then exhaled cheerfully. 'Okay. You've read the report. Let's say there was another killer. You need a strong motive. There was a real grudge against the Caplans, for a start. And who did the Caplans work for?'

  'Matheson,' said Craig, before realising it was a rhetorical question.

  'Yep. Plus it was Matheson's gun they stole, and some of Matheson's opponents were the victims. So maybe . . .' He grinned, spotting a tiny light of comprehension in Craig's eyes. 'Maybe it was someone looking to throw doubt on George Matheson. Someone who wants the housing development stopped once and for all.'

  He gulped another mouthful of beer. Craig was staring at him, all the colour drained from his face.

  'Maybe someone who, for good measure, tried to coerce a serving police officer into revealing inside information, and then targeted a vulnerable witness.'

  Craig finally found his voice. 'That's fucking ridiculous.'

  'Is it? How do I know you didn't set this hotel on fire, then drive your car into a ditch? Any witnesses to your accident?'

  'It was a quiet country road.'

  Sullivan shrugged: point proven. For a moment Craig looked like he might lash out. Instead he gritted his teeth and said, 'Carl Forester killed my father.'

  'Yeah. Well, according to you and Julia, this other gunman killed Carl.'

  Craig threw up his hands, as though it was too absurd to merit a response.

  Sullivan went on. 'And now you're saying he also killed Peggy Forester.'

  'Oh, come on. What are you playing at?'

  'Do you know where she lives?'

  Craig's gaze slid away. 'Falcombe somewhere.'

  'Ever been there?'

  'Hey, if you're going to accuse me, you'd better do it by the book. Arrest, caution, legal representation.'

  'Ooh, that sounds like a guilty man talking.' Sullivan laughed, beckoning Craig to calm down. 'We're just having a friendly chat.'

  'Bullshit. You've got your own agenda here.'

  'I'll ask you again. Have you ever been inside Peggy Forester's house? Did you talk to her at any time before her death?'

  Craig jumped to his feet. 'You can't really believe I killed her?' He raised his fists, and Sullivan tensed, clutching his beer glass in case he needed to ram it into Craig's face. Purely in self-defence, of course.

  But Craig must have seen the folly of his actions, and perhaps also sensed Sullivan itching to retaliate. He kicked his chair back and stormed out.

  The Berkshire house came with a study, but it wasn't big enough for Kendrick. He had converted one of the bedrooms instead, adding several desks and upgrading the internet connection to the highest bandwidth available. Jacques was an accomplished programmer and also the designated security expert: he saw to it that the house was swept for listening devices once a week. Kendrick had gained enough advantages from industrial espionage to appreciate its importance, and he was determined never to become a victim of it.

  He was doodling on a notepad while reading a document on screen when the call came through. He listened, grim-faced, before saying just three words.

  'Okay. Do it.'

  He put the phone down and stared blankly at the display. He felt the faintest of tremors as he reflected on the order he'd just given. Not fear, exactly. More like uncertainty. But that was bad enough. This wasn't a decision that could be reversed.

  Glancing at the notepad, he saw he'd drawn a number of intersecting circles around a single word, written in capitals and given a shadow effect. He smiled. He hadn't even been aware of writing it.

  Decipio.

  Fifty-Two

  Craig was back in Chilton by three o'clock, still feeling sick to his stomach. He almost expected to find the police at the Old Schoolhouse, waiting to arrest him. Their absenc
e gave him no comfort. If, as he suspected, Sullivan intended to keep this to himself for his own amusement or gain, the implications were even worse.

  He had only himself to blame for the mess he was in. He should have guessed Sullivan wouldn't take him at face value. He wondered if the detective had been playing with him from the start. Perhaps he'd only given him the report in order to lure him into a trap.

  When Julia rang, he still hadn't got his thoughts clear. As he picked up the phone he decided to say nothing about the meeting. He was already worried that she didn't fully trust him. The last thing he wanted was to create more doubt, especially after last night's events had seemed to bring them closer.

  Julia sounded every bit as tired and dispirited as he did. 'We made a big mistake. We should have gone to the police and told them everything.'

  'Why?'

  'We forgot that George Matheson knows about our visit to Peggy Forester. I saw him this morning—'

  'You saw Matheson?' Without meaning to, he'd snapped at her.

  'Yes. I bumped into him in Chilton.' Julia sounded mystified by his tone.

  'And did you ask him where his friend Vilner was last night?'

  'No. I didn't think of that. Actually, he seemed quite upset. Look, Craig, don't bite my head off. I'm only telling you what happened.'

  'Sorry. What were you doing back there so soon?'

  She began telling him about an entry in her father's diary which mentioned Carl Forester, and her decision to go to Chilton to speak to Alice Jones. Craig's attention drifted, only snapping back when she said, 'George offered to buy the cottage.'

  'What? The cheeky bastard!' He thought of the meeting on Wednesday, and Julia's hunch that George had also got his hands on the police report. And today, the way Sullivan kept pressing him to say if he'd visited Peggy Forester, as though he already knew the answer. He groaned.

  Julia halted mid-flow. 'What?'

  'Just had a thought about George's mole in the police.'

  'Go on.'

  'I'll tell you when I know for sure. What were you saying?'

  Julia described her visit to Alice's flat. 'She's in a terrible state, torturing herself over what happened.'

  'She hid upstairs with her kids. Nothing wrong with that.'

  A long pause. Craig even wondered if the connection had been broken. He pressed the phone to his ear and caught Julia's fretful sigh.

  'She saw the killer.'

  'What?'

  'Alice saw him, standing by Carl's body.' She laughed bitterly. 'At least it means I didn't imagine it.'

  'No, it's great news,' said Craig. He couldn't understand why she sounded so defeated.

  'The trouble is, she point-blank refuses to go to the police. She thinks it's too dangerous to speak out.'

  Craig groaned. 'She doesn't have a fraction of your courage.'

  'I don't have three children to protect.'

  'What about if we just tell the police ourselves?'

  'She says she'll deny it, and accuse me of harassing her. We have to face it, Craig. We're on our own with this.'

  'Maybe, but we're making progress, I'm sure of that. Look, can we meet up and discuss where we go from here?'

  She agreed more readily than he expected. 'I'm coming to Chilton tomorrow, to make a start on clearing out the cottage. Say, ten o'clock at my parents' place?'

  'Great.' Ending the call, Craig reminded her to take care, before reflecting that he would have done well to follow that advice when he became involved with Sullivan.

  The killer spent a restless evening, thinking about what he had done and what was still to do. Already he was savouring the moment of Decipio's unmasking, the moment when the tables would be turned. Just a day or two away, he hoped.

  In the meantime there had been another curt exchange of messages, and Decipio had warned him of a new threat.

  When asked if he'd played a part in Peggy Forester's death, his reply was carefully noncommittal. He had no intention of supplying any more of the rope that could hang him. He understood now how naive and trusting he had been, and he was furious with himself.

  It was a severe disappointment that both Craig Walker and Julia Trent had emerged unscathed on Wednesday night. Worse still, it didn't seem to have scared them off. Trent was poking around, trying to cause trouble, and it was scant consolation that so far no one else seemed remotely convinced by her story.

  In his darker moments he was prey to a queasy conviction that his whole grand scheme was unravelling. That no matter what he did, no matter how bold or resourceful his actions, some tiny snagging detail always remained to catch him unawares. Even something as trivial, as innocuous, as a fucking diary.

  Fifty-Three

  Julia woke on Friday feeling stronger and more refreshed than she had for weeks. Perhaps it was just the effect of a full night in her own bed, or perhaps evidence that she'd recovered from Wednesday's exertions; whatever the reason, it provided a welcome antidote to an otherwise bleak predicament.

  Yesterday, after returning from her frustrating visit to Alice Jones, she had occupied herself with mundane chores: shopping, housework, catching up on her mail, while also taking plenty of rest. Once or twice she had picked up her father's diary, but couldn't quite bring herself to read on. In the evening she phoned her brother and some friends to let them know she was back home. It felt like a significant announcement: normal life was about to resume.

  Nevertheless, she felt some trepidation as she drove to Chilton. It was difficult not to think about the last time she'd intended to begin the clear-out, or to dwell on everything that had happened in the weeks since then. Without fully acknowledging it to herself, she timed her journey to arrive at ten o'clock so that Craig could accompany her.

  It was another mild day, this time with heavy skies and a fresh wind. Julia had to park in the village itself, and as she pulled up Craig emerged from the Old Schoolhouse. He was wearing a thin v-neck sweater over a white t-shirt. It was the first time she'd seen him without a jacket, and she couldn't help noticing how broad his shoulders were. Probably a good job, for it looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on them.

  Their greeting was a little awkward. A moment's hesitation, then he kissed her cheek. 'Nobody followed you here?'

  She shook her head. 'No. I kept checking.'

  'Good. Sounds silly, but we really should take these precautions until the killer is caught.'

  Julia nodded, but couldn't help recalling Alice's bitter retort: How can they catch him if they don't even know he exists?

  As if he'd read her mind, Craig said, 'I can't believe Alice Jones won't help us. Do you think we could get her husband to persuade her?'

  'I doubt if she'd listen to him any more than she listened to me.'

  Craig sighed. 'And what about Matheson? Is he going to dump us in it over the visit to Peggy Forester?'

  'I'm not sure. He seemed to be on a bit of a charm offensive yesterday, but that might change. What was your theory about his police contact?'

  Craig looked decidedly evasive. 'Still working on it.'

  Julia waited a moment, frowning. 'Okay.' They reached the row of cottages and she found the front-door key. 'Did you get your claim sorted out?'

  'The Golf's being recovered today, allegedly. They won't give me a courtesy car until they know if it's repairable, so I've hired one.'

  Julia put the key in the lock and then froze. 'Did you hear that?'

  'What?'

  'Sounded like something inside.'

  Not something, she realised. Someone.

  The lock jammed for a second. The door swung open just as another, sharper noise rang out: urgent footsteps clattering on the kitchen floor. The back door banged open, and as Craig pushed past her, Julia glimpsed a dark figure fleeing towards the rear fence. The same dark figure who had hunted her in the dunes on Wednesday night.

  Craig ran through the house in pursuit. For a second Julia was transfixed by terror and confusion. Then she came jolting
back to life. She couldn't let Craig go it alone. This was her fight, too.

  By the time she reached the door Craig was attempting to climb the barbed-wire fence at the bottom of the garden. The fence backed on to a field of dark soil where some kind of winter crop was just emerging. The field rose in a gentle incline for about a hundred yards and the killer was more than halfway up, anonymous in a baseball cap and black coat.

  'Wait here,' Craig shouted.

  'No.' She joined him at the fence, slightly breathless but otherwise okay. No pain. Craig saw the steely determination in her face and said nothing more. He pressed down on the wire and helped her climb over.

  The killer crested the ridge and disappeared from sight. Craig set off after him, Julia lagging behind almost immediately. He was nearly at the top when Julia hit a loose clod of earth and felt her ankle give way. She cried out as she fell, causing Craig to hesitate. He turned and ran back to her.

  'What's happened?'

  'Twisted my ankle. I'm all right.' She reached out and let him help her up.

  'You should have stayed at the house,' he said, then flinched at the ferocity of the look she gave him.

  Holding on to his arm, she hobbled the last few yards to the top of the ridge. From here the field dropped away towards a line of oaks next to a stream which marked the eastern perimeter of George Matheson's land. The killer had vanished.

  'Bugger!' said Craig. Julia wasn't sure if part of his resentment was that she had slowed him down.

  'If he's in the trees, he could have gone either way. We won't catch him.'

  'Was it the same man you saw in Camber?'

  She nodded. Now that the immediate danger was past, the adrenalin dissipating, she could feel her legs starting to tremble. There was a peculiar coldness spreading through her body, turning every muscle to jelly.

  'He must have been lying in wait for you,' Craig said.