by Tom Bale
Julia tried to respond but her throat had closed. She noticed the clouds had turned black and the sky white, like a photographic negative. She heard Alice, booming out of the air like the voice of God: He'll come after you again. And this time he'll kill you.
'What did you say?' Craig asked, but she wasn't aware that she'd spoken. Perhaps he had heard Alice too.
Then he leapt at her, and in her last moment of consciousness she understood that Craig must be the second killer. It had all been a terrible deception.
Fifty-Four
The killer ran, thinking of 19 January, thinking of the risks he had taken, but trying not to dwell on his failure. He had been in the cottage almost an hour. The place was cold and neglected, and with a bit of luck he might have completed his search without being disturbed. Instead, the bitch had turned up with Walker in tow.
He hadn't found anything incriminating, but it was of little consolation. Once again he'd risked exposure, identification, even capture, and gained nothing in return. At the back of his mind a shrill voice warned that the situation was slipping away from him. But he wouldn't listen to it.
Once he was deep in the trees, he made sure he was no longer being pursued, then rested for a few minutes. Instead of dwelling on another wasted effort, he thought about something more inspiring: the embryonic flames licking at Peggy Forester's body. That was the true measure of his abilities.
He had considered setting the cottage alight, but rejected the idea. As far as he knew, the police hadn't yet linked the fires at the hotel and Peggy Forester's, but another one might well attract suspicion.
His car was about half a mile away, parked in a beauty spot on the outskirts of Falcombe. When he reached it, he sat inside and spent a while considering his options. He could return home now. Or while he was down here, he could force the issue.
Julia regained consciousness just as Craig staggered to a halt, pondering how to get her over the fence. His breathing was laboured and he was very flushed.
'I'm okay,' she said. 'You can put me down.'
'Sure?'
'Yes. Before you have a hernia.'
Craig gratefully lowered her to the ground. He kept a hand against her back, and she gripped his shoulder until she was sure she could stay upright.
'What happened?' she said.
'You fainted. Just keeled right over.'
That's why you grabbed me, she thought, with a frisson of guilty relief. How could she have imagined Craig was the killer? It was a silly idea, completely illogical, but it persisted in a corner of her mind, a little warning light that wouldn't be extinguished.
He helped her over the fence and they went back indoors. He insisted on sitting her down on the kitchen floor and soaked a towel in water. While she dabbed her face and neck, he went to check the rest of the house.
He was upstairs when she was gripped by a painful coughing fit that left her feeling hot and woozy. There was a nasty metallic taste in her mouth, and when she got up and spat into the sink, the sight of blood nearly made her pass out again. Hearing Craig's footsteps on the stairs, she quickly ran the tap and rinsed it away, then pretended to be washing her hands.
'The only room that looks disturbed is the back bedroom. Paperwork all over the floor.' He frowned, walked past her and inspected the door. 'I wonder how he got in?'
'Mum and Dad kept a spare key under the back step.'
'But how would he have known that?'
'Everyone round here does it.'
'I suppose,' he agreed. 'Do we call the police, or not?'
She shrugged. She didn't want him to notice she was still gripping the sink to stay upright. 'If nothing was taken, we could spend hours giving statements, and what will it achieve? Even if we tell them everything, they won't believe us.'
'Yeah,' he said wearily. 'You're probably right.'
Julia thought again of Alice's warning. He'll come after you again. And this time he'll kill you.
'He can't have been lying in wait,' she said. 'How would he have known I was coming here?' Looking at Craig, a thought popped into her head. It was mean, and unworthy, but she couldn't stop it.
You knew.
'No,' she said, as if rebuking her own devious imagination. 'He must have been looking for something.'
'But the house has been empty for weeks,' Craig said. 'Why now?'
'It must be connected to what we're doing. Talking to Peggy Forester, Matheson, Alice Jones. All this activity, and somehow there must be a link to this house. To my—'
'What?'
'It's the diaries,' she said, and a little of her spirit seemed to leak out with the words. 'I told George Matheson about the diaries.'
It was eleven o'clock when the buzzer sounded, announcing a visitor. George checked the monitor by the door, then pressed the button to open the gates. Since speaking to his nephew the day before, he'd given a lot of thought to what approach he should take with Vilner, or indeed whether to contact him at all. Now that decision was moot.
He opened the front door as the Range Rover drew up. Vilner got out and stood still for a moment, seemingly oblivious to George's presence in the doorway. Instead he gazed in the direction of the village, then turned and swaggered towards the house. There was an intensity in his face that George hadn't seen before. When they first made eye contact it was all George could do not to recoil. He was tempted to slam the door in Vilner's face, or at least call up to Vanessa to alert her, but saw how feeble he would look.
'I don't recall arranging a meeting,' he said.
'You didn't,' said Vilner, nimbly climbing the steps and brushing past George. 'It's time we got a few things understood.'
Fifty-Five
Bernard Trent had been a hoarder. That much was evident when Julia and Craig examined the back bedroom more carefully. The wardrobe had been ransacked, the clothes ripped off the rail and piled in the corner. Nine or ten cardboard boxes had been tipped upside down, spilling out not just three dozen diaries but also half a lifetime's worth of bills, receipts, warranties and instruction manuals.
A glossy brochure for a Philips music centre caught Julia's eye. She remembered how as a child she'd accidentally broken the Perspex cover over the turntable. Her father had been set to explode until he saw she was inconsolable. He had tried telling her it didn't matter, that the turntable would function just as well without the lid, but she'd been perceptive enough to appreciate that he was bitterly upset, and aware that her brother wouldn't have escaped punishment so easily.
She sniffed. Wiped her nose and said, 'Let's get started.'
They spent a few minutes tidying up, scooping the various documents into piles. Much of it was obviously undisturbed, but some of the diaries had been opened and then discarded. Julia sat cross-legged on the floor and picked up a couple of volumes. Craig followed suit, sitting with his back to the bed. For a time they read in a companionable silence, no sound but for the whisper of paper on paper. It struck Julia that in any other circumstances she would have felt uncomfortable letting a stranger look at such personal documents.
Craig was first to grow restless. 'What did you say to George, exactly?'
Julia gazed at the wall, losing focus as she thought back to the previous morning. 'That I'd read Dad's diary and discovered Carl did some work in the garden last summer.'
'And?'
'That was it, really. We talked about Carl, about the fact that no one could have predicted what he was going to do.'
'Did he ask any questions? Anything about the diaries?'
'No. He didn't seem particularly interested in them.'
'So maybe it's just a coincidence?'
'I don't believe in coincidences. Not any more.'
'No. Me neither.' He turned a page, then sighed. 'Riveting stuff, isn't it?'
It felt disloyal to agree, but she couldn't help smiling. 'Dad looked into self-publishing a memoir, but Mum dissuaded him. Said it would cost too much.'
'He should have stuck it online and called it a b
log. The publishers would have been beating a path to his door.'
Silence for another minute or two. He shut the diary and tossed it on to the pile. 'Hang on. Where's the one you had on Wednesday?'
She looked up at him. 'Back at my flat.'
'That's the one that mentions Carl?'
'Yes.'
'And there's nothing else that seems significant?'
'I only read as far as August.' She tutted. 'I'm so stupid.'
'We didn't know it was important until half an hour ago.' He got to his feet. 'Come on. We'll take these back with us.'
Vilner strode towards the drawing room where two days before they had listened to Julia Trent's allegations. George had little choice but to follow.
'I saw Toby,' Vilner said. He chose a delicate Queen Anne chair that seemed overwhelmed by his muscular frame. Leaning back, legs splayed, his posture radiated power and dominance: a tactic George had himself used many times.
'I know. He said you threatened him.'
'I warned him not to try and stitch me up,' Vilner said bluntly. 'I'm giving the same warning to you.'
George absorbed the comment, hoping to look unperturbed. 'That's why you're here?'
'That's one reason.' He paused a beat. 'This offer you made, to buy my silence? I talked to Kendrick, but I didn't tell him everything. I wanted a bit more background before I mentioned Julia Trent. Then I read the police report—'
'You stole the police report,' George cut in.
'So did you.' Vilner's gaze hardened. 'You weren't going to tell me about it, were you? That's got me wondering what else you're hiding.'
'I don't answer to you.'
'No, but like it or not, you're stuck with me.' His eyes glittered. 'I'm on the team, and so far I've had a raw deal. That's got to change.'
'In what way?'
'Two options,' Vilner said, pointing his fingers horizontally like a child making a gun. 'If you're keeping the business, I'm willing to wait for the contract, but in the meantime I want a sign of your appreciation. Two hundred grand in cash, right now.'
George's cheeks bulged with indignation. 'That's almost as much as the original debt.'
'When the risks increase, so do the rewards.'
'I can't lay my hands on that amount of money,' George said. 'It's tied up in long-term assets.'
Vilner wore a knowing smile. 'You mean shares? Property? Like Toby's apartment?'
'Yes.'
'Then turf him out and sell up.' He paused to let the suggestion take root. 'Option two. If you sell the business to Kendrick, where does that leave me?'
'I imagine Kendrick will retain your services. He seems quite content to employ you now.'
'That's only to spite you, George, as you well know.'
'You think he'll dump you when you've served your purpose?'
'Who knows? Hope for the best, expect the worst,' Vilner said. 'I want a cast-iron guarantee that I'll benefit from any sale. That means a stake in the holding company.'
George spluttered again. 'You want a share of what I've taken years to build up? A business I've sweated blood to make successful?'
'I don't care if you sweated your mother's milk. You need my cooperation, and you need my silence. For that, I want ten per cent.'
'Ten per cent?' George exploded. 'You must be mad.'
Vilner got to his feet, not quickly or angrily, but with a calm determination that made George go cold.
'It's a simple enough choice,' Vilner said. 'You give me ten per cent, or you lose everything.'
Julia wasn't really expecting to find anything in the diary. She was half convinced there must be some other reason for the intruder, perhaps related to her presence there. But certainly nothing to do with her parents.
Back at her flat, Craig asked if she felt strong enough to read it, then indicated the kitchen. 'How about if I make us an early lunch?'
Julia nodded. 'A sandwich would be nice. There's ham, cheese, tomatoes.'
She left him to it and fetched the diary from the bedroom. She sat down on the sofa and asked herself, I'm not afraid, am I? Taking a deep breath, she quickly skimmed the entries up to the day when Carl Forester's name first appeared. Then she read on, telling herself there was nothing to fear.
The remainder of August was uneventful, though Bernard did mention how he and Lisa had sat outside one warm evening. So much more light now the conifers are lower.
The next two months were in a similar vein. A spell of bad weather had him raging.
Forecast wrong as usual. Walked to Ditchling and got soaked. £10 for a taxi back – I ought to invoice the Met Office!
The entry for 25 November was much longer than most. There was a jagged look to the writing; heavy indentations as though he'd pressed harder than usual. He was angry when he wrote this, Julia knew at once. But that wasn't the only reason it stood out.
Carl's name seemed to leap off the page. She stopped reading and looked up. Craig was clattering in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers.
'Got any pickle?'
'Top right, next to the oven.'
She looked back at the diary. Took a deep breath and read the entry for 25 November.
Cool, overcast day. Quite pleasant. Had the usual walk this afternoon, but Lisa felt tired so we decided to cut back through the woods north of the farm. We heard a strange noise and thought it was kids mucking about. I left Lisa and went to investigate. I found a clearing with two men setting up targets on the trees. One had a shotgun. It turned out to be Carl Forester, the lad who cut our conifers. The other was a nasty bit of work, with an extremely threatening manner. He marched up and accused me of trespassing on private land. I argued that villagers have always been entitled to walk in these woods. Lisa heard the commotion and called me away. Very unpleasant. I still wonder if I should have gone to the police, but talking to Lisa afterwards she's not certain that Matheson allows access to the woods any more. All in all it cast quite a shadow over the day.
Craig came in with the sandwiches. She looked up and he reacted to the change in her face.
'You've found something, haven't you?'
'He saw them,' Julia said. 'Carl and the other killer. Dad saw them both.'
Fifty-Six
When Toby recognised the Range Rover outside Chilton Manor, his first impulse was to turn round and drive back home. After yesterday's conversation, he hadn't expected his uncle to speak to Vilner so quickly, if at all. For a moment he was torn with indecision. He didn't want to blunder into their meeting, but nor did he want a wasted journey.
He parked around the far side of the house and let himself in via the old servants' entrance. He had possessed keys to the house since his teens, when he had lived mostly with his aunt and uncle during holidays from school and then university. Since then he'd been permitted, if not exactly welcome, to come and go as he pleased. His aunt in particular seemed to resent it when he turned up unannounced, and in the past year or so he had drastically curbed his visits.
There was a chance Vanessa was here now, but he thought it unlikely. She and George had lived separate lives for as long as Toby could remember, and she had always preferred the house in London. Even so, he kept his movements stealthy as he passed through the scullery and into the huge, bare kitchen. He was stung by the folly of his uncle's existence. Used properly, with an army of servants, the manor could be a sumptuous home. The way George lived he might as well be a miserly pensioner cooped up in a bungalow.
Pausing in the hall, he could hear voices in the drawing room. He hurried upstairs to George's office. Knocked gently, just in case, and opened the door.
His uncle's desk was unusually tidy. Toby had the impression there wasn't much work done in here any more. He conducted a quick search of the room on the long shot that he might find something of value, but both the desk drawers and filing cabinet were locked. Resisting the urge to kick something, he let himself out.
He was easing the door shut when he heard a noise at the end of the hal
l. A burst of music from a TV or a radio. He frowned, listened again to be sure he wasn't imagining it. The music gave way to the drone of conversation. Someone changing channels.
He moved quietly along the hall, alert to any movement on the stairs. He'd only been a minute or two in George's office. If the meeting downstairs had ended, Toby was sure he'd have heard them coming out.
The sound originated from one of the unused bedrooms. He waited a second, feeling oddly indignant. Who the hell was it?
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and marched in as if he had every right to be there, then stopped in shock at the sight that greeted him.
It was a vision from a nightmare: a hideous spindly creature rearing up in bed, eyes like dark buttons set deep in a raggedy skull, bony arms clawing the air in outrage. It turned those terrible eyes on him and spat with disgust.
'Get out! Get out!'
Craig sat down next to her and read the entry himself. It seemed to take an age before he turned to Julia.
'He saw them practising with the shotgun.' He let out a sigh. 'If only he'd gone to the police. The whole massacre might have been averted.'
Julia was stunned by his comment. 'That's not fair. Dad couldn't have known what they were planning.'
Craig at least had the decency to look abashed. 'You're right. I'm sorry.' He took the diary from her and read it again. His frown grew deeper. 'Look at this. He marched up and accused me of trespassing on private land.'
'It's George Matheson's land.'
'Yeah. So maybe they had his permission?'
'Maybe.'
'An extremely threatening manner,' Craig quoted again. 'Sounds like a pretty good description of Vilner.'
Julia nodded. In the gloomy silence that followed, Craig devoured his sandwich in several bites, his brow creased in a thoughtful frown. Julia picked up the diary, and steeling herself, read on through November and into December.
Finally she reached the last entry, made the day before they died.
Weather atrocious again, and more on the way. A quiet day at home. Started Our Man in Havana by Graham Greene – superb! Watched Countdown – managed two 6-letter words. Lisa not feeling well. Coming down with flu, she thinks. I haven't been feeling all that bright myself. Hope we both shake it off before Christmas.
