by Tom Bale
And that was it. Her father's last words. Julia closed the diary and set it down. She could feel tears itching to come, but something was holding them back. Something lurking in her mind: a thought, a question, darting in and out of the shadows.
She remembered what she had learned in the wake of the tragedy, how the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning could often be mistaken for a cold or flu. When Dad wrote this, the boiler was already playing up. And the bad weather meant they'd closed the windows, probably keeping internal doors shut, too. Intensifying the concentration of CO.
Another scurrying question, but this time she caught it.
What if the boiler hadn't malfunctioned?
What if the boiler had been sabotaged?
Craig put his plate down, a sudden look of horror on his face. Maybe it was telepathy, or maybe just coincidence. Either way, they had the same idea at the same time.
'If your dad saw them, you don't think . . . ?'
He couldn't quite bring himself to say it aloud, but Julia could.
'He killed them, didn't he? He killed my parents.'
Toby recoiled in horror. The creature went on hissing at him. 'Don't look at me!'
Something about the voice was familiar. He looked closer, and understood . . .
'Vanessa?'
'What are you doing here?' She twisted away from him, clutching her blanket, dragging it up to conceal her body. Her skin was thin and yellowed like parchment, but her eyes held the remnants of the woman he knew.
'What's happened to you?'
Cringing beneath her blanket, she snarled, 'What do you think?'
She's dying, he thought. It was a stunning revelation, and right then he couldn't say how he felt about it. They had been on little more than civil terms for many years, but once, in the aftermath of his mother's untimely death from a drug overdose, they had been considerably more than that.
Vanessa had been beautiful then, in her way. A thin, icy beauty. His head swam at the memory of the moment when her distant sympathy became something else. He recalled the sureness of her fingers, the press and pull of her soft, expert mouth.
'Why didn't you say anything?'
'It's private.'
He checked over his shoulder to make sure the noise hadn't alerted his uncle, then shut the door and moved to a chair at the foot of the bed. He sat patiently until Vanessa released the blanket. There was pain in her eyes, and in her voice.
'I'll be gone soon. You might as well know.'
'I'm sorry.' He wasn't sure if that was true, but thought he should say it anyway.
His aunt looked irritated. She attempted to moisten her lips with her tongue, then reached for the water by her bed. He got it for her, and as he placed the glass in her hand her fingers brushed against his. Her skin was dry and scaly.
'Vilner's here,' she said.
'I know. I came upstairs to avoid him.'
She sipped the water. Afterwards her voice regained a little of its power. 'Do you know why?'
'I'm hoping it's to negotiate a deal.' He told her about his conversation with George. Her lips formed a caustic smile.
'You won't buy him off now,' she said. 'Vilner's scented blood. My bet is that he's playing each side against the other.'
She took another sip of water, the glass trembling in her hand. She wasn't making much sense, and he wondered just how lucid she was. Probably dosed up with morphine. But he was sufficiently intrigued to let her continue. Better to hear her out, then evaluate it later.
But Vanessa closed her eyes, seeming to forget all about him. He waited a long minute, then prompted her with, 'Each side?'
Her eyes opened, regarding him with what seemed like pity. 'Of course,' she said. 'You don't know about Kendrick.'
He frowned. Shifted closer to the bed. He could feel his heart racing. It wasn't just the look in her eyes; it was the way she spoke. Sad and yet thrilled, as if she'd been granted the opportunity to pronounce a terminal diagnosis on someone else for a change.
He stuttered a little as he spoke. 'Who-who's Kendrick?' Then another interminable wait for her to respond.
'Kendrick is buying the business.'
Toby thought he had misheard. 'What did you say?'
'George is selling up,' said Vanessa. 'And you're not part of the deal.'
Fifty-Seven
It was like losing them all over again. Julia felt blank. Anaesthetised. When she spoke, it was a shock to hear the words come out. It sounded like no one she knew.
'Do we go to the police?'
'I doubt they'll be able to find evidence of foul play.'
'They might at least take the idea of a second killer seriously.'
Craig looked at his watch. 'We should have reported the break-in straight away. Then there's the question of Peggy Forester. As soon as we admit to seeing her, they're going to take a very close look at us.'
Julia was still smarting from Craig's suggestion that her father could have prevented the massacre; now his slightly condescending tone only increased her irritation.
'Don't forget the hotel fire,' she said acidly. 'Not to mention your car accident.'
He frowned. 'What are you getting at?'
'Well, you weren't straight with me about your past, or about seeing Peggy Forester. I'm starting to wonder what else you've been holding back.'
'He drove straight at me,' he said angrily. 'The car ended up in a ditch. When I found you on the beach, my clothes were soaked, remember? I had cuts on my hand and my head. I didn't bloody invent it.'
'I'm not saying it didn't happen,' she countered. 'But how am I to know if the killer caused it, or something else?'
Now he looked mystified. 'Like what?'
'You tell me. Maybe you weren't concentrating.' She met his eye, wanting to measure his reaction very carefully. 'Maybe you'd been drinking.'
When she was alone again, Vanessa rested back on the bed and assessed the situation. She had never seen Toby so shocked, so furious, but to his credit he'd kept his temper in check. She'd cautioned that he would gain nothing from confronting George while he was angry. She half expected him to ignore the advice, but he had left quietly, without announcing his presence in the house. Soon Vilner would leave too, and perhaps George would update her on their meeting.
Then again, perhaps he wouldn't.
While she waited, she reflected on how easy it was to light a touch paper, but how difficult to predict the consequences. Perhaps, when he came up to see her, she would tell George what she had done.
Then again, perhaps she wouldn't.
The accusation seemed to deflate him. Craig's shoulders dropped. His gaze turned inward, dark with self-loathing.
'You're right,' he said quietly. 'I haven't been honest with you.'
He stood up and walked to the window, as if he needed to put some physical distance between them before he could explain. Julia waited, still angry and now a tiny bit afraid of what he might reveal.
'Years ago, I had quite a serious drink problem. It started when I was doing the investigative work. Stress of the job, I suppose. I was missing deadlines, picking fights with people, generally behaving like a twat. The turning point came when I had a run-in with the police.'
Julia thought of Kate's warning about him. 'What happened?'
'I had a good lead about a bent copper. A senior detective in the Met, taking backhanders from some major villains. I was putting the story together when I got a visit from his sergeant. He was adamant that his boss was completely straight, that someone was trying to fit him up. He appealed to me to let it go. He was very plausible, very friendly, with only the merest hint of a threat. I told him I'd consider it.'
He turned away from her. 'The next day I got pulled over and breathalysed. I was way over the limit, ended up with a year's ban.'
'You think it was down to this sergeant?'
'I never knew for sure. But I took the coward's way out and dropped the story. After that I had no stomach for my job. The kids were
little, and Nina was threatening to kick me out. I managed to stop drinking and make a new start, and after that I didn't touch a drop for years.'
He turned back to her. 'Then Dad was killed, and I found out about Nina's affair, and I hit the bottle again.'
Julia nodded. 'I thought I could smell it in the car.'
'I had a mouthful of Scotch when we stopped at your parents' cottage. A bit more when I dropped you off . . .' He shrugged. 'But the accident happened just as I described it. Alcohol wasn't a factor.'
'It must have been on your mind when we discussed whether to go to the police?'
'Yeah, I suppose it was, although my main concern was how they'd view our visit to Peggy Forester.'
He sounded genuine enough, but Julia had reached the point where she was no longer sure of anything.
'Did you ever find out what happened to the policeman?'
'The senior one was definitely bent, but he retired early and skipped off to Spain. Never faced justice. His faithful sergeant is now a detective inspector, working here in Sussex.' Craig laughed. 'And if you think that sounds like a disaster, wait till you hear about the mess I'm in now.'
George felt drained by his encounter with Vilner. Again he thought of Toby's suggestion on Tuesday. Pack a case, jump on a plane to Antigua. Leave it all behind: Vilner, Kendrick . . . Vanessa.
No. He couldn't leave Vanessa behind.
When he looked in on her, she was sound asleep. That was good. He could spare her the details of his encounter with Vilner. No sense burdening her.
Ten per cent was an outrageous demand. Vilner didn't have the evidence to justify it, but he knew, as George did, that the media wouldn't give a damn about evidence or the lack of it. Neither would Craig Walker, come to that.
He wondered if that was part of Vilner's game plan. Use Craig and Julia Trent as his mouthpiece, enabling him to stay in the background. That's how I would do it, he thought. Join forces with my enemy's enemy.
That got him wondering if he should employ a similar tactic. In admitting that he'd kept information back from Kendrick, Vilner had made a serious error. No doubt he assumed George wouldn't rat on him to Kendrick, for fear of weakening his own position. But George knew that when the problems were stacking up, you dealt with them one at a time. You prioritised. First defuse Vilner's threat, then worry about where it leaves you with Kendrick.
But it was a big step, not to be taken lightly.
Sleep on it, he decided at last. Speak to Kendrick tomorrow.
Julia decided she needed coffee. Refusing Craig's offer to make it for her, she went into the kitchen. Craig followed and hovered tentatively in the doorway.
'His name is Sullivan,' he said. 'I spotted him in one of the news broadcasts. Figured he owed me a favour.'
'That's how you got the report?'
'And the address of your hotel,' he admitted glumly. 'But it was a risky strategy from the start. I saw him yesterday, and told him what had happened this week. I thought it would convince him that there was a second killer. It turned out he didn't need convincing.'
Julia, rinsing the cafetière under the tap, stopped what she was doing. 'He agrees there was a second killer?'
'Yes. But he thinks it's me,' Craig said. Blunt and bitter.
Julia couldn't quite mask her shock. She opened a drawer, took out a dishcloth and began drying the cafetière. Of course he wasn't the killer. She saw the killer this morning, in her parents' house. Craig had been right behind her. He couldn't be in two places at once.
Unless there was more than one person involved . . .
Her train of thought must have been obvious to Craig. He said, 'It's not me. If you believe nothing else I've said, you must believe that.'
Julia didn't feel ready to comment. 'But you think Sullivan is George's inside man?'
'It would explain a lot. He's exactly the kind of lowlife who'd end up on Matheson's payroll.'
He said nothing more, just leaned against the doorframe and watched as she spooned coffee into the cafetière. His presence didn't make her uneasy, as she might have expected, and she realised her gut instinct was to believe him. Then she thought of the other terrible insight she'd had about him, and decided now was as good a time as any to confront him.
'You resent me, don't you?' she said. 'You wish Carl had killed me outside the village shop.'
Toby was steaming with rage on his way back to London, and that rage was reflected in his driving. He chopped in and out of lanes, tailgated the cars in front, and in Streatham he jumped a queue by moving into the opposite carriageway and driving through a pedestrian crossing on the wrong side of the road. He raced away to a barrage of horns and flashing headlights, and knew he was perilously close to doing something he would regret.
On one level he could appreciate the need to calm down, but at the same time he'd never before had to contend with such devastating betrayal. He tried persuading himself that Vanessa was confused, that somehow she had misinterpreted the situation, but in his heart he didn't believe it. He knew how his uncle operated. Time and again George had made deals and not said a word until the papers were signed, even though, as a director, Toby should have been entitled to prior knowledge.
So this latest revelation couldn't be dismissed. George was intent on selling the business from under his nose. Giving away his birthright.
Toby had to prevent it, somehow. He had to find a way to fight back.
And he would.
Fifty-Eight
'It was Sullivan who first planted the idea in my head,' Craig said. 'The first time we met up, he told me Dad was shot twice. He said Carl had gone back to . . . finish the job.' He swallowed. 'He was taunting me that Dad only died because of you.'
'I suppose it's true,' said Julia. Feeling the prickle of tears, she kept her back to him so he wouldn't see them. The kettle boiled, and she poured hot water into the cafetière.
'I'm very proud of him,' said Craig. 'I'm proud he helped to save you. And I know it's totally irrational, but part of me does feel bitter about it. If you hadn't gone running across the green, if you hadn't needed saving, he might be alive today. And I've found that hard to deal with.'
'It wasn't exactly easy for me,' Julia reminded him. 'You don't have a monopoly on grief. Or regret.'
She poured the coffee and quickly set the cafetière down. Put a hand over her mouth as tears ran down her cheeks. Her shoulders twitched with each silent sob. She heard Craig take a step into the kitchen.
'It was never personal,' he said, 'And once I met you I realised what a stupid notion it was. My father did absolutely the right thing.'
She felt his hands gently grip her arms and turn her to face him. There were tears in his eyes and a sorrow on his face that matched hers. Dismissing the last of her doubts, she stepped into his embrace. The feel of his body, his strength and his warmth, made her heart beat faster.
They stood like this for a long time, then parted just enough to look into each other's eyes. Julia felt her cheeks reddening, a slow bloom of heat that didn't stop at her face but spread deliciously through her body. He reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulled her close and guided her mouth towards his, their eyes still locked together, solemn and scared and hungry.
She'd always thought all that stuff about fireworks was a lot of nonsense, the type of thing you only found in romantic fiction. But after so much time on her own, after so many difficult weeks without any real intimacy or affection, the first touch of his lips against hers was like an explosion. It felt like breaking into sunshine after a year in a freezer. It made her feel complete when she hadn't even known she was broken.
It was a perfect moment. One of those all too rare occasions when he acted without any thought whatsoever. He simply did what he felt was right.
A perfect moment, and it ended with a phone call. His mobile, bleeping from inside his jacket.
They broke apart, both a little awed and embarrassed. Craig fumbled for the phone, read the display and fe
lt his stomach contract. Even as he took a step backwards, Julia read his expression and busied herself with the coffee.
'Nina?'
'Craig. The police are here.'
Her words blasted the air from his lungs. The killer had targeted his family.
'Are the kids all right?'
'They're fine. I picked them up from school.' There was a rustle of movement down the line, and when she spoke next her voice was lower, almost a whisper. 'The police want to talk to you about Abby Clark. She's gone missing.'
'But I talked to her yesterday morning.'
'That's what Abby's friend told them. She seems to think Abby was working on something for you.'
Another shock, this one even greater. He glanced at Julia and saw her looking in his direction, reacting to the horror on his face. He was still reeling when Nina said, 'Where are you?'
'Chilton.' He answered too quickly, the lie automatic. Easier than explaining the truth.
'No, you're not. I rang there first.' A beat of silence. Then she hissed: 'You're with her, aren't you? Julia Trent?'
'Nina, listen, this isn't—'
'Well, that didn't take you long, did it? After all the bullshit you gave me.'
'It's not like that.' He looked at Julia again. 'Tell the police I'll be there as soon as I can.'
'What's happened?' said Julia. Inside her emotions were in turmoil. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that the kiss had been interrupted.
'Abby's gone missing. The police want to interview me.'
'There might be a perfectly innocent explanation.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'Remember what we said about coincidence? Besides, Abby's a journalist. She's never incommunicado. No. This is because of me, because of what I asked her to do.'
'You don't know that,' she said, but he was in no mood to be placated.
'If she thinks she's on to a big story, she'll take risks. When she rang yesterday she was really excited. Not just about Vilner. She mentioned someone else.' He searched his memory. 'Kendrick, I think she said.'
