Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  'Who's he?'

  'No idea. That's what she was trying to find out.' Again he was lost to her, gazing into the middle distance.

  'Why did you lie to Nina?'

  'I don't know,' he said grimly. 'Yet another disaster.' By 'another' she couldn't help wondering if he meant the intimacy they had shared.

  She accompanied him to the front door, where he gave her a quick, impersonal peck on the cheek.

  'Be extra careful, won't you? There's no telling what he'll do next.'

  She nodded. Watching him hurry away, Julia felt a sudden conviction that she would never see him again, and the fleeting vision of happiness she had experienced this afternoon crumbled like a castle built from dry, brittle sand.

  Fifty-Nine

  It was a cold, clear night. She stood beneath a dazzling moon, the whole universe suspended above her. She was back on the beach at Camber, but there was no tree. No man in black. Kate's hotel was dark, deserted.

  She turned her back on the land, towards the shore. But there was no shore. For as far as she could see there was only sand, rocks, seaweed. Abandoned boats tilted at rest on the seafloor. Fish glittering silver like distant reflected stars, twitching and flopping helplessly on dry land.

  She was alone. Utterly alone.

  She wobbled and nearly fell. The beach was shifting, trembling beneath her, the vibrations running into her feet and through her bones, threatening to shake her to pieces. She clutched her belly in panic. Looked up and saw a line of white froth gleaming in the darkness, the horizon rushing towards her.

  A tsunami. A giant wave, boiling and foaming like a living thing, growing more immense with every second, fast and powerful and hungry, pummelling the ground beneath her feet. She had to run. She had to run now.

  But she couldn't run. She couldn't move at all.

  She shut her eyes and waited for the wave.

  * * *

  Julia woke, heart hammering. Took in her surroundings and settled back with a long sigh. Of all the bad dreams she'd had since the massacre, none had provoked a sensation of such absolute desolation. Loneliness on a cosmic scale.

  It wasn't too difficult to guess what had prompted it. Last night, after waiting hours to hear from Craig, she had sent him a text. He phoned a few minutes later, apologetic but also weary and distracted. He had told the police what little he knew about Abby's enquiries. Vilner's name seemed to be familiar to them, but Kendrick's drew a blank. He'd also mentioned his theories about the massacre, but the police had been openly sceptical. They were more interested in whether Craig had been having a relationship with Abby, a possibility suggested by her current partner.

  'Why did she think that?' Julia had asked.

  'No idea. We got on pretty well. Flirted a bit. But that was all.'

  His breezy denial made her wonder how he would describe what had happened between them. It also struck her that she only had his version of his marital problems. Perhaps the reality was more complicated.

  Even more unwelcome was the possibility that Abby's fate was connected to their own enquiries. She pictured George Matheson, standing with her on the village green. His grief had seemed so genuine, his sympathy heartfelt, and yet all the time he must have been glorying in the deception. He'd participated in an act of mass murder and now he was covering his tracks with the same ruthless efficiency. She didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was becoming too strong to ignore.

  The phone rang, making her jump. She glanced at the bedside clock: just after eight on a Saturday morning. It must be Craig.

  But it was a woman's voice. 'Julia? It's Alice here. Alice Jones.'

  'Oh.' Julia passed the receiver to her other ear. 'Are you all right?'

  'I thought I should warn you. It's partly because of you that I've made this decision. I hope you'll forgive me if it's not quite what you suggested, but it's really the only option left.'

  'Alice, slow down,' said Julia. 'I don't understand.'

  'I haven't got much time. I just want you to be careful.'

  'Has someone threatened you?' Julia hadn't given Alice's address to anyone, and she was sure no one had followed her to Brighton. How had they found her?

  But Alice laughed her strange, off-key little laugh. 'No. That's why I'm taking this option, to be free of those worries.'

  'Then what?' said Julia, so baffled she wondered if she was still dreaming.

  'The media,' Alice said. 'It's going to hit you like a tidal wave.'

  The phrase made Julia go cold. She grabbed the mattress and squeezed it to make sure it existed. She really was here, at home. Safe.

  'I have to go now,' Alice said. 'I'm truly sorry. Goodbye.'

  The line went dead. Julia immediately dialled 1471, but knew it would be hopeless. We do not have the caller's number.

  She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the carpet, wondering how it was that she might have convinced an unstable woman to commit suicide.

  Craig was up first, at around eight o'clock. Since the massacre he'd found it difficult to sleep late, particularly on Saturdays. And after the grilling he'd got from the police the day before, he'd spent most of the night awake, trying to mediate between his many competing worries.

  Creeping downstairs, he saw the envelope on the mat and knew immediately it brought bad news. The post wouldn't be delivered for another couple of hours yet.

  It was a plain brown A4 envelope, hand delivered and bearing only his name in a standard typeface, printed on an inkjet or laser printer. He took it into the kitchen and put it on the worktop, then quietly shut the door and made coffee. It was a futile exercise in denial. The envelope lay like a predator, his heart thudding like a trip hammer at the thought of what it might contain.

  Only the fear that Nina might walk in gave him the impetus to pick it up. With shaking hands he prised the flap open and turned the envelope on its side, shaking loose the contents.

  A single sheet of heavy-duty A4 paper. Text on one side, a photograph on the other. The text was in the same neat font, in the very centre of the sheet. It said:

  Don't talk to the police. We will know.

  The photograph was of Tom and Maddie, with Nina, hurrying along a busy road. There were parked cars in the foreground and a low building in the background with a chain-link fence around it.

  Nina collecting the kids from school. Taken recently, probably a long-range shot with a zoom lens. But what made him light-headed with terror was the way the picture had been pierced by a pin or perhaps the nib of a pen, not once but four times.

  Four neat little holes, obliterating the eyes of his children.

  A coughing fit sent Julia to the bathroom. Once again she spat blood into the basin, shockingly bright against the white ceramic. She knew she shouldn't ignore it, but also felt unwilling to waste her day in a hospital waiting room. Perhaps if it hadn't improved by Monday . . .

  Rinsing her mouth, she remembered that Gordon Jones's note had included a phone number along with the address. She rang and discovered the number belonged to the other ground-floor flat. The woman who answered said there was a problem getting Alice's phone connected, and she had agreed to pass on messages.

  'Will you fetch her for me?' Julia asked. 'It's urgent.'

  'Oh, she's not here, love. She went yesterday. Doesn't look like she's coming back, neither.'

  'Did she say where she was going?'

  'Not a word. I only know because the landlord was round here last night. Shame she didn't say goodbye.' The woman sniffed. 'Still, mustn't judge. She's had her share of problems, that one.'

  Julia thanked her and put the phone down. She spent a restless half-hour tidying up, making tea she hardly drank and toast she didn't eat. All the time imagining Alice calmly preparing to end her life.

  She thought about her warning: the media descending on her. Had Alice written some kind of note, confessing that she'd seen the second killer?

  Julia's heart twisted with fear and guilt. Those three boisterous child
ren didn't deserve to lose their mother. But what could she do?

  Finally she overcame her reluctance to call Craig. She rang his father's number, then his mobile, but there was no answer. She would have to try his home number.

  It was Nina who answered, just as Julia knew it would be. She sounded harassed and short-tempered.

  'Is Craig there?'

  'He's gone out. Who is this?'

  'Julia Trent.'

  Nina made a noise, a mixture of disgust and contempt. 'Don't you think you've done enough damage with this ridiculous story about the massacre? Leave my husband alone and keep your mad theories to yourself. You're nothing but trouble.'

  She slammed the phone down. Julia slumped back in her seat, feeling physically winded. The dream had been a terrible premonition. She was completely alone.

  Alone in the path of the wave.

  Sixty

  George had barely slept all night. Vanessa woke in distress at four in the morning, bleeding heavily. The doctor came out and judged her too frail to be moved to hospital. When he emerged from her room, his face was grave.

  'It won't be long now,' he told George. 'You need to prepare for the end.'

  George had nodded. Much later it struck him that he was preparing for the end in more ways than the doctor could have imagined.

  By then it was seven o'clock. He went for a walk around the grounds, enjoying the serenity of a world not yet fully awake. The air was crisp and cold and brilliantly clear, the sky unblemished but for a few slow dissolving vapour trails. He tried to imagine himself into Vanessa's dwindling existence, forced to confront the knowledge that soon these glorious mornings would continue without her.

  Then he reflected that his own existence was none too glorious at the moment.

  It soon got worse. George had eaten a meagre breakfast and was sitting at Vanessa's bedside when Terry Sullivan rang.

  'The shit's hit the fan,' the policeman told him. 'You know there was a witness called Alice Jones, hiding up in her bedroom?'

  George grunted non-committally. He didn't want Sullivan to know he'd pored over every word of the report.

  'Turns out she's been telling us a load of porkies. That or she's totally flipped.'

  'What?' said George. He could feel a chill creeping up his spine.

  'She's now claiming Julia Trent was right. There was a second killer.'

  'She's made a statement to that effect?'

  A bark of laughter from Sullivan. 'If only.'

  George grimaced as he guessed it. 'The media?'

  'Yep. Shacked up with the cheapest, tawdriest tabloid of the lot. And you know why it was them rather than us? She says we can't guarantee her safety. Part of the deal is that they've got her and her family in a secure location, and they're going to keep them there for as long as it takes.'

  'As long as it takes?' George repeated, buying himself time to think. Beside him, Vanessa stirred, opening her eyes.

  'Till the killer's caught. Which every right-thinking tosspot who reads this rag will say is only fair and reasonable. Meanwhile the other papers will compete for the privilege of ripping us to shreds, accusing us of incompetence, corruption, you name it.' He let out a heavy sigh. 'The fallout's going to be horrendous.'

  'How did you find out? I assume the story hasn't been printed yet?'

  'No. They like to give us a bit of advance warning. Often it's thinly disguised blackmail. They'll go easy on the force if we agree to co-operate.'

  'And will you?'

  'That's a decision for the top brass. Word is, they're shitting bricks about it.'

  'So what will you do? Renew the investigation?'

  'I can't see we've any choice.'

  Vanessa gave him a questioning glance. George smiled and shook his head, as if to say, It's nothing. She closed her eyes again.

  'Of course, she could have cooked this up just to line her pockets,' Sullivan went on. 'Wouldn't surprise me if her and that Trent woman are in it together.'

  'It's a possibility,' George agreed. He thought of his encounter with Julia on Wednesday. She had seemed determined to speak to Alice Jones: it looked like she'd succeeded.

  'Even so, it's gonna bring a lot of heat down on you, especially if they link it to Craig Walker's allegations.'

  An uneasy pause. Sullivan clearly laying the groundwork for something, George guessed. Or perhaps waiting for him to make the suggestion.

  'We do still have the fact that they visited Peggy Forester.'

  Sullivan cackled. 'Yeah. Your trump card, hopefully. I'll have to try and work out the best strategy for using it.' Another pause, loaded with significance. This time George knew exactly what was coming.

  'We also need to talk about my remuneration. The stuff I've done up to now, that was a favour, but we're moving into high-risk territory. If I'm gonna stick my neck out for you, there's got to be something in it for me.'

  George faked a laugh. 'Absolutely. Why don't you call in sometime this weekend and we'll put some figures together?'

  Vanessa had turned her head away from him. Her eyes were still shut, but whether she was conscious he couldn't say. After ending the call, he took a moment to order his thoughts. It actually required no time at all to assess the situation. He could sum it up in three words.

  It's falling apart.

  The moment she saw the house in Arundel Crescent, Julia knew it was a wasted journey. Every window was closed, and a dull reflected light shone from the glass. There was no hint of sound or movement inside.

  Still she knocked and waited. She cupped her hands and peered through the lower bay window. The living room looked reasonably tidy, a few toys scattered here and there. A glass of water stood on the window ledge, stale with bubbles.

  Above her the crows circled like black rags. Their cries took her back to 19 January, and it struck her that each time she returned here she felt more affected, rather than less, as though the village wasn't done with her yet.

  Finally she wrote a note: Gordon, I'm worried about Alice. Please call me. She signed her name, added her contact numbers and slipped it through the letter box.

  It was just after ten in the morning, and much warmer than it had been in January. Back at the flat she'd heard a weather forecast that warned of an imminent change: storm-force winds and torrential rain. In a spot of banter, the news presenter had said, 'Oh well, I suppose we can't complain,' and the forecaster had merrily agreed. 'Our luck had to run out sometime.'

  That phrase came back to her now, as she returned to her car. It wasn't particularly comforting, but at least it was an improvement on Nina Walker's parting shot.

  You're nothing but trouble.

  The doctor had suggested Vanessa should have a private nurse on hand for most of the day, and as soon as she arrived George took the opportunity to retire to his office. He allowed himself a small sherry and contemplated what action to take.

  Vilner was still the immediate concern. Before the policeman's call, George had virtually decided to go ahead and tell Kendrick that Vilner was cheating him. It was a risk, of course, but the news from Sullivan made it clear he was facing calamity on several fronts. To stand any chance of defeating his enemies, he needed to assess their strengths and weaknesses, test their alliances.

  But first he rang Toby to tell him of yesterday's encounter with Vilner. It was a brief, disingenuous conversation. He gave the impression that the meeting had been arranged as a direct consequence of Toby's request. He said he'd opened negotiations with Vilner, but warned it was likely to be a long and difficult process. In the meantime he ordered Toby to keep his head down and his mouth shut. And he wanted no further work on the second application.

  'But you said I could do it,' Toby complained.

  'And now I'm saying you cannot.' He tried to outline the possible fallout from the Alice Jones story, but Toby went on protesting, trying to find a way round it, until finally George lost his temper. 'Just do as you're told for once,' he roared. 'I'm in enough of a mess right n
ow, without your childish bloody whingeing.'

  He slammed the phone down, the anger hot in his veins. Just what he needed to take on Kendrick. A quick gulp of sherry, then he grabbed the phone up again.

  Sixty-One

  Nine-thirty, and Sullivan found himself waiting like a jilted lover amid the teeming mass of humanity on the concourse at Victoria Station. Impatient shoppers and tourists barged past as if he'd chosen that precise spot purely to inconvenience them. He'd been loitering long enough to draw the attention of a couple of transport police. He let them get within a couple of yards before flashing his warrant card. One of them scowled as he turned away; the other had the decency to blush.

  'Fucking clothes hangers,' he muttered, not caring if they heard.

  He'd been summoned to an urgent conference at Scotland Yard to debate the potential fallout from Alice Jones's revelations. The thought of a Saturday wasted on hot air and management speak filled him with gloom, and there wasn't even the prospect of a game of buzzword bingo with a few like-minded colleagues. More and more nowadays the senior officers were young, clean-cut college boys – and girls – with settled home lives and delicate sensibilities, immaculate in their political correctness.

  Still, ironic to think he would be better apprised of the situation than anyone else there. He had no intention of sharing any of that knowledge, however. First he had to decide how it could be used most profitably, and at the least risk to himself.

  Fucking with Craig's head had lost some of its appeal, especially now Alice Jones had given him an opportunity to secure a decent payday from George. But her allegations, combined with Craig's, also made him uncomfortable. At the back of his mind lingered the fear that there was something a whole lot bigger going on here, something he would be wise to avoid.

  He looked at his watch again. When Craig rang this morning, asking for an urgent meeting, Sullivan half hoped to discourage him by stipulating Victoria Station, but Craig had immediately agreed. Sullivan spotted him now, threading his way through a party of tourists dragging suitcases towards the Gatwick-bound train.