Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  This time the ache from his head wound was eclipsed by a pain in both arms so excruciating he could hardly breathe. He blinked furiously to clear his vision, but even when he'd stared at them for what seemed like an eternity, he still couldn't make sense of what he saw.

  His hands were missing.

  Sixty-Three

  Craig didn't look at his mobile until he was on the train back to Sussex, at the end of a long and harrowing day. When the buffet trolley approached, he thought he'd never in his life wanted a beer as much as he did now. It took all his willpower to shake his head and watch the trolley pass.

  He listened to Julia's message and checked the time. It was gone six-thirty, probably already too late to call her. In any case, he was in no mood to discuss Alice Jones and her tabloid exclusive. Abby Clark was dead, and it was his fault.

  After his meeting with Sullivan, he'd gone to see Abby's partner, Marie. His visit had several purposes: to offer her some support, to find out if she knew anything else that could help find Abby, and to assure her that he and Abby had never had an affair. He'd been there an hour or so, sharing tea and sympathy, when the police arrived with the news they'd been dreading. The body of a woman, believed to be Abby, had been recovered from the Thames.

  Until that point, Marie had made a supreme effort to hold herself together. Now she disintegrated in front of his eyes. When the police officer asked if she was able to identify the body, Craig offered to accompany her. In a private moment at the mortuary, he learned that the cause of death wasn't yet confirmed. There was evidence of violent trauma, but it wasn't clear if this had been inflicted by an assailant, or whether she had collided with something in the water. The post mortem should tell them more.

  He returned to Marie's flat, and sat with her while she made a succession of difficult calls to Abby's family and friends. It wasn't until he walked back to the tube station, emotionally drained and boiling with fury, that he allowed himself to say the words in his head: Abby had been murdered.

  He was equally convinced the killer was either James Vilner, or the other man, Kendrick. One or both of them had engineered the Chilton massacre, almost certainly on behalf of George Matheson. Abby had died because of the favour she had done for Craig. Because she'd come too close to the truth.

  That in itself was almost impossible to bear. What made it even worse was that he couldn't prove any of it.

  Vilner stared. His vision blurred again and instinctively he tried lifting his arms, but they wouldn't move. He blinked and stared, blinked and stared, but no matter how many times he did it the result was always the same. Both his hands were gone.

  'You've never taken me seriously, have you?' said a voice. He realised there was someone in the room with him. He forced his head up and made out a pair of workman's overalls, splattered with what looked like red paint.

  'Best to demonstrate from the start that I don't go in for half measures,' the man went on. 'Though what I did in Chilton should have made that clear.'

  The man waited, perhaps expecting a response, but Vilner's brain wouldn't process the words. They reached him like someone shouting through a waterfall; just static flooding his skull. He couldn't believe he'd been so thoroughly outplayed. He thought he'd come here early enough to anticipate a trap, but his opponent was earlier still.

  He looked back at himself. He was slumped in a half-sitting position on the floor of what had once been the farmhouse's dining room. Instead of carpet below him, there was a thick layer of plastic sheeting, the type builders put down when laying foundations to prevent damp penetration. The sheeting ran the entire width of the room and was taped to the walls at a height of about two feet. The only other things he could see were a couple of large buckets, a roll of heavy-duty plastic bags and a DeWalt Alligator saw with the same red paint along the blades.

  He opened his mouth to speak but vomited instead, an acidic gruel which dropped on to his chest and pooled in his lap. He stared at it for a moment, then back at his arms, which ended in stumps covered in crude white dressings. There were thick tourniquets around both wrists.

  The man saw him studying them and said, 'I applied those before the surgery. After all, it's no fun if you bleed to death this early on.'

  The torrent of pain must have let up slightly, for Vilner made sense of the phrase bleed to death. He was struck by a thought: How will I drive Louise tonight if I don't have any hands?

  His lips formed a smile of profound disbelief, and he began to cry.

  Sixty-Four

  The Hamsey Arms was a long low building on the outskirts of Cooksbridge, just north of Lewes. To reach it, Julia had to drive along a dark, thickly wooded stretch of road. By now the wind had risen to gale force, an almost relentless howl audible over the sound of her engine. She could feel the tyres bumping over debris in the road. Her headlights picked out trees writhing in the wind. She'd already heard reports of blocked roads and railway lines, and the storm was forecast to get worse as the evening went on.

  The main bar faced out towards the road. The well-lit interior looked cosy and welcoming as she turned into the car park. The fact she'd arrived in one piece filled her with relief, as did the sight of eight or ten other cars: she wasn't the only one crazy enough to venture out on a night like this. There was a small garden at the front, with picnic tables and planters made from beer barrels. A couple of the tables had overturned, and it looked like the planters would be next.

  Just as she switched off the ignition, a single fat raindrop exploded on the windscreen and ran down the glass. Then another. Then it was as if someone had tipped an enormous tank of water upside down. The sudden deluge pounded on the roof and made the sound of the wind almost insignificant.

  She turned up the collar of her coat, as if that would make a difference, and prepared for a soaking. When she opened the door, the wind nearly tore it from her grasp. She got out, slammed the door and locked it, then hurried as fast as she dared towards the pub.

  She entered the bar on a rush of wind and rain. Bottles and glasses rattled in the draught, and there was nervous laughter. A dozen or so faces turned to stare, then gradually looked away. The main group was a family gathering, taking up several tables festooned with giftwrapping and party novelties. A rather imperious elderly lady sat at one end, wearing a paper crown. There were about fifteen people with her, including several excited children.

  Julia tidied her hair, wiped rain from her face, undid her coat. Then she looked up, scanning the bar, and just as it occurred to her that the weather might have caused him to delay or even cancel their meeting, she spotted him.

  The train was packed with Saturday shoppers and a fair number of football fans. Craig found himself squashed into a window seat beside an obscenely overweight man who reeked of beer and body odour. Keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, he planted his face against the window, his reflection pale and anxious in the darkness.

  He'd learned from Marie that Abby's laptop was missing, along with her treasured Blackberry. When asked, the police officer wasn't sure if these items had been recovered, but he thought it extremely unlikely. So did Craig. Which meant no one knew exactly how far her enquiries had progressed.

  Now he went back over their conversation on Thursday morning. She knew virtually nothing about Kendrick, other than that he was from Trinidad. What she'd learned about Vilner had confirmed Craig's suspicions. Vilner had got on board the Matheson gravy train as a result of money he was owed. What had she said? Gambling debts run up by George's nephew. Toby someone. Harman?

  He flinched as a volley of raindrops rattled on the window. The man next to him shifted, pressing further into his space. Craig tried to ignore the discomfort. Something in the conversation was snagging right at the back of his mind, but he couldn't see it. Couldn't force it into the light.

  The train rumbled and shook, and he glimpsed leaves swirling past. He thought about his father's lawn, always kept so tidy, and idly wondered at what age a man developed the pati
ence to sweep his garden after every storm. He thought about the creep he'd caught taking photographs of the front door.

  He thought about Julia, how they read her father's diary and shared a maelstrom of emotions that led first to a passionate disagreement and then, quite unexpectedly, to a different kind of passion.

  A loud snore from his fellow passenger jolted Craig from his reverie, leaving an infuriating conviction that this insight, whatever it was, had been tantalisingly close.

  Personal space. Something about personal space.

  Guy Fisher wasn't quite what she'd expected. The voice on the phone had been assured, even cocky, but the man sitting alone at a corner table looked geeky and the very opposite of drop-dead gorgeous. It made her wonder how often he'd impressed someone who heard his voice, only for them to be disappointed when they met him in the flesh.

  On the other hand, there was little doubt it was him. He was virtually the only customer sitting alone, and he was the only one tapping away on a laptop. There was paper all over the table, and a briefcase standing upright on the seat next to him.

  He looked fairly young, late twenties or early thirties, and wore a blue shirt under a black Armani bomber jacket. She could see the bulge of a serious beer belly pressing against the table. He had brown hair, slicked back with gel or mousse, and he wore glasses with square lenses that did him no favours. Something about his almost wooden focus on the laptop reminded her of that puppet from a 1960s TV show. What was he called?

  She cleared her throat as she reached him. He didn't acknowledge her, but went on typing as if he couldn't possibly interrupt himself mid-flow. She waited, deciding she would count to five and then walk out.

  On three he looked up, almost surprised, as if he hadn't really expected her to show up. 'Miss Trent? I'm Guy Fisher. Take a seat.' His rubbery lips formed an ingratiating smile, and she had to suppress a giggle.

  Joe 90, she thought. That's who he looks like.

  She took off her coat before sitting down. As her back arched she saw his gaze dart towards her breasts, searching for the outline of her nipples through the shirt. She folded her arms and looked him in the eye.

  'It's good of you to come,' he said, closing the laptop. He gathered up the paperwork and shuffled it into some sort of order. She noticed a glass by his side, containing an inch of what looked like Coke, and wondered if he was going to buy her a drink. Not that she really wanted one, but in the circumstances it was only polite to offer. She had a feeling politeness was just one of the social skills he lacked.

  'With you in a second,' he said. He lifted the briefcase on to the table, put the laptop away, then began hunting through the papers again.

  A cheer went up across the room. Julia turned to see a waitress emerge from the kitchens, holding a birthday cake ablaze with candles. When the old woman saw it she smiled benevolently. The adults were applauding, while the children knelt on their seats and chanted, 'Gran-ny! Gran-ny!'

  'Ahh. Isn't that sweet?' Fisher gave her a sickly grin. He placed the papers in an upper pocket in the briefcase, then began to slide the case around. 'This is what you need to see.'

  A ferocious gust of wind shook the building and the lights in the bar flickered on and off. Julia glanced at the window and saw her reflection strobing in the glass: heregoneheregone. Fisher turned the briefcase so the upper half was facing out towards the room. His right hand was resting inside it.

  'Here we are,' he said.

  He was holding a black pistol.

  Sixty-Five

  Another gust of wind, and a loud crash from outside. One of the children screamed and clutched her father. The lights flickered again, but stayed on. There were ominous groans from the drinkers at the bar.

  The man sitting opposite her ignored it all. He stared at her through his ridiculous glasses, and she understood that they were simply part of his disguise, along with the Estuary voice and the slicked-back hair and the paunch. He wasn't a journalist, here to verify Alice Jones's story.

  He was the second killer.

  He watched her closely. His smile was hideous, no warmth or light in his eyes.

  'I take it you've worked out who I am?'

  'Yes.' The sound of her own voice surprised her. She hadn't expected it to function. She certainly didn't expect it to sound so calm.

  'Good. Now this is where you have to be very sensible. Otherwise a lot of people will get hurt.' He nodded towards the bar. 'Take a look around.'

  Julia did as she was told. The family party was singing 'Happy Birthday'. The old woman sat through it, her face illuminated by the candles, her smile a little forced, as if she would really rather be at home with her feet up. The other customers were watching them, or talking to each other, or busy eating and drinking.

  No one had noticed anything wrong. No one else knew there was an armed man in the pub.

  'I'm not going to kill you,' he said. 'But we need to go somewhere, and we need to do it quietly. If there's any fuss, the first thing I'll do is shoot you in the leg, so you can't get away. Okay?'

  She nodded dumbly.

  'The next thing I'll do is shoot the bar staff, because they're most likely to try and phone for help. Then I'll shoot a few of the customers to create a panic.' He made a show of assessing the best contenders. 'The old woman, probably. And at least one of the kids. I'll aim for their faces. It'll be messy, and it may not kill them straight away. While they're screaming, everyone else will be too traumatised to react. They certainly won't stop us leaving. Am I getting my message across?'

  He smiled again. He could have been running through the itinerary for a perfect evening out.

  'Yes,' she said through gritted teeth.

  'Great. We're going to stand up like a couple of good friends and walk out without so much as a word. That old lady and her delightful family get to remember this occasion the way they should.' He smirked. 'All right?'

  Julia said nothing. Reluctantly she met his eye and nodded.

  'Well done.' He glanced around, then shut the briefcase and stood it upright on the table. No urgency. No fumbling. His voice had remained steady the whole time, she realised. No emotion when he talked about shooting a child in the face.

  'The gun will be concealed by the case,' he said quietly, 'but I'm still holding it. Remember that. Don't get it into your head that you're going to play the hero.'

  He stood up and ushered her towards the door. She felt as though she'd been hypnotised. Her body seemed to respond to his commands without any conscious input from her brain. She walked like a robot, her movements stiff and unnatural. Surely someone will notice, she thought. Surely someone will stop us.

  But no one did.

  He led her across the car park, towards a silver Renault Laguna. He must have pressed a key fob, for the lights flashed and there was a bleep as the car unlocked.

  'Round the back,' he said, shouting to be heard above the storm. In the corner of the car park a couple of fence panels had blown down, and now the wind was lifting loose slats, trying to tear them free. Julia had a second to think about making a run for it, then she felt him bump against her and knew she'd never do it in time.

  She still felt numb, disbelieving, but that worked in her favour. It held the worst of the fear at bay, allowed her mind to clear a little. If she couldn't run, what could she do?

  He'd let her put her coat back on, though the rain was pelting her hair and running down her neck. She wore her handbag over her shoulder. It wasn't large, or particularly expensive. A neat rectangle of black leather, bought on holiday in Greece a couple of years ago for thirty or forty euros. Neat, compact, unobtrusive.

  Right now it was the most precious thing she owned.

  He directed her to stand behind the car while he opened the door and slung the briefcase on to the back seat. Then he opened the boot and gestured at it.

  'Get in.'

  Julia didn't protest. Afterwards she wondered if she should have. Maybe that would have made him less suspicious. />
  Instead she complied, quickly and meekly, climbing in without assistance, folding herself into the space by turning on her side and drawing up her knees, the handbag trapped awkwardly beneath her body, where he couldn't see it.

  'Have a pleasant journey,' he said, and shut the boot with a heavy whump.

  As soon as it closed, Julia wriggled until she could reach her handbag and pull it clear of her body. She was in complete darkness. The boot smelled of chemical cleaner. The rain was drumming on the bodywork above her.

  She returned to a foetal position and held the handbag in both hands. Felt for the strap and turned it upright before opening the zip. Then she put one hand inside and carefully probed the contents until her fingers closed around the beautiful smooth weight that was her mobile phone.

  The killer was opening the driver's door when he felt a vibration in his pocket. It was the phone he had taken from Vilner, and he was intrigued to see who would be calling. He pulled the phone out and dropped into the driver's seat. At the same time a little firework seemed to go off in his head, a spray of bright light that bloomed into the letters of one simple word.

  Phone.

  She felt him climb into the car. Heard his door close, just as a comforting electronic glow lit up the boot compartment. A strong signal, and plenty of battery strength. Julia felt a flood of gratitude and promised never to curse this wonderful invention ever again.

  Then she felt the car rock on its suspension, and knew the killer had realised his mistake.

  He opened the boot just in time to see her thumb pressing out a number. She tried to turn away from him, shielding the phone with her body. He punched her in the head with savage force. The blow knocked her against the back seats and she passed out. He delved for the phone and read the display.

  Calling . . . 999

  He disconnected the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. Grabbed her handbag and slammed the boot shut. That was close. Too fucking close.