Skin and Bones (10 page)

Sullivan chose a little pub up the hill from the station. Brighton wasn't
his manor, but he knew it was a lively place, and Thursday night practically
counted as the weekend. He wanted somewhere quiet and
discreet, somewhere they were unlikely to be noticed.

The pub was in a terrace of Victorian homes, no bigger than a
front room, with too many tables squashed into the space each side
of the bar. At eight o'clock it wasn't busy: a bunch of students clearly
intending to move on somewhere more exciting, and a few late
commuters in shirts and ties, sipping pints and reading the
Argus
.
Sullivan had once been the same, knackered after a day's work but
reluctant to go home and face the missus. Now she was long gone,
and it made no difference to him whether he went out or stayed in.
Either way he drank alone and pleased himself.

Not tonight, though. He was halfway through his Guinness when
the door opened and Craig Walker came in. He had the same anger,
the same glowering intensity as the last time they'd met. That had
to be four or five years ago at least, but he seemed to have barely
aged at all. Pity I can't say the same for myself, Sullivan thought
ruefully.

Craig didn't bother disguising his reaction. 'You look even worse
than you did on TV.'

'They must have got my good side.'

'What happened? Were you locked in a bakery for five years?'

'Yeah, I wish. It's called getting older. What can you do about it?'

'Exercise?' Craig snapped back. 'Eat well? Drink less?'

Sullivan raised his glass with perfect timing. 'Another Guinness,
cheers. And get me some peanuts.'

Craig glared at him, but turned to the bar without a protest. Whatever
it is, he must want it badly, Sullivan thought.

He was contemplating what it might be when a bag of dry roasted
plopped into his lap. Cursing, he looked up and noticed Craig slopping
beer from each glass as he set them down. Now Sullivan took
in the trembling hands, the red-rimmed eyes. 'Looks like you're a fine
one to give advice on healthy living.'

Craig just smiled. Gripped his glass with a real effort and raised it
in a toast.

Sullivan finished the dregs of his first pint, smacking his lips noisily.
'So how come you're not putting the world to rights any more? From
what I hear, you're interviewing C-listers and reporting on the sports
events no one else wants to go to.'

'I moved on.' He stared at Sullivan. 'Got tired of dealing with all
the lying, cheating scum.'

'I know that feeling. That's why I do my best to put 'em behind
bars, where they belong.'

'What about Chief Inspector Kennedy? Did he end up where he
belongs?'

Sullivan chuckled. 'He's got a very nice place in Malaga.'

Craig laughed with him, but there was a bitter edge to it. 'Along
with the rest of the villains. You still see him, do you?'

'Been out there once or twice. Too hot for me, but he's a changed
man. Really taken to retirement.'

'You won't be following him over there, then?'

'Nah. It's Bournemouth for me.'

'It'll be a wooden box if you don't get your act together.'

'Nice of you to worry.' Sullivan picked up the Guinness, drained
a third of the pint and wiped the foam from his lips. 'Kennedy's old
news. And I had no idea he was bent.'

He tore savagely at the bag of peanuts and it split open, spilling
half a dozen on the table. He tipped the bag up and poured them
into his mouth, part of him relishing Craig's disgust.

'You covered for him. And I fell for it.'

Sullivan chewed, swallowed, but still sprayed a few fragments as he
answered. 'I was a lowly fucking DS. All I did was give him the benefit
of the doubt, and I asked you to do the same. End of story. Now tell
me what you want or piss off.'

Craig settled back in his seat, apparently pleased that he'd provoked
a reaction. 'I hear you're part of the Chilton investigation.'

Sullivan nodded. Deciding it was time to cool the atmosphere, he
said, 'I'm sorry about your old man.'

He waited, watching Craig assess the sincerity of his comment. He
wondered if Craig was aware of his connection to George Matheson.

'I want to know what happened,' Craig said.

'Carl Forester went on the rampage.'

'That's really all it was?'

Sullivan didn't answer. He thought about the scene at the farmhouse.
The woman assaulted. The dying husband forced to watch.

'What do you reckon it was?' he said.

'I think there's a connection to George Matheson. You must know
that everyone in the village was opposed to his plans.'

Sullivan was careful not to react. He shook his head slowly. 'You're
barking up the wrong tree.' Then he laughed.

'What?'

'You know about the woman who fell out of the tree?'

'I heard about her. Julia Trent.'

'That's right. We still haven't been able to speak to her yet, but
from what we've pieced together, it looks like Carl chased her on to
the village green. Somehow she managed to climb the tree, even
though he would have been hot on her heels.'

Sullivan paused, waiting to see if Craig had caught his emphasis.

'Somehow?'

'Did they tell you your dad was shot twice?'

'Two bullets, you mean?'

Sullivan shook his head. 'Two separate occasions.'

The colour drained from Craig's face. He sat forward, gripping the
sides of his chair as if he feared being hurled into space. 'What?'

'The first one was a chest wound. Serious, maybe even fatal. But
not necessarily.' He waited again, let the words sink in.

'You mean Carl went back to him . . . ?' Craig faltered. 'But why?'

'Maybe because of the woman. It's only speculation, but it looks
like your dad opened his front door and tried to intervene. Carl made
a detour to shoot him before he dealt with Trent.'

'So he could have stayed inside? And he might have survived?'

'Yep.' Sullivan also leaned forward, putting on his best 'straight
talking' demeanour. 'I'm telling you this because I want you to understand
it was just an act of random craziness. If you want to start blaming
people, fine. But in that case Julia Trent got your dad killed, as much
as anyone else. There was no grand plan, and certainly nothing that
involved George Matheson. If he'd been in Chilton that day, he would
have been one of the victims, I'm sure of that.'

Craig was quiet for a moment. When he spoke he sounded much
calmer than Sullivan expected, his tone measured and oddly
respectful.

'You say you haven't interviewed her yet? When you do, will you
tell me what she says? And before you say it, I'm not going to threaten
you. But if you're honest with yourself, and you truly didn't know
Kennedy was on the take, then you'll agree you still owe me a favour
or two.

'How do you work that out?'

'Because if I hadn't kept my mouth shut, all kinds of shit would
have been thrown at him, and at you, and I'm willing to bet that some
of it would have stuck.'

Craig stood up, bumping the table and almost knocking the glasses
over. Sullivan instinctively grabbed his pint. Craig gave him a thin smile.

'Go on,' he said. 'Surprise yourself. Do the right thing.'

Friday. She had to keep telling herself it was Friday. It mattered a lot,
that she could keep track of the date, just as it bothered her that three
days had effectively vanished. A trivial thing to be concerned about,
compared to everything else, but it produced a strange disorientation.
It felt like it should be Tuesday.

Julia thought about her class, probably still lethargic after the
Christmas break. January was a tough month to get their enthusiasm
stoked up. Still, she'd give anything now to be standing in front of
them, suffering any number of bad jokes and impressions from TV
shows they shouldn't even have been watching.
Little Britain
had been
like a curse on teachers: just how many times could you hear a prancing
child declare, '
I'm a laydee!
' and not want to commit murder?

Her thoughts hit a brick wall. Shouldn't have used the M word.

The memories of what happened had returned, not gradually but
in a rush. Finding the postman dead behind his van, trying to save
Moira, the chase, seeing the first killer shot. Then the second killer,
staring at the grass, knowing he had guessed where she was. The gun
coming up . . .

The doctor had explained that amnesia was quite normal after such
a period of unconsciousness, but equally that she might be completely
unaffected. So far she had been cagey about what she told them, and
no one had pushed her on it. Yet.

Her brother had been delighted by her recovery. Tears rolled down
his face the first time he spoke to her. Once again she'd felt a stab in
her heart, realising it was because their parents were gone. Neil had
been terrified of losing her as well.

After chatting for a few minutes, he asked, 'How much of it do you
remember?'

'Enough,' she said, a cue that she wasn't yet ready to discuss it.

But he had taken her hand in his, and said, 'They've identified the
gunman. A local man, Carl Forester. The typical oddball. He killed
himself . . . afterwards.'

For the briefest moment she was exultant. Her eyes must have lit
up, for her brother smiled and said, 'They found his body on the
green. I thought you'd want to know he's dead.' He squeezed her hand.
'He can't hurt you any more.'

She smiled back, managed a nod. He meant the first gunman. Not
the man in black.

She opened her mouth to tell him, but fear and confusion held
her back. She knew he'd watched it on TV, read the newspapers,
perhaps even spoken to officers directly involved in the case. And if
he believed there was only one killer . . .

So did everyone else.

The cold, clear spell had given way to milder weather, a succession
of low pressure systems trudging along the south coast, bringing rain
and wind and heavy skies. Even at midday most of the traffic on the
main road had their headlights on, and in the roads around the hospital
some of the street lights were still illuminated.

Parking close to the hospital was virtually impossible, but he had
expected that. He found a space half a mile away. He was driving a
ten-year-old Ford Escort, bought in Milton Keynes three days ago.
Same routine as with the Kawasaki: private sale, cash purchase, false
details.

He wore jeans and trainers and a hooded top. He knew there would
be CCTV everywhere, but he also knew the images were frequently
useless. Eyewitnesses would notice only what he wanted them to notice:
the slicked-back hair, the goatee beard, the tinted contact lenses.

He walked briskly and confidently on to the hospital site. Took out
his mobile phone and dipped his head as he passed the cameras above
the main doors. Once inside, he slipped the phone into his pocket
and concentrated on looking as though he knew exactly where he was
going.

Her consultant was Mr Chapman, a rotund man in his fifties who
reminded her of a badger. Black and white hair, big bushy eyebrows,
more hair sprouting from his ears and nose, and a solemn but sprightly
manner. It had fallen to him to describe the emergency laparotomy
to establish the extent of the damage, and the subsequent three-hour
operation to repair it.

'The bullet was lodged in retroperitoneal tissue between your right
kidney and the inferior vena cava, which brings blood from the lower
part of the body to your heart. There was slight damage to the pancreas,
but not the main pancreatic duct. In many ways, you were extremely
fortunate.' He smiled, acknowledging that she might not feel that way.
'The bullet was a .22, low velocity, fired from some distance. A larger
calibre or a shot fired at closer range would have carried far more
destructive force.'

In addition, she had sustained dozens of minor lacerations and
widespread bruising from the fall. She also had a badly sprained ankle
and a laceration to her leg that differed in nature from the others.

'Another bullet,' she'd said, and Mr Chapman had nodded to
himself, as if he'd suspected as much. She could see him regarding
her with a mixture of pity and horrified fascination. It was her first
experience of feeling like a circus exhibit, and she knew it would get
much worse when she told them what really happened.

Maybe it would be better to say nothing at all.

* * *

He had allowed himself one reconnaissance mission, the day before. He
had wandered the corridors, taking note of the myriad signs and instructions,
trying to calculate the risks involved and weigh them against the
potential benefits. Then he sat in the cafeteria, sipping a coffee and
relishing the knowledge that she was very close now. Almost in his grasp.

He took the elevator to Level Eight and stepped out into an empty
corridor. Turned towards a set of green double doors with three porthole
windows arranged vertically on each door. As he pushed through
them he saw a nurse at the far end of the corridor, but she was standing
with her back to him.

Perfect.

In the days after the shooting, media interest in the survivors had been
predictably intense. The hospital was besieged with reporters, who
had to settle for regular updates, when what they really craved was
access to the patients themselves. This interest subsided when some
of the survivors came forward to recount their experiences, but in
Julia's case it was judged that a general ward wasn't sufficiently secure.
After being discharged from Intensive Care, she was moved to a side
room on her own.

Julia knew very little about the media coverage. She hadn't once
switched on the TV in her room, and her brother's offer to bring in
newspapers had been politely declined. He'd visited this morning,
bringing some toiletries and a couple of books from her flat. He told
her that Donna and the children couldn't wait until she was well
enough to come up and stay.

She had smiled, recalling the disastrous Christmas dinner, but said
nothing. Soon afterwards she felt herself getting dozy, and he had
kissed her forehead and quietly left the room. The consultant
had told her that daytime naps should be a feature of her recuperation
for several weeks at least. Another reason she wouldn't be able to take
up Neil's offer: no chance of sleeping with three boisterous children
in the house.

She woke quickly, at some kind of disturbance. A noise outside the
door.

She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the unit beside
her bed. It was just after midday. The door opened slightly and one
of the nurses, Shauna, peeked into the room. She was a chatty young
Irish woman, very friendly but with a tendency to outstay her welcome.
On occasions Julia had faked sleep to end a conversation.

'Oh good, you're awake,' Shauna said. 'Someone here to see you.
He says he'll not stop long if you don't feel up to it.' She glanced back
over her shoulder, then mouthed at Julia: 'He's police!'

Julia frowned. All visitors were supposed to be cleared by her
consultant.

Then something else occurred to her. It hit her like a thunderbolt.

The second killer might come after her. She had no idea what he
looked like. No idea who he was. What if he had heard she was still
alive, and tried—

'I can't reach Mr Chapman,' Shauna chattered on, 'but you're
making such good progress, I thought if you're all right to see him . . .'

She stepped into the room, and Julia saw the man was right behind
her. He was in his early forties, quite tall, with neat dark hair and a
serious face. He didn't look like a killer, but then he didn't look like
a policeman either. He met her gaze and gave an uncertain smile.

'I don't think . . .' Julia began, but it was too late. The man stepped
around the nurse and began to produce something from inside his
jacket. The gesture took her right back to the green, to the moment
the second killer had brought the gun up and aimed it at her hiding
place.

He had found her. And this time she had nowhere to hide.