Skin and Bones (11 page)

The door had a porthole window at eye level. He could see her lying
in bed, surrounded by the equipment that had saved her life. Little
good that would do her now.

His hand was on the door when a voice called out, 'Help you?'

He looked round and saw a policeman ambling towards him, holding
a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and clutching several chocolate
bars in the other. He was tall but paunchy, with a swarthy
complexion and suspiciously dark hair. He looked the way Elvis might
have done had he made it to his fifties with no great modifications in
his lifestyle.

He could probably be overcome, the killer thought. He looked fat,
lazy, probably marking time till retirement. It wasn't until the
policeman came a bit closer that he saw the hard edge in his eyes.
Maybe not such a pushover.

The policeman was shaking his head. 'You fellers disappoint me,
you know.'

The killer frowned. Waited for him to elaborate.

'Fair enough, you have to earn a living, but trying to sneak a picture
of a nine-year-old girl lying in a coma.' He tutted, then took a slurp of
coffee. 'Poor little mite doesn't deserve that.'

The killer shrugged. 'Yeah, well, I got an editor on my back. Thought
it was worth a punt.'

'I'm gonna let it go this time. Try it again and I'll have you up the
station, explaining yourself to my sergeant. You get me?'

The killer nodded ruefully and turned away. He heard the rustle
of chocolate wrappers. 'Oy!' the policeman called, and his heart skipped
a beat.

He looked back. The policeman was jabbing a Mars bar at him.

'And I haven't forgiven you lot for Princess Di, either.'

Leaving the hospital, he reflected that it wasn't all bad news. He'd
verified that the girl was still in a coma, nearly a week after she'd been
smothered. There must be a good chance that she would never wake
up. And if the policeman was only there to protect her from the media,
it meant they didn't anticipate any other kind of threat.

The one potential danger to him was the woman in the tree. But
he knew from the newspapers that she'd now regained consciousness,
and since there hadn't been any suggestion of a second gunman in
the media, he was guessing she probably had amnesia – in which case
he was safe.

Relatively safe, at least.

Suddenly the room was full of people. The nurse was shouting, and
a doctor shouldered his way through. Julia was dimly aware that she
was hanging half off the bed. The man who had caused the panic
was trying, haplessly, to lift her back into position. There was a woman
in police uniform just behind him, looking very upset.

Above the shouts and running footsteps she could hear an awful
keening noise. It sounded inhuman, like something from her nightmares.
Gradually she realised it was coming from her. Then she realised
the distress on everyone's faces was only mirroring her own distress.

They gave her a sedative. Slowly the noise drifted away, and she
felt herself sinking into warm sand. She recalled wanting to talk to
the police, wanting to give them her side of the story, but that didn't
matter any more. Nothing mattered any more.

On Friday there were several reporters camped outside the house. It
wasn't the first time this week, but today Craig decided he couldn't
face them. He ignored the doorbell and kept his phone off the hook
all morning, which meant he didn't find out why they were there until
Nina returned from shopping in Crawley.

He was in the kitchen, cradling a coffee and brooding on last night's
meeting with DI Sullivan. When he'd first spotted the detective in a TV
news bulletin, it had seemed like a good idea to try and call in a favour,
but now he wasn't so sure. The revelation that his father had been shot
twice was a terrible blow, and one that he wasn't yet ready to discuss
with anyone.

Nina came in, holding a newspaper open to the middle pages. She
let it slide on to the worktop in front of him. 'That's your friend, isn't
it?'

He glanced at the byline, saw Abby's name. 'Yeah.'

'You might want to read it,' Nina said, then turned and left the room.

It had been like that all week: an uneasy truce. She'd returned late
on Saturday night and found Craig dozing on the couch, the pizza
box and empty bottle of Scotch lying on the floor. When she woke
him, he groped his way upstairs and collapsed on the spare bed.

The next morning she brought him coffee and offered to talk. He
gave her a brief account of what he knew, and he mentioned seeing
Abby, without divulging that she'd been here and shared the pizza with
him. Didn't want to risk conceding some moral high ground, maybe.

Nina was keen to explain the affair, but he couldn't listen. He was
afraid he wouldn't be able to hold his temper in check. Instead he
went out and was gone all day, drifting from pub to pub, drinking
alone. Dozing in a park in the January cold like a tramp. He thought
seriously about never going back, and then saw what a remarkably
easy process it was, how from a single tragic event you could fall
through the cracks. He woke drunk and frozen on a bench and had
a vision of himself in five years, wild-eyed and ranting in some shopping
precinct, not even his own children able to recognise him.

So he went home, resolving to lay off the booze. At first the kids
were delighted to see him, then quickly mystified by the peculiar
atmosphere in the house. They'd never experienced this sort of tension
before, and the false bonhomie which he and Nina displayed in their
presence wouldn't have fooled anyone.

Now Maddie was throwing tantrums at every little disappointment
and refusing to go to school. Tom was wetting the bed. And Craig's
abstinence had lasted only until Monday afternoon, when he was
driven to Brighton mortuary to identify his father's body. Since then
he'd managed to sustain a permanent state of semi-intoxication. It
made sharing the house with Nina slightly more bearable, while simultaneously
adding to the strain on their relationship.

He sat and waited a moment, listening to Nina's footsteps on the
stairs, and then read the article. It was a long, reflective piece,
the kind of writing Abby excelled at. She had the tone exactly right,
judging that by now the horror at what happened, while still fresh,
wouldn't feel quite so raw. The first scabs were forming, and here she
was to gently pick at them. She said some nice things about his father,
but left the controversy until last:

At the moment the consensus is that the
massacre has finished off George Matheson's
plans for a large housing development in
Chilton. But others aren't so sure. 'Maybe
it'll clear the way,' says Craig Walker,
son of murdered campaigner Philip. 'After
all, who's left to fight him now?'

'Oh, Abby,' he said. He tried to think himself back to Saturday
night. He thought she had quoted him pretty accurately, maybe even
word for word.

Perhaps, he thought bitterly, she had recorded the whole thing.

It was Friday afternoon before Kendrick deigned to see George
Matheson. For some reason he suggested they meet in Brighton, on
the roof of the multi-storey car park in the Marina. George understood
the other man's desire for anonymity, but surely there were better
venues he could have chosen.

Kendrick's Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked at the far end of the
roof, well away from the exit ramps. There were only a handful of
other cars up here, and no one else in sight. George parked his Jaguar
and got out, buttoned up his overcoat and shivered.

It was a dismal day, low cloud clinging to the hills above the city,
reducing the horizon to no more than a mile or two. Seagulls hung
and drifted in a blustery wind, and the grey-green water seethed like
something alive.

As George walked towards the Jeep, the front passenger door opened
and Kendrick got out. There were two other men in the car, but they
stayed in place.

George offered his hand. Kendrick held it a few seconds longer
than necessary, staring deep into George's eyes. It was all he could
do not to step back and wrench his hand free. This was only the third
time he'd met Kendrick in person, and he knew that he hadn't yet
got the measure of the man.

'I had some business down this way. Hope you don't mind.'

'I'm honoured,' said George drily. 'I did wonder if I'd be seeing
Vilner instead.'

Kendrick grinned as if he appreciated the joke, but his eyes said
he didn't. 'We're busy men. Sometimes we have to delegate.'

'It's to whom we delegate that concerns me.'

'Vilner's a bit rough and ready, but you wouldn't deny he's useful.'

George grunted. 'I don't appreciate the way he's become your
emissary. It certainly wasn't my idea to have him involved in my organisation.'

'No. Another of Toby's messes?'

George wasn't going to answer that. He turned away, stared at
Brighton Pier, ghosting from the gloom, its multicoloured lights
smeared on the water. Kendrick stood alongside him, hands thrust in
his pockets. A picture of relaxation.

'I came to England once before, when I was ten years old. I couldn't
believe how people could live somewhere so cold and grey.'

'Hard to believe this is a top tourist destination, isn't it?'

'Oh, it's got a certain charm. As it happens, Trinidad is mainly geared
around industry. Much better beaches on some of the other islands.'

George nodded. 'I have a villa in Antigua. Don't get so much time
to spend out there these days.'

'Maybe you will soon, eh?'

'You tell me.'

'What happened Saturday makes a big difference. From now on
there's going to be a lot more scrutiny.'

George said nothing. He'd heard enough opening gambits in his
time to know what was coming.

'That has to affect the value of the business, wouldn't you say?'

'Not necessarily,' George said. 'I agree it's very sensitive at the
moment, but things change. People have short memories.'

'So you will be looking to make another application?'

'It depends on the timescale. But if you acquire the land along with
the business, I don't see why it couldn't be pursued.'

Kendrick chuckled. 'You mean I take on the headache of getting
planning approval?'

'It might not be a headache. As I say, attitudes change.'

'Philip Walker's son made just the same point in
The Times
this
morning. You've seen that?'

'Yes. A vindictive little piece.'

'But maybe he's right. Not a lot of opposition left.'

'An ironic charge, given that he seems intent on taking up the
baton.'

'Still,' said Kendrick. 'Quite a few empty properties in Chilton at
the moment. And maybe some survivors who decide they can't face
living there any more.'

'I'm aware of the potential. It's in hand.' George turned, wandered
towards the northern perimeter wall. 'The last few months you've given
some very conflicting signals. I'd like to know if you're in or out.'

'Do you have other buyers beating down your door?'

'You don't expect me to answer that question?'

'George, you don't need to.' Kendrick clapped him on the back as
if they were friends. 'I think we can work something out. Let's watch
how the dust settles, then discuss what adjustments are needed.'

George gave him a sidelong glance. 'Adjustments?'

'To the deal, as a whole. To the price.'

George snorted. He stared at the cliffs that ran behind the marina.
Brilliant white from a distance, at closer range he could see the chalk
was studded with flint, as well as clumps of mud and weeds. A catch
fence had been bolted in place to prevent rockfalls.

Kendrick leaned his hands on the wall and looked over at the drop.
He spotted a pebble at his feet, picked it up and placed it on the wall.
He toyed with it for a moment, then flicked it over the edge.

'I threw someone off a roof once,' he said in a matter-of-fact tone.
'Only four floors up. Or maybe five.' He shrugged. 'It's not a pretty
sight.'

Craig tried to phone Abby, but got her voicemail. He thought about
emailing her, and while he considered what to say he scanned the
rest of the paper.

There were more stories about the gunman, Carl Forester, whose
upbringing had been mercilessly scrutinised. The usual debate had
taken place: at what point does personal responsibility overcome the
effects of an abusive childhood? His widowed mother, Peggy, had been
arrested late on Saturday, after attacking one of the officers sent to
take her into protective custody. Now, at her own insistence, she was
being released. A tabloid had captured a shot of her being escorted
from the station, thrashing beneath the blanket that was supposed to
safeguard her privacy. THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN BRITAIN, the headline
raged.

Another article confirmed what Sullivan had said, that the police
were still waiting to interview Julia Trent. Under the title DOUBLE
TRAGEDY OF CHILTON VICTIM, it disclosed that Julia's parents had died
shortly before Christmas, as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning, and
quoted an unnamed 'friend' who raised fears about her mental stability.
An invented quote to give the story a little more punch, Craig guessed.

He heard movement in the hall and the door opened. Nina.

'They're still out there,' she said. 'What am I going to do about
collecting Tom and Maddie from school?'

Craig sighed. 'Do you want me to go?'

'No. I don't want the children getting dragged into this.'

She was right, but the vehemence of her tone stung him. 'When
it's time, I'll go out and keep them busy,' he said. 'You can slip past
while I'm talking to them.'

Nina nodded, but remained in the doorway. 'Did Abby make it up?
Or did you really say that?'

'I wasn't thinking clearly. I was angry, upset.'

'Drunk?'

'It was stupid. I know that.'

She didn't contradict him. 'It's awful having people try to photograph
you every time you step out the door.'

'We're not exactly Brad and Angelina, for Christ's sake.'

She folded her arms, resolute. 'Maybe not, but I think . . . well,
perhaps one of us should move out.'

Craig took a moment to reply. He could see Nina was having the
same fight to keep her emotions in check. This wasn't just about
Abby's story.

'Yeah, I've been thinking the same thing. Maybe I'll go and stay at
Dad's for a while.'

Nina looked surprised. 'You don't want to live there, do you?'

'I can't avoid the place for ever. And at least it draws the media
attention away from here.' He was going to add that it would only be
a temporary move, but decided to wait and see if Nina said it.

Instead there was an awkward silence. Then she nodded. 'Well, it's
probably for the best.'

Returning to their cars, Kendrick said, 'How are you going to respond
to Craig Walker's comment?'

'I won't, publicly. That's not how I conduct my affairs.'

'Glad to hear it.' They were nearly at the Jeep. The man behind
the wheel snapped to attention as his boss came into view.

'And Toby?' Kendrick said. 'He still doesn't know about the deal?'

'No.'

'Good. I want it kept secret until it's signed and sealed. He doesn't
strike me as reliable.' He added, 'How do you think Toby will react
when he finds out?'

'I don't particularly care. It's time he made his own way in the
world.'

'So why let him work for you?'

'He's Vanessa's nephew. She argued that he should have a role, and
at the time I couldn't see a reason to object.'

'Blood is thicker than water.'

'Exactly.' George felt uncomfortable. Something about the way
Kendrick's lilting tone played with the word
blood
. 'Anyway, he won't
be destitute.'

'He will if he goes on throwing his money away in casinos. And
borrowing from men like Vilner.'

George gave him a sharp look. 'I don't see that this needs to concern
you.'

'What about your wife?' Kendrick went on, as if George hadn't
spoken. 'How will she take it?'

'Vanessa won't—' He stopped, registering Kendrick's expression.
'You know, don't you?'

'I do my homework, George. It's how I guarantee my good fortune.'
A malicious light danced in his eyes. 'I know all about you.'

His hand shot out as if to punch George, slowed at the last moment
and clasped his shoulder instead. He got into the Jeep. The engine
fired up and it reversed sharply, pulling away with a squeal of tyres.
George watched it descend the exit ramp and disappear.

He stood in the car park, Kendrick's parting shot still ringing in his
ears.

I know all about you.