Skin and Bones (13 page)

The land east of Rye is unlike anywhere else in Sussex. The bus
trundled over marshland and fields of winter crops where an occasional
tractor went about its solitary work. Electricity pylons marched across
the landscape in mighty columns, like a robot army hatched from the
great brooding power station at Dungeness. In winter it was a bleak,
cold, unforgiving place. Until today, she had thought it was perfect.

She was staying at a private hotel called Bayside; the result of
another compromise with her consultant. He had strongly recommended
a nursing home that specialised in convalescent care. Appalled
by the thought of what she saw as confinement in an establishment
better suited to geriatrics, she had gratefully leapt at an alternative
suggestion from the DCI. Bayside had just a dozen rooms, and it
specialised in a women-only clientele. The proprietor, Kate, was a
former police officer, and the hotel was sometimes used to accommodate
vulnerable prosecution witnesses.

Now, as she grew calmer, Julia began to consider the other possibilities.
Maybe the man she'd seen hadn't been following her at all.
At worst, maybe he was a journalist. To avoid media attention, she
had left the Royal Sussex County late at night, via a back entrance,
and her brother had driven her to Camber Sands. Very few people
knew she was here – her only visitors so far had been a couple of old
friends and the head teacher at her school – but there was always a
chance someone had talked. She felt sickened to think someone she
knew and trusted might have leaked her whereabouts in return for
money.

The hotel occupied a substantial plot of land right on the coast,
with a golf course on one side and a scattering of large private homes
on the other. The upper floor offered spectacular views of the bay and
the wide expanse of sand that gave the area its name.

As a precaution she stayed on the bus until it had gone past the
hotel, then got off at the next stop. None of the passing traffic aroused
any suspicion. She walked along to the hotel and checked the car
park for unfamiliar vehicles. There was a laundry van backed up to
the entrance. The driver slammed the rear doors and nodded at her
as she passed.

Kate was behind the reception counter, talking on the phone. She
was a tall, striking woman in her early fifties, with long white hair
pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing Julia, she quickly finished the call
and gave her a stern look.

'I told you it was too soon to be venturing out.'

'What?'

'You look shattered. If you're not careful, you'll end up back in
hospital.'

'I'm okay. Just need a lie-down.'

'You need to start listening to good advice, that's what you need.'
Kate tutted, then looked regretful. 'There was someone here this
morning, asking for you.'

Julia clasped a hand to her chest. 'When?'

'About half ten. Not long after you left. I said I'd never heard of
you.'

'What did he look like?'

Kate thought about it. 'I'd say mid-thirties. Slim, dark hair. Wearing
black jeans and a blue tailored jacket.'

Julia nodded, struggling to keep her panic in check. 'Journalist?'

'I think so. I acted dumb, so hopefully he's long gone.'

'No. He was following me in Rye.'

'Oh, bugger.' Kate turned towards the door as if expecting him to
burst inside. 'What do you want to do?'

'Nothing. Just let me know if he comes back.'

The stairs seemed twice as steep as usual, and each one brought
another twinge of pain. Hauling herself up, Julia felt drained of hope
as well as energy. If one journalist had found her, soon there would
be more. Either she would have to give them what they wanted, or
else move on to the next hideaway, the next sanctuary. And what kind
of life was that?

Her room was at the end of the corridor on the first floor. It was a
good size, clean and nicely decorated in neutral tones, but it wasn't
home. She'd brought a single suitcase, packed by her brother on her
instructions, but after a week she'd hardly unpacked, almost as though
unconsciously she'd been preparing for sudden flight.

She propped the walking stick by the door and shrugged off her
coat. The room felt a little stuffy, but as she went to open the window
she stopped in her tracks.

The tide was a long way out. The distant sea looked glassy and
unreal. A thin haze of cloud diffused the sunlight, giving the air a
strange vanilla glow. Fishing boats bobbed in the distance, and seagulls
dipped and swooped over the beach. The sand lay flat and damp
and brown beneath her, and there wasn't a soul in sight except for
one man.

He was about a hundred yards away, standing perfectly still, feet
set apart, arms crossed. Patient and resolute. He was staring in her
direction, but with the light reflecting off the glass she had no idea if
he could see her.

He must have come straight here, she realised. He knew her destination,
and if he had a car he would have beaten her by ten minutes
or more. All that effort to evade him, the risks she'd taken with her
health, all for nothing.

There was a stick lying at his feet, probably driftwood. From this
distance it looked like a small dark snake. She understood what it was
only a second before she registered what it had been used for.

Just behind him, in letters six feet high, he had etched a single word.

SORRY.

There was a knock on the door. She jumped, aware that she had been
caught in a daze. She couldn't even recall what she'd been thinking.
The man on the beach was still there, still staring at the hotel.

Kate had brought her a tuna sandwich and a glass of cranberry
juice. When Julia protested, she said, 'You're meant to eat regularly,
and you'll forget otherwise.'

Julia nodded. Thanked her, and then said, 'Come and see this.'

Kate stepped past her and stood at the window, her head slightly
tilted and her arms crossed in a pose that exactly mirrored the man
she was looking at.

'That's the guy from this morning,' she said. 'What's he sorry for?
Hassling you?'

'I suppose so,' Julia said, keeping her voice neutral.

'Very polite, for a hack.' Kate studied him for a long moment. 'Still,
I wouldn't kick him out of bed.'

Julia snorted. 'Perhaps I should find out what he wants?'

'Don't do anything hasty. Have your lunch first, at least.'

She left the room, shutting the door gently behind her. Julia took
a bite of her sandwich and sat down on the bed. The angle was tight,
but she could still just about see him. After a minute or two he stretched
and turned round, examining the message he'd written. She caught
a definite air of despondency in his posture.

He turned back, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. Without quite
knowing why, Julia stood up and stepped to the window, moving her
face to the glass. Seeing her, he gave a small, hesitant wave. He picked
up the stick, moved to a clean spot of sand and began inscribing a
new message.

Julia tutted, not sure whether to be amused or alarmed. She waited
for the words to form and tried not to second-guess, but found herself
doing so anyway.

I'M

I'm sorry?
she wondered.

I'M NOT

I'm not a journalist? Not a sleaze ball? Not here to cause more pain?

But the message, when he stood clear to reveal it, was something
far more shocking. She nearly choked on her sandwich.

I'M NOT HIM.

He knows, she thought. He knows there was a second killer. He's
trying to reassure me.

Then she thought:
How can he know?
She hadn't told anyone, other
than the police. And they hadn't believed a word of it.

She went on staring. The man dropped the stick and approached
the hotel, coming right up to the back fence. He bent over and retrieved
a black laptop bag. Delved inside it and produced a thick brown envelope,
which he raised for her to see. He inclined his head, as if to
say,
May I?

Be careful, a voice in her head warned. It could be some type of
trap.

But she didn't think so. Her instinct was telling her he had something
important to say, and while she might not be ready to trust him,
she knew there was no way she could ignore him.

The lobby was empty when she got downstairs. Kate was probably in
the kitchen, or maybe her private quarters. Julia walked gingerly over
to the main door and waited, leaning against the wall. The pose gave
a sense of exaggerated nonchalance, but it was actually because she'd
succumbed to vanity and left the walking stick in her room.

A minute later the man jogged into view. He was taller than Julia
expected, around six feet, with the sort of lean, triangular frame that
suggested a swimmer's physique beneath the jacket. His thick brown
hair was in need of a trim, and as he reached the steps she could see
a torment in his face as acute as anything she'd suffered in the past
few weeks.

She opened the door but blocked the entrance, making it clear he
wasn't welcome to come any further. He stopped and gave her an
uncertain smile. His eyes were a rich dark brown, deep and liquid
and full of hurt.

Before he had a chance to speak, Julia said, 'If you're a journalist,
you're wasting your time.'

The smile turned ironic. 'I am, actually. Freelance sports and
features, but that's not why I'm here.' He stuck out his hand. 'Craig
Walker.'

'Craig . . . ?'

'Philip Walker's son.'

Julia clutched the door for support. It took her a moment to regain
her composure. She shook his hand and said, 'He saved my life.'

'I know,' he said, and she wasn't sure if there was a slight coldness
in his voice. There was no trace of it when he added, 'Sorry about
earlier, in Rye. I wasn't sure how best to approach you.'

'How did you find me? No one's meant to know I'm here.'

'I have a contact in the police.'

'And he leaked the information?'

'He didn't have much choice.' Seeing her frown, he said, 'It's a long
story, and now's probably not the right time.' He offered her the envelope.
'He also gave me this. The preliminary report into the massacre.
I'd like you to read it and then discuss it with me.'

She hesitated, a little riled by his tone: it was more of a demand
than a request. But she took the envelope, unaware that she was trembling
until it rattled in her hands. She clutched it tight to her chest.

'What did you mean,
I'm not him?
'

Craig looked taken aback. 'You know, don't you?'

'Do I?'

'Carl Forester didn't dream up that massacre on his own. Someone
put the idea into his head, and that person is just as guilty.'

Julia said nothing for a moment. She tapped the envelope. 'Is that
what it says in here?'

'No. But I don't believe that,' he said simply. 'I believe you.'

He told her he was going for a walk on the beach. Said he would wait
as long as it took. He shook her hand again and thanked her for
listening to him. Again she caught a brusque note in his voice.

She returned to her room and sat down on the bed. As she peeled
the envelope open she was conscious of her thudding heart, and told
herself not to be so ridiculous. It was an official document, and nothing
more. Just words on paper.

After everything she'd been through, what harm could it do her?

STRICTLY PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL
SHOOTING INCIDENT AT CHILTON, EAST SUSSEX
ON 19 JANUARY 2008
PRELIMINARY REPORT PREPARED BY CHIEF SUPT
MALCOLM ELLIS
FOR THE CHIEF CONSTABLE
8 FEBRUARY 2008

INTRODUCTION

On Saturday, 19 January 2008 a series of
shootings occurred in and around the
village of Chilton, resulting in the deaths
of fourteen people and injuries to a further
four. This report has been prepared with
the agreement of the Chief Constable of
Sussex to cover all the events of
19 January. Certain inquiries are ongoing
and will be covered in more detail in the
final report, due for completion on
1 May 2008.

CHILTON

The hamlet of Chilton is situated ten miles
north-west of Lewes. It lies approximately
one mile along Chilton Way, a no-throughroad
which provides the only vehicular access.
An unadopted access road, Hurst Lane, runs
north from the village to Chilton Manor and
the neighbouring farm.

Prior to January 2008, the population of
Chilton was sixty-three people, including
fifteen children, resident in twenty-eight
properties. Most of the buildings are Georgian
or Victorian, with a handful of Tudor cottages
and a twelfth-century Norman church.

Chilton's residents work hard to maintain
the village's unspoilt appearance, and to
this end they have fought many campaigns
against local development, recently defeating
a proposal to build several hundred homes on
adjacent farmland. They also successfully
opposed plans to site a mobile-phone mast on
the tower of St Mary's church, a move which
had significant implications on 19 January.

There are few local services other than
the church, the Green Man public house and
one shop. Responsibility for policing lies
with Burgess Hill police station, approximately
four miles away, but historically
crime in Chilton has been practically nonexistent.

CARL FORESTER

Carl Brian Forester, aged twenty-five, had
lived all his life in the neighbouring
village of Falcombe. An only child, Carl
lived with his mother, Peggy, aged fiftythree.
His father, Albert, walked out on
the family when Carl was five and had no
further contact with his son. Inquiries
revealed that he died of a heart attack in
2001.

Forester's mother is a chronic alcoholic
with a long record of public-order offences.
She served several prison sentences, during
which time her son was placed in care. The
family was well known to social services,
and Forester was a persistent truant from
the age of seven.

Leaving school with no qualifications,
Forester's most stable period of employment
began at the age of nineteen, working as a
groundsman for George Matheson at Chilton
Manor. His duties included assisting with
pheasant shoots, and it is thought his
fascination with firearms stems from this
period. He also helped out on a seasonal
basis at Hurst Farm, owned by Matheson but
managed by Mr Keith Caplan.

His employment was terminated two years
ago, following an alleged assault on Mrs
Laura Caplan. According to George Matheson,
Forester had been spying on Mrs Caplan, as
well as stealing her underwear and other
personal items. Forester entered the house
by stealth and exposed himself to Mrs Caplan
in the presence of her daughter, Megan, then
aged seven. After that, Forester did no
further work for Matheson, although the incident
was not reported to the police.

It is believed Forester subsequently nursed
a grudge against both the Mathesons and the
Caplans. Whilst it cannot be stated with
certainty that this led directly to the
events of 19 January, it must be considered
an important factor.

Inquiries have revealed no close friends,
but there were a number of individuals with
whom Forester drank on a regular basis,
usually in the King's Head public house in
Falcombe. Most have alcohol and/or drug
dependency issues. They all describe Forester
as a loner, incapable of forming proper
relationships. His drunken approaches to
women frequently saw him ejected from the
King's Head, and as a result he was regarded
as a rather pathetic figure

During our inquiries, however, two of the
females from this group made allegations
against Forester, ranging from indecent
exposure to attempted rape. Once again,
these offences were never reported at the
time, possibly because of the aforementioned
drug use.

There was unanimous agreement that Forester
was terrified of his mother, and frequently
beaten during his childhood, an allegation
that met with frankly unconvincing denials
from Peggy Forester. During the police investigation,
Mrs Forester was often violent
towards the officers interviewing her, and
on one occasion stabbed a female officer
with a kitchen knife.

Even allowing for her heightened emotional
state following her son's death, it suggests
Forester grew up in a volatile environment.
He had a number of criminal convictions,
mostly relating to minor acts of vandalism
and theft, as well as a range of vehicle
offences, but prior to 19 January Forester's
potential for violent or sexual assault was
unknown to the authorities.

FIREARMS

The principal firearm was a Walther P22 semiautomatic
pistol, fitted with a suppressor
and firing .22 subsonic ammunition.
Indications are that it was part of a small
consignment of arms smuggled into the UK in
2003 by individuals with links to Russian
organised crime. Despite extensive inquiries,
it has not yet been established how or
where Forester made the sort of connections
necessary to source such a weapon.

The other firearm was a Purdey doublebarrel
twelve-bore shotgun, used for two
killings. This was a legally held weapon,
purchased by George Matheson from a registered
firearms dealer. Matheson holds a
valid shotgun licence, and the weapon was
stored in an approved gun safe.

The following section covers the events
of 19 January in more detail.

Julia threw the report aside and got to her feet. She felt dizzy and
nauseous. She opened the window and took a huge gulp of air. On the
beach a woman in a green puffy anorak was walking her Labrador.
There was no sign of Craig.

However much she dreaded it, she knew she had to read on. But
first she opened her suitcase and rooted around in it. When he'd
dropped her off at the hotel, her brother had presented her with a
couple of small gifts: a CD and a half-bottle of brandy.

She poured a small measure and took a sip. It was her first taste of
alcohol since before the massacre, and its burning warmth felt comforting
in her stomach. A little rush of courage.

She would need it.