Skin and Bones (15 page)

Toby Harman owned a BMW M6, courtesy of his uncle. The journey
to Sussex was a perfect opportunity to open it up, but today he just
couldn't summon the kind of carefree attitude the drive required.
George had sounded troubled on the phone. He wouldn't say why he
wanted to see Toby, but it was unlikely to be good news.

After education at a minor public school in West Sussex, Toby had
gone to Durham University and scraped a 2:2 in Ancient History. Almost
immediately he'd been set to work in his uncle's organisation, embarking
on an individually tailored training scheme that would see him move
between different companies and departments over a period of years,
in order to fully understand and gain experience of working at every
level, before taking his place amongst the senior management team.

In practice, it hadn't quite worked out like that. For one thing, Toby
was easily bored or distracted, and the training role wasn't sufficiently
challenging to hold his interest. There were other problems as well,
often involving female colleagues. Getting caught having sex in the
boardroom didn't go down terribly well with his uncle.

Then there were the issues with timekeeping. He saw no good
reason to adhere to the nine-to-five rigidity imposed on the rest of the
workforce. Everyone knew he was different, and there was no point
pretending otherwise. If he wanted to come in at eleven after a particularly
late night at a casino, why shouldn't he?

His finances were another constant source of tension. On one occasion,
after he'd persistently siphoned the petty cash at a manufacturing
firm, George had threatened not just to sack him, but to prosecute
him for theft.

From that point, Toby agreed to mend his ways, in return for a
higher degree of involvement. He was given a couple of directorships,
and allowed to concentrate his energies on the one area that truly
interested him: property development. So far it had been a mixed
success, complicated by the fact that he'd been unable to kick the
gambling habit. He fully expected today's meeting to involve yet
another reading of the riot act.

He left the A23 at Hickstead, skirted around Burgess Hill and
headed into the countryside of East Sussex. The Downs loomed over
him, and the shadows of trees scurried across the windscreen. He
always found the lush greenery faintly unsettling. He preferred a world
of tarmac and concrete and steel.

As he drove through Chilton he caught a flash of light. For a
moment it looked like the yew tree was on fire. With a start he realised
it was sunlight reflecting on cellophane, wrapped around the dozens
of bouquets and wreaths that had been left at the site. He kept his
gaze on the road ahead, ignoring the sightseers who roamed the green.
Worthless scum, the lot of them.

He turned into Hurst Lane, reaching for the remote-control key
fob that opened the gates. He mistimed it slightly, and had to wait a
few seconds, the car pulsing forward on the accelerator until the gap
was wide enough. Then he gunned the engine and roared up the
drive, spraying gravel in his wake.

George was waiting for him in front of the double doors. He was
dressed in grey slacks and a blue jacket, his hand delving into one
pocket in a faux-regal pose. He frowned as the BMW slewed to a halt,
and when Toby got out of the car the first thing he said was: 'Show
a little respect, would you?'

* * *

Despite protestations from Craig, Julia insisted on getting up to order
more coffee. She wanted to prove she wasn't useless, that she could
walk without the stick.

When she came back to the table Craig still looked stunned. She
had watched his jaw drop with each new revelation. He hadn't interrupted
or bombarded her with questions. Better still, he hadn't looked
even slightly sceptical.

'I thought there was probably a conspiracy,' he said at last. 'But I
hadn't dreamed it would be something like this. I can see why the
police dismissed it.'

'Because it's so far-fetched?'

'No. Because it's untidy. According to my source, the only thing
they can't figure out is where Carl got the pistol. Pretty soon they're
just going to forget it. They want this wrapped up.'

'To be fair, I wasn't the most convincing of witnesses. And the
way it happened, the second killer probably didn't leave any
evidence.'

'Which means he's got away with it,' Craig said. 'He's out there
somewhere now, walking around scot-free.'

Julia shivered. 'Don't remind me.'

'I couldn't understand why Carl stole the shotgun from Chilton
Manor,' he said. 'If there were two men, that explains it.'

'But if he'd got one gun from the Russian mafia, or whoever it was,
couldn't he have got two?'

Craig paused, then nodded reluctantly. 'True. There's still a lot that
doesn't make sense.'

'Perhaps it's unrealistic to try. The actions of a man like Forester
can't be analysed rationally.'

'If he'd acted alone, I'd agree with you. But he didn't, did he?'
There was a challenge in his voice that she found disturbing.

'We don't know.'

'Well, it looks like—' He stopped abruptly. 'Tell me you're not
doubting it?'

Julia felt herself blush. 'No. I just . . . I'm not sure what to make of
your reaction.'

'What do you mean?'

'You've accepted it so readily.' She gestured at the report. 'I don't
want to find you're one of those conspiracy theorists, obsessed with
hidden meanings that aren't there. Someone who can't accept that,
sometimes, bad things just happen for no reason.'

Unbidden, an image of her parents' bodies flashed through her
mind.

'So because I believe you, that makes me a nut?' He laughed, but
there was a bitter edge to it.

'Seeing it there in black and white, who's to say my memory is any
more reliable than the official version?'

'Okay. Carl Forester killed himself. Simple as that.' He pulled
the report away from her and picked it up. He looked as though
he was going to storm out of the café, and Julia felt a surge of disappointment.
She'd just alienated the only person who believed in
her.

'But if that's the case,' he went on, 'why did you panic when you
saw me in Rye?'

'You might have been a reporter.'

'Crap. You thought I was the other killer. That's why I wrote the
message in the sand, and that's what persuaded you to talk to me.'

She cleared her throat. 'It wasn't just that. There was another reason
why I reacted the way I did.' She hesitated again, aware that she didn't
owe him an explanation. At the same time, she was reluctant to let
him make a false assumption. 'I was attacked in the street when I was
nineteen. Someone tried to rape me.'

Craig sat up with a jolt. 'Oh Christ. I'm sorry.'

'You weren't to know.'

'What happened?'

'I was out with friends in Brighton on New Year's Eve. I'd had quite
a lot to drink, but it was one of those nights when the alcohol and
the partying just weren't having an effect. You know how sometimes
you just can't get into the mood?'

Craig smiled. 'Only too well.'

'This guy had hit on me at the bar. Rubbed himself against me
and made a few obscene suggestions. I told him to get lost. A bit later
I had a silly argument with one of my friends over something really
trivial, so I decided to leave early and walk home. In those days my
parents lived in Hove, less than a mile from the pub. It was about ten
to midnight, and of course the streets were almost deserted. I didn't
realise I was being followed until I heard footsteps. Someone grabbed
me round the neck and pulled me into the gardens near Palmeira
Square.'

'The man from the pub?'

'I think so. He wrestled me to the ground and started pulling at
my clothes. He said he had a knife, and he'd kill me if I didn't lie
still.'

Craig said nothing. Julia cleared her throat again.

'At first I froze. I was so terrified, I was all set to obey him, let him
rape me. And then I heard a woman laughing, very close by, and I
thought: This is crazy. How can he do this to me when there are
people walking past, just a few feet away? So I screamed and kicked
and fought him off.' She snorted. 'I think I caught him in the groin.
He ran away and the people I'd heard found me and called the police.'

'Was he caught?'

She shook her head. 'I couldn't give a very detailed description.
Even in the pub I hadn't really seen him properly. You know what
it's like when you're all crushed together at the bar. And in those days
there weren't CCTV cameras everywhere like there are now. But a
year or two later I read about a man who'd been convicted of murdering
his girlfriend, and when I saw his picture I was fairly sure it was him.'

'It's terrible that he wasn't brought to justice for your attack.'

'Me and God knows how many others.' She shrugged. 'Actually,
at the time I was almost relieved. The idea of having to relive the
experience under cross-examination seemed even worse than the original
attack. But the key moment was when I went back to university.
For a week or two I hardly left my room. I was a bundle of nerves,
jumping out of my skin at every noise, every shadow.

'And then one day I came to my senses. I knew I had a simple
choice. Either I was going to let this incident define me and destroy
my life, or I was going to put it behind me and move on.'

Craig nodded. 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.'

'Exactly. So I started pushing myself to do things I wouldn't have
done before the attack. I exercised a lot more, got in really good shape.
Took a self-defence class. I went out on my own, even late at night,
almost daring something to happen because this time I was going to
prove I could handle it. I chose to be a survivor, and I'm convinced
that's what helped me get through on 19 January.'

Craig chose his response carefully. 'I'm sure it did. But isn't that
even more reason not to give up now?'

'I haven't given up. I was just pointing out that we're in a pretty
hopeless position. We can't prove the police are wrong. We can't prove
the second killer exists.'

Craig appeared to listen sympathetically, but there was a sly look
on his face.

'Maybe we can.'

The two men climbed the stairs and entered George's office. Their
footsteps echoed on the polished oak floorboards, emphasising the
lack of life and spirit in the cavernous old house. As they reached
the door, Toby thought he could make out the faintest strains of
classical music from the far end of the hall.

'Is Vanessa here?'

'London,' said George.

Toby made no comment. He couldn't remember the last time he
had seen his aunt, and he wasn't particularly sorry. He was the bastard
son of Vanessa's younger sister, a drug-addled dropout who had died
when Toby was seventeen, and as such he'd always carried with him
the taint of failure and disgrace. Except on one notable occasion,
Vanessa had always been careful to keep him at a distance.

The office was a large room with windows on two sides and floorto-
ceiling shelves on the other two. One end was dominated by George's
desk and chair, both crafted to order from reclaimed timbers salvaged
from a folly that had once stood in the manor grounds. George took
his seat with all the satisfaction of a monarch settling on his throne.

Toby went straight for the Jura coffee machine and made himself
an espresso with three sugars. Deciding that he didn't want to sit opposite
George like some hapless candidate at a job interview, he sank on
to one of the leather sofas at the other end of the room. He was
surprised to see George had a glass of sherry on the go. The old man
didn't usually drink during the day.

'Heard anything from your friend Vilner?' George began, speaking
as if shouldering a heavy burden.

'Not lately. Why?'

'No reason. What about settling your debts? Any progress?'

'Look, I have every intention of getting my finances straight.' Toby
gestured unhappily towards the tall sash windows and the land beyond.
'If this was cleared, it would all be resolved overnight.'

'What do you mean?'

'The plans for the village. We agreed I'd come in as an equity
partner.'

George looked bemused. 'Funded by . . . ?'

'Well, it would have been funded by last year's loan.'

'Which you frittered away on God knows what.'

'That's because the project was shelved. I have to live, you know.'

'You get eighty grand a year from the directorships,' George reminded
him. 'For which you do, let's face it, sod all.'

'That's not true. Give me a serious stake this time and I'll work my
balls off.'

'I've heard that before. In any case, it could be years away, if it
happens at all.'

Toby frowned. It wasn't like George to be so negative. 'You're still
buying up the empty homes?'

'I've made offers to the executors,' George corrected him. 'Some of
the survivors are undecided whether to stay or sell, but I've made it
clear I'll arrange a quick cash purchase, if that's what they want.' He
saw Toby's expression and looked aggrieved. 'It's the least I can do to
help. Otherwise those properties might be virtually impossible to sell.'

'Exactly. No one will want to live in Chilton now. So why not go
one better? Buy up the village and then demolish the place. Stick up
a nice memorial and build a completely new town next door.'

He sat back, satisfied that he'd proved George wrong about not
earning his directorships. This idea alone was worth a few million.
But George seemed to think differently. He stared at Toby as if he'd
just proposed moving the village to Neptune.

'Well, why not?' Toby tried to press home his point. 'You've said
yourself, the place is full of ghosts. We just need the right PR to get
the message across.'

'And what about the listed buildings? What about the twelfth-century
church?'

Toby flapped his hands. 'You've ignored restrictions like that in the
past. The point we have to make is that a new development would
be in everyone's best interests.'

'You don't think the thirty-five-million-pound profit might strike
anyone as offensive? The fact that our best interests happen to be
rather more rewarding than anyone else's?'

Toby shrugged. 'If you're worried about public opinion, why are
you trying to buy up the village?'

'To help the victims. I know it'll be misinterpreted, but that's a risk
I'm willing to take. We just need to be patient, otherwise it will look
as though Carl Forester did us a huge favour.'

Mentioning Forester seemed to suck some of the light from the
room. Already the name had come to represent more than just
the man himself. It was the byword for a tragedy. A media event.

'Well, maybe he did,' said Toby carefully. 'Is that so terrible to admit?'

George said nothing. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out
a cardboard folder. He tossed it across the desk and glared at Toby.

'You'd better read this,' he said.

Julia said, 'What do you mean?'

'Maybe there's some way we can flush him out.' Rather than elaborating,
Craig asked a question of his own. 'You know about Matheson's
planning application?'

'You could hardly miss it, thanks to your father. It seemed like there
was a story in the
Argus
every week.'

'Mmm. Dad could be an objectionable old sod, especially when
he got the bit between his teeth.'

'You didn't agree with him, then?'

'I had mixed feelings. I doubt if he or the others would have cared
if it had been happening in someone else's back yard. But for all their
selfishness, it doesn't invalidate their argument. It's a beautiful place.
Matheson shouldn't be allowed to dump housing estates all round it
and walk away with twenty or thirty million quid.'

Julia gasped. 'You're kidding?'

'At least that much. He owns hundreds of acres around the village,
so even if only a fraction gets developed he'll make a fortune. And if
he uses his own construction company to build the homes he'll profit
twice over.'

'That's shocking. I didn't realise there was so much money involved.'

'That's a conservative estimate, allowing for the downturn in the
economy. The fact is, for years we've had a severe shortage of housing
in the most affluent part of the country. For landowners and developers,
the stakes have been raised to the point where all kinds of
corruption become tempting. So you start off, perhaps falsifying a
report here and there. You put pressure on councillors, planning
officers, you offer bribes and inducements. But if the bribes don't
work, maybe you have to use threats?' He paused, stared at his
coffee, seeming to make a conscious effort to calm down.

Then he looked up at Julia. 'Once you get started down that road,
where do you stop? We're living in a world where people will kill for
the loose change in your pocket. What do you think someone would
do for twenty million?'

It was a peculiar experience to read about such devastating violence,
described so dispassionately. Toby would much rather have studied
the report alone, away from his uncle's brooding presence. Glancing
up, he saw George pouring himself another sherry.

'What's the latest on the Caplans' daughter?'

'No change.' George cleared his throat. 'I visited her earlier this
week. Keith's sister is there every day. I've offered to cover the cost
of a private clinic, but really they're doing all they can for her.'

'Getting very generous in your old age,' Toby muttered.

George grunted and waited for him to finish reading. Then he said,
'It's this Julia Trent that worries me.'

'I don't see why. The police clearly think she's delusional.'

'It could still attract some unwelcome attention, especially after that
quote from Craig Walker.'

'I saw that. Are you going to sue him?'

'Don't be ridiculous. Philip Walker died a hero. The last thing I can
afford is a slanging match with his son.' He picked up his sherry, swilled
it round and looked at it with sudden distaste. 'He's asked to see me.'

'Craig?'

George nodded. 'Hopefully I can forestall any more bad publicity.'

'Do you want me to come along?'

A look of amusement warmed his uncle's face. 'I'm perfectly capable
of dealing with him.'

Toby shrugged, biting back an urge to respond. George quickly
grew morose again. 'Do you really see Carl Forester dreaming up
something like this?'

'Who knows what his state of mind was like?' Toby waited a beat,
then added quietly: 'The police obviously think losing his job was a
factor.'

'I had no choice, after that business with Laura. And it was two years
ago. Surely that wasn't sufficient provocation for . . . what he did?'

'We'll never know, will we?' Toby lifted the report. 'I haven't read
this properly. Can I take a copy?'

George considered for a moment. 'Make sure you keep it safe. And
don't show it to anyone.'

Toby nodded and switched on the photocopier. While it warmed
up he poured himself another coffee.

'I know this has been very stressful,' he said. 'Why not take some
time off? A couple of months in the Caribbean would do you the
world of good. Leave things to me for a while.'

'I'll take a holiday when I'm good and ready,' George snapped.
'When I know the business is in safe hands.'

Toby felt his face heating up. 'If you'd let me liquidate my assets,
I would never have had to borrow from someone like Vilner.'

'Rubbish,' George barked. 'You'd have squandered that money as
well. Anyway, you can't unload shares when a business is struggling.
It sends all the wrong signals.'

Toby said nothing. When his uncle was in one of these moods there
was no sense arguing with him. He fed the report into the photocopier,
a flash of light as each page gave birth to another. He allowed
a reasonable interval to pass before he made another appeal.

'At least let me start on the paperwork. I could get the plans for
the access road amended.'

George let out a sigh. 'You're prepared to knuckle down, are you?'
he said. 'No return to the old habits?'

'I promise.'

There was still doubt on George's face, but at last he nodded. Toby
suspected it was more to get rid of him than anything else: a tactic
Toby had exploited successfully in the past.

'All right. But don't do anything that could jump up and bite us.
We're not filing anything till we've got public opinion firmly on
side.'

They shook hands on it, more like business acquaintances than
family. George followed him downstairs and through the wide entrance
hall. At the door Toby said, 'Give my regards to Vanessa,' with his
customary lack of sincerity.

'I will,' said George in a matching tone.

Toby jogged to his car without looking back. He had a lot to consider,
not least of which was his uncle's behaviour. He'd never seen the old
man like this. Definitely losing the plot.