Skin and Bones (16 page)

Julia absorbed what he'd said, then shook her head. 'That's quite a
leap to make,' she said. 'You can't go accusing someone like George
Matheson of mass murder.'

Craig shrugged. 'Actually, I already have.'

'What?'

'Someone asked me if I thought the application could ever be
revived. I pointed out that George might be in a better position because
of the massacre.'

'Someone?'

'A person I trusted,' he said. 'But she's also a journalist.'

'Oh.' Julia grimaced. 'What was Matheson's reaction?'

'Not a lot in public. But I received a nicely crafted letter from his
solicitors, drawing my attention to the laws of libel and defamation.'

'I don't suppose you can blame him.' In the same conciliatory tone,
she said, 'Just because he stands to benefit, it doesn't mean Matheson
had anything to do with what happened. It could just be a dreadful
coincidence.'

'And if I choose to disagree, I'm . . . what? A nutty conspiracy
theorist?'

Julia grinned. 'I can't rule it out.'

'Okay.' Now he was grinning too. 'In that case, maybe we should
find out one way or the other.'

'What?'

'George Matheson. I've arranged a meeting with him tomorrow.'

Julia felt her heart speed up. 'Tomorrow? And you want me to
come?'

He held up his hands to placate her. 'Hey, I shouldn't have sprung
it on you like that. Forget I mentioned it.'

Julia frowned. She lifted her coffee cup but it had gone cold. There
was a film of grey scum on the surface.

'Time I was getting back,' she said.

He nodded. She stood up and put on her coat. He went to help,
but she turned and shrugged it on herself. She picked up the walking
stick and propped it under her arm like a baton. She wanted to make
the return journey without using it.

A cold blast of air assaulted them as they stepped outside. The wind
had strengthened, picking up grains of sand as it whipped over the
beach. Julia shielded her face with her hand, and Craig muttered,
'Should have brought the car.'

'Sorry.'

'It's okay. I understand now why you were so wary of me.'

They set off in silence, then Julia said, 'What exactly did you mean
about "flushing out" the second killer? You want to investigate what
happened in Chilton?'

'Yes.'

'But how? We're not detectives.'

Her use of the plural wasn't lost on him. She cursed herself for the
slip of the tongue.

'To start with, we talk to Matheson. And we find out more about
Carl Forester.'

'And supposing we uncover evidence that someone else was
involved? What then?'

'Turn it over to the police, of course. I'm not some kind of vigilante.'

'That isn't what I mean. We're looking for a man who took part in
a killing spree, then calmly murdered his partner and made it look
like suicide.' She looked him in the eye. 'So what will he do when
he realises we're on his trail?'

Vanessa waited until she was sure Toby had gone. Then she waited a
little longer, to see if George would come to her. He didn't.

It took whole minutes to get up from her chair and walk along the
hall to his study. In the weeks since the last diagnosis – the
terminal
diagnosis – a strange separation had occurred. There was Vanessa; and
there was Vanessa's body. Vanessa's body was an appalling creature,
weak and pain-wracked and crumbling from within like a gutted
building. It transformed the simplest of tasks into an extraordinary effort
of will. It had nothing to do with
Vanessa
: the person, the lifeforce.

And yet, when the body finally expired, Vanessa the person would
go with it. That didn't seem fair. Sometimes, at night, she screamed
out her fury at the unfairness of it. She screamed until her eyes poured
with tears and her throat burned and her chest throbbed.

But she never made a sound. Because George mustn't know how
she felt.

Outwardly she remained stoic, composed, even brave. 'You're so
brave
,' her friends had said, right up until the last few months. Until
she stopped seeing them.

George didn't dare use the B word. But then he hardly spoke to
her at all.

The door to his study was heavy, with an antique porcelain doorknob.
She needed both hands to twist it.

He looked up, genuine surprise on his face. He was at his desk,
the report open in front of him. Something else as well, which he'd
just slipped between the pages. A furtive glance to make sure it was
hidden.

'Sorry,' he said. 'I meant to come and see you.'

'I'm not a cripple.' To prove it, she remained standing. She walked
over to the photocopier and rested both hands on the lid. It was warm.
She turned to George and he blanched, as if she could see inside him.

'I let him take a copy of the report.'

'Was that wise?'

'I told him to be discreet.'

Vanessa chuckled at the thought. 'And what did he make of it?'

'Dismissive. He's all gung-ho to prepare another application.'

'I take it you've not yet told him about Kendrick?'

'No.' His eyes narrowed. 'Do you think I should?'

'It's your business. You're entitled to do with it as you wish.'

George nodded slowly. 'But?'

'I mean it. Toby's as much a disappointment to me as he is to you.
He ought to be fending for himself.'

George went on studying her. Still anticipating a barbed comment,
an incisive criticism. It was one of the most enduring features of their
long marriage, and she knew he had developed an almost masochistic
attachment to them.

He closed the report and patted it reassuringly, along with whatever
treasured document was concealed within it.

'I told him about Craig Walker. He asked if I wanted him to be
there.'

Vanessa dipped her head to acknowledge the humour. 'You might
consider having someone present. James Vilner, perhaps.'

George frowned. 'Why?'

'Walker's father was brutally murdered, and from what he said to
the press it seems he blames you. His judgement is blunted by grief
and anger. He'll need to vent that anger somehow.'

George looked dismissive. 'I doubt he's coming here to attack me.'

'Perhaps not. But Vilner's presence could achieve much more than
any solicitor's letter. At a fraction of the cost.'

She had been ready for George to scoff, but instead he pursed his
lips, which was his habitual and quite unconscious signal that he
intended to appropriate someone else's idea.

'I'll give it some thought,' he said.

Which meant
yes
.

Just before they reached the hotel there was a gap in the dunes,
allowing a glimpse of the sea. The tide was coming in, filling the
deeper channels and racing across the sand from several directions at
once. Julia thought of Craig's message, wiped smooth and gone for
ever.

'You know, I think it's partly because he's still at large that I
came here,' she said as they entered the car park. 'I'm hiding from
him.'

'That's understandable,' said Craig. 'But remember how you felt
when you locked yourself away at university. It doesn't work for ever.'

'No. I know. I'm just not sure if I'm ready right now.'

Craig unlocked the Golf and put his bag on the back seat. Julia
glanced at the hotel. Against the winter sky, its lights blazed warm
and enticing.

'The trouble is,' he said, 'we don't have a lot of time. That report's
supposed to be confidential, but I reckon we've got a week at most
before the media get their hands on it. Everything leaks eventually.'

Julia's face fell.

'Of course, there's a chance they'll overlook what you said,' Craig
went on. 'But if they don't . . .'

'They'll eat me alive. That's what the police told me.'

Craig nodded. 'And once your allegations are made public, the
danger you're talking about will exist regardless of what you do.' He
waited a second. When she didn't speak he smiled and patted her
arm. 'Anyway, you need to get inside. It's cold out here.'

He opened the driver's door and climbed in. Julia watched him
reverse from the space and thought about the report, almost wishing
it hadn't made any reference to her allegations. Then Craig wouldn't
be here, and she wouldn't be facing this dilemma.

There was a flash of brake lights as he reached the pavement. She
felt an odd gnawing in her stomach. Not fear, exactly. Indecision.
Regret. Shame.

During interviews she was highly emotional.

'Wait!' she shouted. She took a couple of wobbly steps forward,
fumbling with the stick and waving her hand until he spotted the
movement in his wing mirror. He backed up alongside her and opened
his window. She clutched the door handle and knelt down.

'All right. I'll come with you.'

The doubts began to appear almost the second she said goodbye. She
still wasn't sure what to make of Craig. On one level he was perfectly
friendly, but there had been moments when she had sensed a definite
hostility in him.

She crept into the hotel like a teenager breaking her curfew, and
saw with guilty relief that the lobby was deserted. She had barely
reached the stairs when Kate burst into view and bore down on her
with all the wounded ferocity of a hoodwinked parent.

'I thought you were popping outside to speak to him, not gallivanting
off somewhere.'

Julia raised her hand in an appeal for mercy. 'It was hardly that.
We went to the café. And I'm quite capable of looking after myself.'

'Really?' Kate glanced pointedly at the walking stick. 'So who is he?
What does he want from you?'

'His name's Craig. He's the son of Philip Walker, one of the Chilton
victims.'

At this, Kate's temper seemed to dissipate, but she continued to
look troubled. 'And is he a journalist?'

'Yes, but nothing relevant to this.'

'I'm not so sure. That name sounds familiar.' She sighed, examining
Julia's face as if for signs of wear and tear. 'I hope he's going to
leave you alone now.'

Julia tried to look non-committal, but Kate saw through it immediately.

'You're supposed to be recuperating.'

'I've agreed to go somewhere tomorrow. Just for a few hours.'

Kate pursed her lips. In that moment, Julia was tempted to tell her
all about the police report and the second killer. By now she knew
Kate well enough to trust her, but then considered the reaction she
was likely to get. It wasn't difficult to imagine Kate confining her to
her room, or worse still, sending her back to hospital.

Having gambled on successfully persuading Julia to work with him,
Craig had avoided a long return journey by booking a room at a B&B
a couple of miles away on the Lydd road.

In contrast to the enticing photographs on its website, Seascape
turned out to be a semi-detached house with a brown pebbledash
exterior and moss on the roof. Inside, the decor was tired but clean.
The owner was a woman of a certain age, widowed or divorced, with
improbably big hair and make-up applied on an operatic scale. When
he got to his room, the first thing Craig did was make sure the door
locked from the inside.

The second thing he did was have a drink. He'd packed an overnight
bag with just the essentials: a change of clothes, toiletries and a litre
of Scotch. He had to use a plastic beaker from the bathroom, but that
barely affected the flavour. He'd have swigged it from the bottle if
need be.

It wasn't as full as he expected. Then he remembered having a
few mouthfuls on the beach, while Julia was reading the report. At
the time he'd been jittery about her decision. It had been a close
call, but in the end he'd won her over. That was an achievement to
celebrate.

While he drank, he allowed himself to feel a twinge of guilt, but
no more than that. There was a lot at stake here, and it wasn't as
though he'd lied to Julia. He just hadn't told her everything.

After a long, relaxing soak in the bath, Julia ate alone in the hotel
dining room, reflecting on her encounter with Craig. Then she sat in
the guests' lounge for a while, playing cards with a reticent young
woman who was appearing as a witness at the Crown Court in
Maidstone. In an hour they exchanged no more than a dozen words.

Kate pounced as she was about to call it a night. If anything, she
looked even more worried than she had earlier.

'I've Googled him.'

'What?'

'Craig Walker. He might have been telling the truth about what
he writes nowadays, but that's not what he used to do.'

'What do you mean?'

'He was an investigative reporter. A damn good one, by the look of
it. Worked on quite a few cases involving organised crime.' Kate paused,
and Julia couldn't understand why she looked quite so tense until she
added: 'He had a bee in his bonnet about police corruption.'

'Ah.'

'I'm not criticising him for that,' Kate added quickly. 'I know full
well that some police officers are corrupt. If someone brings that to
light, all well and good. But it means you need to be careful. It's
possible he has a completely different agenda to yours.'

It took several minutes of solemn assurances that her advice would
be heeded, before Julia could finally extricate herself and return to
her room. She now felt even more thankful that she hadn't mentioned
the second killer, but also wondered if she ought to rethink her decision
about tomorrow. The trouble was, she didn't have Craig's mobile
number to call and cancel. There was no option but to wait and see
how she felt in the morning.

It was ten o'clock when she got to bed. Sleep came easier than she
expected, but it was fitful and troubled. Amid many disjointed dreams
was one of startling clarity and impact, quite unlike any she'd had
before.

It was a cold, clear night. She was on the beach at Camber Sands,
the tide far out, foamy waves gleaming in the distance. In the centre
of the beach the yew tree from Chilton's village green loomed over
her. She approached it barefoot, feeling her toes sinking into the sand.
The upper branches of the tree swayed gently. Maybe from a light
breeze. Maybe not.

He was hiding. Waiting for her.

She carried a heavy iron bar. A poker, perhaps, or a crowbar. Its
solidity lent her a courage she had no right to feel. Reaching the trunk
of the tree, she paused a moment. She ran her hand over the smooth
bark and the tree responded, its shiver of pleasure dislodging the
intruder who had dared to conceal himself in its embrace.

The man in black dropped from the upper branches and landed
on his back. He lay still, but she could see his chest rising and falling.
His head was encased in the black helmet.

Then her perspective changed and she saw herself as if from a distance,
slowly leaning over and lifting the visor. She gasped, stepped back, and
she was inside herself again, reeling with a terrible knowledge.

She had seen his face. She knew who he was.

The first blow came almost as a surprise to her. It shattered his
visor and sent shards of plastic flying across the beach. Fragments of
bone, too, and a spray of blood that splattered her legs. The man let
out a gurgling exclamation. Julia gripped the crowbar tighter, using
both hands to bring it down with all her strength, again and again.

It went on until long after he was dead. She didn't cease until every
bone was shattered, every organ pulped, every inch of him pummelled
into dough, and blood and sand clung to her legs like treacle.

Then she stopped. Dropped the gore-slicked crowbar and stood,
breathing hard, her muscles vibrating with energy. She heard the waves
sucking on the sand, closer now. The tide would come in and cover
this abomination, and when it retreated the world would be clean
again. And safe.

She looked up and saw her parents, watching from an upper window
of the hotel. The sad, solemn faces of ghosts. Seen through their eyes,
she had resorted to a savagery that made her no better than the killer.
It was clear from the tilt of her father's head that he was ashamed.
This isn't how we brought you up to behave.

'No!' she screamed. She would rather die than suffer his disapproval.

Grabbing the crowbar, she took a few steps away from the body. A
full moon lit up the sand as she carved out her message.

I'm not her
, she wrote. Over and over, while the blood dried on
her legs and sweat ran into her eyes and dripped from her nose
on to the sand.

I'm not HER.

Telling herself she could make it true. She could turn back the
past and become a different person.

She woke, drenched in sweat, and threw herself out of bed. Stood
stock still in the middle of the room, the thudding of her heart eclipsing
all the tiny noises of the hotel at night. The dream continued to parade
in her head: eyes open or shut, it made no difference. All she could
see was the body exploding under the barrage of blows. Her parents'
terrible shame.

I'm not her.

Please, God.

I'm not her.