Skin and Bones (17 page)

Max Kendrick was always up early. Even after more than a decade of
freedom he found prison hours the most natural routine. Illogical,
perhaps, but if he lay in bed there was always a nagging sensation that
he was missing out on something.

He was renting a large house in Berkshire, overlooking the Thames.
Seven bedrooms and four bathrooms at twelve thousand pounds a
month. Not cheap, but probably better than a hotel in the long term,
given that he was housing half a dozen of his team.

It was an attractive, peaceful location. He liked having the river
nearby, liked the plop and slosh of the water as pleasureboats drifted
past. He liked the tall willow tree that hung out over the water as if
straining for freedom. He imagined it would look spectacular in
summer, dripping blossom like tears, but he had no idea if he'd be
here to see it. He never stayed too long in the same place.

There was a small gym adjoining the master bedroom. He worked
out on the machines for twenty minutes, then took a run, a mile or
so each way along the exclusive private road. Two of the team accompanied
him; at least one of them armed at all times. Probably not
necessary, but another old habit he found hard to break.

On the way back, the place was coming to life. He nodded greetings
to a professional golfer and the chairman of a FTSE100 company,
while ignoring the platoon of ghostly Eastern Europeans who cooked
and cleaned for them. It amused him to realise how seamlessly he'd
made the transition to First World supremacy.

He found running useful. Something about the rhythm of pounding
footsteps helped him to think. He had taken to business like a natural,
but he was conscious that he lacked a proper education. To compensate
he prided himself on thinking longer and harder than anyone
else. Preparation was his watchword. Know everything: then you
couldn't be outsmarted.

It was thorough research that had uncovered Toby Harman's
gambling debts, and led him to James Vilner. He knew George
Matheson had been furious when Vilner was appointed as Kendrick's
go-between, but there was little George could do about it. Which
made his request for Vilner's help today all the more intriguing.
Matheson was meeting the dead campaigner's son, Craig Walker, and
wanted Vilner present. No reason given.

When Kendrick got back to the house, Jacques was in the kitchen,
nursing a tall mug of freshly brewed black coffee. Jacques hated
running, or physical exertion of any kind. He stayed thin because he
had no interest in food or alcohol. No vices at all, in fact, except
killing.

They had met in August 1997, when Kendrick was one of ten highrisk
prisoners transferred to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to
serve out the rest of a sentence for aggravated burglary. Volcanic eruptions
had forced a closure of Montserrat's prison and destroyed its
capital city, Plymouth.

By that time an even more momentous encounter had taken place;
the one that was to transform Kendrick's life. It was Jacques who quickly
recognised the potential of his plan, and suggested he set his sights
much higher. From then on he had served as a faithful lieutenant. It
was Jacques who'd willingly helped remove any of the obstacles in his
path. And it was Jacques alone who knew his real identity.

'Refreshed by your run?' the little man scoffed.

'Will be when I've had a shower.'

'Shari was down here looking for you.'

Kendrick scowled. 'Why?'

Jacques assumed a hideous falsetto: 'Why does he bring me all the
way to England if he don't wanna see me or be with me?'

'That's what she said?'

'That's what I made sense of. She was weepy and whispering.' Jacques
smiled. 'She's scared of me.'

'She's right to be,' Kendrick muttered. He pondered for a minute.
Got himself some grapefruit juice from the large American-style refrigerator.
Jacques waited, puppy-like. Not exactly panting, but not far
off it.

'It's time she went,' Kendrick said at last. 'I don't need the distraction.'

'Plenty of women over here if you want one.' Jacques sounded
vaguely contemptuous of the idea.

'That's your repressed homosexuality talking,' Kendrick said, and
Jacques laughed mirthlessly.

'I'll give her the news, then?'

'Nothing to tell. Just get someone to pack her bag, put her in a car
and send her back.'

'Alive?'

Too late, Kendrick had tipped the carton to his lips. He spluttered
juice from his nostrils and laughed.

'Yes. Alive.' He pinched his nose, then sniffed. 'If I wanted her dead,
I'd have said so. Wouldn't I?'

Jacques looked slightly crestfallen. 'Always pays to ask.'

When Julia woke on Wednesday, she immediately thought about the
nightmare. It was the first one where she had been the attacker, rather
than the victim, although that gave her precious little comfort.

It was also the first dream where she had lifted his visor. She could
clearly recall the powerful sensation that accompanied the sight of
the killer's face, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't recreate
that image in her mind. It was maddening and frightening, and it led
her directly to her next thought.

She was about to spend the day with a man she hardly knew, and
they were intending to pay a visit to George Matheson. And that, she
realised with a start, almost certainly meant going back to Chilton.
Just the thought of driving through the village made her fluttery with
panic.

You've got to face it sometime, she told herself. And you've got to
start trusting people again.

But not today
, a skittish voice spoke up. Kate's right. You don't know
anything about his motives. You could tell him it's too soon. You're
not physically strong enough yet.

The warring voices continued while she showered, dressed and went
down for breakfast. Just because Craig hadn't mentioned his investigative
work, it didn't automatically follow that he was concealing it
from her. On the other hand, she'd sensed a lot of pent-up anger.
Although he'd said he wasn't a vigilante, she couldn't rule out that
his objective was to make someone pay for his father's death.

Unless . . .

Her sudden intuition as to the reason for his hostility towards her
was almost as shocking as last night's dream. She should have seen it
straight away. The question now was: should she confront him, or try
to ignore it?

She sat down at a table in the dining room. Reflecting on yesterday's
conversation, she knew one fact was beyond debate: sooner or later a
journalist was going to read the police report and sniff out allegations
of a conspiracy. When that happened, there was no telling what the
consequences would be.

Kate wandered into the dining room, holding a mug of tea in both
hands. She perched on a chair opposite Julia and gave her a contrite
smile. 'Sorry if I was a bit heavy with you last night.'

'That's all right. I know you've got my best interests at heart.'

'Are you going with him today?'

'I think I have to.'

'And I can't persuade you otherwise?'

'Sorry. No.'

Kate nodded slowly, as if she had guessed as much. Her name
was called from the kitchen and she took a quick gulp of tea, then
stood up.

'Just be careful, okay?'

Julia was in the lobby just before nine. The presence of a police car
outside made her jump, until she saw they were here to collect the
woman appearing as a witness.

Craig's Golf turned in a couple of minutes later. As she went outside,
Julia realised it felt good to be doing something active. Scary but exhilarating,
like the first day in a new job. The weather was beautiful for
mid-February, almost springlike, with a clear blue sky and a light
breeze.

She strode over to his car with a decisive, almost normal gait. She
had decided to dispense with the walking stick altogether today. It
wasn't about vanity, she told herself. It was about independence.

Craig looked relieved when she opened the passenger door and got
in. 'You're definitely up for this?'

She nodded, then saw the weariness in his face. 'Rough night?'

'Not great.'

'I suppose it was a long drive over here?' she said, realising she had
no idea where he lived.

Craig looked away, sheepishly, and put the car in gear. 'I stayed in
a B&B down the road.'

'Oh,' she said, surprised.

'I booked a room on the off chance that you'd agree to this. Sorry.
It was a bit presumptuous of me.'

'Mm,' she agreed, but resolved not to let it upset her. She owed
him this one, she decided.

They settled into a pattern of alternating silence with small talk,
starting neutral and easing towards the personal. She asked him about
his journalism and he made light of it, claiming to write a lot of frothy
nonsense.

'Surely you get to attend some big sporting events?'

'Sometimes. More often I'm stuck on a broken-down train at the
arse-end of the country, on my way to watch a bunch of overpaid
idiots hoofing a ball around a field in the pissing rain.'

She chuckled. 'I hope it pays well.'

'When you're freelance it can be patchy. Luckily my wife's an
accountant. Partner in a large firm in Crawley.'

'Quite high-powered, then?'

'Oh yes,' said Craig, with a sardonic edge. 'She's climbing the corporate
ladder, all right. Almost one of the boys.'

It was an odd comment, delivered with unmistakable bitterness, and
it served to kill off the discussion for a while. They had reached Hastings,
where even the sunshine and a glassy blue sea couldn't compensate
for the poverty and neglect evident in the once-magnificent seafront
buildings.

'Tell me about your teaching,' he said. 'I saw that thing on the local
news.'

Julia smiled. While she was in hospital, a TV crew from the local
station had visited her school and filmed touching get-well messages
from her pupils. She'd watched a recording of it at the hotel and it
had brought her to tears.

'They're a fantastic bunch. I can't wait to get back to work, hopefully
after Easter.'

'Must be pretty stressful, though, controlling a whole class of kids?'

'Sometimes. But the children have so much energy, it seems to
transfer itself. It's very invigorating.'

'I wouldn't have the patience,' he said. 'I find it hard enough with
my two.'

'You've got children?' She registered the surprise in her voice and
scolded herself. Why shouldn't he have children?

'Tom and Maddie,' he said. 'They're a handful sometimes, but great
with it, of course.' A pause, during which his gaze grew distant and
inexpressibly sad. Then he said, 'What about you? Do you have a
partner?'

She made a dismissive gesture. 'I was with a guy, Peter, for nearly six
years. He was head of English at a secondary school in Brighton. He'd
always been very skilful at avoiding talk of marriage and babies, so last
year I got sick of it and I put him on the spot.' She laughed. 'Basically
he did a runner on me. Said he wasn't interested in settling down. It
turned out he'd been looking into a teaching exchange programme. A
few weeks later he buggered off to America, and that was that.'

'What a bastard.'

'Better to find out when I did. After that I had the classic rebound
relationship. Met a guy called Steve at my local gym.' She gave a
rueful chuckle. 'He visited me once in hospital. Tried to persuade me
to sell my story to the papers, and then go travelling with the proceeds.
I haven't spoken to him since.'

'Doesn't seem like much has gone right for you,' he said. 'I heard
you lost your parents last year.'

Encouraged by the sympathy in his voice, she told him about finding
their bodies, realising what had happened to them. Talking about it
wasn't as difficult as she had feared.

'We still have the inquest to come, in a couple of months. And
there's the house to clear.'

'If you need a hand with that, let me know. I'm in Chilton a lot
of the time.'

'Are you?'

'Staying at my dad's place. The media attention wasn't fair on the
kids. It also means I can keep an eye on the house.'

'How do you manage with the children?'

'Nina works from home some days. Her parents help out. And three
times a week I collect them from school, then stay with them till Nina
gets in.'

He sounded casual enough, but she had a feeling he was holding
something back. It reminded her of Kate's warning about him, and
for a few minutes she gazed pensively out of the window, unsure
whether to say anything.

As if he sensed her unease, Craig became restless, tapping out little
tunes on the steering wheel. Then he said, 'I have a small confession
to make.'

She swallowed back a memory of her nightmare. 'Go on.'

'We're not actually seeing George until this afternoon. There's
someone else I want to visit.'

'Who?'

'Carl's mother. Peggy Forester.'

The killer had received another message last night. Once again there
was an implicit threat to betray him.

Craig Walker is asking questions. It's
possible he suspects a conspiracy.

He'll be at Chilton Manor tomorrow. Go over
everything you did and make sure you're
watertight. Can anyone link you to our halfwitted
friend?

Remember: one slip-up and you're finished.

The situation was becoming intolerable. It only reinforced his view
that he had to take control. Find some way to turn the tables on
Decipio. And yet, he couldn't ignore the warning. Was he watertight?

The instant he asked himself the question, one word popped into
his head.

Peggy.

'Stop the car.'

'What?'

'I mean it. Stop the car.'

Craig muttered an objection, but he checked his mirrors and pulled
in at the kerb. They were on the outskirts of Hastings, heading towards
Bexhill. Julia opened her door a couple of inches before she felt Craig's
hand on her arm.

'What are you doing?'

'I'll get a bus back to Camber.' She glared at him until he retracted
his hand.

'Jesus, you're overreacting, aren't you?'

'Am I? What else haven't you told me, Mr Big Shot Investigative
Reporter?'

He looked flabbergasted. 'Where did you get that from?'

'Kate, at the hotel. She used to be a police officer.'

He snorted. 'That makes sense. Okay, so I used to do some serious
journalism, and now I don't. It's no big secret.'

'Kate thinks you might have ulterior motives. Perhaps you're just
out to discredit the police.'

Craig looked disgusted. 'That bastard killed my dad, remember?
All I want is to get the truth. If the trail leads to bent coppers, or
anyone else for that matter . . . then so be it.' He spread his hands.
'I'm gonna go where the facts take me. If you don't want to come
along, fine. But I happen to think you're owed the truth as well.' He
reached down and pressed the button that released her seatbelt, then
folded his arms and waited.

Julia pushed the door open a little further, but made no move to
get out.

'Why didn't you tell me about Peggy?'

'I didn't want to load it all on you at once.'

'Because you knew I'd say no?'

He answered with a grunt. 'Probably. It was stupid of me. You can
stay in the car if you want. I'll see her on my own.'

Julia nodded, then pulled the door shut. She felt cheated, but she
was also conscious of a terrible fascination at the idea of meeting Peggy
Forester.

'All right,' she said at last. 'But from now on, you're going to be
straight with me, okay?'

Falcombe was two miles east of Chilton, just off the A275 between
Lewes and Chailey. The oldest part of the village wasn't much bigger
than its neighbour, but whereas Chilton had remained unspoilt,
Falcombe had long since succumbed to the lure of expansion. Estates
spread out like tree rings, from a cluster of post-war prefabs near the
centre to insipid twenty-first-century boxes around the perimeter.
The sight of the tightly packed homes gave Julia renewed appreciation
for Philip Walker's crusade.

Peggy Forester lived in a council estate dating back to the Fifties,
about a mile from the main road. Unlike the newer developments, it
was a wide street with grass verges and generous front gardens.
Unfortunately the houses, set well back from the road, were little more
than drab brown pebbledash shelters.

Craig reduced his speed as they looked for number 88. Ignoring
their right of way, a tatty old BMW emerged from a driveway and
hurtled round a parked Land Rover, forcing Craig to brake sharply.

'What happened to manners?' he said.

Julia's murmur of assent turned into a groan as she counted off the
properties. In a street of virtually identical homes, Peggy Forester's
wasn't hard to miss. Sheets of hardboard had been nailed to every
window, and another board covered the pane in the front door. Graffiti
had been sprayed all over the wood, none of it complimentary about
the occupant. The front garden was devoid of grass or shrubs, a dark
bumpy landscape that Julia assumed was freshly turned soil.

She was wrong. The smell hit them the instant they opened the
car doors.

'Oh, Jesus,' said Craig, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and
covering his mouth. 'What the hell is that?'

Julia was half out of the car, breathing in shallow gasps. She shook
her head, her mouth clamped shut on rising bile.

The entire front garden was filled with dogshit. Dozens of turds,
accumulated over several weeks. Some of them fresh and glistening,
some dry and crumbling, some a mouldering paste. Scraps of plastic
lay trapped in the muck, indicating that many people were bagging
them up and then throwing them in the garden. There were also half
a dozen little white bundles that Julia identified as soiled disposable
nappies, planted in the excrement like obscene bulbs. A larger shape
caught her eye, rotting and pulpy with a suggestion of fur. She pointed
and made a questioning sound.

'Maybe a fox?' said Craig, twisting away in revulsion. 'We'll try
round the back.'

They got in the car and sped off, Craig opening the windows once
they were clear of the house.

'You don't seriously think she's living there?' Julia said.

'As far as I know.'

'That's appalling. No matter what Carl did, how can anyone treat
his mother like that?'

'The tabloids love to stir up a frenzy, then they skip along to the
next story. This is what they leave in their wake.'

He navigated a route that brought them roughly parallel to Forester's
road. They parked outside another row of grim council houses.

'Are you sure you're up for this?' he said.

'I'll give it a try. How are we going to get in?'

'I don't know. There's usually a twitten or something.'

There was, but it was narrow, and overgrown with brambles and
nettles. It took them a few minutes to pick their way to the point where
they guessed they were level with Forester's back garden. It was bordered
by a thick hedge, at least eight or nine feet high, that had obviously
gone untended for years. Buried deep within it was a rusty iron gate.
Craig reached out and tested it, then brushed the metal flakes from
his hand.

'We can probably force it open.' He looked at Julia. 'Unless you'd
rather go back to the car?'

She shook her head. 'Not now I've come this far. But you're going
first.'

'Fair enough.' He began wrenching the gate back and forth, breaking
off the foliage that blocked its path. Once he'd created a big enough
gap, he knelt down and wriggled through. Julia watched him, unimpressed.

'I must be mad,' she muttered. 'What if she's got a dog?'

'No sign of one,' Craig called back. 'You'll be all right. There's
plenty of room now.'

Her resolve wavered briefly as she crouched down, imagining how
Kate would react if she could see her now. Turning sideways, she
eased herself between the gate and the hedge in awkward crablike
steps, wincing as a stray branch clawed at her hair.

On the other side Craig was waiting to help her up, and they both
plucked leaves and twigs from their clothes. Peggy's back garden was
a jungle of weeds and long grass. A crumbling concrete path led to
the back door, which was half glazed and intact. There were no boards
over the rear windows, and as Julia looked up she glimpsed movement
in the kitchen.

They heard a lock turning, and the door opened. Carl Forester's
mother was small and wiry, dressed in jogging pants and a faded grey
sweatshirt. She had greying brown hair in wild curls and a mean face
with a raw, mottled complexion. Julia could feel the hostility radiating
from her.

'Get off my place! This is mine!' she yelled. Her voice was slurred
and indistinct. She tottered as she spoke.

'Mrs Forester?' Craig took a couple of steps forward. The woman
turned slightly, raising her arm. She was brandishing a bread knife.

'Leave me alone! Go away!'

Craig motioned to Julia to stay where she was, then dug in his
pockets and produced a roll of notes.

'Mrs Forester, it's all right. I've brought the money you're owed.'

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Money?'

'From the newspaper. You remember they did an article about you.'

They could see her searching her memory. She looked confused,
but slightly less suspicious. 'All fucking lies.'

'I know. The man who wrote it was fired.'

'Fucking should have been.'

'They still you owe you a fee,' Craig said, showing her the money.
'Here it is. A hundred pounds.'

Peggy Forester blinked a few times, her brain working so furiously
they could almost hear the cogs turning. Then she put the knife on
the draining board and nodded. Held out her hand.

'Give it here.'

Craig approached cautiously. 'We have to come in, I'm afraid. You
need to sign a receipt.'

The woman eyed him, as if she didn't understand. Craig stopped
a couple of feet from her. She thrust out her hand. 'Give it.'

'I can't do that, Mrs Forester. You have to sign for it.'

There was a stand-off for maybe thirty seconds. Craig held her gaze,
showing no fear, offering no possibility of a compromise. Moving
closer, Julia saw her face was a mass of broken blood vessels. Her eyes
were milky and restless. Her hands shook as if under someone else's
control.

Craig looked at his watch. He gave the tiniest of shrugs, turning to
Julia as if preparing to depart.

A flash of panic showed in Peggy's eyes. 'Come on, then,' she said.
'Get it over with.'

The killer was either very lucky or very unlucky. He couldn't decide
which. A few minutes either way could have made all the difference.

The VW Golf had passed him while he was still planning his
approach. He watched them pull up outside her house. Saw the man
get out and realised it must be Craig Walker. It took him slightly
longer to identify the woman, and at first he couldn't believe it was
really her. He didn't want to believe it.

He sat very still, controlling his reaction. He watched them recoil
at the state of the garden. When they got back in their car he dared
to think he'd had a lucky escape, but he didn't entirely believe it.
They wouldn't give up this easily.

He got out and explored on foot. He soon found the overgrown
path that ran along the back, and sure enough, he could hear them
thrashing through the weeds. He moved back, well out of sight, and
reflected on his luck. If he had acted perhaps ten, fifteen minutes
earlier, there would be no one for them to talk to.

On the other hand, he might have left the house and walked straight
into them. That would have been a catastrophe.

He returned to the car and drove it round the corner, parking at a
safe distance from the Golf. He wanted to see them when they came
out. Perhaps something in their body language would hint at what
they'd discovered.

Peggy Forester stood back to let them enter, then shut and locked
the back door. The kitchen was a small square room with hideous
green units that might have been the originals from the Fifties. The
floor was brown lino, cracked and split with age. There was a small
Formica table and two chairs. A coffee mug and a half-empty bottle
of supermarket-brand vodka sat on the table. An old saucer doubled
as an ashtray, overflowing with butts.

The kitchen's inner door was shut, so they couldn't see any more
of the house. Julia shivered. She felt claustrophobic and frightened.
The room wasn't big enough for three adults, especially when one of
them reeked of alcohol and had a knife within reach.

But Craig admired the room with the relaxed enthusiasm of an estate
agent at a viewing. 'Nice kitchen,' he said without a trace of irony.

Peggy grunted. 'It's my place.' Then she turned her head and
muttered, as if to someone standing behind her.

Julia exchanged a glance with Craig, whose eyes briefly widened.
He indicated the chairs but Julia shook her head. She felt safer standing.

'Why don't you sit down, Peggy,' he said, taking the other seat for
himself. 'Terrible mess out the front,' he added conversationally.

'Never go out there,' she said. 'Not safe.'

'You mean
you're
not safe?' Craig asked.

'Not safe anywhere. Only here. I don't go nowhere.'

Julia couldn't help shrinking back as Peggy crossed the room.
Thankfully she'd left the knife on the draining board. She poured
some vodka into the mug and slurped it down.

Craig produced a sheet of paper and smoothed it out on the table.
It was filled with text and had two dotted lines at the bottom for a
signatory and a witness.

'I don't suppose you get many visitors?' he said.

'Eh?'

'People coming to see you. Carl's friends, for instance. Do they visit
you?'

Peggy's eyes narrowed hatefully, perhaps at the mention of her son's
name, or perhaps because she'd deduced what Craig was doing. Her
hands twisted together, working out her agitation. Her left leg was
juddering to the same tempo as her hands.

'Don't see no one,' she said. 'Got my money?'

'Yes, a hundred pounds.'

She nodded hungrily.

Craig said, 'What if I gave you two hundred?'

She nodded again. 'Two hundred.'

'Yes, but I need you to tell me something. Something about Carl.'

'I don't know nothing. Told the police. That fucking bitch.' She
tottered to her feet, searching for the knife. Craig gently took her arms,
easing her back down.

'It's all right, Peggy. We're not the police.'

'Fucking police. Hate 'em.'

'I'm sure you do. I want to know about Carl's friend. The one who
helped him on January nineteenth. Do you understand what I mean?'

Her eyes roved the room, anxious not to make contact with him.
Didn't know him.'

'You didn't know the other man?'

'What other man?'

Craig exchanged a glance with Julia. The conversation had the
rhythm of a comedy routine, but no one was laughing.

'Are you talking about Carl?' he asked, confused.

'Little bastard stole from me. Always thieving. Tried to make him
learn. He was mine. You're allowed to hit 'em if they're yours. To
make 'em learn.' She grabbed the mug and drank greedily. A dribble
of alcohol ran down her chin and she caught it with her hand. Then
she licked her palm like a child with an ice cream.

Craig suppressed a shudder. He turned to Julia:
What now?