Skin and Bones (18 page)

On impulse she said, 'Mrs Forester, did Carl have a motorbike?'
Peggy reacted as if she hadn't known Julia was in the room. She
scrutinised her closely, deciding if she posed a threat.

'It wasn't his. Too nice for him. I said he must've stole it.'

Julia stared at Craig. Her heart was thumping so loudly she imagined
he could hear it. She had to moisten her lips before she dared
speak again.

'He stole a motorbike?'

'He said it was a lend. Giving it a ride.'

'Who lent it to him, can you remember?'

'Said it was secret. Thieving little bastard.'

'Why was it a secret?' asked Craig.

'Wasn't allowed to tell. Said he'd kill me.' She took another mouthful
of neat vodka, swallowing it as though it were water.

Craig was frowning, trying to make sense of what she'd said. 'Carl
threatened to kill you?'

She spat with disgust. Craig recoiled from the fine spray of vodka.

'Not Carl,' she said.

Julia understood. 'You mean the other man?' she said. 'Carl's friend
would kill you. Is that what Carl told you?'

'Said he'd come here. In the night. Said he'd kill me.'

'And did you tell this to the police?' Craig asked.

Peggy addressed Julia as if she hadn't heard him. 'Fucking police.
Saying I made him wrong. I stuck my knife in her.' Her eyes glittered
with pleasure. 'Serves her right. Bitch copper.'

'Mrs Forester, what about the other man? Why did he tell Carl
he'd kill you?'

''Cause he could. He could do anything, Carl said.' She raised the
mug, then stopped and looked directly at Julia. 'Carl said he was
the Devil.'

In all the long months of planning and preparation, he'd only been
unlucky twice. That was how he saw it. He hadn't made mistakes. He
hadn't fucked up. He'd been unlucky.

The first incident, he'd dealt with it promptly and effectively. It was
old news now. He barely gave it a thought.

The second incident, he'd needed to visit Forester at home. Some
important last-minute instructions. He made sure the mother was out
on one of her extended drinking sessions, but still he'd worn a suit
and carried a briefcase. He had a cover story ready, in case Peggy
walked in on them. Carl, dumbfuck that he was, couldn't see why
one was necessary.

'So I don't have to kill her, remember?'

Just as he was finishing up she blundered in, pissed and incoherent
and bleeding from the nose. She'd got into a fight with two men over
a game of darts and been thrown out of the pub.

He introduced himself as an insurance salesman. Could he interest
her in a life policy at a modest monthly premium? Peggy went ballistic,
accusing him of trying to take advantage of her dimwitted son. At this,
Carl had scowled angrily and said nothing.

After screaming at him for letting a stranger into the house, Peggy
slapped her son's face hard enough to leave a handprint on his cheek,
while Carl just stood there and took it. Too scared and stupid to fight
back. The next time they met, Carl was sporting a black eye and a
split lip. But he swore he'd kept to the story. And Peggy had swallowed
it.

Even so, there was a slim chance she would remember him. If she
did, she might be able to identify him. And that made her a threat.

He'd been there about fifteen minutes when he saw movement in
his rear-view mirror. Walker and Trent emerged from the footpath and
crossed the road towards their car. It was difficult to read their mood
at this distance, but he thought the woman looked a bit shaky, a bit
unsteady on her feet. In contrast, Walker seemed fired up, as though
it had been a successful visit.

So what had Peggy given them?

He sat very still and waited until they had driven past. Then he
made sure he had what he needed, and opened his door.

Time to find out.

They didn't talk much on the way back. Squeezing through the hedge,
Craig tore his shirt and swore loudly enough to set a dog barking
further down the block.

When he got in the car he looked uncharacteristically sombre. 'I've
spent a lot of time thinking about what it would be like, meeting the
mother of the man who killed my father. I thought I would hate her,
but really I just felt sorry for her.'

'What was all that about a newspaper owing her money?'

'I made it up. I knew she'd be reluctant to talk.'

'You know she'll just spend it on booze.'

'Yeah, and do you know what?' he said. 'I don't blame her.' He
started the car and pulled away. 'We'll get some lunch, shall we?'

She didn't argue, although the encounter with Peggy Forester had
sapped her strength. She wanted to stand in the shower and scrub
away every trace of the visit.

They decided on the Half Moon in Plumpton, tucked away on a
quiet country road. It was the kind of place her parents had loved,
Julia thought sadly, thinking of all the major family occasions they'd
celebrated with a meal in a cosy Sussex pub.

As she got out of the Golf, a sudden cramp in her stomach made
her gasp. She doubled over, retching a couple of times. Craig hurried
round to her and tentatively rubbed her back.

'Are you all right?'

'Fine,' she managed, still coughing. She straightened up, her vision
distorted by tears, and forced a smile. 'Just need to rest for a while.'

'Do you want me to take you home?'

She shook her head, hoping he wouldn't see how tempted she was.

'Let's see how I feel after we've eaten.'

He went in the same way as Walker and the woman. There were no
other options.

First he waited a minute or two, watching for movement at the neighbour's
windows. He held a mobile phone to his ear in case anyone came
along the path. When he'd decided it was clear, he took a pair of latex
gloves from his pocket and put them on. He pushed open the gate and
scurried towards the house, keeping low so Peggy wouldn't see him.

Pressed tight against the wall, he ducked beneath her kitchen
window, then reached out and tapped lightly on the back door: the
kind of noise a cat would make. Even if she didn't have a cat, she
was bound to be curious.

He heard her muttering as she unlocked the door. As soon as it
opened he sprang up and launched himself into the house, shoving
Peggy in the chest. She stumbled backwards, yelping in surprise. A
half-smoked cigarette fell from her mouth. She struck the table and
fell to the floor. A bottle of vodka toppled over and began slopping
out its contents. Perfect.

Peggy was still too shocked to scream, but he didn't have long. He
pushed the door shut with his heel and grabbed her arms as she floundered,
trying to grip the table and get to her feet. He kicked her in
the stomach, just hard enough to knock the wind from her.

She made a groaning sound. Her head was flopping loosely on her
neck, eyes wild and disorientated. She was drunk, he realised. She
couldn't make sense of what was happening.

Even better.

He knelt on her chest and pinned her arms to the floor. Put his
face close to hers and watched carefully as her eyes swam into focus.
They were wide with incomprehension, but they contained no recognition.
She didn't remember him. Maybe he was in the clear.

'Those visitors,' he said. 'What did they want?'

She blinked several times. 'Money,' she said, perhaps thinking he
was here to steal from her. 'Hundred quid. You can have it.'

He shook his head. Pressed his knee harder. 'What did you tell
them?'

'Nothing. Told 'em nothing.'

'You're lying. They asked you about Carl. Tell me.'

'They wanted to know about the bike. I said it wasn't his.'

'A bike?' For a second he was genuinely confused. 'What sort of bike?'

'Someone gave him a lend. Noisy fucking thing. Green, it was.'

Then it clicked. The Kawasaki. On one occasion he'd brought it
down to try it out over the fields. He'd let Carl take it for a ride, and
the stupid bastard had disappeared for nearly an hour. He claimed
he'd just taken it round the country lanes, but he must have gone
home and showed it to his mother. And now Walker and Julia Trent
knew about it.

One slip-up and you're finished.

'No,' he said aloud. He wasn't going to let that happen.

Craig ordered a cheddar ploughman's and a pint of Harveys bitter;
Julia had soup and sparkling water. She found a vacant table and sat
down. Combined with last night's dream, Peggy Forester's reference
to the Devil was resonating powerfully in her mind. When she lifted
the visor, was it the shock of recognition that had caused her to recoil,
or something far worse?

She jumped as Craig touched her arm. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' she said. 'Just a silly idea.'

'What?'

She shook her head. She couldn't tell him. Instead she said, 'Even
if Peggy told the police what she just told us, they'd still dismiss it.
They'd assume it was Carl who threatened to kill her.'

'Maybe. But we're not the police. We know there was someone else
involved, and Peggy Forester has just confirmed it.'

Julia pulled a face. 'I wouldn't go that far. Even if what she said is
true, we're no closer to identifying who this man is.'

Craig grudgingly assented, then took a long drink of beer.

'Still, it gives us some leverage with Matheson, don't you think?'

Peggy Forester just stared at him. Sobering quickly, but still too befuddled
to know what was going on.

He grabbed her arms and half lifted her, yanking her upright until
she was on her knees. Then he used all his strength to slam her head
against the edge of the table. She hit it high on the skull with a thick,
heavy sound. Her eyes rolled up in her head and blood gushed from
the wound. When he let go she dropped like a dead weight, collapsing
into the puddle of vodka around the table.

He plucked up the cigarette, saw it was still alight. He turned and
examined the room. The kitchen window was open a couple of inches.
The ledge was thick with grime. It was home to a bottle of washingup
liquid and a small army of dead flies.

He removed the key from the back door, then returned his attention
to Peggy. She was unconscious. Not dead. That was better, really,
for his purposes. But the next bit was tricky. He needed her to stay
unconscious. He needed to be sure.

The floor was obviously uneven, for the vodka had spread in an
arc, a little finger jutting out towards the hallway. Careful not to tread
in it, he reached over and picked up the bottle. He poured the rest
of the alcohol over Peggy's shoulders and hair.

Then he stepped back as far as he could and tossed the cigarette
on to her body. It landed in the crook of her neck, disappearing in
the folds of her sweatshirt. He'd assumed it would ignite the alcohol
with an almost clear flame, like a sambuca or a Christmas pudding.
But nothing happened.

Shit. He'd have to rethink. Perhaps light a match.

And then he saw something which made him smile. A tendril
of grey smoke emerged from the sweatshirt. Then another, slow
and sinuous. Then several at the same time. Fascinated, he took a
couple of steps closer. He could see little yellow flames blinking in
and out of existence within her clothing. The sweatshirt was melting,
turning black. And still Peggy lay immobile.

He realised he was going to have to stay and watch. Not just to
make sure the fire took hold, but because it was so absorbing. How
many times did you get the chance to see someone burned alive?

It took a few minutes for the fire to get going, and by then it had
burned through to her skin. The vodka on the floor ignited, scorching
the cheap linoleum and producing foul-smelling smoke. He retreated
to the door, covering his mouth with his hand. It was almost time to
leave.

He left the kitchen window open a fraction, partly to draw in oxygen
for the fire. He took the key, stepped into the back garden and locked
the door behind him. Then he slipped the key through the window
and dropped it on to the ledge.

He retraced his route through the hedge and along the footpath.
He was back at his car, sipping from a bottle of Evian, when he saw
a plume of smoke rising over the rooftops.

It was another ten minutes before a fire engine thundered past. His
car shook in its slipstream.

'Hurry up, lads,' he muttered. 'You'll miss the barbecue.'

They stretched lunch out to well over an hour, and by the time they
left the pub Julia felt physically refreshed and in far better spirits. The
jitters didn't set in until they were a mile or so out from Chilton, and
it suddenly struck her that they were about to confront the man who
might have masterminded the slaughter on 19 January.

'Tell me about George Matheson,' she said.

'The classic self-made man,' Craig said. 'Came from an ordinary
middle-class family. Not academically brilliant, but very bright, very
tough. They reckon you could never get one over on him. Had a lot
of luck, as well. Moved into property at the right time, got out of equities
before the stock market dived.'

'Good at reading the future, or inside knowledge?'

'Bit of both, I imagine. In interviews he's always boasting about his
instinct. When he buys a company, he doesn't care about all the due
diligence and formal paperwork. He visits the premises, talks to the
staff on the shop floor. If he gets a good feel about the place, he'll
buy it regardless of what the balance sheet says.'

'And it's always worked?'

'Not so much lately. There are rumours that he's overreached himself.
He's sold off quite a few assets in the past few years, mainly to help
prop up the core business, but there are signs that it hasn't worked.'

'Hence the planning application?'

Craig nodded. 'Twenty or thirty million in the coffers, I guess that's
going to ease the financial pressure.'

Julia mulled it over. She knew they were both thinking the same
thing. Was Matheson desperate enough to countenance mass murder
for that money?

'What about his wife?'

'Vanessa. They've been married for thirty years. She comes from
one of those old families with oodles of class but no money. He was
the bit of rough who went out and made a fortune. She gave him the
respectability and the contacts he needed on his way up.'

'Sounds like a good match.'

'By all accounts it's a pretty empty relationship these days,' said
Craig. 'Whether he's got someone on the side, I've no idea.'

'Do they have children?'

'No. They tried for years, according to one article I read. But there
was some kind of problem. Of course the fertility treatment wasn't as
sophisticated as it is now.'

'That's sad.'

He gave her a sharp look. 'You feel sorry for him?'

'In that respect, yes.' She matched his disdain. 'We don't know he's
done anything wrong. Let's not prejudge, eh?'

'All right,' he said. But he sounded a little grumpy, and once again
she wondered if it was a mistake to get involved. Did she really have
the appetite for this?

Tall wrought-iron gates barred their entrance to the property. Craig
pulled up alongside an intercom and pressed the button. After a few
seconds a gruff male voice said, 'Yes?'

'Craig Walker, to see George Matheson.'

There was a pause. The speaker clicked off and the gates began to
move apart.

'Was that a servant, or the man himself?' Julia said, as they drove
along a winding gravel drive.

'I'm not sure if he has any servants,' Craig said. 'Apparently they
live quite frugally.'

'Really?' Frugal wasn't the word she'd use to describe the stunning
white mansion gliding into view behind a screen of immaculately
trimmed poplars.

Craig heard her intake of breath and said, 'Parts of it date back to
the fifteenth century. Something like eighteen rooms, plus a pool,
tennis court and a couple of acres of formal gardens.'

They parked next to a brand-new Jaguar saloon. Julia shut her eyes
for a moment, steadying her nerves.

As she got out, George Matheson emerged on to the grand portico.
He was taller than she'd expected, six feet or thereabouts, but a little
stooped. He had thick grey hair and unruly eyebrows, framing strong
features and a ruddy complexion. He looked more like a retired builder
than a wealthy entrepreneur.

At first she was concentrating so hard on walking without any sign
of impairment that she failed to register the confusion on Matheson's
face. It was only when she reached the steps she saw him staring at
her as though she were a ghost.

He looks terrified
, she thought. But the insight did little to ease her
own anxiety.

'This is Julia Trent,' said Craig as he walked up the steps.

'Yes. I, ah . . . yes.' George shook hands with Craig, then abruptly
turned before Julia had time to offer her hand.

Leading them inside, he indicated where they could hang their
coats and then strode across a vast entrance hall. The walls boasted a
tasteful selection of oil paintings, mostly landscapes, some preciouslooking
urns and an imposing grandfather clock in the corner. Julia
had a moment to admire the wide double staircase and galleried
landing, before they entered an equally vast living room. This time
the artwork was mostly watercolours and a few pencil drawings: all
figurative, probably originals, probably very valuable.

Sensing movement in her peripheral vision, she turned to see a
man in a black suit step away from one of the immense sash windows.
He was about as tall as George, with a slender but powerful physique
and close-cropped fair hair. He was good-looking in a slightly coarse
way, with a large nose and well-defined cheekbones. His skin was taut
but blotchy, with traces of acne scars beneath both ears. His eyes
narrowed, emanating hostility.

'This is James Vilner,' said George. 'He's, uh, an associate of mine.'

Vilner nodded curtly, but he didn't say a word in greeting. He
directed his gaze at each of them in turn, then resumed his position
at the window. The sight of his broad back and apparent indifference
sent a chill through her. The effect was somehow more intimidating
than if he'd marched up and stood looking over their shoulders.

George indicated a haphazard selection of sofas and chairs, and
asked if they wanted a drink.

'Just had lunch,' said Craig.

Julia also declined, and caught Matheson's relief. He kept snatching
furtive glances at her, his eyes feasting on her body as if mentally undressing
her. Not ogling her breasts, she realised. Trying to picture her wounds.

'You seem to have made a remarkable recovery,' he blurted when
she caught him at it.

'Thank you.'

He turned his attention to Craig. 'And can I offer my condolences.
As far as I'm concerned, your father's campaign was never personal.
I bore him no ill will, and I'm sure he felt the same.'

Craig nodded slowly. 'I guess I owe you an apology, as well. What
I said about the development was never intended to be made public.'

At first George looked gratified, then grimly amused. 'But you stand
by your comments?'

'I'm here to see if you can change my mind.'

'And how would I do that?'

'Give me a cast-iron commitment that there'll be no second application.
You'll guarantee the land around Chilton won't be developed
under any circumstances.'

George gave a little bark of laughter, and shook his head regretfully.
Julia glanced at Vilner, sensing that he had absorbed every word.

'That's asking the impossible,' George said, his gaze also flickering
towards Vilner. 'No one can predict the future. It's quite feasible that,
in time, opinions will change.'

'So you do intend to make a fresh application?'

'I don't necessarily intend anything of the sort,' George said. Julia
thought she detected a degree of emphasis on the
I
, but Craig didn't
seem to pick up on it.

'You know the police have completed the preliminary report?' he
said.

George shook his head, but his eyes slid away. 'What's that got to
do with anything?'

'It's a whitewash,' Craig declared. 'Julia wasn't shot by Carl Forester.
There was another man there. Dressed in motorcycle leathers and a
full-face helmet. He killed Carl and made it look like suicide. He got
away before the police arrived.'

George's mouth tightened. There was another darting look at Vilner,
and it struck Julia that perhaps George found the other man's presence
just as unnerving as they did. But if so, why was he here?

Then she realised Vilner had turned and was staring right at her.

'Is this correct?' George asked.

Julia nodded. 'Yes.'

Vilner spoke for the first time. 'What did the police say?'

'They didn't . . . they thought—'

'That you'd imagined it?' George answered for her.

Her shoulders dropped and she turned away, determined not to let
him rile her.

'We've just spoken to Peggy Forester,' said Craig, drawing their attention
away from Julia. 'Carl had befriended someone, but he wouldn't
tell his mother who. According to him, this friend said he'd kill her
if she ever found out about him.'

'And Peggy confirmed the friend had a motorbike.'

George waited a second, then forced a laugh. 'And you regard that
as proof of your theory? The woman's a hopeless alcoholic, isn't she?'

'She was lucid enough this morning,' said Craig.

Vilner took a few steps towards them. His eyes were still narrowed,
unreadable. 'So what are you after, really?' he demanded.

George raised a hand to quieten him. 'Whatever it is, I don't think
this meeting will achieve anything.'

Emboldened by the knowledge that Vilner could be held in check,
Julia said, 'What happened at the farm?'

George looked taken aback. 'I beg your pardon?'

'The report mentions an incident, a couple of years ago. Carl
assaulted the farmer's wife.'

'Laura Caplan, yes,' said George. He cleared his throat. 'Carl let himself
into the house. He had a selection of her underwear spread out on the
kitchen table. When Laura walked in she found him masturbating over
them. Her daughter also witnessed it. They were very distressed.'

'He was sacked as a result?'

'Yes. Of course, the police told me they think it was a factor in . . .
in what he did.' He shifted in his seat. 'Believe me, I've examined my
conscience on many an occasion since then, and I'm absolutely certain
I was right to fire him.'

'Why didn't the Caplans go to the police?'

'It was awkward. Carl had worked for me – and for them – for
several years. For most of that time he'd been a satisfactory employee.
We all agreed losing his job was punishment enough.'

'And I daresay you wanted to avoid the bad publicity?' Craig said.

'In fact, it was Laura Caplan who made the final decision. For
Megan's sake.' He shut his eyes for a second. 'Not that it did either
of them any good, ultimately.'

'How is Megan now?' Julia asked.

'On the Glasgow coma scale she scores seven, from which I understand
she may survive and she may not. If she does, she may have
serious brain damage, or she may not. We just don't know.'

As if that sombre note seemed a suitable place to conclude, he
stood up. 'I understand how bitter you must both feel, but I'm afraid
these allegations are ludicrous. I don't accept for a minute that Forester
collaborated with anyone, and neither do the police.' To Julia, he
added, 'I'm sure there's some other explanation for what you believe
you saw.'

She didn't respond. Having kept her emotions in check for this
long, she wasn't about to be goaded into tears. She got up and nodded
at Craig to let it go. In her assessment the encounter had ended in a
draw, which considering they were on hostile territory was a reasonably
good result.

Walking to the door, she sensed Vilner's gaze on her, his stillness
crowding the room like an oppressive weight. She felt her legs go weak
and prayed they wouldn't buckle beneath her.

George accompanied them back across the hall. This time there
were no handshakes, no pleasantries.

'It would be hypocritical of me to wish you luck,' he said as he
opened the door. 'I can only say, I hope you know what you're doing.'