Skin and Bones (19 page)

Julia felt little relief as the front door shut behind them. If anything,
the crawling sensation of being watched intensified as she headed for
the car. Checking behind her, she saw no one at the ground-floor
windows.

Then she looked up, and gave a start.

'What is it?' said Craig.

She shook her head, spoke in a low voice. 'Upstairs window.'

Craig reached the Golf and took a casual glance at the house.

'Bloody hell.'

A ghostly figure stood at a window on the first floor. She wore a
white gown and a sort of cowl over her hair. Her face was so pale it
glowed, her dark eyes burning with intensity. She was staring straight
at Julia, and when she saw them looking she gave no reaction. She
didn't smile, or flinch, or turn away.

Julia got in the car and slammed her door shut. 'Who is that?'

'I think it's his wife. I saw her on 19 January.'

Julia shivered and hugged herself. 'At first I thought it was . . . I
don't know. Not human.'

Craig grunted. He started the engine, then paused, his brow
furrowed.

'
I hope you know what you're doing
,' he quoted. 'Does that sound
like a threat to you?'

'Maybe, but right now I couldn't care less. I just want to get out
of here.'

Vilner didn't wait for George to return to the drawing room, or whatever
the hell it was called. He strode into the hall and caught George
in a pose of utter despair, his forehead resting against the door as if
he'd just tried to ram it.

'I'm leaving too,' Vilner said.

George sprang up, fighting a losing battle to conceal how stunned
he was. Not the only losing battle in his life right now, Vilner
suspected. By contrast, he thought he'd concealed his own reaction
pretty well.

'You'll be briefing Kendrick?' George said.

'That's right.'

'I could make it worth your while to give him an abridged
version.'

Vilner stared at him. A grin slowly lit up his face. 'Uh uh,' he said.
'I only back winners.'

George winced, exactly as if it had been a physical slap in the face.
'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' he said. 'It's a good offer, and I'm
only making it once.'

'Don't waste your time, George,' a voice rang out. Thin and reedy,
but projected with real determination. Vilner turned to see Vanessa
Matheson at the top of the stairs. It was the first time he had seen
her in the flesh, and she was nothing like the photos, most of which
were years out of date. She looked terrifying: a gaunt spectre, so thin
and light she was virtually floating above them. Her small black eyes
drilled contempt right through him.

Vilner summoned a smile for her as he pulled the front door open.
'Good advice,' he said to George. 'I'd say you've got enough problems
at the moment.'

He left without another word. Crossing the driveway, he reached
for his mobile, then thought better of it. Phones were a risky form of
communication, and mobiles were especially vulnerable. His conversation
with Kendrick would have to wait.

Neither of them spoke as they drove along Hurst Lane. At the fork in
the road Julia glanced along the track that led to the farm. There was
a dark green Land Rover parked about a hundred yards away. She felt
sure she'd seen it somewhere else today.

She considered mentioning it to Craig, but thought better of it. For
one thing, it would initiate a conversation when what she craved was
silence. And after being spooked by George's wife, she didn't want
him to think she was paranoid.

They reached the village proper, where the day's contingent of
tourists seemed to be packing up and leaving. It was almost four
o'clock, the sun low in the sky, long shadows stretching like fingers
across the green.

'I'm sorry you've got to drive me back,' Julia said, as Craig gave a
slightly wistful glance at the Old Schoolhouse.

'It's the least I can do,' he said.

They followed a minibus past the shop and round the bend. Spotting
a vacant parking bay outside her parents' cottage, Julia said, 'Can we
stop a minute? I'd like to check on the house.'

'Sure.' Craig pulled in. 'Do you want me to come with you?'

Julia was searching her handbag for the right set of keys. It was
tempting to say yes, but if she didn't find the courage to go in alone
now, it would be even harder next time.

'No, I'll be fine.'

She got out of the car. Despite the fine weather, the temperature
was rapidly falling. Could be in for a frost tonight, she thought,
glancing at the row of cottages, their chimney pots and TV aerials
silhouetted against an indigo sky. Light poured from the homes on
each side, while the dark windows of her parents' house resembled
missing teeth.

She slotted the key in the lock, picturing the night in December
when she had found them dead. Her hand trembled until she got the
better of it. She turned the key and thought: Peggy Forester's road.

That's where she had seen the Land Rover. Or one very like it.

She went inside and turned on the light. Waited a moment, just
as she had done two months ago. The house felt empty, abandoned,
but still she called, 'Hello?' As if her mother might call out from the
kitchen – 'In here!' – and she'd go in to find Mum rolling pastry while
her father fetched vegetables from the garden for the evening meal,
and they could celebrate that nothing bad had happened because
someone had found a way to roll back time . . .

Not going to happen.

She sniffed. The air felt stale and clammy. It was over a week since
Neil had last checked on it, just before he returned to Cheshire. One
of the neighbours had a key, but only for emergencies. In the living
room the wallpaper was beginning to curl away from the corners, and
she could smell the fusty, organic aroma of mould spores. If they didn't
do something with the house soon it would be uninhabitable.

Before attempting the stairs, she rested for a minute. Without fully
realising it, she had been putting on a front for Craig, and it was only
now she appreciated how much it was taking out of her.

The next challenge was more emotional than physical: venturing
into her parents' bedroom for the first time since their deaths. She
could barely bring herself to look at the bed, but a large leatherbound
diary on her father's bedside table caught her attention. For over forty
years he had faithfully recorded the minutiae of his daily life, and
there were whole boxes of them in the spare room, along with stacks
of paperwork that would, sooner rather than later, need to be sorted
out.

She picked up the diary and wiped dust off the cover with her
elbow. She suddenly had a very clear recollection of herself as a child,
going to kiss him goodnight as he sat at his desk. Sometimes she would
read a little at his shoulder, frowning to make sense of his elegant
squiggles, and once she had asked what he was doing. 'Capturing all
the precious moments, so they're never forgotten,' he had told her.
She had considered this, and asked, 'How do you know what's precious?'

Now she recalled his sad, wise reply: 'When enough years have
passed, everything is precious.'

The Scotch was concealed in the rear footwell, behind the driver's
seat. It sang to him the instant Julia went inside. He tried to ignore
it, but held out for less than a minute.

One swig. Not even a full mouthful. That couldn't hurt. He'd had,
what, a couple of pints at lunchtime? Still below the limit.

Craig wiped his mouth, savoured the burning in his throat, then
found the Extra Strong Mints in the glove compartment and popped
a couple into his mouth. Couldn't risk Julia smelling it on his breath.

He waited a couple more minutes, and was debating whether to
have another sip when Julia emerged from the house. When she got
in the car, he saw she was holding a diary.

She looked at him and sniffed. He thought he was busted, until he
noticed the tears running down her face.

'You okay?' Without thinking, he reached out towards her. His
fingers had almost touched her cheek when she twisted away. He withdrew
his hand as though it had been burned.

'I'm fine.' She sniffed again. 'Why?'

'You're crying.'

She rubbed her cheeks, looking slightly incredulous, as though she
hadn't been aware of it. Feeling embarrassed for her, he started the
car and checked over his shoulder before pulling out. It had been a
long, stressful day for both of them, but at least it was nearly over.

After Vilner left, George wearily climbed the stairs to join his
wife. He was only fifty-six, but most of the time lately he felt about a
hundred. He wondered if Toby was right. Perhaps he should take
himself off to Antigua for a few months. To hell with the business,
and Kendrick, and the rest of them. If it all fell apart while he was
away, did it really matter? He had nothing left to prove, and scarcely
anyone to prove it to.

Vanessa watched him approach. She was gripping the banister,
shaking with the effort of remaining upright. Still she had this compulsion
to push herself to the limit, no matter the toll it took on her. He
didn't know whether to feel admiration or pity. He had tried both,
and both had been met with scorn.

'How are you?'

'Dying,' she said. 'What's your excuse?'

He offered his arm, and she took it grudgingly. More and more
now she was confined to her room, and he had arranged for private
nurses to help care for her. Her doctor had suggested a hospice might
be more comfortable for her last days or weeks, but Vanessa was
adamant that she wanted to stay at home.

He helped her into bed, trying not to feel aggrieved by her intervention
with Vilner. It was humiliating that she'd witnessed just how
sordid his professional life had become.

Once she was settled, he sat beside her and recounted the visit, not
sparing her any of the details. It felt surprisingly good to unburden
himself: a sign that the bond between them, stretched thin by time
and neglect, nonetheless remained. She was all he had left, and soon
she would be gone.

'Vilner's presence has backfired,' he said. 'Now Kendrick will know
exactly what type of trouble we're in.'

Vanessa ignored the veiled criticism of her decision. 'Do you believe
their story?'

'That's hardly the point. Julia Trent believes it, and clearly she's
convinced Walker. How much longer before other people start to fall
for it?'

Her eyelids slipped shut, and she was silent for a long time. Perhaps
mulling over the problem, or perhaps asleep. Reaching under the
covers, he found her hand and wrapped it in his. It felt no bigger than
a child's. The image brought tears to his eyes, imagining how it might
have been to sit here as a father, reading a bedtime story in a room
filled with toys and games instead of monitors and morphine.

Vanessa's eyes snapped open. She saw the tears and looked away,
as if to spare him further indignity.

'If the allegations are true, do you think Kendrick had something
to do with it?'

George sighed. 'I don't even want to think about that.'

'You'll have to warn Toby. It's not fair to leave him exposed.'

'But can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?'

'You let him take a copy of the report,' she reminded him.

He considered a moment. He went to ask her a question, but her
eyes had closed and the tone of her breathing had changed. This time
she was asleep, and she needed it. She needed to be left alone.

Just go
, a voice in his head urged him. Run away now. Before it
all gets a lot worse.

But he knew he wouldn't.

The drive back was slow and fraught. There was no easy route across
country, and almost immediately they became entangled in a mix of
school-run and early commuter traffic.

'Don't know why they call it the rush hour,' Craig grumbled. 'It
starts at three and lasts till eight.'

'Overpopulation,' said Julia. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.

'He won't give up. A few years from now there'll be housing estates
all round Chilton.'

'Don't be a pessimist.' She thought about George's comment:
I don't
necessarily intend anything of the sort
. Had she detected the emphasis
on
I
, or was it her imagination?

Craig said, 'What did you make of him?'

'I'm not sure. I think he already knew about the police report. His
initial surprise was because
we've
got a copy, but he was faking
his reaction to the content.'

'I thought so, too. I wonder how he got hold of it.'

'Same way you did, I suppose. A connection in the police.'

'That's a worrying thought,' Craig said.

'I didn't realise you were going to tell him about the second
killer.'

'I wanted to see how he reacted.'

'He seemed genuinely upset when he was talking about the Caplans.
That would be quite a challenge to feign, if he was the one who killed
them.'

Craig scowled. 'I'm not suggesting he did it himself. He'll have
hired someone.'

'What? A hit man?'

'Yeah.'

'Then why involve Carl? Why not just get the hit man to kill
everyone?'

'Because it raises too many unanswered questions. Sooner or later
the police would discover that Matheson had the perfect motive. This
way the answer was served to them on a plate. Some maladjusted
loner with a grudge goes on the rampage and then kills himself. A
nice tidy conclusion. No need to look any further. No need to think
about who benefits.'

She considered this for a moment. She had a feeling they were
thinking the same thing. Then Craig said, 'That other guy. Vilner.'

Julia gripped the diary close, worrying at a loose flap of leather in
the corner. He sent her a look. Testing the water before he said it.

'Could it have been him?'

She didn't answer for a long time. They were approaching the small
town of Battle. Ahead of them the traffic was slowing again, a chain
of red lights flashing in the darkness.

'Maybe,' she said.

As they drove into Battle, Craig suggested they stop and grab a drink.
He got the feeling Julia only agreed out of politeness.

They found a tea room still open on the High Street, close to
the abbey. Craig ordered coffee and a bacon sandwich; Julia a pot
of tea. When she got up to use the toilet, Craig asked if he could
borrow her mobile. 'The person I'm calling is avoiding me,' he
explained.

He looked up the number on his own phone and dialled it on
Julia's. While it rang, he looked around the café. It was a small, tidy
place, picturebook pretty and slightly twee, but exactly in keeping with
its location. And it wasn't licensed, which was probably a good thing.

Abby picked up with an uncertain 'Hello?'

'You haven't been answering my calls.'

'Craig, I'm really sorry. I didn't—'

'I know, I know. Your editor talked you into it, you had no idea of
the trouble it would cause, blah blah blah. That's not why I called. I
need a favour.'

There was a pause while Abby registered that she'd been forgiven,
albeit with strings attached. In the background he could hear soft
music, then a woman's voice. He heard Abby draw away from the
phone and mention his name.

'Okay,' she said to him. 'What is it?'

'Will you find out everything you can about a man called James
Vilner? He's in his late thirties, supposedly some kind of businessman.'

'Supposedly?'

'If he's in business, it's likely to be of the illegal variety.' He gave
her a brief description. 'He has a Northern accent, but I imagine he's
based in London or the South East.'

'And what's your interest in him?'

Craig smiled to himself. He didn't have to tell her, but he knew
the truth would be a great motivator. 'He's an associate of George
Matheson's.'

Another pause. When Abby spoke, she made a bad job of concealing
her interest. 'Can I use what I find?'

'I wouldn't expect anything else.'

Abby winced. 'I suppose I deserve that. I'll get started on it tonight.'

The killer saw them park and set off on foot. He was glad of the chance
to stop and regroup. He could see all manner of opportunities opening
up, but to exploit them fully he had to do some preparation.

He drove back to the petrol station he'd just passed and bought
fuel. Then he returned to the car park and pulled up in sight of
Walker's Golf. There was a supermarket adjoining the car park. It took
him less than five minutes to buy what he needed.

He drank some water and ate a cheese and pickle sandwich. The
bread was dry and the cheese was sweaty, but he didn't care. He had
brought chocolate as well. He needed calories. There was still a lot
to do. He felt tired but elated. It had been a long and busy day, but
an extremely productive one.

While he waited, he listened to the radio. Top story on the local
news was a serious fire at the home of 'Chilton spree killer Carl
Forester'. Unconfirmed reports of a body found in the gutted building,
though no word yet as to its identity.

When the bulletin ended, the DJ and his sidekick took it upon themselves
to speculate further. A tragic accident, they surmised. Or suicide.
Peggy Forester was a lonely woman, an alcoholic, despised by the whole
community. Who could blame her if she had taken her own life?

The killer listened and laughed. Listened and laughed.

They were in the café twenty minutes or so. Craig told her he'd asked
his journalist friend to make some checks on James Vilner, which she
agreed was a good idea. After that they said very little. Just kept
exchanging tired smiles.

Walking back to the car, he called his wife. Unconsciously Julia
drifted to the other side of the pavement, giving him a little more
privacy. At first he sounded cold and stilted, then his whole body and
tone was transformed, and she guessed the phone had been passed to
his children. There was something heart-rending about the way he
pumped so much vitality and affection into his voice, as if that could
compensate for his absence.

Then Nina again. Craig kept nodding and saying, 'Yes. Yes.' Julia
guessed he was being harangued about something. Finally he said,
'No, I haven't forgotten tomorrow. I'll be there.'

He slipped the phone into his jacket. 'Nina's away on business
tomorrow night, so I'm staying over.'

'I'll bet your children can't wait till you're back for good.'

He said something she couldn't decipher, then shook his head and
turned away. It took a couple of seconds for the truth to dawn on her.

'Oh God. I'm so slow on the uptake.' She laid a tentative hand on
his shoulder.

'My fault,' he said. 'We've separated. That's the real reason I'm at
my dad's.'

'With everything you've been through, it must have put a lot of
strain on the marriage.'

He gave a sarcastic laugh. 'That, and the fact she was screwing
someone else.'

'Oh.' She looked down. 'I'm sorry.'

'It happens, doesn't it? Probably my fault as much as hers.'

They reached the Golf. Away from the streetlights, the sky was
studded with stars. Craig unlocked, but made no move to get in. They
stared at each other across the roof of the car.

'So what does Nina think about all this?'

'What? My quest to find the truth?' He let out a hollow laugh. 'She
thinks I'm on a fool's errand. And I'm starting to wonder if she's right.'

'You're not suggesting we should give up?'

'I don't know. You should, perhaps.' He shrugged, then examined
her face as if seeing it for the first time. 'You look even worse than I
feel.'

Julia smiled. 'You say the nicest things.'

There was a moment's silence, both of them suddenly a little selfconscious.
Then Julia shook her head. Opened her door.

'Come on, we're both exhausted. Let's get going.'

The traffic thinned out as they moved east, into more remote
countryside, then turned south towards the coast. Julia found her eyes
growing heavy. Several times she jerked awake as her head bumped
against the window.

It was nearly six-thirty when the Golf turned into the hotel car park.
The farewell was hurried and slightly awkward. No definite statement
of intent or arrangements for the future; merely an exchange of mobile
numbers and an agreement to speak again soon.

'Thanks for coming with me,' Craig said, but there was more disappointment
than gratitude in his voice, as if her presence had in
some way fallen short of his expectations.

Is that it?
Julia found herself asking as she got out of the car. She
felt an odd sense of loss, a sense that something worthwhile had been
abandoned too early, without a struggle. Even though she had far
more doubts about a Matheson conspiracy than Craig, it still saddened
her to think their quest for the truth might be over almost before it
had begun.