Skin and Bones (20 page)

Craig was aware of conflicting emotions as he watched Julia disappear
into the hotel. Disappointment that the day had ended on such an
unsatisfactory note, and also frustration that Julia hadn't embraced his
theories about the massacre. Considering he was just about the only
person who believed in her – and not to mention that he had very
good reason to resent her – he thought she might have been a little
more appreciative of his support.

And yet, in spite of that, he also felt despondent at the thought of
her walking away from the investigation. It was perplexing. He'd been
quite prepared to carry the fight alone before Julia had entered the
picture. Why should it be any different now?
Almost without thinking, he reached for the bottle in the footwell.
With the coffee and a sandwich in his system, another mouthful
wouldn't do any harm. He glanced at the hotel, made sure no one
was looking, and tipped the bottle back once, then again. The giddy
hit of energy was desperately welcome.

He turned left out of the car park. By now the roads were almost
deserted, whereas back home in Crawley it would still be gridlock.
He found himself wondering if he could convince Nina to move out
this way, then remembered that they had separated. If things stayed
as they were, he could live anywhere he wanted.

Alone.

The flare of headlights in his rear-view mirror jolted his attention
back to the road. A car was suddenly riding on his bumper, then it
swerved across the centre line and raced past. It was high and square,
some sort of jeep. Must be doing at least seventy.

'Boy racer,' he muttered in disgust, forgetting that Nina often levelled
the same charge at him. He watched as the driver feathered the brakes
on a tight left-hand bend and disappeared from sight. Glancing at the
dashboard, he saw his own speed was around forty miles an hour: well
below the limit.

He accelerated slightly, but was careful to stay within the bounds
of his visibility. There was no street lighting out here. The road ahead
was a pale narrow ribbon, twisting and turning across the featureless
landscape. Darkness pressed against his windows, making him feel
isolated and exposed.

This is all a mistake, he decided, experiencing a sudden longing
for light and warmth and family. He should be at home, working to
save his marriage, not chasing round the country trying to prove some
ridiculous theory.

Once again, Kate was lying in wait. Knowing how exhausted she
looked, Julia was expecting to be scolded for overdoing it. Instead
Kate's first words were: 'Peggy Forester's dead.'

'What? She can't—' Julia just stopped herself from blurting out:
We visited her this morning.

'There was a fire at her house,' Kate went on. 'They found a body
inside. Too badly burned to identify, but they think it's her. Good
riddance, I say.'

'When was this?'

'Sometime this afternoon. Why?'

Julia shook her head. 'No reason.'

Now came the appraisal. Kate frowned. 'Do you want me to call a
doctor?'

'What?'

'You look like you're about to flake out. The way you're going, you'll
end up back in hospital. Or worse,' she added darkly.

Julia was too weary to argue. 'I'll get an early night.'

She made it to the stairs and gripped the banister, stifling the pain
because Kate was still watching. A throbbing headache had started
up, and her vision swam in and out of focus. Kate's right, she told
herself. I do need to see a doctor.

Somehow she made it to her room, where she dropped her father's
diary on the bed and collapsed next to it, staring at the battered cover
but seeing something quite different.

The grimy, claustrophobic kitchen. The vodka. The cigarettes.
Peggy's inebriation and erratic behaviour. Accident or suicide. It had
to be one or the other, didn't it?

But that idea niggled at her, along with something else. Something
she couldn't pin down.

Coincidence. Wasn't it a terrible coincidence? It also meant they
were probably the last people to see her alive. That in itself had all
kinds of implications, but right now she was too tired to work out what
they were. Her last memory was of kicking off her shoes, shuffling a
little to get comfortable and closing her eyes, telling herself she would
just rest for a minute or two.

Once Craig started thinking about Tom and Maddie, he couldn't stop.
He knew he was becoming maudlin and sentimental, but fears about
their safety kept crowding in. Today he'd met Matheson and James
Vilner. He'd seen the nature of the people he was up against. What
was he playing at?

There was a right-hand bend ahead, a couple of hundred yards
away. He couldn't see the angle yet, but it looked to be tight. There
was a large, unlit building on the inside corner, obscuring his view
of any oncoming traffic. A barn, he guessed, probably a store for winter
feed. There was a fence running along the perimeter to his right, and
some distant ghostly blobs that might have been sheep or cattle.

The fields to his left were unfenced, but separated from the road
by a ditch. His headlights picked out tall reeds and the dark shimmer
of water.

He was less than a hundred yards away, shifting to third gear, when
the car burst into view. A familiar shape: high and square, some sort
of jeep. And coming right at him. Straddling the centre line, it straightened
out of the corner but made no effort to move over. It was gaining
speed, its main beams high and blinding, filling his windscreen with
light.

Craig reacted on pure instinct. Wrenched the steering hard left
and sent the Golf bumping across the narrow verge. He stamped on
the brake, but the wheels had already lost traction on the wet grass.
The bonnet tipped forward and he felt a choking pain across his torso
as the seatbelt reeled him in. His head smashed against the side window
and he blacked out.

Julia was woken by noise: loud, urgent, indistinct. Her mind
scrambled to process the sounds. While still emerging from sleep she'd
heard smashing glass, thumping feet, and screams. She'd heard people
screaming.

Now she was awake, and people were still screaming. She could
hear running, doors slamming, and over it all an alarm was blaring,
high-pitched and insistent, drilling through her brain. She had a
feeling it was still early in the evening, that she hadn't slept long. She
felt groggy and nauseous and confused. If it was a dream, why hadn't
the noises stopped?

If it wasn't a dream, what was it?

None of it made sense until she pulled in a breath and felt the
tickle of smoke in her nostrils.

There was a fire. She had to get out.

But when she went to act on that impulse, nothing happened. It
felt as though a fast-acting concrete had been poured on to her body.
She tried frantically to make her limbs obey. She could feel her muscles
tense and relax, tense and relax, but it did no good. She couldn't move.
She was going to lie here, conscious but immobile, and burn to death.

Craig was cold. Freezing cold. Icy water seeping through his jeans.
Something warmer trickling in his hair.

He opened his eyes to utter darkness. He thought he'd gone blind.
Quelling a rush of panic, he blinked a few times and moved his head.
It hurt. There was a powerful throbbing just above his right ear. A hot
tearing pain at the base of his skull, as though someone had tried to
rip his head off.

Gradually his vision adjusted to the dark. The first thing he saw
was the spent airbag, draped over the steering wheel like a monstrous
condom. The Golf had nosedived into the ditch, and all the front
windows had shattered. He was in muddy water up to his waist, chips
of glass sprinkled on the surface like diamonds.

He flexed his leg muscles, tentatively lifting and twisting his feet.
To his relief, he didn't seem to have any broken bones. He tried
turning the ignition off, but the steering column must have distorted,
jamming the key. He had to settle for wrenching the rest of the keys
free. His other hand plunged into the water and groped for the
seatbelt catch. He felt his ribs protest as the belt released and his
body pitched forward. He grabbed the doorframe and swore as grains
of glass punctured his skin.

Next he tried opening the door. It moved a couple of inches, then
jammed. Either it had met resistance in the ditch, or the frame was
buckled. Using his elbow to sweep the frame clear of glass, he levered
himself into a crouching position on the seat. As he did the car shifted
slightly, sliding a few inches deeper into the muddy water. With a
sudden irrational vision of the whole car going under, he reached out
of the driver's window, gripped the roof and hauled himself up and
out. He left a wet muddy smear across the roof as he pulled himself
over the back of the car and then half jumped, half fell on to the
grassy bank.

He lay still for a minute, gasping for breath, tears in his eyes, cold
and wet and hurting in a dozen places, but more grateful to be alive
than he would have thought possible. He pressed his face into the
grass and inhaled its sweet aroma and the rich loamy scent of the soil
beneath.

Then he became aware of a low vibrating rumble through the earth.
Seconds later headlights speared the darkness. A car. He was about
to jump to his feet and flag it down when self-preservation kicked in.
He had two very good reasons to stay hidden.

Firstly, the car that forced him off the road had followed him from
the hotel, overtaken at high speed, then turned round and driven back
towards him. It might still be in the area.

The second reason lay in pieces in the flooded footwell. When he
licked his lips he could taste a hint of Scotch. Maybe not enough in
his bloodstream to get him disqualified, but he couldn't take the chance.

He waited for the car to pass, the rasp of its tyres taking an age to
recede. Then he got to his feet and did his best to check himself over.

He was a mess. Jeans and most of his jacket soaked. Mud everywhere.
Blood in his hair and on his face. His right palm dotted with
small incisions, now throbbing even more urgently than his head
wound. He patted his pockets and found his wallet and phone intact.
The phone still worked, but there was no signal.

'Who am I gonna call?' he asked himself.

He turned and examined the ditch. In darkness the car was almost
impossible to see. It was pitched at such an angle that dipped headlights
would miss the reflectors at close range, so there was a good
chance it wouldn't be discovered until morning.

He set off back the way he'd come, feet squelching on the road,
pumping his arms to try and generate some warmth. There was a
small chain of lights in the distance, one of which must be Julia's
hotel. He figured he'd driven a couple of miles on a meandering route.
In a dead straight line it was probably a lot less, but going cross-country
in the dark presented its own hazards: ditches, fences, animals.

After a couple of hundred yards he reached a layby and sat down.
A sporty hatchback screamed past, pumping bass from its speakers like
a gigantic heart. He glimpsed three or four kids who looked scarcely
old enough to drive. One of them gleefully gave him the finger. Craig
laughed.

He took off his shoes, wrung out his socks and put them back on.
It didn't make a lot of difference, but he felt better for it. Gazing along
the road, he noticed a sign with an arrow indicating a footpath. There
were symbols for parking, toilets and the sea, along with the words:
'1 Mile.'

A mile to the coast, then he'd turn left and head along the beach
to the hotel. He looked at his watch, which had also survived intact.
It was seven o'clock. He pictured Julia warm and relaxed as she sat
down to dinner. He started fantasising about a hot bath and a mug of
coffee.

The path was uneven and overgrown with weeds. He had to pick
his way carefully, but his eyes were now accustomed to the dark, and
he found he could see quite well. The sky was clear and full of stars,
the sea a faint silvery glimmer on the horizon.

Then a bright yellow-orange flare caught his attention. It was coming
from the western end of the chain of lights. It seemed to grow and
fade in strength, with a pulsing, sinuous movement. The sky above it
had grown hazy, blotting out the stars. That's when he put it together.
He started to run.

Someone was shouting her name. Julia tried to respond, but the sound
that emerged was too weak to be heard over the alarm. In despair she
shut her eyes and let her body go limp, and as she did a kind of
nervous spasm caused her leg to move. She flexed it, and managed
to swing one foot off the bed.

From the hall, Kate called her name again, her voice tight with
fear and desperation. There was an urgent thumping on her door.

'Julia? Are you in there? Wake up!'

'I'm here,' Julia croaked, desperately afraid that Kate would give up
and leave her. 'I'm coming.'

Regaining command of her body, she made a tremendous effort
to raise herself, first on to her elbows, and then virtually slithered off
the bed. She could feel control of her muscles gradually returning,
and she was able to get upright. She felt woozy and disorientated, and
there was an uncomfortable dull ache in her abdomen, but at least
she could move.

Thank God she was still dressed, she thought. There was no way
she would be capable of putting clothes on in a hurry. Glancing back
at the bed, she noticed her father's diary and picked it up, then
stumbled towards the door. Kate was shouting and knocking again.

Julia unlocked the door and was almost bowled over as Kate burst
in. The air behind her was murky with smoke. The whole building
seemed to be vibrating with the commotion of raised voices, thumping
footsteps and the muffled roar of the fire.

'Come on,' Kate said, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the
room. There was no time for explanation. Julia did her best to run, one
hand cupping her mouth to reduce the effect of the foul, choking air.

With Kate virtually propping her up, she descended the stairs into
thicker smoke, billowing from the front doorway and the residents'
lounge. A figure backed out of the room, holding a fire extinguisher.
It was Sandy, the chef. She turned towards them, her face bright red,
tears streaming from her eyes. She shook her head.

'No good. It's spreading too quickly.' From inside the room they
heard two small explosions. Bottles of spirits igniting.

'Upstairs is clear,' Kate shouted. 'Just get out.'

Sandy nodded, gesturing towards the kitchens. 'That way.'

Kate took the lead, still holding on to Julia, with Sandy close behind.
Although Julia's legs felt stronger now, the pain in her abdomen was
growing more intense. Her eyes were smarting and her heart felt like
it was beating at an unnatural rhythm. They hurried through the
kitchens and saw a couple of other guests just ahead of them.

The cold night air was a fabulous shock, like plunging into a pool.
There were about a dozen women grouped on the lawn, some doubled
over, some crying and hugging each other, some just standing in a
daze. There was a loud crash and flames leapt towards the French
doors which led out to the garden.

'Get back!' Kate shouted. She and Sandy began ushering people
to the bottom of the garden. Julia could hear her muttering as she
did a head count.

'Best to head for the beach,' she said. 'Then along the path to the
road. The fire brigade are on their way.'

'What happened?' Julia asked. 'Was it an electrical fault?'

There was another crash from the building, and at the same time
the alarm abruptly cut out. Julia glanced back and saw smoke pouring
from an upstairs window. Sandy saw it too, and looked heartbroken.

'Brick through the window,' she said, 'followed by a Molotov cocktail.
One in the lounge, one through the front door. Bloody miracle
they didn't hit anyone.'

They reached the gate, everyone trying to file through without
panicking. Someone stumbled, and there was a shriek. 'It's all right,'
Kate shouted. 'Just follow me.'

Once they were through the gate, Julia insisted she could walk
unaided. While Kate went off to check on the other guests, Julia rested
for a moment and wiped her eyes. She felt much more alert now, but
the nagging pain had spread to her lower back and kidneys. Trying
not to dwell on it, she followed the line of guests around the perimeter
of the grounds. Smoke poured into the sky, and tiny fragments of ash
rained down on them. The sea lay off to her left, dark and almost
silent, just a faint slurp against the sand.

The hotel had been firebombed. That was crazy. Why the hell
would—

Then she thought of Peggy Forester, burned to death within hours
of their visit.

Reaching the footpath that ran between the beach and the road,
she heard sirens approaching. There was a small crowd of spectators
on the pavement, watching the fire from a safe distance. When they
spotted the line of evacuees, a few came forward to help. Julia saw
one man remove his coat and offer it to a woman wearing only a thin
dress.

The first fire engine drove past, braking hard as it reached the hotel.
A second appliance was just behind it. Almost everyone turned to
look, and there were a few muted shouts and cheers. Then Julia
noticed one of the spectators had kept his back to the road. He was
watching the guests file towards him. Too far away to see clearly, but
he was wearing dark clothes. His face was obscured by something.
He'd turned his collar up, or perhaps had a scarf wrapped around his
mouth.

Despite the distance, Julia knew the moment his gaze settled on
her. She felt it in every nerve ending, and as he broke away from the
crowd and hurried towards her, she recognised the set of his body:
fast, powerful, determined. Exactly the way he had moved when he
strode into sight from Hurst Lane.

It was him. The second killer. Coming for her.

Julia turned and ran.

Her only option was west, towards the dunes at the back of the beach.
The killer had blocked her path to the north. The tide was too close
to go south, and the burning hotel was to the east.

A cautionary voice told her she shouldn't be doing this. In her
current condition just walking was a struggle, let alone running. But
it had been an instinctive decision, made without any rational thought.
Too late to change her mind now.

It got darker and colder as she climbed the dunes. The sand was
loose and deep, and after just fifteen or twenty strides she was exhausted.
Marram grass whipped at her bare feet, and a discarded Coke can
sliced the skin on her little toe. Risking a look behind her, she saw a
vague black shape reach the path and pause, scanning the beach.

Julia threw herself down, dropping the diary. Spotting a deeper
hollow about ten feet away, she crawled towards it, grabbing clumps
of grass and wriggling on her belly. She was acutely aware of how
isolated she was, but knew that staying in the crowd wouldn't have
protected her if the killer was armed. At least this way she wasn't
putting other people in danger.

Any more than she had already, she thought grimly.

Reaching the hollow, she curled up, paddling with her feet and
hands to dig herself into the sand. It was freezing cold, and she began
to shiver. The pain in her lower back was spreading through her body
like icy water, a sensation accompanied by a haunting image of internal
bleeding. She fought off the idea that she might escape from the killer,
only to fall unconscious and perish alone in the sand.

She lay on her side, her sight of the dunes now restricted to just a
few yards. Sounds drifted across the beach as if from another world:
sirens, doors slamming, the crackle and spit of the hungry fire.

And then something closer. Much closer.

Heavy footsteps on the sand.

She pressed herself into the hollow, trying to merge with the land.
She stopped breathing. Above her the sky opened like a vast dome
filled with stars, each one impossibly cold and remote. She felt a wave
of vertigo, a feeling that she might tip forward and be pitched into
the void.

A few grains of sand fell on her face. She heard an exhalation,
angry and frustrated. He was right above her, perhaps only a couple
of feet away, but the shape of the dune meant he couldn't see her.

He must have gone out on to the beach and circled round. That
meant he'd guessed her route. Outmanoeuvred her. One more step
and she was dead.

She shut her eyes and waited. Her lungs felt as though they would
burst. Her head swam with the effort of not breathing, not moving,
not jumping to her feet and begging him to finish her off: anything
to break the unbearable tension of not knowing if she would live or
die.

There was another angry sigh. Another dusting of sand on her eyes
and her lips.

Then something snarled, low and menacing and very close.