Skin and Bones (21 page)

It was a dog. Julia could hear it panting. She thought she could
smell it, too, a warm wet odour, with a tang of the sea.

The dog growled again. This time she placed it. Across to her right,
a few feet away.

A man's voice cried, 'Billy! C'mere, now!'

But the dog held its ground. It went on snarling, and it sounded
like it meant business. She heard the rustle of movement from above,
the killer reacting to this new threat.

'Billy! Heel!'

The dog gave an answering yelp, but instead of running back to its
owner, it took another couple of steps towards her. She could see it
now, a lean black shape against the sand, lowering its head as if
preparing to attack.

Craig had once prided himself on his fitness, but it had been a few
years since he'd exercised on a serious basis. One of his knees started
protesting within the first mile or so, and a stitch set in that left him
gasping as much as panting. Every time he felt his resolve weakening,
he glanced up and focused on the leaping flames. He had to
know where the fire was. He had to know Julia was all right.

He heard the sirens as the fire engines passed on the coast road.
Smoke was pouring into the sky, and he prayed that wherever it was,
the occupants had escaped in time.

When he got to the beach he found running on the compacted sand
much easier on his joints, and he was even able to pick up his speed
a little. Despite the burn in his lungs, he felt almost euphoric, as if the
ordeal he'd been through had only made him stronger and more focused.

He was a couple of hundred yards away when he saw beyond doubt
that it was the hotel. Despite the valiant efforts of the firefighters, the
building was being consumed by flames. He knew at once that in one
sense he was too late: Julia's fate had already been decided. Either
she had got out in time or she hadn't. If she hadn't, there was no
way she could survive.

That realisation brought him up short. He leaned over, breathing
hard, and spat on to the sand. It was as his heart rate slowed that he
became aware of a man's voice, just ahead of him, calling for something.
Then he heard barking and saw a dog, up on the dunes. He was about
to dismiss it and run on when he spotted something else, a dark shape
just beyond the dog that moved slightly, revealing a flash of pale skin.

Quite abruptly, the dog stopped barking, turned and looked at its
owner, then ran back towards the beach. Julia waited a few seconds,
too scared to move, before cautiously raising her head. Now she could
see two figures on the beach. The dog was again growling, but its
owner moved in and grabbed its collar. The other figure, instead of
hanging back, seemed to be moving in her direction.

Her heart pumped furiously, but she knew she couldn't run any
more. She was confused. How had the killer managed to get back
down to the beach so quickly, and without the dog sensing it?

Something else bothered her. Even in the darkness, the outline and
movement seemed familiar. Not just familiar, she realised. Miraculous.

She called out, as best she could, and tried to sit up. She had
to make sure he had noticed her. By now she could see his face,
dirty and dishevelled and full of worry. Somehow he didn't look quite
right, and she wondered if perhaps he was merely a hallucination, in
which case she would probably just fall back and freeze to death in
the sand.

His relief at seeing her was so great that at first he didn't stop to wonder
what she was doing here. As he reached her, he saw her eyes roll up
and she passed out. He knelt down and made sure she was breathing,
checked her airways and felt for her pulse. Her skin felt dangerously
cold. He eased his hands underneath her and gently began lifting her
up. As he did, she moaned and opened her eyes.

'It's okay,' he murmured. 'Take it easy.'

He had her upright when suddenly she wriggled out of his grasp.

'My diary!'

'What?'

She twisted, pointing at something in the shadows. When he was
sure she wouldn't collapse, Craig let go of her and searched until he
found the diary lying in the sand. Turning back, he saw that Julia's
whole body was trembling uncontrollably. Without a word he opened
his arms and she fell into his embrace. He held her tight, her tears
dampening his neck as she nuzzled into it.

'He was here, Craig,' she said. 'He came to kill me.'

Moving slowly, they made their way over to the road. The crowd of
onlookers had grown. There were police cars and ambulances parked
at the kerb. Most of the guests were wrapped in blankets and borrowed
coats. The fire crews were up on ladders, spraying water from three
different vantage points, but it looked like a lost cause.

Julia told Craig what she knew about the firebombing, how she'd
spotted the killer and hid from him in the dunes. She thought he
might doubt the story, but there wasn't a trace of disbelief in his face.

'He ran me off the road. I think he'd overtaken me a minute earlier,
which means he'd followed me from the hotel.'

'So he knew where I was staying?'

'I guess so. After dealing with me, he must have come back here
and started the fire.'

'That's not all,' she said. She told him about Peggy Forester. 'The
news report was suggesting an accident, or maybe suicide.'

'You think he was there this morning, the same time as us?'

She nodded. 'Did you get a look at the car?'

'Not really. It was a four-wheel drive. A Land Rover, maybe.'

'There was one parked in Hurst Lane. I think I saw it in Falcombe
as well.'

The conversation was interrupted by Kate, who ran towards them,
holding a blanket. There was a second when her relief was tempered
by a suspicious glance at Craig, but she seemed prepared to put aside
her misgivings. She wrapped the blanket around Julia, then embraced her.

'What happened to you? I couldn't find you anywhere.'

'I went on to the beach to get some fresh air,' Julia said. Staring over
Kate's shoulder, she saw Craig give a rueful nod: endorsing the lie.

They broke apart, and Kate grabbed her hand. 'Come on. We need
to get you checked over.'

Julia allowed the other woman to lead her to an ambulance. While
she was explaining Julia's medical history to a paramedic, there was a
small commotion within the crowd. One of the hotel guests was ushered
to a waiting police car and bundled inside, then driven off at high
speed. Julia realised it was the woman she had played cards with.

'The police think she might have been the target,' Kate confided.
'She's giving evidence at a trial for heroin smuggling.'

Julia made the right noises of concern and sympathy, and once
more exchanged a meaningful glance with Craig. Kate left her in the
paramedic's charge and plunged back into the crowd. Julia was helped
into the ambulance and lay down on a stretcher. After a thorough
examination, the paramedic decided her blood pressure was slightly
low, and recommended further tests at hospital.

Then he turned to Craig. 'Are you the next of kin?'

Craig was just a fraction too late to answer, but the paramedic shook
his head. 'Doesn't matter. That cut on your head needs looking at,
anyway.'

Before they left, the paramedic was called away to treat a firefighter
for smoke inhalation. As soon as they were alone, Craig moved close
to Julia and spoke quietly.

'It looks like the police have jumped to the wrong conclusion. The
question is whether we can risk putting them right.'

'What do you mean?'

'First, we know they don't believe in the idea of a second killer.
Secondly, if we make a statement alleging we were followed here,
then we should really admit to visiting Peggy Forester. And aside from
the killer, I bet we were the last people to see her alive.'

Julia looked doubtful. 'But would they really suspect us . . . ?'

'She's Carl's mother. Carl murdered my dad and tried to murder
you. Frankly, I can't think of a better motive for wanting her dead.'

Julia sighed, realising how credible that might seem, compared to
their own allegations.

'As for what happened here tonight, what can you really tell them?
A man followed you along the path, and you ran away from him. Did
you see him clearly? Can you describe him?'

She shook her head. 'I didn't imagine it,' she said, her voice wavering.

'Hey. I know that.' He took her hand. 'He drove me into a ditch,
remember? I'm just saying there isn't a lot we can prove at the moment.
Certainly not enough to get the police interested. All we risk doing
is putting ourselves in the frame for Peggy's death.'

Julia had to agree. 'So we're on our own?'

'I'm afraid so. But at least tonight he's come out into the open. We
know he exists, and he's shown us what he can do. We really only
have one choice now, don't we?'

Julia saw the cold anger in his eyes. She heard movement outside
the ambulance, the paramedic returning, and quickly nodded.

'We fight back,' she said.

Vanessa was awake by 6 a.m. Most nights now she slept only
fitfully, woken by poor circulation and delirious visions of death.
Often there was a pressing need to urinate, and although she had
accepted the humiliation of incontinence protection, there were
many times when she could not bring herself to use it. Better to
suffer the discomfort of getting up and struggling to the en suite
bathroom.

Afterwards she decided against returning to bed. The room was too
hot, and her skin felt slick with sweat. In small bird-like steps she
moved to the window and drew the curtains back, intending to let in
some fresh air.

A grey, misty dawn cast an ethereal light over the countryside.
The sky above the Downs was pale and clear, promising another
unseasonably warm day. Vanessa watched birds circling high
overhead and heard the distant competing cries of gulls and
crows. It was only when he moved that she noticed George in the
garden.

He was at the far end of the lawn, sitting on the bench that overlooked
the terraced area leading down to the tennis court. At the top
of the steps was a large stone plinth forming the base of a tiered fountain.
The centrepiece of the top tier was a delicately carved figurine
of an angel. As Vanessa watched, George leaned forward and almost
toppled on to the path in front of it.

He remained on his knees, not moving. She imagined the cold
seeping into his ageing joints, but if he was aware of it he gave no
sign. He was dressed in the same trousers and sweater as the night
before, and she wondered if he had slept at all.

Then, to her astonishment, she saw him clasp his hands together
and dip his head in prayer. She had to say it to herself before she
could believe it.

He's praying to the stone angel.

It brought a smile to her face, but never one to soften her
own stone heart. She whispered to the glass: 'You won't bring
her back.'

Seven o'clock, and Julia was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of her
flat in Lewes. After nearly four weeks away, the surroundings felt both
comforting but slightly unfamiliar. When she'd finally got to bed she
thought she might sleep for days, and yet just five hours later she was
awake and reflecting on what she had said to Craig.

We fight back.

Now, with the clarity that daylight brought, much of that confidence
had evaporated. Instead she felt an irrational conviction that
the killer was untouchable.

After a swift journey in the ambulance, she and Craig had
spent the evening in the Conquest Hospital in St Leonards. While
Craig waited in A&E to have his cuts cleaned and dressed, Julia
underwent a thorough range of tests, including a CT scan, and her
heart rate and blood pressure were monitored over several hours.
Finally she was seen by a disarmingly handsome young doctor whose
upbeat conclusion didn't preclude him from delivering a severe
rebuke.

'You've had a remarkably lucky escape,' he told her, 'and not just
from the fire. There's a lot of messed-up tissue in there.' He poked a
long finger in the direction of her belly. 'Unless you let it heal properly,
there's a chance the whole caboodle will rupture like a bag of
rotten tomatoes.' He smiled at the expression on her face. 'I'm resorting
to such unpleasant imagery precisely because it's more likely to lodge
in your mind. Now, repeat after me.' He intoned in a slow, exaggerated
voice: 'Walking is good, but walk slowly. Don't run.'

Feeling about seven years old, Julia repeated, 'Walk slowly. Don't
run.'

'No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.'

'No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.'

'I will adopt a lifestyle appropriate to a sensible young woman recovering
from a serious gunshot wound.'

'No,' said Julia. 'That's just too condescending.'

The doctor laughed. 'Yeah, I was pushing it a bit, but you get the
point, don't you?'

It was nearly midnight before she was able to leave. She was touched
to find Craig waiting for her, and even more gratified when he insisted
they take a taxi back to Lewes.

'But it'll cost a fortune,' she said. 'Surely there are still trains
running?'

'You're not getting a train after what you've been through, and
neither am I.'

After hushed negotiations at the taxi rank, and a quick detour to a
cashpoint, they drove home in relative comfort. Sitting together on
the back seat, sharing an exhausted, intimate silence, there was a
moment when Julia was tempted to raise the one thorny issue that
remained between them. She was still debating how to broach the
subject when she fell asleep, and she didn't awake until they reached
the Cuilfail tunnel on the approach to Lewes. She opened her eyes
to find Craig watching her, a gentle smile on his face, and knew she
couldn't mention it now.

Her flat was one of six in a double-fronted Edwardian villa in a
narrow road behind the castle. When the taxi pulled up, Craig insisted
on seeing her safely inside. Her main set of keys had been left in
the hotel, but fortunately one of her neighbours kept a spare set.
Even more fortunately, she didn't resent being woken by Julia.

Craig followed her up the stairs and waited while she unlocked her
door. 'You sure you're going to be all right? You're welcome to the
spare room at my dad's place.'

'I have to get used to living here again at some point. Might as well
be tonight.'

Craig didn't look happy about it, but finally relented. 'I guess there's
no reason to assume the killer has your address, but don't answer the
door to strangers. Don't let anyone in here.'

'Craig, I've lived on my own for years. I know the score.'

'Yeah. Sorry. But ring me if you need anything.'

His farewell was accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, and Julia
was struck by the contrast with the last time they'd parted; how morose
she had felt that their journey together might have ended.

Once inside she had gone straight to bed. Her sleep was deep and
dreamless, and she'd woken this morning with the feeling that she
was entering a new phase of her life. The fire at the hotel had interrupted
her recuperation, but also served as a warning that she had
to take the whole process more seriously from now on.

In the meantime, the day stretched ahead of her with the promise
of nothing more than simple domestic chores. After so long away from
her home, it was a blissful prospect.

At seven-thirty she made coffee – black, because there was no
milk – and took it back to bed. After a little more daydreaming she
picked up the diary, which she'd kept with her like a talisman at
the hospital, careful never to let it out of her sight. She was aware
of a reluctance to intrude on her father's privacy, and at first she
could only skim the pages, as if this way she was merely skipping
lightly through her parents' lives, rather than trampling all over
them.

Until a name stopped her dead. Left her gripping the diary, staring
at it in disbelief.

Carl Forester.

It appeared in the second week of August. Earlier entries had revealed
her father fretting over the conifer trees in the back garden. They'd
grown too high and become unmanageable. The publican at the
Green Man recommended Forester, described by her father as
a local
chap, from Falcombe, willing to do odd jobs
.

Feeling a tightness in her chest, she turned the page to the following
week. She spotted the name again, in the entry for 17 August.

Carl Forester here this afternoon. Cut the conifers by eight or nine
feet. I should be able to handle them from now on. Charged
£30 cash. Seems a good deal. A nice enough lad, but very quiet.
Possibly not 'all there'.

She read it half a dozen times before it sank in. Then she shut the
diary, unable to face any more.

Carl Forester had known her parents. He had been in their house.
He'd probably been offered endless drinks while he was working.
Perhaps he'd eaten their biscuits or some home-made cake.

She had an image of him standing in their garden, his spiky hair
wet with sweat. A glass of lemonade in one hand, perhaps a chainsaw in
the other. Her father doing his best to make conversation, perhaps
pointing out the rose bushes or the shed he'd so proudly assembled.

At any moment Carl could have snapped. He could have killed
them. Was the rage already building? Was he harbouring fantasies
about unleashing death on the village?

She lay back on the bed and tried to make sense of it. She knew
her response was irrational, but to discover her parents had had a
seemingly innocent encounter with Forester, with the man who had
tried to kill her, affected her in ways she couldn't explain.

She closed her eyes and a rush of images ran through her mind.
The chase across the village green. The second killer striding towards
Forester. Carl's whoop of celebration as the two men exchanged a
high five.

Then she remembered something that made her sit up with a jolt.

The whoop. The sound he'd made.

And she knew she had to go back to Chilton.