Skin and Bones (22 page)

Three or four times a week DI Sullivan ate breakfast at a transport
café on the A3, a few miles from his home in New Malden. It was
his cardinal rule that these breakfasts were consumed without interruption,
so any and all incoming calls were ignored for the duration
of the meal. On Thursday morning this proved hugely beneficial.

Only when he'd wiped the plate with the last piece of toast, drained
his mug of tea and wiped a blob of ketchup from his shirt did he pick
up his phone. There was a short, terse message from Craig Walker,
wanting to arrange a meeting. The hint of a demand irked Sullivan,
so he decided to make Craig wait.

First he rang George Matheson and gave him the inside track on
the fire at Peggy Forester's place. The body they'd recovered from the
ruins was almost definitely hers.

'What about the cause?'

'There's not much left for forensics to work with, but it's about fifty–
fifty between accident or foul play. Some evidence of an accelerant
in the kitchen, but it was probably the booze she was always chucking
down her throat.'

'That's interesting,' George said. 'Have you identified any recent
visitors to the house?'

Sullivan's antenna twitched. 'Sounds like you know something.'

'Craig Walker was there yesterday morning. Along with Julia Trent.'

'I'll check, but I don't think they've come forward.' He whistled.
'Do you think they topped her?'

'I wouldn't like to say,' George quickly added. 'Obviously I'm telling
you this in an unofficial capacity.'

'Of course. Do you want to make it official?'

'I'm not sure if that's altogether wise.'

'Could be more useful to sit on it for now.'

George cleared his throat. 'Well, yes. That was my thinking.'

Sullivan barely ended the call before a cackle of laughter burst out.
Talk about lucky. He pulled at his mouth a couple of times, trying to
form a solemn expression for his next conversation.

Craig must have been getting his kids ready for school. There was
a girl whingeing in the background.

'What's this about a meeting?' Sullivan said.

'We need to discuss my investigation.'

'What's that got to do with me? I gave you the report and the address
of the hotel. That's me done.' He stopped there, careful not to overplay
his disinterest.

'I think you'll want to hear this.' Craig sounded subdued, hard to
make out above the whining girl. Sullivan wondered why he didn't
just give her a slap.

'All right,' he said. 'I can spare you half an hour this afternoon.'

Julia had several misgivings about going out so soon, but justified it
on the basis that she wasn't breaking her pledge to the doctor. She
didn't intend to do any running, jumping or anything else. And he
hadn't said she mustn't drive.

Leaving the flat, she was half convinced her Mini wouldn't start,
although a friend who lived locally had been keeping an eye on it for
her. The handbrake was a bit sticky, but the car started on the third
attempt. Apart from religiously checking her mirror for signs of
someone following, it was a wonderful feeling to be driving again:
another big step towards regaining her independence.

She was in Chilton at just after eight. The good weather was holding,
and by the time she parked outside the church it was probably fifteen
degrees warmer than it had been on 19 January. Certainly mild enough
for just a cotton top and a light jacket.

Aside from that, there were some disturbing similarities with
the morning of the massacre. No one in sight, and little sound apart
from the coarse cry of the rooks. Her muscles kept flexing as she crossed
the green, her body willing her to jump in the car and drive away.

A couple of For Sale boards had gone up in Arundel Crescent. At
number two the trap window in the upstairs bedroom was open, just
as it had been on 19 January. As she reached the front door Julia heard
thumping inside, then a clamour of voices. She rang the doorbell,
wondering if it stood any chance of being heard.

After a few seconds an internal door banged shut, muffling the
noise. There was the rattle of a chain, and the front door opened a
few inches. A man peered out.

'Gordon Jones?'

'Who wants to know?'

'My name's Julia Trent. I wonder if I could speak to your wife?'

He scrutinised her carefully. 'You were here, on the nineteenth?'

'Yes.'

Removing the safety chain, he opened the door and seemed to
relax. He was in his forties, Julia guessed, with thin limbs but a large
torso. He had grey hair and a thick moustache that aged him by at
least five years. His forehead was creased into a permanent frown.

There was another loud bang from inside the house. Gordon turned
and shouted, 'Stop fighting! You've got ten minutes to get ready.'

Julia offered a sympathetic smile. 'I need to talk to your wife.'

'She doesn't live here now.' His voice was flat, as though all the
emotion had been wrung from him long ago. 'She had a . . . a nervous
breakdown. I tried to help her. We all did. But she insisted on moving
out. She was worried the children might be taken away from her.'

A piercing shriek was followed by raucous laughter. Gordon flinched.

'I have a childminder while I'm at work, and my mother helps out
when she can. But it's not the same.'

'How often does she visit?'

'She doesn't. It's too upsetting.' He pushed a hand through his hair
and let out a juddering sigh. 'That bastard ruined a lot of lives.
Sometimes I wish he hadn't shot himself. I'd like to . . .' He trailed
off, his gaze focusing on a different future. Then he snapped back to
the present. 'I'll get you the address.'

When he opened the living-room door, Julia glimpsed two small
boys wrestling on the floor. An older girl danced round them, pumping
her fists and chanting: 'Fight, fight, fight!'

Gordon returned with a notepad and pen. 'It's a rented flat in
Brighton,' he said as he wrote it out.

'You go to see her?'

'Once or twice a week.' Almost shamefully, he added, 'She never
answers the door.'

'Why not? You didn't do anything wrong.'

'I was away, the day it happened. On a damn stag weekend, of all
things. I don't think she'll ever forgive me for making her cope on
her own. That's my role, isn't it? Husband and father. I'm supposed
to protect my family.'

But nothing happened to them
, Julia almost said. She knew Alice's
response had nothing to do with what was logical or rational. Gordon
probably knew it too.

A sob escaped his throat. Embarrassed, he tore the page from the
notebook and held it out. 'Tell her we miss her,' he said. 'Tell her to
come home.'

The buzz of his intercom woke him at some ungodly hour. Toby
ignored it, but then his mobile rang. His business phone, which
narrowed the range of callers somewhat.

Swearing, he threw back the covers and rubbed his eyes. After
checking the mobile's display, he swore again and got up to answer
the intercom. A familiar voice growled, 'You've got about thirty seconds
to make yourself decent.'

He pulled on jogging pants and a t-shirt, and was taming his
hair with water when Vilner rapped on the door. Toby lived in a
sixth-floor apartment in Chelsea Harbour, which cost a straight
million five years ago but had already appreciated by nearly fifty
per cent.

He opened the door. Vilner was alone, looking fresh and relaxed
and dangerously cheerful. He was wearing jeans and a suede jacket
over a white shirt. He grinned when he saw Toby.

'Not a morning person, then?'

'No. What do you want?'

'Coffee would be good, for starters.'

Toby scowled, but didn't argue. Vilner followed him into the living
room, where he made a show of admiring the apartment. Drawn
by the view, he wandered over to the balcony doors and looked out
at the marina and the Thames beyond. Toby went into the adjoining
kitchen, put the kettle on and found an old jar of instant coffee. He
wasn't going to brew fresh for Vilner. When he returned to the living
room, Vilner let out a long whistle.

'So this is how you rich boys live? Bit bloody different from where
I grew up.'

'You know, I'm surprised you can walk with the size of the chip on
your shoulder.'

A flash of anger from Vilner, then a grudging smile. His eyes roved
the room and settled on one of the few things that looked out of place.
A little pile of paper on the floor.

'As it happens, I had a very modest start in life,' Toby said quickly.
'My mother never had any money. My aunt and uncle offered help,
but she didn't always take it.'

'Why's that?' Vilner was ambling towards the document.

'They didn't approve of her lifestyle. There were always conditions
attached. Sometimes she wouldn't meet them.'

'So you lost out as a result?' Vilner leaned over and examined the
title page.

'Not really,' Toby said, adding smugly: 'Not once they put me in
boarding school.'

But Vilner wasn't listening. He knelt a little awkwardly and picked
up the report. The report Toby had sworn not to show to anyone else.

'Where'd you get this?'

'George. Someone leaked it to him.'

Vilner wore a triumphant smile. 'You won't mind if I have a look?'

'Go ahead.' There was nothing he could have done, Toby told
himself. He made the coffee and brought it out. Vilner was leafing
through the report.

'Craig Walker's seen this,' he said. 'Him and Julia Trent were at
your uncle's yesterday.'

Before Toby could put on a poker face, it was too late. Vilner tutted.
'Oh dear. I don't think our Toby's in the loop any more.'

Toby sipped his coffee, and grimaced. The question he wanted to
ask was,
What were you doing there?
But instead he said, 'What did
they want?'

'A guarantee there won't be a second application.'

'I hope George didn't give it to them. He's agreed I could get started
on preliminary work for the development.'

Vilner exuded a vague sense of pity as he searched Toby's face, as
though looking for something he already knew was absent. It made
Toby uneasy.

'I know my uncle's getting worked up about this,' he said, keen to
break the silence. 'But I don't see the problem myself. I think we'll be
fine.'

'Well, that's a comfort,' said Vilner with a dry insincerity. Still holding
the report, he set his coffee down and wandered out of the room as
if this were his own apartment.

'Where are you going?'

'Having a look round.'

Toby felt a sense of dread as he followed Vilner into the spare
bedroom, which was used as an office. There was a large pinboard
on the wall, covered in architectural drawings and site plans and
an artist's impression of the finished development in sumptuous
watercolours. There was also a double-page spread from the
Daily
Express
, showing a photograph of Carl Forester as a mischievous
gap-toothed schoolboy beneath the headline: THE MAN WHO KILLED
A VILLAGE.

Vilner stood and examined the board, the blond stubble on his
chin glittering under the recessed lights. He tutted, shaking his head.
Just as Toby went to ask what was wrong, Vilner dropped the report
and grabbed the front of his t-shirt. His other hand was now holding
a pistol.

That's why he was wearing a loose shirt
, Toby thought.
That's why
he couldn't kneel properly
.

Vilner slammed him against the wall. Toby groaned and tried to
protest, but Vilner forced the gun into his mouth, drawing blood that
mingled with the oily taste of the metal.

'I'm getting sick of this,' Vilner growled. 'You. George. All these
different fucking agendas, and I reckon at the top of every one it says:
screw Vilner.'

Toby did his best to shake his head. Not true.

'You owe me over a quarter of a million quid. You promised me a
contract worth a million or more. But I'm starting to think I'm being
sold a pup.'

His pressure on the gun eased up a little. Enough for Toby to
splutter and say, 'You're not. I swear it. No one's trying to rip you off.'

'Then sell this place. Pay me what you owe.'

'I can't.' Toby swallowed blood. 'It's in George's name.'

Vilner shook his head. 'You useless fucking parasite.'

'The development,' Toby said, hating the way it came out as little
more than a gargle. 'It'll be worth the wait.'

'Yeah? Well, you'd better make bloody sure it happens. Otherwise
I'll find another way to get what I'm owed. The messy, painful way.
You understand?'

Toby nodded. Vilner stepped back, swept up the report and marched
out of the room. Toby waited until the front door slammed shut before
sinking to the floor and covering his face with his hands.

As she crossed the green, Julia's gaze was fixed on the grass
ahead. She wasn't aware of anyone nearby until someone said, 'Miss
Trent?'

She started, almost dropping the note, and found George Matheson
beside her. Registering her alarm, he stepped back. 'Sorry. I didn't
mean to startle you.'

She said nothing. Her heart was beating wildly; her body clammy
with panic. To her relief, a man emerged from one of the homes in
the crescent. She wasn't alone. She had witnesses.

George's face was creased with anxiety. A sheen in his eyes suggested
recent tears. While she regained her composure, he studied the floral
tributes heaped around the tree.

'Isn't it peculiar how grief has to be paraded these days? I've
always found it rather off-putting, but there's no doubting the
sincerity.'

Julia said coolly, 'I suppose we each do what's best for us.'

'Absolutely.' He nodded towards the crescent. 'I take it that wasn't
a social visit?'

'I wanted to see Alice Jones.'

'Still determined to unearth a conspiracy?'

Stung by his derision, she said, 'I have my own reason to speak to
her.'

He waited for an explanation, but she was determined not to
supply it.

'You've heard about Peggy Forester?' he said.

'The fire? Yes. It's a terrible tragedy.'

'I imagine the police might take a more cynical view.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'You and Mr Walker visited her yesterday. Surely you've offered to
make a statement?'

His confidence demolished any hope that she could lie. Instead
she responded with a challenge. 'No, we haven't yet. Why? Do you
think we killed her?'

George let the question hang in the air. While she waited, Julia
decided to say nothing about the firebombing at the hotel. Better to
see if he already knew.

Eventually he conceded the point. 'All right. It may have been no
more than an unfortunate accident.'

'Or maybe someone didn't like what she told us.'

'That Carl once borrowed a motorbike from a friend? I hardly think
that constitutes a threat to anyone.' His tone softened as he gestured
at the green around them. 'Isn't it possible you were mistaken about
a second killer? In such a stressful situation, your state of mind must
have been . . .'

'Deranged?' She let out a laugh.

He dipped his head in apology. 'That was insensitive of me. And
please don't feel I'm being unsympathetic. I admire the way you've
coped with your ordeal. And I know what it's like to lose a loved one.'
He gestured in the direction of her parents' cottage. 'Will you keep
the house, do you think?'

Thrown by the change of subject, she faltered. 'I, er, I haven't
decided yet.'

'If you want to sell, I'm willing to pay the market value in cash.
No surveys or quibbles.'

She gaped at him, staggered that he could be so blatant.

'It's an offer open to all the residents,' he went on. 'Oh, I know
some of them will attribute the murkiest of motives to it. Craig Walker
certainly will. But this has nothing to do with the development. I
simply want to help in any way I can.'

'And if I say no?'

He spread his arms. 'Your prerogative. I'm making the offer because
the massacre may have a detrimental effect on values.'

Julia nodded. She hated to admit it, but it was possible his intentions
were genuine.

'I'll bear it in mind,' she said. 'I still have their effects to clear out.'

'Another harrowing task.' Looking wistful, he said, 'I remember
when my mother died, sorting through her papers and getting an
entirely new perspective on her life.'

His sympathetic tone invited Julia to confide in him. 'I've been
reading my father's diary,' she said. 'It turns out my parents knew Carl
Forester. He cut down some trees for them last summer.'

'I believe he did casual work for a lot of people round here.'

'It was just such a shock, seeing his name. Knowing he'd been
inside their house.'

'You're wondering how it didn't seem obvious to them, what he was
capable of?'

'Yes. I suppose that's it.'

He expelled a long, heartfelt sigh. 'It's scant consolation, but I've
done much the same thing myself.'

Craig made it from Chilton to Crawley by seven-thirty, via two taxis
and a train. He'd shaved, showered and was wearing clean clothes,
but when Nina opened the door her first words were: 'What the hell's
happened to you?'

His hand had risen to the cut on his head. There was a nasty lump,
but it was concealed by his hair. Maybe something showed in his
eyes.

He gave her a brief update, making light of the accident. He didn't
mention the second killer, or the fact that he'd been drinking. Nina's
only comment about Peggy Forester was: 'Serves her right. She belongs
in hell, doesn't she?'

Craig gave a half-hearted shrug, which earned him a dirty look.
Nina thought he was disagreeing out of spite. She picked up her travel
case and said goodbye to Tom and Maddie.

'Where is it again?' he asked.

'Manchester. I'll be back in time to collect the kids tomorrow afternoon.'

He accompanied her to the front door, the unasked question writhing
in his head like a trapped bird.
Is Bruce going with you?

She didn't kiss him. Didn't even say goodbye.

After speaking to DI Sullivan, he walked the children to school,
then popped into a bakery and bought croissants for breakfast. He had
several hours before he was due to meet the policeman, and in the
meantime he had to notify a claim for the damaged Golf and sort out
a replacement car.

Abby Clark rang while he was walking back. 'Got that bio you
wanted. And you were right.'

It took him a second to remember the favour he had asked. 'Vilner?'

'A decidedly shady character. Be careful how you tread there.'

'What's his connection to George Matheson?'

'Seems to be a link with George's nephew, Toby Harman. Gambling
debts, from what I can make out. Among his other talents, Vilner does
a lucrative line in moneylending.'

'George's nephew owes money to Vilner?'

'A lot. And I suspect neither he nor George are all that flush with
cash at the moment. It seems Vilner was set to provide site security
for the housing development, no doubt using the same thugs he
employs for debt collection and door staff.'

'So he's counting on the planning application going through?'

'They all are,' said Abby. 'And there's another name I've picked up.
A man called Kendrick. He's from Trinidad, apparently.'

'Where does he fit into this?'

'No idea. So far I haven't found anyone who knows him. But I'm
starting to get that special tingly feeling. You remember that?'

He snorted. 'Yeah. Just about.'

'I'll go on digging, let you know when I find something.'