Skin and Bones (23 page)

Alice's flat was in a purpose-built block on a hill to the west of London
Road, not far from the Withdean sports stadium. As Julia got out of
the car a train thundered past, concealed by a bank of trees, and she
realised the flats backed on to the main railway line. That aside, it
was a peaceful, pleasant spot. An ideal refuge, Julia thought.

The block was divided into four flats on two floors. There was a
glazed front door with an intercom for visitors. She pressed the buzzer,
imagining how wretched Gordon Jones must feel each time he stood
here. Through the glass she could see a bland communal hallway and
a steep flight of steps to the upper flats.

A minute passed with no response. Julia pressed the buzzer again,
and a door opened at the end of the hall. A shadow appeared but
came no further.

Julia crouched down and pushed her hand into the letter box,
lifting the flap up. 'Alice? Is that you? I'm Julia Trent. I don't know
if you—'

'Are you alone?' a voice hissed.

'Yes.'

'Do you swear?'

'Yes. Of course.'

A pause, then the shadow moved closer. Although she'd only
glimpsed her face in January, Julia thought she had a pretty good idea
of what Alice looked like. Seeing her now, Julia's first reaction was
that the wrong tenant had answered. This woman looked about fifty,
wrapped in a faded pink dressing gown, her face etched with worry
lines, her hair more grey than brown. It was only when they made
eye contact that Julia recognised her.

'Did Gordon send you?'

Julia nodded. 'You don't seem surprised.'

'I knew you'd come one day,' said Alice with weary resignation. She
led Julia along a narrow hallway that had a vaguely institutional feel
to it: plain magnolia walls, a tiled floor and an overpowering smell of
industrial detergent.

Alice's flat was equally functional, clearly a product of the buy-tolet
craze of recent years. Julia entered a good-sized living room that
could have come from a daytime makeover show: cheap laminate
flooring and a fake fireplace with a seashore theme. There was little
sign that Alice had done anything to personalise it. No ornaments or
photographs. Not even pictures of her children.

'I never thought you'd survive,' Alice said. She sank on to a pale
fabric sofa. Julia noticed a pillow and a duvet neatly stacked on the
floor and wondered what was wrong with the bedroom.

She sat at the other end of the sofa. 'What do you mean?'

'I watched them putting you into the helicopter. It was like they
were holding a smashed china doll. You were bundled up, but you
looked broken inside. They were trying to keep all the pieces so they
could glue you back together.'

'I hadn't considered it like that,' Julia admitted. She noticed Alice's
eyes were glittering with an unnatural fervour. The pitch of her voice
rose and fell as she spoke. At times it was unnervingly high, but Alice
didn't seem to be aware of it.

'I almost wish you hadn't,' she added, with no trace of rancour. 'It
wasn't our destiny to survive. He should have killed you, and then
me. He should have finished the job.' Her laugh sounded like plates
of metal grinding together.

'I don't agree,' said Julia. 'I think your destiny is what you make it.
I'm proud I came through this. And you should be too.'

'What do I have to be proud of? I was hiding in the corner like a
timid little mouse. My children were—' She choked up. 'My children
were braver than me.'

'You kept them safe. You did the right thing.'

Alice's eyes narrowed. 'You mean you didn't want me to open the
door and let you in?'

'Would it make you feel better if I said I hated you for it?'

'Do you?'

Julia shrugged. 'I don't know. Chances are, I'd never have made it
anyway.'

Alice shook her head as if unconvinced, mumbling something
under her breath. Julia sighed. She could see now why Gordon had
been so despairing.

'You were at the window when Carl chased me out of the churchyard.
You told the police you didn't see anything after that.'

Alice turned and found Julia staring at her. She tried to look away
but the intensity of Julia's gaze seemed to hold her spellbound.

Julia said, 'I told them there was another man involved. He killed
Carl and then shot me. But when Carl first greeted the other man,
he made a noise. He whooped.' She hesitated, took a deep breath.
'Your bedroom window was open. The little trap window at the top.
You must have heard him.'

A fleeting look of relief, but Julia didn't stop to reflect on it. She
leaned closer, her eyes locked on Alice's, daring her to break free.
Daring her to lie.

'Please,' she said. 'Tell me what you heard.'

Alice swallowed. Her body was rigid, vibrating with tension. Julia
could feel it through the sofa.

'I'm a terrible person,' Alice said at last. 'I lied to the police. I lied
to everyone.' She began to weep. 'I don't deserve to be alive.'

* * *

Vanessa spent most of her day in the largest of the first-floor bedrooms.
As well as the bed and a wardrobe, there were two easy chairs and a
desk. George had also thought to add a TV and music system, a kettle
and a small fridge. When Vanessa first saw what he'd done, she said,
'It's like some ghastly motel room. Did you include a trouser press as
well?'

When he returned from his walk in the village, she was resting in
the armchair, a folded
Telegraph
on the table alongside an untouched
cup of tea, her laptop closed at her feet like a sleeping pet.

He made himself a cup and sat in the armchair opposite, stirring
his spoon slowly so as not to wake her. There was a tiny clink as he
put it down, and he turned back to find her eyes wide open and
watching him. The shock made him slop some tea into his lap. He
plucked at his trousers, wincing at the heat.

'Careful,' Vanessa said, nodding at his groin. 'You might need it
again one day.'

He grunted, unsure how to respond. After taking a sip of tea, he
said, 'I've just seen Julia Trent in the village.' He ran through the
conversation, recounting Julia's intention to find Alice Jones, and her
discovery that Carl had worked for her parents. 'I offered to buy the
cottage,' he admitted.

'Pointless,' Vanessa said. 'She'll see it for what it is. Another tactic.'

George said nothing. In her final weeks he'd vowed not to rise to
the bait.

'What about Peggy Forester?' Vanessa asked.

'She was very defensive about their visit. They haven't told the
police they were there.'

Vanessa's eyes lit up. 'That's worth knowing.'

'I'm not sure it has any real value. Not unless I'm prepared to use
it.'

'Aren't you?'

George sighed. 'I don't know. I've a feeling it may be counterproductive.
Better for us all if the fire was purely an accident.'

Vanessa regarded him sadly. 'Oh, George, I do believe you're losing
your nerve.'

'It won't do you any good,' Alice said. 'I can't get involved.'

'What do you mean?'

Alice responded with another question. 'You know why I'm here?
Why I had to leave my children?'

'Gordon said you had a breakdown.'

'It was a bit more than that.' She gave another grating laugh. 'Our
neighbours, the Grangers, actually slept through the whole damn
thing.'

Julia nodded. She remembered reading it in the police report.

'About a week later I happened to see Brian in the crescent. He
was in a foul mood because his car had been damaged on 19 January.
He thought one of the emergency vehicles scraped it, but the insurance
company was denying liability. He went on and on about it, as
if that was the only important thing that happened.'

Alice shook her head. 'I just went ballistic. I had some shopping
with me. I took out a bottle of wine and hurled it through his livingroom
window.'

Julia gasped. 'Was anyone inside?'

'His wife, but she was upstairs, luckily. Then I went indoors, opened
another bottle of wine and drank most of it straight down. Then I
swallowed two packets of paracetamol. It was only because the Grangers
called the police that they found me in time.' She shook her head,
as if trying to dislodge the memory. 'After that, there was no chance
anyone would trust me with the kids.'

'I'm very sorry,' Julia said. 'Weren't you offered help?'

'Oh, yes. All sorts of fancy counselling. They thought I had posttraumatic
whatever it is.'

'PTSD. It's nothing to be ashamed of.'

'Maybe not in your case. All I did was run and hide. I don't deserve
any help.'

She hunched over, her head tipping almost to her knees. She
covered her face with her hands and her body shook with silent tears.
Julia watched helplessly for a moment, then shifted closer and laid
her hand on Alice's back, rubbing it gently.

'You don't have to go on suffering like this.'

'Yes I do,' said Alice. 'Because it's not PTSD or anything like that.
It's guilt.'

And now Julia understood. She knew why Alice had come here.
Why she had chosen to run and hide all over again.

'You heard him, didn't you? The second killer.'

There was a long silence. Then, in a whisper, Alice said, 'I saw
him.'

Julia said nothing. She was aware of a heavy weight in her stomach.
Eventually Alice straightened up, uncovered her face. Her eyes were
raw with pain.

'I heard something that didn't make sense. I waited a bit, then
decided to have another look. You must have been up in the tree by
that stage. I saw him, a man in motorcycle leathers. He was standing
over Carl, holding the gun.'

'This was after he'd shot Carl?'

'Yes. I didn't know if it was good news or not, so I waited till I heard
the police siren.'

'Why didn't you tell them?' said Julia, trying to keep the exasperation
from her voice.

'When they took my statement, nobody asked me about him. They
were all talking as though Carl had shot himself. I already felt like a
coward for not trying to help you. I thought . . . if I told them, they'd
probably just laugh at me.'

Julia could only nod sadly. Recalling the scepticism that had greeted
her own statement, there was a good chance Alice was right.

'And that's why you're here, isn't it?'

'I'm so scared,' Alice said. 'I'm so scared he'll track me down.'

Julia took her hand. 'Hiding's not the answer. I felt exactly the same,
but it didn't work.' She paused, debating how much to disclose. Alice
sensed it and gave her a questioning look.

'The hotel where I was staying was firebombed.'

Alice gasped. 'Was it him?'

'I think so.'

'And the police? Do they agree with you?'

There was a knowing look on Alice's face, a strength born of cynicism.
Julia suspected she was pursuing a hopeless cause, but felt
compelled to go on trying.

'We should both go to them. With two of us, there's a better chance
of convincing them.'

Alice was defiant. 'What if the killer finds out? What if he targets
my children?'

Julia sighed. In her heart she knew Alice was right.

'Your husband thinks it's his fault,' she said. 'He misses you terribly.'

'I can't tell him,' Alice said. 'I have to carry this alone. They're safer
this way.'

'What about when the killer's caught?'

'He won't be. How can they catch him if they don't even know he
exists?'

'Exactly. That's why you have to come forward.'

'It's catch-22,' said Alice bitterly. She pulled her hand free of Julia's.
'And you shouldn't be stirring up trouble. You should just forget it
ever happened.'

'I can't do that,' Julia said.

'Then you're a fool,' Alice declared. 'Because he'll come after you
again. And this time he'll kill you.'

When the phone rang George was in his study, brooding on his wife's
advice. Putting Walker and Trent in the frame for Peggy Forester's
death might well neutralise the threat they posed to him, but there
was also a danger it could backfire. For one thing, the media might
choose to portray them as vigilante heroes, which would only increase
the potential audience for their conspiracy theories.

His gloom deepened the instant he recognised Toby's voice.

'Vilner. We should pay him off. Whatever it takes. Just get rid of
him.'

George smiled at the use of the word 'we'. 'What's brought this
on?'

'He's a loose cannon. It was a mistake to offer him the security
contract. I accept that now.'

'You still haven't told me what's happened.'

'He came here this morning. He was . . . aggressive. Unstable.'

Toby fell silent, but George waited, sensing there was more to come.

'He took my copy of the report.'

George swore under his breath. 'Did he say what he was going to
do with it?'

'Not specifically. But it's leverage.'

Kendrick
, thought George, nearly saying it aloud. He wasn't ready
to break the news to Toby just yet.

'What makes you think he'll be bought off?'

'Everyone has their price,' Toby said.

George snorted.
And what makes you think I can afford it?
But he
didn't say that either. Knowing Toby's cavalier attitude to money, it
would have little effect.

'I realise I have no right to ask you,' Toby added. 'But if something's
not done now, we all stand to lose out.'

'I'll consider it, although I wouldn't be terribly optimistic. Vilner's
no fool. Exploiting weakness is what he's good at.'

It was a deliberate dig at Toby, and his nephew knew it. For once
there was no protest, no retaliation, just a meek, conciliatory, 'Thank
you.'

George put the phone down, almost wishing Toby had lost his
temper. In the heat of an altercation he might have found it easier to
deliver the bad news about Kendrick. He also saw how discharging
Toby's debts could be regarded as a fair way to conclude their relationship.
Severance pay.

As ever when his problems threatened to overwhelm him, he
unlocked his desk and took out the photograph he kept hidden at the
bottom of the drawer. He placed it on the desk and tenderly stroked
his finger across the perfect, beautiful face.

One o'clock, and Sullivan was ensconced in a quiet corner of a
comfortable boozer on the edge of Ashdown Forest, polishing off
a meat pie and leafing through the
Daily Mail
. He considered buying
a third pint but decided to wait and let Walker get it for him.

Craig was predictably punctual, stalking into the pub a moment
later. He spotted Sullivan, who lifted his empty glass and mouthed,
'IPA.'

'It's your bloody round,' Craig said when he returned with the
drinks. He didn't slop any this time, Sullivan noticed.

'Least you can do after dragging me out here,' he said, raising his
glass. 'So what have you got that's so interesting?'

Perhaps he misjudged the tone, because at first Craig looked reluctant
to speak.

'Julia Trent told me about the second gunman. I don't know why
her allegations weren't taken more seriously.'

'Because there was no evidence found at the scene, and no one
else saw him.'

'But the report basically implied she was a headcase. I don't think
she is.'

'She was given a rough ride, I'll grant you that.'

'So you accept she's telling the truth?'

Sullivan merely shrugged, lifting his glass to help conceal his
growing excitement.

'We have other proof he exists,' said Craig. 'He firebombed Julia's
hotel last night, and he ran my car off the road.'

When Sullivan remained silent, Craig's frustration showed. 'I'm not
making this up, for Christ's sake. I think the same man might have
murdered Peggy Forester.'

'Peggy Forester?' Sullivan repeated thoughtfully. 'Why do you say
that?'

Craig faltered. 'Well . . . the fire at her house.'

'Do you possess information suggesting it was started deliberately?'

The formal language clearly spooked Craig. He sat back, struggling
to rein in his emotions. 'I've just told you what happened to us yesterday.
This isn't just coincidence, or paranoia. Surely you can see that?'

'Oh, I'm open to the idea of another killer,' Sullivan said. 'Though
I'm not sure how many of my colleagues would be.'

Craig's relief was palpable. 'So you will make some inquiries?'

'What makes you think I'm not already working on it?'

'What do you mean?'

Sullivan drank, then exhaled cheerfully. 'Okay. You've read the
report. Let's say there was another killer. You need a strong motive.
There was a real grudge against the Caplans, for a start. And who did
the Caplans work for?'

'Matheson,' said Craig, before realising it was a rhetorical question.

'Yep. Plus it was Matheson's gun they stole, and some of Matheson's
opponents were the victims. So maybe . . .' He grinned, spotting a tiny
light of comprehension in Craig's eyes. 'Maybe it was someone looking
to throw doubt on George Matheson. Someone who wants the housing
development stopped once and for all.'

He gulped another mouthful of beer. Craig was staring at him, all
the colour drained from his face.

'Maybe someone who, for good measure, tried to coerce a serving
police officer into revealing inside information, and then targeted a
vulnerable witness.'

Craig finally found his voice. 'That's fucking ridiculous.'

'Is it? How do I know you didn't set this hotel on fire, then drive
your car into a ditch? Any witnesses to your accident?'

'It was a quiet country road.'

Sullivan shrugged: point proven. For a moment Craig looked like
he might lash out. Instead he gritted his teeth and said, 'Carl Forester
killed my father.'

'Yeah. Well, according to you and Julia, this other gunman
killed
Carl
.'

Craig threw up his hands, as though it was too absurd to merit a
response.

Sullivan went on. 'And now you're saying he also killed Peggy
Forester.'

'Oh, come on. What are you playing at?'

'Do you know where she lives?'

Craig's gaze slid away. 'Falcombe somewhere.'

'Ever been there?'

'Hey, if you're going to accuse me, you'd better do it by the book.
Arrest, caution, legal representation.'

'Ooh, that sounds like a guilty man talking.' Sullivan laughed, beckoning
Craig to calm down. 'We're just having a friendly chat.'

'Bullshit. You've got your own agenda here.'

'I'll ask you again. Have you ever been inside Peggy Forester's house?
Did you talk to her at any time before her death?'

Craig jumped to his feet. 'You can't really believe I killed her?' He
raised his fists, and Sullivan tensed, clutching his beer glass in case
he needed to ram it into Craig's face. Purely in self-defence, of course.

But Craig must have seen the folly of his actions, and perhaps also
sensed Sullivan itching to retaliate. He kicked his chair back and
stormed out.

The Berkshire house came with a study, but it wasn't big enough for
Kendrick. He had converted one of the bedrooms instead, adding
several desks and upgrading the internet connection to the highest
bandwidth available. Jacques was an accomplished programmer and
also the designated security expert: he saw to it that the house was
swept for listening devices once a week. Kendrick had gained enough
advantages from industrial espionage to appreciate its importance, and
he was determined never to become a victim of it.

He was doodling on a notepad while reading a document on screen
when the call came through. He listened, grim-faced, before saying
just three words.

'Okay. Do it.'

He put the phone down and stared blankly at the display. He felt
the faintest of tremors as he reflected on the order he'd just given.
Not fear, exactly. More like uncertainty. But that was bad enough.
This wasn't a decision that could be reversed.

Glancing at the notepad, he saw he'd drawn a number of intersecting
circles around a single word, written in capitals and given a
shadow effect. He smiled. He hadn't even been aware of writing it.

Decipio.