Skin and Bones (27 page)

It was a cold, clear night. She stood beneath a dazzling moon, the
whole universe suspended above her. She was back on the beach at
Camber, but there was no tree. No man in black. Kate's hotel was
dark, deserted.

She turned her back on the land, towards the shore. But there was
no shore. For as far as she could see there was only sand, rocks,
seaweed. Abandoned boats tilted at rest on the seafloor. Fish glittering
silver like distant reflected stars, twitching and flopping helplessly on
dry land.

She was alone. Utterly alone.

She wobbled and nearly fell. The beach was shifting, trembling
beneath her, the vibrations running into her feet and through her
bones, threatening to shake her to pieces. She clutched her belly in
panic. Looked up and saw a line of white froth gleaming in the darkness,
the horizon rushing towards her.

A tsunami. A giant wave, boiling and foaming like a living thing,
growing more immense with every second, fast and powerful and
hungry, pummelling the ground beneath her feet. She had to run.
She had to run
now
.

But she couldn't run. She couldn't move at all.

She shut her eyes and waited for the wave.

* * *

Julia woke, heart hammering. Took in her surroundings and settled
back with a long sigh. Of all the bad dreams she'd had since the
massacre, none had provoked a sensation of such absolute desolation.
Loneliness on a cosmic scale.

It wasn't too difficult to guess what had prompted it. Last night,
after waiting hours to hear from Craig, she had sent him a text. He
phoned a few minutes later, apologetic but also weary and distracted.
He had told the police what little he knew about Abby's enquiries.
Vilner's name seemed to be familiar to them, but Kendrick's drew a
blank. He'd also mentioned his theories about the massacre, but the
police had been openly sceptical. They were more interested in
whether Craig had been having a relationship with Abby, a possibility
suggested by her current partner.

'Why did she think that?' Julia had asked.

'No idea. We got on pretty well. Flirted a bit. But that was all.'

His breezy denial made her wonder how he would describe what
had happened between them. It also struck her that she only had
his version of his marital problems. Perhaps the reality was more
complicated.

Even more unwelcome was the possibility that Abby's fate was
connected to their own enquiries. She pictured George Matheson,
standing with her on the village green. His grief had seemed so genuine,
his sympathy heartfelt, and yet all the time he must have been glorying
in the deception. He'd participated in an act of mass murder and now
he was covering his tracks with the same ruthless efficiency. She didn't
want to believe it, but the evidence was becoming too strong to ignore.

The phone rang, making her jump. She glanced at the bedside
clock: just after eight on a Saturday morning. It must be Craig.

But it was a woman's voice. 'Julia? It's Alice here. Alice Jones.'

'Oh.' Julia passed the receiver to her other ear. 'Are you all right?'

'I thought I should warn you. It's partly because of you that I've
made this decision. I hope you'll forgive me if it's not quite what you
suggested, but it's really the only option left.'

'Alice, slow down,' said Julia. 'I don't understand.'

'I haven't got much time. I just want you to be careful.'

'Has someone threatened you?' Julia hadn't given Alice's address
to anyone, and she was sure no one had followed her to Brighton.
How had they found her?

But Alice laughed her strange, off-key little laugh. 'No. That's why
I'm taking this option, to be free of those worries.'

'Then what?' said Julia, so baffled she wondered if she was still
dreaming.

'The
media
,' Alice said. 'It's going to hit you like a tidal wave.'

The phrase made Julia go cold. She grabbed the mattress and
squeezed it to make sure it existed. She really was here, at home. Safe.

'I have to go now,' Alice said. 'I'm truly sorry. Goodbye.'

The line went dead. Julia immediately dialled 1471, but knew it
would be hopeless.
We do not have the caller's number
.

She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the carpet, wondering
how it was that she might have convinced an unstable woman to
commit suicide.

Craig was up first, at around eight o'clock. Since the massacre he'd
found it difficult to sleep late, particularly on Saturdays. And after the
grilling he'd got from the police the day before, he'd spent most of
the night awake, trying to mediate between his many competing
worries.

Creeping downstairs, he saw the envelope on the mat and knew
immediately it brought bad news. The post wouldn't be delivered for
another couple of hours yet.

It was a plain brown A4 envelope, hand delivered and bearing only
his name in a standard typeface, printed on an inkjet or laser printer.
He took it into the kitchen and put it on the worktop, then quietly
shut the door and made coffee. It was a futile exercise in denial. The
envelope lay like a predator, his heart thudding like a trip hammer at
the thought of what it might contain.

Only the fear that Nina might walk in gave him the impetus to
pick it up. With shaking hands he prised the flap open and turned
the envelope on its side, shaking loose the contents.

A single sheet of heavy-duty A4 paper. Text on one side, a photograph
on the other. The text was in the same neat font, in the very
centre of the sheet. It said:

Don't talk to the police. We will know.

The photograph was of Tom and Maddie, with Nina, hurrying along
a busy road. There were parked cars in the foreground and a low
building in the background with a chain-link fence around it.

Nina collecting the kids from school. Taken recently, probably a
long-range shot with a zoom lens. But what made him light-headed
with terror was the way the picture had been pierced by a pin or
perhaps the nib of a pen, not once but four times.

Four neat little holes, obliterating the eyes of his children.

A coughing fit sent Julia to the bathroom. Once again she spat
blood into the basin, shockingly bright against the white ceramic.
She knew she shouldn't ignore it, but also felt unwilling to waste
her day in a hospital waiting room. Perhaps if it hadn't improved
by Monday . . .

Rinsing her mouth, she remembered that Gordon Jones's note had
included a phone number along with the address. She rang and discovered
the number belonged to the other ground-floor flat. The
woman who answered said there was a problem getting Alice's phone
connected, and she had agreed to pass on messages.

'Will you fetch her for me?' Julia asked. 'It's urgent.'

'Oh, she's not here, love. She went yesterday. Doesn't look like she's
coming back, neither.'

'Did she say where she was going?'

'Not a word. I only know because the landlord was round here last
night. Shame she didn't say goodbye.' The woman sniffed. 'Still, mustn't
judge. She's had her share of problems, that one.'

Julia thanked her and put the phone down. She spent a restless
half-hour tidying up, making tea she hardly drank and toast she didn't
eat. All the time imagining Alice calmly preparing to end her life.

She thought about her warning: the media descending on her. Had
Alice written some kind of note, confessing that she'd seen the second
killer?

Julia's heart twisted with fear and guilt. Those three boisterous children
didn't deserve to lose their mother. But what could she do?

Finally she overcame her reluctance to call Craig. She rang his
father's number, then his mobile, but there was no answer. She would
have to try his home number.

It was Nina who answered, just as Julia knew it would be. She
sounded harassed and short-tempered.

'Is Craig there?'

'He's gone out. Who is this?'

'Julia Trent.'

Nina made a noise, a mixture of disgust and contempt. 'Don't you
think you've done enough damage with this ridiculous story about the
massacre? Leave my husband alone and keep your mad theories to
yourself. You're nothing but trouble.'

She slammed the phone down. Julia slumped back in her seat,
feeling physically winded. The dream had been a terrible premonition.
She was completely alone.

Alone in the path of the wave.

George had barely slept all night. Vanessa woke in distress at four in
the morning, bleeding heavily. The doctor came out and judged her
too frail to be moved to hospital. When he emerged from her room,
his face was grave.

'It won't be long now,' he told George. 'You need to prepare for
the end.'

George had nodded. Much later it struck him that he was
preparing for the end in more ways than the doctor could have
imagined.

By then it was seven o'clock. He went for a walk around the
grounds, enjoying the serenity of a world not yet fully awake.
The air was crisp and cold and brilliantly clear, the sky unblemished
but for a few slow dissolving vapour trails. He tried to imagine
himself into Vanessa's dwindling existence, forced to confront the
knowledge that soon these glorious mornings would continue
without her.

Then he reflected that his own existence was none too glorious at
the moment.

It soon got worse. George had eaten a meagre breakfast and was sitting
at Vanessa's bedside when Terry Sullivan rang.

'The shit's hit the fan,' the policeman told him. 'You know there
was a witness called Alice Jones, hiding up in her bedroom?'

George grunted non-committally. He didn't want Sullivan to know
he'd pored over every word of the report.

'Turns out she's been telling us a load of porkies. That or she's
totally flipped.'

'What?' said George. He could feel a chill creeping up his spine.

'She's now claiming Julia Trent was right. There
was
a second killer.'

'She's made a statement to that effect?'

A bark of laughter from Sullivan. 'If only.'

George grimaced as he guessed it. 'The media?'

'Yep. Shacked up with the cheapest, tawdriest tabloid of the lot.
And you know why it was them rather than us? She says we can't
guarantee her safety. Part of the deal is that they've got her and her
family in a secure location, and they're going to keep them there for
as long as it takes.'

'As long as it takes?' George repeated, buying himself time to think.
Beside him, Vanessa stirred, opening her eyes.

'Till the killer's caught. Which every right-thinking tosspot who
reads this rag will say is only fair and reasonable. Meanwhile the other
papers will compete for the privilege of ripping us to shreds, accusing
us of incompetence, corruption, you name it.' He let out a heavy sigh.
'The fallout's going to be horrendous.'

'How did you find out? I assume the story hasn't been printed yet?'

'No. They like to give us a bit of advance warning. Often it's thinly
disguised blackmail. They'll go easy on the force if we agree to co-operate.'

'And will you?'

'That's a decision for the top brass. Word is, they're shitting bricks
about it.'

'So what will you do? Renew the investigation?'

'I can't see we've any choice.'

Vanessa gave him a questioning glance. George smiled and shook
his head, as if to say,
It's nothing
. She closed her eyes again.

'Of course, she could have cooked this up just to line her pockets,'
Sullivan went on. 'Wouldn't surprise me if her and that Trent woman
are in it together.'

'It's a possibility,' George agreed. He thought of his encounter with
Julia on Wednesday. She had seemed determined to speak to Alice
Jones: it looked like she'd succeeded.

'Even so, it's gonna bring a lot of heat down on you, especially if
they link it to Craig Walker's allegations.'

An uneasy pause. Sullivan clearly laying the groundwork for something,
George guessed. Or perhaps waiting for him to make the
suggestion.

'We do still have the fact that they visited Peggy Forester.'

Sullivan cackled. 'Yeah. Your trump card, hopefully. I'll have to try
and work out the best strategy for using it.' Another pause, loaded with
significance. This time George knew exactly what was coming.

'We also need to talk about my remuneration. The stuff I've done
up to now, that was a favour, but we're moving into high-risk territory.
If I'm gonna stick my neck out for you, there's got to be something in
it for me.'

George faked a laugh. 'Absolutely. Why don't you call in sometime
this weekend and we'll put some figures together?'

Vanessa had turned her head away from him. Her eyes were still
shut, but whether she was conscious he couldn't say. After ending the
call, he took a moment to order his thoughts. It actually required no
time at all to assess the situation. He could sum it up in three words.

It's falling apart.

The moment she saw the house in Arundel Crescent, Julia knew it
was a wasted journey. Every window was closed, and a dull reflected
light shone from the glass. There was no hint of sound or movement
inside.

Still she knocked and waited. She cupped her hands and peered
through the lower bay window. The living room looked reasonably
tidy, a few toys scattered here and there. A glass of water stood on the
window ledge, stale with bubbles.

Above her the crows circled like black rags. Their cries took her
back to 19 January, and it struck her that each time she returned here
she felt
more
affected, rather than less, as though the village wasn't
done with her yet.

Finally she wrote a note:
Gordon, I'm worried about Alice. Please
call me
. She signed her name, added her contact numbers and slipped
it through the letter box.

It was just after ten in the morning, and much warmer than it had
been in January. Back at the flat she'd heard a weather forecast that
warned of an imminent change: storm-force winds and torrential rain.
In a spot of banter, the news presenter had said, 'Oh well, I suppose
we can't complain,' and the forecaster had merrily agreed. 'Our luck
had to run out sometime.'

That phrase came back to her now, as she returned to her car. It
wasn't particularly comforting, but at least it was an improvement on
Nina Walker's parting shot.

You're nothing but trouble.

The doctor had suggested Vanessa should have a private nurse on
hand for most of the day, and as soon as she arrived George took the
opportunity to retire to his office. He allowed himself a small sherry
and contemplated what action to take.

Vilner was still the immediate concern. Before the policeman's call,
George had virtually decided to go ahead and tell Kendrick that Vilner
was cheating him. It was a risk, of course, but the news from Sullivan
made it clear he was facing calamity on several fronts. To stand any
chance of defeating his enemies, he needed to assess their strengths
and weaknesses, test their alliances.

But first he rang Toby to tell him of yesterday's encounter with
Vilner. It was a brief, disingenuous conversation. He gave the impression
that the meeting had been arranged as a direct consequence of
Toby's request. He said he'd opened negotiations with Vilner, but
warned it was likely to be a long and difficult process. In the meantime
he ordered Toby to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
And he wanted no further work on the second application.

'But you said I could do it,' Toby complained.

'And now I'm saying you cannot.' He tried to outline the possible
fallout from the Alice Jones story, but Toby went on protesting, trying
to find a way round it, until finally George lost his temper. 'Just do
as you're told for once,' he roared. 'I'm in enough of a mess right now,
without your childish bloody whingeing.'

He slammed the phone down, the anger hot in his veins. Just what
he needed to take on Kendrick. A quick gulp of sherry, then he grabbed
the phone up again.