Skin and Bones (28 page)

Nine-thirty, and Sullivan found himself waiting like a jilted lover amid
the teeming mass of humanity on the concourse at Victoria Station.
Impatient shoppers and tourists barged past as if he'd chosen that
precise spot purely to inconvenience them. He'd been loitering long
enough to draw the attention of a couple of transport police. He let
them get within a couple of yards before flashing his warrant card.
One of them scowled as he turned away; the other had the decency
to blush.

'Fucking clothes hangers,' he muttered, not caring if they heard.

He'd been summoned to an urgent conference at Scotland Yard to
debate the potential fallout from Alice Jones's revelations. The thought
of a Saturday wasted on hot air and management speak filled him
with gloom, and there wasn't even the prospect of a game of buzzword
bingo with a few like-minded colleagues. More and more nowadays
the senior officers were young, clean-cut college boys – and girls
– with settled home lives and delicate sensibilities, immaculate in
their political correctness.

Still, ironic to think he would be better apprised of the situation
than anyone else there. He had no intention of sharing any of that
knowledge, however. First he had to decide how it could be used most
profitably, and at the least risk to himself.

Fucking with Craig's head had lost some of its appeal, especially
now Alice Jones had given him an opportunity to secure a decent
payday from George. But her allegations, combined with Craig's, also
made him uncomfortable. At the back of his mind lingered the fear
that there was something a whole lot bigger going on here, something
he would be wise to avoid.

He looked at his watch again. When Craig rang this morning, asking
for an urgent meeting, Sullivan half hoped to discourage him by stipulating
Victoria Station, but Craig had immediately agreed. Sullivan
spotted him now, threading his way through a party of tourists dragging
suitcases towards the Gatwick-bound train.

Dispensing with a greeting, Sullivan barked, 'You've got two minutes,
max.'

'That's long enough,' Craig said, handing him an envelope. 'Have
a look, but don't flash it around.'

Slightly wary, Sullivan opened the envelope and took a peek at the
contents. He frowned. 'Your kids?'

'Yeah. There's a message on the other side.'

Sullivan read it, then silently thanked his maker that he'd agreed
to this meeting. Being the good actor he was, he affected disdain.

'All this proves is that someone doesn't like you.'

Craig's face darkened with fury. 'Someone like you, for instance?'
Before Sullivan could respond, he added, 'Don't try to deny you're in
Matheson's pocket. I won't believe you. But did you know this is the
kind of thing he'll stoop to, or are you part of that as well?'

'I'm part of nothing,' Sullivan growled. 'I dunno what the fuck
you're talking about. You got any proof it was George that sent it?'

A few passersby must have heard the aggression in his voice, for
suddenly the space around them grew larger. Sullivan glanced round,
concerned only that the uniforms were well out of earshot.

'A journalist friend of mine was investigating the massacre,' Craig
said. 'Now she's gone missing. I've come to London to find out what's
happened to her.'

Sullivan was mystified. This was something he knew nothing about.
At the same time he realised Craig wouldn't yet know about Alice
Jones.

'Tell me her name. I'll see what I can find out.'

Craig looked dubious, but gave him the details, and the name of
the Met officer in charge of the case. He ended by saying, 'All that
crap on Thursday about me being the second killer. This had better
put an end to it.'

Sullivan handed the envelope back. He grinned. 'You never really
struck me as a mass murderer, shame to say.'

'Good. And if it is Matheson who's behind this, you can tell him
he won't get away with it. No one threatens my kids. No one.'

'Hey,' Sullivan said. 'I know you're angry, but I won't say this again.
I am not part of this. I'm as much in the dark as you are.'

Craig stared at him, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Finally he
sighed. 'Then God help both of us.'

The phone call changed everything. The killer saw immediately how
it could be exploited. This would fit perfectly into his plans.

The net was closing. No point denying it, or pretending it wasn't
happening. But that was okay. He was smarter than the people who
were looking for him. Smarter and more devious and, most importantly,
more ruthless. He was still one step ahead, and Alice Jones had
just put him further in front.

The existence of the second killer couldn't be disputed for much
longer. Even without physical evidence, the combination of witness
accounts and media pressure would soon convince the police to take
it seriously. And once the killer's
existence
had been accepted, all that
mattered then was his
identity
.

What he had to do was give them someone else. Someone plausible.
Someone with a clear, undeniable motive.

Like greed, for instance.

And viewed like that, there could be only one possible candidate.

* * *

Julia drove back to Lewes, haunted by the dream and the terrible
sense of desolation as her body crumpled in the face of the tsunami.
Alice's fate remained heavy on her conscience. The desire to share
her burden created an almost physical ache, but the only possible
candidate was Craig. And he was out of bounds.

Back at the flat, she checked her phone. Someone had called twenty
minutes before, but withheld the number. That only added to her despair.

She ate a bar of chocolate and slumped on the sofa for an hour,
watching some God-awful excuse for Saturday-morning TV. This is
ridiculous, she thought at last. Sitting around all day would send her
insane.

On impulse, she decided some gentle exercise would do her good.
She found her gym bag and packed a towel and a one-piece swimsuit.
With the weight she'd lost, it probably wouldn't be a great fit,
and some of her scars might be visible. Did she really want people
staring at her?

Then she thought,
Sod it
. She was past caring. Let them look.

She was almost out of the door when the phone rang.

George concluded his conversation with Kendrick, feeling like a
starving man who'd crawled into a den of wolves in search of meat.
But it was too late now. The deck was shuffled, the cards would fall
as they landed.

He returned to Vanessa's room. The nurse raised a finger to her
mouth:
Don't wake her
. George gazed at his wife's pygmy form beneath
the sheets. Even though it was barely an hour since he'd left her, she
seemed yet more diminished, as if her intention was to depart the
world via a process of miniaturisation, becoming smaller and smaller
until finally she vanished altogether.

He smiled at the thought. If only it were that benign.

The nurse had unplugged the phone extension, so as not to disturb
her. George didn't realise until he felt the buzz of his mobile. He
read the display and felt his heart tighten.

He listened, incredulously, to the first glimmer of positive news in
what felt like a lifetime. 'You're sure?' he said. 'There's no doubt at
all. She is waking?'

Now the caller grew more sombre, more guarded. Adopting the
same tone, George said, 'There's a long way to go, of course. But it's
cause for hope, at least. Thank you. Thank you so much.'

He finished the call and gave a start when Vanessa said, 'What's
happened?'

Her eyes were open, her brow creased with concern. It was only
then he registered the tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away
with his fists.

'Nothing,' he lied. 'It's nothing.'

Let it be Alice
, Julia thought, or failing that, Craig: apologising for
Nina's tirade.

But it was a male voice, educated and polite with just a touch of
the Estuary wide boy. A combination that Julia instinctively knew
meant trouble.

'Julia Trent? My name's Guy Fisher. I'm calling about Alice Jones.'

'What's happened? Is she all right?'

He sounded perplexed. 'Good as gold. Why?'

'She called me this morning. It sounded like . . .' Now she felt
ridiculous. 'I got the impression she might harm herself.'

'No, she's safe and sound. Done herself a very nice deal with us.'

Julia was frowning, relieved but confused, until it clicked. 'You're
a journalist?'

'Yeah, though I can't divulge which paper. All top secret at the moment.
Can't have our rivals getting wind of it and beating us to print.'

Now Alice's garbled conversation made sense:
It's not quite what
you suggested
.

'A tabloid, I suppose?'

'One of the biggest and best,' Fisher shot back. She could hear the
grin in his voice.

'What has she told you?'

'The works. It's explosive stuff.' He snorted. 'But I don't have to tell
you that. Bloody scandalous, the police ignoring what you said about
the other gunman. Thanks to their incompetence we've got a mass
murderer still on the loose.'

She opened her mouth to explain that it wasn't so simple, then
stopped herself. That was precisely what he was angling for.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'Alice is safe and sound with hubby and the
kids, and we're gonna keep them that way till this guy is behind bars.'
He sounded ridiculously proud about it. 'But this isn't just about her.
You're a big part of the story. A much bigger part, to be honest. And
that's where it gets a little tricky.'

'What do you mean?'

'This is a lot of money we're shelling out. You appreciate we have
to make sure we're not being sold a pup. Part of the deal with Alice
is that we talk to you, strictly off the record . . .' A hopeful pause.
'Unless you want to sign up as well?'

'I'll pass on that for now,' she said. 'Go on.'

'All right, off the record it is. We need to run through Alice's statement,
make sure what she's given us is kosher. You're the only one
who can corroborate it.'

'And if I say no?'

Fisher sucked air between his teeth. 'It could jeopardise the deal.
I'm not saying it will. But it does make round-the-clock protection a
bit harder to authorise.'

Bastard
, she thought. Using Alice's safety to coerce her into helping.

He added, 'Alice assured us you'd be willing to help. She said you
were a really decent person. The fact you were worried about her
proves that.'

Julia sighed. 'What would I have to do?'

'Just meet up and go through the statement. It'll take twenty minutes,
half an hour at most. I'll bring a disclaimer, forbidding us to quote
directly from you.' He hesitated. 'Unless you want to reconsider? I
can give you the name of a good PR firm if you want to get some
advice first.'

'No,' said Julia firmly. 'I'll do this for Alice, but that's all.'

'Fair enough. We're on a tight timeframe, though. Can we meet
this evening?'

'I suppose so.' And immediately thought:
I don't want you in my
flat.

'You're in Lewes, aren't you?' he said. She could hear the tap of a
keyboard. 'Is the Hamsey Arms any good?'

'That's fine.'

'Great. Probably the earliest I can get down there and still meet
my deadline is seven o'clock. That okay?'

She agreed reluctantly. 'How will I recognise you?'

'Easy. I'm drop-dead gorgeous.' More laughter, all from him. 'Nah,
I'll be the guy still working his butt off. You won't miss me.'

She put the phone down in a temper. To think she'd worried herself
sick about Alice committing suicide, and instead the woman had
hawked her story to the gutter press. She snatched up her bag and
slammed the door behind her.

Heading south, Vilner felt faintly queasy. This was his third visit to
Chilton in four days, and potentially the most important one. He still
wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing, but he'd weighed it up as
best he could and decided it was worth a punt.

He drove carefully, observing the speed limits and traffic signals.
He couldn't risk getting pulled over with some of the gear he had on
him. When Kendrick phoned him, he ignored it. He wanted to delay
the conversation until after this was done. By then he'd know exactly
what he was facing.

The meeting might get unpleasant, so he had prepared carefully.
For one thing, he was more than an hour early. He'd borrowed an
anonymous two-year-old Volvo, which he parked in the village. He
wore a dark grey suit and cashmere overcoat. The weather was
turning, and there were only a handful of people around, mainly
sightseers by the look of them. Vilner attracted barely a glance as
he took a briefcase from the boot and crossed the road into Hurst
Lane.

The trees were straining in the wind, as though they wanted to be
somewhere else. The sound was like a hundred human voices crying
a lament. Leaves and twigs fell all around him, and he felt a brief
nostalgic longing for the noise and smell of traffic, the buzz of the
crowd.

As he walked, he didn't think too much about what lay ahead.
Instead he thought about the woman.

Julia timed her swim about right. In the early afternoon the indoor
pool was at its quietest, and she easily ignored a few prurient glances.
She intended to be long gone by three o'clock, when an inflatable
assault course was floated out on the water and hordes of local children
materialised to play on it.

In the course of a dozen unhurried laps her anger melted away and
left her far more forgiving of Alice's decision. Unlike the police, a
newspaper would have few qualms about providing protection on the
basis of what might be spurious allegations. They appreciated the pure
news value of the story, never mind its veracity.

For a woman torn by an agonising separation from her family, it
must have seemed like the perfect answer. And in a roundabout way
it might achieve what Julia wanted: a renewed police investigation.
The only thing that rankled was the way Alice had volunteered her
assistance, although Julia suspected that was more the reporter's doing.

The pool was part of a leisure centre, with large windows along
two of the outside walls. Each time she rested, she gazed up at a slice
of sky above the cliffs that overlooked the town. Now she watched a
finger of grey cloud slowly gliding across the blue, like a bruise
spreading on clear skin.

She shivered. It was time to go.

She dried off and dressed in a cold, poky cubicle that brought to
mind her school days: damp clothes and teasing and towel snaps. As
she walked out through the lobby, the automatic doors opened and
a gust of wind buffeted her. The woman at the desk gasped. 'My goodness,
it's blowing out there.'

Julia nodded, glad she'd brought her car, but wishing she didn't
have to go out again this evening.

It took her only a couple of minutes to drive home, but longer to
find a vacant parking space in the busy streets near the castle. As she
got out of the car, the sun was finally extinguished by cloud and a
whole different season seemed to take hold. No rain yet, but there
was a vicious edge to the wind, something almost malicious as it
whipped up from nowhere and subsided just as quickly. She hurried
back to her flat, litter and dry leaves skittering in her wake. More than
once she turned, convinced there was someone behind her.

Her name was Louise, and she'd recently started work at a pub in
Crouch End part-owned by Vilner. She was twenty-five, petite and
pretty, with large liquid eyes and an alluring gap between her front
teeth. From what he'd gathered, she had spent a few years travelling
and working abroad, returning to the UK when a relationship
ended.

What impressed him was that she wasn't intimidated by him the
way most people were. She looked him in the eye, and when he tried
out a bit of sarcasm she came right back at him. They'd had one date
so far, concluded with no more than a prim goodnight kiss, but he'd
sensed a real chemistry between them. Tonight he was taking her to
a favourite restaurant of his, out in Amersham, and then, with any
luck, back to his place for a nightcap.

That was later. First, there was this.

The house looked cold, empty, abandoned. Vilner waited in the
lane, hidden by trees, and watched for five long minutes. The wind
swirled over the roof, rattling the tiles and keening round the chimney
pots. A crushed can blew across the yard and snagged in the hedge.
In one of the outbuildings a loose plank drummed against something
metal. Lots of noise to distract and deter him, but at last he
was satisfied.

He made a full circuit of the building, examining the windows and
doors, frequently pausing to listen. He knew the place was unoccupied,
but there were curtains and blinds drawn everywhere, so he
couldn't scope out the interior. The back door was just as solid as the
front. It didn't give a fraction when he tried the handle.

He returned to the front door. There were two locks: a straightforward
cylinder at the top and a mortice deadlock below it. He
opened the briefcase and took out an electric pick gun. In prison
he'd learned the basics of lock picking, and over the years he'd
developed his skills with a traditional set of hand tools, but once
mastered the electric picks were much quicker and less obtrusive.

Today his luck was in: the mortice hadn't been used. It took him
less than a minute to overcome the cylinder, and the door sprang
open. He lifted the briefcase over the threshold and shut the door
behind him. A gust of wind boomed in the chimney breast. The roof
timbers creaked like a ship in a storm.

He could see the room to his left was empty, furrows in the carpet
where furniture had once stood. He knelt to put the pick away, and
take out his gun. Flipping the briefcase lid, he caught a flash of movement
from the room to his right. Something coming in fast and heavy.
No time to use the gun. All he could do was twist sideways and ride
with the blow, but it wasn't enough.

His last conscious thought was,
Not lucky at all.

There had been another recent call, number withheld, but no
messages. Nothing from Craig.

She fretted for more than an hour before finally deciding she had to
warn him. Unwilling to risk another confrontation with Nina, she tried
his mobile and got the answering service. She quickly composed a message.

'Craig, it's Julia. I thought I should warn you, Alice Jones has sold
her story. The journalist wants me to corroborate it, so I've agreed to
a meeting this evening. I'll ring you when I get back, probably around
eight. If you get a chance, ring me and we can discuss how much I
should reveal.' She swallowed, thinking:
But we're not allowed to speak
to each other.

Less than a minute after she put the phone down, it rang again.
Either Craig was responding to her message, or Nina had intercepted
it and was about to scream at her.

But it was neither. A woman with a cultured but slightly abrasive
Scottish accent said, 'Am I speaking with Julia Trent?'

'Yes.'

'Julia, my name is Sheila Naughton. I believe you're aware there's
a major new exclusive being prepared, and I wondered if you'd care
to add your own comments to—'

'No, thank you. I have nothing to say.'

Julia put the receiver down and held it there, as if restraining a
small animal. Within ten seconds it rang again. She lifted the receiver
and cut the call. Another ten seconds and it rang again. She pulled
the line plug from the socket.

Clearly Guy Fisher had failed to keep the story under wraps.

The onslaught had begun.

Vilner was thirteen again, conning money from a nonce in a Gents
near Sovereign Street. Too late he realised he'd been set up for an
ambush. A second man stepped from a cubicle and shoved him off
his feet. His head hit the grimy tiled floor and he passed out. When
he came to he was lying face down in a puddle of stale piss, one of
the men tugging on his jeans while the other knelt over him, stroking
his cock and breathlessly explaining where he was going to put it.

In a sudden frenzy Vilner kicked backwards and caught the first
man in the face, then reared up and grabbed the other one by the
balls, wrenching them as hard as he could. Slippery from the wet tiles,
he wriggled through a flurry of blows and managed to get away.
Bursting into the twilight of a winter afternoon, he sprinted towards
the safety of the Christmas shopping crowds on Briggate, and the
intoxicating blend of terror and elation felt just as vivid upon recollection
a quarter of a century later as it had at the time. For a
moment he was truly superhuman, capable of anything.

Then he opened his eyes and saw he wasn't in Leeds. He wasn't
thirteen any more. And he wasn't about to fight his way to freedom.

This time the ache from his head wound was eclipsed by a pain
in both arms so excruciating he could hardly breathe. He blinked furiously
to clear his vision, but even when he'd stared at them for what
seemed like an eternity, he still couldn't make sense of what he saw.

His hands were missing.