Skin and Bones (31 page)

Craig drove to Lewes first. It was a frustrating journey, all the more
so when it proved fruitless. Julia's car was nowhere in sight, and she
didn't answer her doorbell. He managed to rouse one of her neighbours,
who let him into the building, and together they stood at Julia's
door, knocking and calling for several minutes.

He returned to his car, musing over what he knew. He was satisfied
Sheila Naughton had told the truth. Perhaps one of her rivals
had got wind of the story, and was fooling Julia for his or her own
purposes, but Craig didn't think so. Julia had been deceived by someone
with far more sinister motives.

If it was the second killer, and the killer was Toby Harman, he had
somehow acquired enough inside knowledge to appear convincing. It
was evident from what little the other reporters knew that the story
had been kept tightly under wraps. So how had he known about Alice?

It was now gone eight o'clock. The rain had eased off slightly, but
the wind was as ferocious as ever. The radio had reported an overturned
lorry on an exposed section of the A27 near Lancing, and there were
trees down across the South East. Driving into the wind, Craig had to
press the accelerator to the floor just to do thirty or forty miles an hour.

He decided to head for Chilton. If nothing else, he could check out
her parents' cottage. If she wasn't there, he really only had one option left.

On the B2112 a fallen branch had partially blocked the road. Craig
swerved round it and had a brief flashback to his accident on Wednesday
night. Thank God he'd stayed sober tonight.

He pulled up by the cottage, got out and hammered on the door.
While he was waiting, a roof tile shattered in the road a few feet from
his hire car. A curtain twitched next door and he glimpsed a pale
face, staring at him as though he was mad.

Perhaps I am, he thought. Anyone with a scrap of sense was indoors.
He jumped back in the car and drove along the High Street. Something
came flying at him out of the darkness and splattered against the windscreen:
a sodden bouquet of flowers. The floral tributes had been
blasted all across the green, and the pond was frothing like a miniature
sea. Only the yew tree seemed immune, the slow nod and sway
of its huge limbs managing to convey a kind of dignity.

Hurst Lane was full of debris, but by now Craig had ceased caring
what happened to the car. He skidded to a halt at the entrance to
Chilton Manor.

'It's Craig Walker,' he yelled. 'Let me in.'

No answer, but the gates began to move apart in sluggish jerks. As
soon as the gap was wide enough he floored the accelerator and raced
along the driveway, feeling slightly disconcerted that George had let
him in so willingly.

A security light illuminated his way up the steps. George Matheson
opened the door, looking a decade older than the last time Craig saw
him. He was unshaven, his hair untidy, and he wore a saggy cream
cardigan. He had the demeanour of a bewildered old man with nothing
ahead of him but loneliness and death.

In contrast, Craig was fast and strong and angry. He wanted answers
and he was determined to get them. He barged into the house and
saw George recoil, as if expecting to be assaulted.

'What have you done to her?' he demanded.

Vilner was dead. At the final moment it was almost a relief to know
his torment was ended. The suffering he'd experienced would be
forever seared in Julia's memory. The dig and spit of the saw on bone.
The stench of blood and burning flesh. The boom of the gunshot and
the sick dizzy silence that followed, as though even the storm had
been cowed into retreat.

Toby sat back on the plastic. His posture relaxed, and he turned to
face her, tired but elated, his mouth half open, his wet tongue lolling
like a dog's. She felt his gaze on her skin, burning through her clothes,
and knew he had rape on his mind. She had to distract him.

'Vilner was telling you the truth,' she said. 'There's no way he could
have lied to you. He's not who you think he is.'
And you're not who
we thought you were
. She and Craig had got it wrong, and for that
she might end up paying with her life.

'You're Toby Harman?' she said. 'George's nephew?'

He nodded, still staring at her body, a preoccupied smile on his face.

'Why did you kill my parents?'

Now he met her eye. 'Like you said, they saw us in the woods.'

'So you sabotaged the boiler?'

The pain in her voice seemed to fire his enthusiasm, as if she had
enquired about an unusual hobby.

'It was an interesting challenge. I went in several times when they
were out, to look at the system and see how to block the flue. Then
I let myself in after they'd gone to bed and put the heating on. The
first night one of them must have woken up and turned it off. So I
had to go in again the next night.' A smile bloomed in his eyes. 'The
next night, they didn't wake up.'

She shut her eyes. She could feel something deep inside her curl
up and die. She wanted to collapse with grief, or scream and sob out
her pain, but she forced herself to stay in control. There was something
she wanted even more than that. More than anything. That's
what she had to concentrate on.

When she opened her eyes he had edged closer. He was curious,
waiting to be entertained. She remembered her mantra:
Every second
she stayed alive . . .

'Why kill them before the massacre? Why not let Carl do it for
you?'

'He was unreliable.' From the way he scowled, Julia knew she'd hit
on a sore point. It provoked an understanding so powerful that she gasped.

'It was a mistake, wasn't it?'

'What?' He blinked rapidly, like a nervous tic.

'The massacre. You didn't plan it at all.' She reached back to the
moment when the second killer marched on to the green, recalling
how at first his determination had seemed to offer hope. He'd been
angry when he said:
What the hell are you doing with that?
Then the
abrupt change of mood: the high five, Carl's whoop of celebration. That
was Toby wisely playing along, until he could get hold of the gun.

'He got away from you. He wasn't supposed to be in the village at
all.'

The accusation carried a physical force, changing the dynamic
between them. She saw the truth in Toby's eyes, and drew strength
from it.

'But you couldn't stop him, because he had the handgun. I didn't
understand what you meant at the time, but you were asking him
about the Walther.' She dredged up all the contempt she could muster.
'Those people died because Carl went crazy and you were just too
cowardly, too weak to stop him?'

He moved with astonishing speed, hitting her in the face. An openhanded
blow, but delivered with a lot of strength. She hit the back of
her head on the wall and cried out. She could taste blood in her
mouth. One of her teeth had come loose.

Taking her by the arm, he dragged her up and into the hall. The
wind bellowed overhead and there was a distant crash, like a cry for
help. The whole house shook, and for a moment she wondered if
perhaps they weren't alone. When she spoke, she couldn't keep the
fear from her voice.

'Where are we going?'

'Upstairs,' he snarled. 'To the bedroom.'

Craig repeated the question. 'What have you done to her?'

Quickly regaining his composure, George was equally forthright.
'I've no idea what you mean. How dare you come barging in here.'

'Julia's gone missing. Just like Abby Clark.'

'Who the hell is Abby Clark?'

'Don't give me that.'

George sighed. 'Let's discuss this like grown men, shall we?'

Reluctantly, Craig followed him into the sitting room. The curtains
weren't yet drawn, and the security light revealed a glittering torrent
of rain falling almost horizontally. While Craig described Julia's
message and his attempts to contact her, George poured himself a
brandy. The sight of it caused a pang of longing, but when offered
a drink, Craig shook his head. The exterior light snapped off and the
tumult beyond the house ceased to exist.

'Let me see if I understand you,' George said, settling into an
armchair. 'You believe Julia was enticed to a meeting with someone
posing as a journalist?'

'It's the second killer. But to do it, he had to know about Alice
Jones.' He paused a moment. 'You have a police insider, don't you?
DI Sullivan.'

George couldn't close down his reaction quickly enough: he
flinched.

'I'll take that as a yes. He gave you a copy of the report.'

'What of it?' said George. 'The report was leaked to you as well. It
doesn't make either of us complicit in the massacre.'

A fair point, which Craig chose to ignore. 'Did Sullivan tell you
what Alice Jones was doing?'

George stared morosely into his glass, as though fearing what it
would cost to answer truthfully. 'He rang me this morning.'

Before or after I saw him?
Craig wondered. He said, 'And who did
you tell?'

George gave him a sharp look. 'You really think she's been kidnapped
by the other gunman? Carl's conspirator?'

Craig nodded. 'I'm glad you agree there was a second killer.'

'I thought it was ludicrous at first. But now . . . I accept it's a possibility.'

'And if the massacre wasn't just Carl venting his rage, what do you
suppose was the real motive?'

George shook his head, as if this was further than he could go.
Craig kept up the pressure. 'Your nephew, where does he live?'

'Toby? He has an apartment in London. Why?'

'He owes money to Vilner?'

George's face clouded with shame. 'Gambling debts. That's how
Vilner ingratiated himself in our affairs.'

'So Toby needs the development to go ahead, even more than you
do?'

'We've been over this ground before,' said George wearily. 'It's a
matter of debate whether the massacre has helped or hindered the
application. More importantly, I don't believe anyone would commit
murder on that scale just to smooth the way for a housing development.
Certainly not my nephew.'

'Not even with millions at stake?'

'No.' George sounded emphatic, but Craig saw doubt in his eyes.

'Where does Kendrick fit into all this?'

'What do you know about Kendrick?'

'Very little. Abby Clarke, a friend of mine, was investigating him.
The police recovered her body from the Thames this morning. And
I've had an anonymous threat that my children will be harmed if I
talk to the police.'

George blanched. 'I told you,' he said. 'I tried to warn you of the
risks you were taking.'

Craig stood up. 'Is that an admission of guilt?'

'Absolutely not. But when you pry into matters that don't concern
you, there's no telling what the consequences will be. Your friend
might have stumbled on something quite unrelated.'

'What is Kendrick, then? A criminal?'

'What is Kendrick?' George repeated softly. 'You might well ask.
On the surface he's a businessman from Trinidad. He inherited his
father's empire, such as it was, and made a great success of it. I wouldn't
be surprised if some of his tactics were rather . . . unorthodox.' His
eyes lost focus as he looked inward, and shuddered.

'What does he want with you?' Craig asked.

There was a strange sound, something between a cough and a
laugh, and it took Craig a moment to realise it hadn't issued from
George. He turned to see a spectral figure in the doorway, gripping
a walking stick. This was the face at the upstairs window on Wednesday
afternoon, and Julia had been right. At first glance it didn't look quite
human.

George followed his gaze and gasped, half rising to his feet. But it
was left to Vanessa Matheson to answer Craig's question.

'He wants everything.'

He made her climb the stairs ahead of him, jabbing the gun in her
back when she faltered. With her hands bound behind her, Julia had
to work hard not to stumble.

Rather than contemplate what he might do to her, she thought
about the admissions she had forced from him. Ultimately it might
be of no help, but she wanted to know. She wanted to understand.

On the landing she stopped, taking in the worn carpet and faded
wallpaper. Yellowing gloss paint on the skirting and doorframes. There
was something sad about this house. Unloved.

'You came here first,' she murmured.

'What?'

'Both of you. It's what happened here that mattered.'

Once again she'd hit home. He marched her into a small room,
bare except for a single bed and a small table, and threw her facedown
on the mattress. For a second her head was enveloped by an
old pillow, damp and mildewed. Julia thought of poor Megan, smothered
while she slept, and in a panic twisted her head to one side.

'The murders here were different. Laura Caplan was sexually
assaulted.'

'That was Carl,' Toby snapped. He sat astride her, facing towards
her feet, and took out the roll of tape. The bed protested under their
combined weight. When he leaned forward to tie her ankles, she could
feel he was aroused. He pushed down, grinding his erection against
her buttocks.

'But you wanted them dead,' Julia said, not caring that she was
antagonising him. She had nothing to lose now.

He wound the tape around her ankles, air snorting from his nostrils
as he worked. Staring at the floor, Julia noticed a discarded pair of
men's jeans and felt a tiny flare of hope.

'Why?' she persisted. 'What was so important about the Caplans?'

He finished tying her feet, still writhing on top of her, and let out
a little groan of pleasure. Then he got off and knelt beside her. He
put his face very close to hers, and gave her an answer she would
never have expected.

'Their daughter.'