Skin and Bones (34 page)

Julia was halfway along the lane before reluctantly she dropped her
pace. She could ignore the twinges in her ankles and legs, but not
the tearing pain in her abdomen. It was similar to a stitch, but far
more intense. She thought of the doctor's instructions on Wednesday
night.
Walk slowly. Don't run
. She almost laughed.

Don't get kidnapped. Don't end up fleeing for your life.

The village first appeared as a distant scattering of lights, warm
and welcoming. A lull in the wind nearly pulled her off balance, and
in the sudden eerie silence she heard the vibration of a heavy vehicle,
moving fast over rough ground. She turned, saw the flash of headlights
and threw herself towards the verge.

She expected to fall into a prickly but yielding hedge. Instead her
shoulder struck something solid. A wooden gate. In desperation she
hauled herself up and slithered over, falling out of sight just as the
Jeep rumbled past.

Squinting at the ghostly forms of plants and bushes, she sought out
the contours of the building and finally understood where fate had
directed her.

The Old Schoolhouse.

* * *

It took Toby less than a minute to pull the dead bodies from the Jeep.
There was blood all over the driver's seat and steering wheel, but this
was no time to be squeamish.

The big 4x4 was unfamiliar. He stalled it once as he made a threepoint
turn, then stamped on the accelerator and was nearly pitched
out of his seat when the front wheels bounced over the rutted track.

He felt sure Julia would be heading for the village. Setting off after
her, he had a flashback to 19 January, when he'd watched helplessly
as Carl went loping along the lane with the shotgun on his back and
a newly acquired pistol in his hand. Although Toby had been horrified
by the unexpected turn of events, hadn't he secretly exulted in
the devastation that Carl was sure to leave in his wake?

The answer was yes. He had felt it then, and he felt it again now,
as he rolled into Chilton and drew up between the green and the
church. There was no one in sight. Then he saw something that made
him smile. The BT box had been vandalised, just as it had been in
January. Kendrick had made sure the phones were cut off.

Toby imagined the mindset of the remaining residents. In the midst
of a ferocious storm, finding their phones were dead, would anyone
really open their door to an unexpected caller? After everything they'd
been through, would they want to help a stranger in trouble?

'No,' he said aloud. No chance at all.

So where had she gone?

'Vanessa was right, wasn't she?' said Craig. 'You supplied Carl with
the handgun, the silencer. Was the massacre your idea? Did you send
him into the village?'

'Those are not questions you should ask,' Kendrick warned him.

'But it achieved what you wanted?'

Kendrick's snort was answer enough.

'So why are you here now?' Craig said.

'Because Toby fucked up, and so did Vilner. They've made a mess
which I'll have to clear up.'

'You'll never get away with this.'

Kendrick laughed, and said cryptically, 'I know the man I am, and
I think I will.' His radio squawked. This time he didn't bother turning
away. Craig heard every word.

'Yes?'

'We're at the farmhouse. Jacques and Barrett are dead, and the
Jeep's gone. I reckon we just missed him.'

'He won't have got past the roadblock,' Kendrick said. 'Load the
bodies into your car, then go and find him.'

Craig kept his expression neutral. Kendrick's face was flushed with
anger. He threw himself down on a sofa and glowered at the ceiling.
The wind pushed at the windows with a low groaning sound, and the
lights dimmed for a second or two. Craig tensed, ready to spring, but
the lights recovered.

Having Toby on the loose was a mixed blessing. It was keeping
Kendrick preoccupied, and probably the reason he and George were
still alive. On the other hand, he was desperately afraid for Julia. How
much longer could she stay out of Toby's reach?

Julia bent low and hurried across the garden. Broken tiles littered the
lawn. The TV aerial was hanging by its cable, halfway down the roof.
The back door was locked, and a quick search of the surrounding area
revealed no obvious hiding place for a key. She considered knocking,
but the house was dark and clearly unoccupied. Craig must be in
Crawley, safe at home with his wife and his children. He probably
hadn't even realised Julia was missing yet.

She searched for a fragment of tile to break a pane of glass in the
door. She waited for a strong gust of wind to mask the noise, and tried
to cover her hand with her sleeve. The glass shattered on her first attempt,
and at the same time another tile slid from the roof and exploded right
at her feet. Her yelp of alarm was snatched away and lost in the night.

She reached in and felt for the latch. As the door swung open she
was aware of an approaching engine. She ducked inside and knelt on
the kitchen floor as another big four-wheel drive went past. A vivid
spasm of pain shot through her stomach and made her curl up tight.
Bright spots danced in front of her eyes, and nausea rose in her chest.

It was nearly a minute before it subsided enough for her to stand
up. As she did, a wave of vertigo sent her clinging to the kitchen units,
the roaring gale completing the illusion that she was on the deck of
a ship, pitching through the ocean. She was desperate to lie down,
desperate to close her eyes and blot out her predicament. But she
couldn't. Not until she had called the police, at least.

Thankfully there was a phone sitting on the worktop, ghostly pale
against the dark granite. She shuffled along and picked it up. Listened
for a dialling tone, but there was only silence. She stared at the blank
display and had a flashback to a young mother, curled protectively
over the body of her son. Blood on white-blond hair.

They had done it again. Isolated the village. Cut her off from help.
And at that thought, something in her gave way, just as it had done
in January. The first thread of sanity, perhaps. Then, she had kept
fighting, but it was different this time. Her stomach was in agony. She
was cold, terrified, exhausted. She couldn't fight any more.

Several loud bangs came from outside, faintly audible through the
droning wind. They barely registered in her consciousness. She
dropped the phone and stumbled into the hall. Groped for the light
switch and turned it on. She climbed the stairs as if in a dream. She
didn't care where she was going. She didn't care about anything. As
far as she was concerned, she might as well already be dead.

Sullivan's foreboding grew with every mile, with every blocked or
flooded road. After passing a dozen accidents and abandoned cars, he
pulled in just past Handcross Hill, seriously doubting the wisdom of
his journey. He tried phoning George but couldn't get through. Having
come this far, he decided reluctantly to press on.

Turning off the B2112, it was no great surprise when his headlights
picked out a fallen tree across the road. He pulled up behind a Jeep
and swore to himself. Spotting a large figure at the wheel, Sullivan
wondered if between them they might be able to move the tree far
enough to get past.

He got out of the car, the rain pelting his face and soaking through
his shirt. The wind tore at his parka, which no longer zipped up
over his belly. Pressing it together, he hurried over to the Jeep. The
driver was a white man, about thirty, with cropped dark hair and a
tough suspicious face. He opened his window a couple of inches.
'Tree's down, mate.'

Yeah, thanks for that, Einstein
. 'Don't suppose you've got a tow
rope?' Sullivan said. 'Or better still, a chainsaw?'

He was joking, but the man did a weird double take. It was a look
Sullivan had seen a thousand times in his career: the involuntary
twitch of a guilty man.

'Nah, mate,' he said. 'I'd turn round if I were you.'

But Sullivan was already moving towards the tree. Almost immediately
he noticed the shape was wrong. The trunk ended in a clean
line. It had been cut.

His hand automatically reached for his warrant card. Time to get
some sense out of this joker, he thought. Turning back, the Jeep's
door opened and Sullivan cautioned himself to play it cool. In his
younger days a suspect who resisted arrest could expect a good kicking,
but out here there was no help at hand, and this bloke looked pretty
useful.

'Go on,' the man growled. 'Piss off out of here.'

'Hey,' said Sullivan, instantly forgetting his own advice. 'You don't
talk to me like that.'

He produced the warrant card, but the other man seemed unconcerned.
He turned his back on Sullivan and strode towards the
policeman's car.

'Hey!' Sullivan yelled, furious at being ignored. He started after
him, and as he drew alongside the Jeep a second man appeared from
his hiding place on the far side of the vehicle. He was holding a gun.

For such a large man, Sullivan was remarkably quick to react. He
ducked and threw himself towards the trees, but he didn't stand a
chance. The bullet struck him in the back, just above his kidneys.
The impact propelled him on to the verge, where he stumbled and
fell, rolling to a rest in a muddy, bramble-filled ditch.

Toby couldn't remember when he had last felt so supreme, so magnificent.
He only wished there was time to stand back and contemplate
his brilliance.

Anticipating that Kendrick would send more men, Toby parked the
Jeep in plain sight at the southern end of the High Street, close to
the shop. He got out and ran across the green, trampling over sodden
bouquets, and took shelter under the yew tree. Resting against its
trunk, he had the unsettling impression that he was in the presence
of something not just alive, but sentient. The bark felt as warm as
flesh, and seemed almost to be trembling. Just the wind, he told
himself.

Within seconds another Jeep emerged from Hurst Lane. Toby
quickly checked his gun. It was a Croatian-made nine-millimetre automatic
pistol with a fifteen-round magazine. He'd bought it with the
help of an acquaintance, a City banker who supplemented his already
lavish income with cocaine dealing. Toby never actually made contact
with the vendor, and his banker friend had every reason to keep quiet
about the transaction. About as secure as he could hope for.

Just as he expected, the other Jeep stopped as soon as the headlights
picked out the vehicle he'd commandeered. Two men got out,
warily inspecting the village. Both kept their hands inside their jackets,
concealing their guns from anyone who might be watching.

Toby had deliberately parked badly, angling the Jeep so the front
tyre was half up on the kerb, and he'd left the door open a fraction. It
was a subliminal message that told of abandonment, of a hasty escape
on foot. And that was exactly how the two men responded to it.

They might look the part, Toby thought, but they weren't very
bright. For a start they didn't split up. Side by side they walked towards
the Jeep, glancing round once or twice in a half-hearted way.

Toby crept silently over the grass. One of the men cupped his hands
and peered through the back window, while his partner made for the
driver's door. Toby took him out first, shooting from about ten feet
away. He had ample time to close in on the second man, who was
caught on the turn and shot twice in the chest. He died instantly, but
the first one was bucking on the ground, trying to speak with a mouth
full of blood. Toby finished him off with a head shot.

Then he stood very still. Waited and listened. He could hear trees
crashing together and loose fence panels banging and what sounded
like a metal dustbin trapped in an alley, clattering back and forth.
And over it all the wind continued to howl and scream. Against all
this, the gunshots were insignificant. Toby almost felt disappointed
when no lights came on, no doors opened.

This is how Carl must have felt, he realised. The whole village at
his mercy. House after house of unwitting victims. It made him reconsider
the motive for the massacre. Maybe there wasn't any mystery to
uncover. Maybe Carl had done it just for the sheer hell of it.

Then one of his observations caught in his mind and wouldn't be
dislodged.
No lights came on
.

He turned a full circle, checking every house in sight, and when
he reached Hurst Lane he gave a joyful smile.

The Old Schoolhouse had been in darkness a moment ago. Now
there was a light on upstairs.

Perfect
.

A few more minutes ticked by. Craig tried to look relaxed, resting his
head against the seat and surveying the room with half-closed eyes.
George was still on the floor, a couple of feet away to his left. He had
begun to weep silently, and did nothing to check the tears rolling
down his cheeks. From time to time Kendrick shot him a disgusted
look.

The other man in the room, Moss, was standing just behind him,
to Craig's right. Still alert, watchful. Still holding the gun loosely at
his side.

Craig sighed. The odds weren't good. He hadn't yet seen evidence
that Kendrick was armed, but it seemed likely that he would be. So
he went on waiting, but he knew it was a foolish strategy. Two against
two offered a better chance than anything they'd get when the other
men returned.

And when they came back, either with or without Toby, he felt
sure that would be it.

He studied Kendrick. For the first time there was tension visible
in his face. His jaw kept clenching and unclenching, and the veins
at his temple stood out like worm trails on a sandy beach. His fingers
performed busy trills along the arm of the sofa.

Craig reflected on the questions he'd asked earlier, and wondered
if he should press him some more. Kendrick had virtually admitted
to piggybacking on Toby and Vanessa's plan. If not for him, the
only victims on 19 January would have been the Caplans. Instead
Kendrick had persuaded Carl to continue his murderous spree. But
why? Had he thought it would help him gain control of George's
empire?

He was about to ask when Kendrick jumped to his feet, as if
responding to some unseen signal. Craig felt the blood drain from his
face, a queasy rush of adrenalin in his stomach.

But nothing happened. Kendrick paced up and down the room a
couple of times, peering furiously out of the windows with a manner
that suggested he felt the whole outside world was failing him. He
produced the walkie-talkie and pressed the call button.

'Lloyd? Are you there?'

No response. Craig noticed Moss shifting uneasily. Probably not
used to seeing his boss this rattled.

'Lloyd?' Kendrick shouted. 'Answer me. What's happening?'

There was an electronic burp, and then Craig heard a voice say,
'This is Parvez. We had a visitor. He wouldn't take a hint, so I had to
do him.' A pause. 'Turns out he's filth. A Detective Inspector Sullivan.'

'Shit,' said Kendrick quietly. 'All right. Clear the fucking tree and
turn round. We'll be there in ten.'

'Sounds like you're in trouble,' Craig said, disguising the dread he
felt. The mention of any other police officer would have lifted his
spirits, signalling that help was on its way. But Sullivan had almost
certainly been coming here in a private capacity. The only saving
grace was that Kendrick might not know that.

'Your men have seen sense and run away,' he went on. 'Why don't
you follow their example?'

'Shut your mouth,' Kendrick ordered. But he looked shaken by the
taunt, because neither of them believed for a moment that the men
had fled.

It was much worse than that.

'Ten minutes,' Kendrick said to Moss. 'Then we kill them and cut
our losses.'

Upstairs, Julia drifted into the nearest room and turned on the light.
Finding herself in a study, she was taken by the possibility that there
might be a different phone up here. She could try the police again.

There
was
a phone, on the desk, but of course it was dead too.

She sighed. Not thinking clearly.

There was an ornate captain's chair behind the desk. Julia sat down
in it and leaned forward, crossing her arms and resting her head on
them. For a few blissful moments she could deny the world's existence.
The pain in her abdomen gradually receded, and she realised
she felt absurdly tired, even sleepy.

The wind blew hard at the house. The light went out, then came
back on. She jerked upright, the way you do when you doze off on
a train or a bus. Outside, the broken TV aerial dragged over the tiles
like fingernails on a blackboard. Julia shivered and stood up, needing
action, needing to do something decisive.

Her attention was caught by the many framed photographs on the
wall. Formal portraits from Philip Walker's long and evidently distinguished
career. Poignant photos of a doting grandfather in carefully
staged horseplay with Tom and Maddie. Even a couple with Craig as
a young man: one on his graduation day, the other taken on an exotic
palm-fringed beach.

And next to that, a slight oddity. A framed copy of a newspaper
story, with the headline:

ATTORNEY GENERAL CATCHES THIEF

In a brave show of public duty, a member of
Montserrat's Government apprehended a violent
burglar late on Tuesday night. Philip Walker,
who is currently one year into his term as
Attorney General, had been visiting friends
when he spotted Robert Meade fleeing from a
villa in Mayfield Road, Olveston. Local man
Meade, 29, was found to have stolen cash
and jewellery from the property. Following
his arrest, officers from the Royal Montserrat
Police Force discovered the householder, 53-
year-old Errol Herbert, unconscious with
serious head injuries. He was airlifted
to Antigua for medical treatment and is in
a stable condition. Mr Walker was hailed
as a hero. 'Without his action, Mr Herbert
would almost certainly have died,' said one
officer.

The text was accompanied by two pictures. One was a photograph
of Philip, taken at least ten years ago. The other was a grainy headshot
of the arrested man, who was of mixed race. His pale eyes glared
at the camera with brutal indifference. That Philip Walker had tackled
such a man helped explain why, years later, he had given his life to
save her from Carl Forester.

Her thoughts were cut short by a noise from downstairs. Broken
glass crunching underfoot on the kitchen floor.

There was someone in the house.