Skin and Bones (6 page)

He'd been in Chilton less than an hour, but PC Davies was already
exhausted. A second armed response vehicle had arrived at eight-forty,
quickly followed by half a dozen patrol cars and the first contingent of
CID. They were joined by fire and medical crews, and the arduous task
of searching the entire village began.

The man lying dead on the green might well be the sole perpetrator,
but the chief inspector who'd assumed the role of Silver
Commander urged caution. So far the only witness was the woman
from Arundel Crescent, and she was flaky to say the least. He wanted
at least one armed officer assigned to each team, along with a paramedic
and a couple of uniforms.

Everyone present knew this approach might well mean an injured
victim died before medical assistance could reach them. It also meant
forcing entry to homes and screaming at the occupants to get down,
traumatising people who were already in a state of shock, and in some
cases badly injured.

Once the first couple of survivors had confirmed the description
of a single gunman, Davies began to take greater risks with his own
safety, and he suspected his colleagues were doing the same. His team
were the first to finish searching their allotted properties. He emerged
from the village shop and left a uniformed colleague to supply the
command post with details of the only occupant: a middle-aged woman
in the stockroom, fatally wounded.

He stopped on the edge of the green and wiped his face. A passing
paramedic offered him water and he took it gratefully. As he tipped
the bottle up, he saw a helicopter descending into the field behind
Arundel Crescent and recognised it as the one which had transported
the female victim to hospital. He wondered if she'd made it there alive.

He heard a shout and looked round. A hugely overweight man with
untidy grey hair was striding towards him. Davies vaguely recognised
him, but had a look at his warrant card just the same: Detective
Inspector Sullivan. 'We need to check out Hurst Lane,' he said,
signalling to the paramedic who had given Davies the water. She was
a short, plump woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Ann
Widdecombe.

The car groaned as Sullivan sank into the driver's seat. Davies
caught a whiff of body odour, masked by a generous dose of aftershave.
Sullivan drove one-handed, his arm held high and bent at the
elbow, his belly wedged against the steering wheel. Alongside him,
Davies had to lean against the door to avoid the risk of physical contact.

The village made a surreal backdrop, like a scene straight out of
MASH
or
Apocalypse Now
. Helicopters swooping in and out, fed with
casualties by stretcher bearers running to and fro. Forensic teams in
paper suits, swarming around the victims like white blood cells around
a wound. The village was now so crowded that only ambulances were
being permitted access to the High Street. Everyone else had to park
on the approach road.

Weaving past a cluster of cars outside the church, Sullivan nearly
collided with a SOCO taking photographs of the dead postman.

'Fucking nightmare,' he muttered.

'It's like a vision of hell,' the paramedic piped up from the back
seat. After that, no one spoke till they reached the farmhouse.

* * *

The first thing Davies saw was the front door standing open. He felt
a tingle of apprehension, and a heaviness in his gut.
No more
, he
thought.
Don't let me find any more
.

But there would be more. He felt sure of that, as soon as he got out
of the car. There was an unnatural quality to the silence. Even on an
arable farm, people would be up and about by now. Someone who'd
heard the sirens and the helicopters and come out to investigate.

'No one in there,' DI Sullivan said as he followed Davies towards
the door. 'No one alive, anyway.'

From behind them, the paramedic said, 'We shouldn't give up
hope.'

Davies nudged the door open with his foot. He peeked over the
threshold and immediately caught the stench of blood and human
waste.

He stepped inside. It was an old dwelling, with low ceilings and
small rooms. The decor was tired, but efforts had been made to
brighten it up with well-chosen lamps, mirrors and pictures. A woman's
taste and ingenuity, trying to offset a man's reluctance to spend time
or money on decoration.

The living room was dominated by a big old Philips TV with an
equally ancient VCR. No DVDs or game consoles. The room opposite,
next to the stairs, had a large oak dining table and looked like it
was never used. By contrast, the kitchen was warm and cluttered and
much more welcoming. It was here that he found them.

He was in the doorway, staring at the bodies, when Sullivan came
in behind him. 'Clear?'

Davies shrugged. He hadn't checked upstairs yet, but it all seemed
a bit academic now. He moved aside to let Sullivan see the room.

Like several other victims, the occupants of the farmhouse had
been having breakfast when the killer struck. There were two plates
on the pine table, one with a half-eaten pile of eggs, bacon,
sausages and mushrooms; the other with poached eggs on toast,
untouched.

The farmer was sprawled on the floor. He had been blasted in the
stomach with a shotgun, but it hadn't killed him straight away. The
blood and intestines covering his hands suggested he had literally tried
to hold himself together.

The woman had also been killed with the shotgun, a blast to the
head at close range. There was little of her face left, but they could
tell she was fairly young, maybe early thirties, with a slim figure. Her
jeans lay discarded on the floor. Her sweater and t-shirt had been
hiked up, and her bra torn off. There were marks on her skin where
she had been pawed by her killer. Her pubic hair was matted with
blood.

Sullivan whistled. 'This is a bit different.'

'Rage,' Davies said. 'Sexual rage.'

'Seen any others where the shotgun was used?'

'Not yet.'

'Me neither.'

They both pondered for a moment. 'Wonder what it means,' Davies
said.

'Doubt we'll ever know,' said Sullivan. 'Fucker took his secrets with
him.'

There was a soft thud from overhead. Both men gave a start. Davies
whipped round, bringing his gun up. The paramedic, waiting by the
front door, threw up her hands in terror.

'Hey,' said Sullivan. 'Where's the kid? They've got a daughter.'

Davies took the stairs as lightly as he could. Reaching the top he
sensed movement at the end of the landing, as if someone had ducked
into the bedroom. His heart raced. If it was the girl, why had she run
away from him?

Because she's bloody terrified. She probably saw her parents
murdered.

'Armed police!' he shouted, trying to sound stern but not overly
intimidating. 'Come out slowly. You're going to be all right.'

Silence. No reaction at all. What if it's not the girl? He knew it
was unlikely, but the sexual assault on the woman had challenged his
assumptions. There was something else going on here, and it unnerved
him.

Maybe he should withdraw. Get a full team here to storm the house.
But he'd never hear the last of it if there was only a little girl, too
petrified to show herself.

'I'm a policeman,' he called, more softly this time. 'My name's
Chris. Will you tell me your name?'

No answer. He sighed. Took a cautious step forward.

Then he heard it. A low, frightened mewling. He smiled, thanking
God he hadn't called for back-up, and strode towards the end bedroom.
Poised on the dressing table was a large black cat, regarding him with
spectacular disdain.

'Have you found her?' Sullivan said.

Davies ignored him, turned and pushed open the door he'd just
passed. A spare bedroom, with a single bed. But the duvet was rucked
up, and there was a Tom Clancy paperback on the bedside table. A
crumpled pair of jeans on the floor.

Next door was the bathroom, and the final room was a little girl's
bedroom. The walls were painted a light purple, with a matching
lightshade fringed with beads. Posters of Girls Aloud and Take That
on the wall, and a row of Jacqueline Wilson books on a glass shelf.

The girl was in bed. At first glance she might have been asleep.
Her pink duvet was drawn up to her chin, just as you would expect
on a cold morning. She lay on her side, nothing visible except a pale
sliver of cheek and a sweep of long brown hair. Only the pillow lying
partly across her face gave any indication that things were not as they
seemed.

'Up here,' he called. For the first time that day, he felt tears straining
behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly and turned away.

Sullivan hurried into the room, followed by the paramedic. He took
a brief look at the girl, then touched Davies's shoulder. 'You okay?'

'Fine.'

Sullivan grunted, as if he couldn't understand why Davies needed
to maintain the pretence. There was a hushed exclamation from the
paramedic. She had pulled back the duvet, and at first Davies imagined
she was reacting to some terrible violation of the child's body.
Then he registered the awe in her voice.

'I've found a pulse.'

By the time Nina called, Craig was on the A23 in his VW Golf,
heading south as fast as the Saturday morning traffic would allow. It
was almost eleven o'clock and he was no closer to finding out if his
father was safe.

'What's the matter?' she said. 'Are the kids all right?' She sounded
different, somehow. Slightly flustered, slightly upset, but there was an
aggressive edge to her voice.

'They're fine,' he said. 'Where are you? Why didn't you answer your
mobile?'

'I switched it off. I always do when I need to concentrate.'

'I wasted ages trying to get hold of you. The guy on the switchboard
couldn't find you anywhere.'

'The switchboard isn't manned on Saturday.'

'Well, someone answered. He said you weren't at your desk.'

A long, theatrical sigh. 'It was probably one of the lads on the
ground floor. Maybe they looked in the wrong place. Maybe I'd popped
out to the loo.'

'I had to take the kids to your mum's. She tried phoning you as
well.'

'Why? What's happened?'

He fought back an impulse to shout:
How can you not know?
Instead he laughed. By ten o'clock both the BBC and ITV had broken
into their normal schedule to bring live coverage, and there were
constant updates on all the main radio stations. It was at his in-laws'
house that he'd first heard the word 'massacre' used to describe the
incident.

'You really don't know?'

'No.' Her voice wavered. 'What?'

'There's been a shooting. In Chilton.'

Her gasp was followed by a peculiar busy silence.

'Who are you with?'

'No one. Have you spoken to your dad?'

'I can't get through to him.'

His peripheral vision caught a flash of blue light in the rear-view
mirror. He veered left, leaving the outside lane clear. A convoy of six
vehicles sped past: police cars and scientific support vehicles. And
there was a black Transit, whose purpose wasn't immediately obvious.
Then he understood: it was a mortuary van.

'Craig? You're not going there, are you? Wouldn't it be better to
call the police?'

He laughed again, and ended the call before he said something he
might regret.

A travel update on the radio warned of long delays in the area. The
A272 around Haywards Heath was singled out, as was the A273 towards
Brighton. These were the main routes for casualties to be ferried to
hospital, and for police and forensic vehicles to reach Chilton.

Craig stayed on the A23 until Albourne, which was slightly south
of the village, but meant spending less time on slower, single-lane
roads. It was heavy going through Hurstpierpoint, but when he reached
the adjoining town of Hassocks he knew a couple of short-cuts that
got him on to the B2112. He set off north, with the Downs behind
him, and almost immediately joined a slow-moving line of traffic.

It took almost fifteen minutes to cover the next mile. There was
virtually nothing coming the other way. Craig was sorely tempted to
pull out and overtake, until the driver behind him tried just that, only
to encounter an ambulance with a police escort.

He was about half a mile from the turn-off to Chilton when the
queue came to an emphatic halt. Up ahead he could see cars pulling
on to the grass verge. By now all the incidental traffic had given up
and turned around. Those who remained had only one destination
in mind.

It wasn't until he got out and approached on foot that Craig appreciated
the scale of what was happening. The road ahead was a mass
of people, abandoning their cars and trudging towards Chilton. It
reminded him of big outdoor events, rock festivals or the South of
England Show at nearby Ardingly, but with one major difference.

There was no jollity. No excitement or anticipation. Just an oppressive
silence and an air of undisguised dread. Faces dull with shock
and worry. Eye contact was made reluctantly, accompanied by embarrassed
smiles. No one was about to ask why he had come, because
no one wanted to be confronted with the answer. They were all here
for the same reason.

They were here to find out if their loved ones were alive.

He crested a low hill and saw what had stopped the traffic. There was
a roadblock just south of the turning to Chilton, and another to the
north. The road in both directions was an identical scene of haphazardly
parked cars and grim clusters of people making for the police cordon.

Next to the junction was a large grassy area, not quite big enough
to be called a field. It was thronging with people, many in uniform,
erecting tents and tables, setting up for a long operation. There was
a catering van doing a brisk trade, and a lorry unloading portaloos.

An ambulance sped along Chilton Way and paused briefly at the
junction. Police and civilian workers in orange tabards held back
the crowd, some of whom screamed and wailed at the sight of the
ambulance. One group of onlookers surged forward and began
photographing both the ambulance and the emotional reaction to it.
Craig noticed TV vans parked on the verge, satellite dishes mounted
on their roofs: the media were already here in force.

It struck him that Nina was right. He would be competing with
dozens of equally concerned relatives for what meagre scraps of information
were available. He knew how chaotic such operations were
in the early stages. Keeping the public informed was a low priority,
and the police knew better than to release information until it could
be confirmed beyond any doubt.

Then someone from the crowd turned in his direction. A slim, elfin
woman with short dark hair. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she
peered at him and smiled. Abby.

'I thought you'd be here already,' she said as they hugged briefly.

'Nina's at work. I had to find someone to have the kids.'

She nodded, looked at him closely. 'I hate to say this, but it might
be a wasted journey.'

'Are they in a mess?'

'Not too bad.' She indicated the tents behind them. 'This is the
command post, which is as far as anyone gets. They're setting up a
casualty bureau and a media-briefing room. They've got the fire brigade
and civil defence volunteers trying to seal off the entire village.' She
grinned. 'Breaking the cordon doesn't go down well, as some of my
colleagues have discovered. One of them reckons he got chased away
at gunpoint.'

Craig shook his head. They both turned and stared in the direction
of the village. Fields and trees and bushes in a hundred shades
of green, still sparkling with melted frost, and the grey church tower
peeking above the treetops. It looked an idyllic scene, utterly benign.
How could there be anything wrong here?

'Beautiful part of the world,' Abby murmured. When he didn't
respond, she added, 'Your father was campaigning against development
in the village, wasn't he?'

Craig nodded. He caught her use of the past tense. She coloured
slightly.

'I'm sorry. I wasn't implying . . .'

'I know.' He stared at the trees. Until a breeze caused them to sway,
he could almost believe they were false; painted scenery that might
fall away and expose the horror of what had happened here.

'Makes me think of that John Wyndham story,
The Midwich
Cuckoos
.'

Abby frowned. 'Was that the film with those creepy blond kids?'

He nodded. '
Village of the Damned
.'

Something in his voice must have affected her, for she reached out
and patted his arm. Then she indicated a couple of officers sitting at
folding metal tables, a large queue forming in front of them. 'That's
where they're taking details of friends and family.'

There was a ripple of noise and movement from the crowd. They
turned to see a car approaching at speed from the north, sounding its
horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. It was a brand-new Jaguar
XJR with tinted windows. Craig could just make out a man behind
the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.

A policeman stepped into the road and raised his hand. For a
moment it looked as though the driver would ignore him. Onlookers
gasped, fearing another tragedy, but the Jaguar braked sharply and
stopped just in time. There were a few jeers, and shouts of, 'Send him
back.'

The driver's window opened. The officer walked round and they
conferred in low tones. The photographers moved closer, raising their
cameras. Just before they blocked his view, Craig saw who was in the car.

'That's George Matheson.'

'Ah. I wondered if he'd be putting in an appearance.'

Craig was surprised she knew who he was, until he remembered
her comment about his father's campaign.

'Lucky he wasn't here this morning.'

'Very lucky,' Abby echoed, with perhaps a trace of sarcasm. 'But
then they have several homes. Villas in Nice and Antigua, and a town
house in Knightsbridge, I believe?'

It sounded like she was fishing, but Craig wasn't going to bite. 'You
know more about him than I do.'

The shouts from the crowd increased as the police officer stepped
away and the Jaguar jerked forward, probing a path through the
photographers. George Matheson's gaze was set straight ahead, while
his wife, cloaked in sunglasses and a headscarf, raised a hand to
cover her face. They turned into Chilton Way and increased speed.

'One rule for the rich . . .' Abby said, only partly in jest.

'Tell me something I don't know,' said Craig.