Skin and Bones (7 page)

George Matheson had become a master at denial. Bit by bit his life
was falling apart, yet here he was, still functioning. Still pretending
none of it was happening. He stared through the windscreen and
allowed his world to shrink to just the road ahead, but even his wellconstructed
emotional forcefield couldn't suppress a twinge of fear at
the prospect of what he was driving into.

If Vanessa was troubled by the shouts and catcalls, she gave no sign
of it. He couldn't even tell if her eyes were open. She had barely said
a word on the drive from London, so maybe she was asleep. The
medication often knocked her out.

He would never forget his first sight of the village. Normally so
serene, it had been transformed into something resembling a war zone
or a refugee camp after a huge natural disaster. What seemed like
dozens of police cars and ambulances were parked along the High
Street. Everywhere he looked he could see armed police, doctors and
paramedics, grim-faced search teams and forensic officers in white
suits.

There was another roadblock outside the village store. George gave
his name and waited while the officer consulted a list on a clipboard.
His eye was caught by a man unloading something from a van.
Bodybags, made of heavy-duty vinyl, folded and stacked on the village
green.

'They're waiting for you at the manor,' the officer said. 'Watch how
you go.'

As he set off again he glanced at Vanessa, hoping she was asleep
and wouldn't have to witness this. But she was staring, transfixed, her
hand cupped over her mouth as if to hold in her shock. He wanted
to offer some comfort, but had no idea what to say.

He drove slowly, stopping to let an ambulance get past a Royal Mail
van. There was a tent set up behind the van; George glimpsed a man's
leg and a pool of dried blood on the road. A group of emergency
workers stood nearby, drinking from Styrofoam cups and stamping their
feet to keep warm. They all turned and stared as the big Jaguar glided
past, and something in their blank unwavering gazes seemed to transmit
a sense of the carnage they had encountered. He shivered.

Hurst Lane provided a brief respite. For a few seconds it was almost
possible to believe this was just a terrible dream. Then he reached
the fork in the road and took the right-hand path, drawing down the
blanket of denial over any speculation about the fate of the Caplans.
He would know soon enough.

The gates to Chilton Manor were open, presumably a forced entry
by the police. He drove along the wide gravel driveway and saw a
black Vectra parked next to a patrol car. DI Sullivan was standing by
the driver's door. He was wearing a heavy blue parka the size of a
tent, along with grubby-looking jeans and trainers: weekend clothes.
As he turned, George searched the detective's face for some tiny hint
of reassurance. He got nothing.

They shook hands. Sullivan's was freezing cold, and the tip of his nose
was red. George said, 'Did you check the farm?'

The policeman nodded, wiped his nose on his sleeve. 'We found
the adults dead in the kitchen.'

George had been expecting it, virtually since he'd first spoken to
Sullivan, but for a moment he felt utterly destabilised. He groped for
the Jaguar behind him and half leaned, half sat on the bonnet.

'And their daughter?'

'Smothered with a pillow. She's been airlifted to the Royal Alex in
Brighton. They don't expect her to survive.'

There was silence. Nothing to say to news like that. George realised
the passenger door was opening, Vanessa slowly easing herself out
of the car. Sullivan followed his gaze and said, 'It might be better if
she waits here.'

George exchanged a glance with his wife. She glared at Sullivan
and shut the door.

'I'm afraid the house will be out of bounds for a while,' Sullivan
said. 'There's been a break-in. We think the killer did it.'

'The shotgun?'

'It's gone.' Sullivan was staring straight at George. 'Did you have
any other firearms? Any handguns?'

'No. Absolutely not.'

Sullivan nodded, but looked no happier. 'What about the alarm
system?'

'I set it myself yesterday morning. Why?'

'It's deactivated, and it doesn't appear to have been tampered with.
Are you certain you set it?'

'I think so.' George faltered. 'It's such an automatic thing to do, I
can't remember precisely, but I'm sure I would have . . .' He tailed
off, aware of how feeble he must sound.

'There's no one else living here? No staff?'

'Not full-time. There are gardeners, and we use a cleaning company
twice a week, but they don't have keys or the alarm code.'

Sullivan sighed. He rolled a bit of loose gravel back and forth
beneath his shoe. 'You say you left here yesterday morning?'

'Yes.' George drew himself up, exploiting his height advantage over
the detective. 'Am I suspected of something?'

'Don't be silly. We're just trying to build up a picture of what happened.'

Stung by the ridicule, George was silent for a moment. Then he
said, 'May I see where he broke in?'

Sullivan nodded. 'Wait a second.'

He opened the Vectra and picked up a digital camera, which he
slipped into the pocket of his coat without explanation. George saw
Vanessa watching them and detoured to the car. He told her what
Sullivan had said. She listened, lips pursed, and said, 'Be careful. He's
an odious man.'

George grunted, concerned that Sullivan would hear her. 'We'll be
better off in London anyway,' he said.

'What have they taken from the house?'

'Apart from the gun, I don't know.'

She gave a curt nod and turned away from him. Conversation over.

'One bit of advice,' Sullivan said as they followed the stone path around
the perimeter of the house. 'Not a word to anyone about our past association
or I'll be kicked off the case. And I'm no help to you then.'

'What makes you think I'm going to need your help?'

Sullivan didn't respond, but the way his breath whistled through
his nostrils made him seem habitually scornful. He said, 'Take me
through your itinerary yesterday.'

'We left here around ten o'clock. I was in meetings all afternoon.
Vanessa had an appointment in Harley Street this morning, so we
stayed up in town.'

'Nothing serious?'

George made an almost involuntary sound in his throat, but didn't
answer the question. Instead he said, 'My shotgun. Was it used at the
farm?'

Sullivan met his eye, and nodded. 'I'm afraid so.'

They reached the corner of the house. Wide lawns covered almost
an acre, leading on to a tennis court, a Victorian walled garden and
a small orchard. Beyond that, miles of open farmland: not a road
or a building in sight.

Sullivan, gazing at the view, said, 'How long had you known the
Caplans?'

'Oh, it must be at least six, seven years. Keith was a very capable
farmer. They were nice people. I counted them as friends, not just
employees.'

The detective nodded thoughtfully. They walked on in silence. The
western side of the house had a ground-floor extension added in the
late nineteenth century, and it was here that one of the windows had
been smashed. A uniformed officer was standing guard on the path.

'Is there much damage inside?'

'Superficial. Cupboards and shelves emptied. I can't say whether
any valuables have been taken, but it seems unlikely.' Sullivan looked
to be fighting a smirk. 'He also took a dump on your dining-room
table.'

George shuddered, then remembered what had occurred to him
during the phone call. 'Do you think this was premeditated, or done
on the spur of the moment?'

'Why do you ask?'

'The fact that he came here to steal my shotgun. How was he to
know the place was empty?' He glanced in the direction of the village.
'If we'd been at home, perhaps none of this would have happened.'

'As far as we know he already had the pistol with him. He might
have blasted in here, killed the two of you and taken the shotgun
anyway.'

It was an odd sort of consolation to offer someone. Sullivan took
the camera from his pocket and turned it over several times, pondering
something.

'Right now, there's a lot we don't understand.' He glanced at the
uniform, who read his expression and turned away as if rebuked. There
was a whirring noise as the camera powered up.

'I reckon you might be able to help us,' he went on. 'Take a look
at this.'

He held up the camera for George to see. There was a tiny screen
on the back, no more than an inch or so square, but the image
displayed on it was perfectly clear. It was a man's head, taken at close
range but with part of it obscured, perhaps deliberately, by a sheet of
paper. Concealing a wound, George guessed. But there was enough
of the face visible for him to understand two things.

The man was dead. And he was familiar.

'That's Carl Forester.'

Sullivan's eyes widened. 'Who is he?'

'He used to work for me, some years ago. He helped out on the
farm.' Remembering something else, George felt the blood drain from
his face. Fortunately Sullivan had chosen that moment to switch the
camera off, and by the time he looked up George had recovered.

He would have to tell the police at some point, of course. But not
now.

'He lived locally, then?' Sullivan said.

'Falcombe, I think. He had a very disruptive home life. Father's
long gone. Mother is an alcoholic. Carl himself was a bit of a tearaway,
I believe.'

'So we'll find him in our records?'

'I imagine so. Motoring convictions. Petty theft, perhaps.'

'Any sex offences that you know of?'

George felt dizzy again. 'What?'

Sullivan shoved the camera back in his pocket and looked George
squarely in the eye. 'Mrs Caplan was raped before she died.'

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Craig got home. He turned
into the cul-de-sac and saw Nina's Citroën on the driveway. He
remained in the car for a minute, not so much collecting his thoughts
as dispersing them. His preoccupations felt like steel cables, coiled so
tight they might suffocate him.

While Abby rejoined her colleagues in the media tent, he had stood
in line at the grandly named Friends and Relatives Reception Centre.
Eventually he spoke to a community support officer, who by now had
been politely resisting demands for information for several hours and
could reel off official platitudes while simultaneously filling out forms
and keeping an alert eye on potential troublemakers further along the
line.

Craig had envisaged that he would insist on learning his father's
fate. Refusing to budge until he knew the facts. Probably everyone
else in the queue thought the same. But when the moment came,
faced with the implacable barriers of bureaucracy and innate politeness,
almost everyone accepted they couldn't be told anything right
now. The priority was to secure the scene and give help to the injured.
To protest would be not only unseemly, but also an insult to the
victims.

'Best thing is to go home,' the officer told him. 'Soon as we know
something definite, we'll be in touch.'

Craig looked for Abby before he left, but couldn't find her. He had
his press card and no doubt could have talked his way into the media
tent, but it was bound to lead to trouble. He knew exactly the kind
of morbid humour that journalists employed at times like this, and
he'd just end up picking a fight with someone. He had no desire to
mix with people for whom this was little more than a thrilling carnival.

Now he forced himself from his car, knowing he didn't really have
the stomach for a fight with Nina either. It was tempting to turn around
and drive away, except that he'd told the police he would be at home.

She opened the door while he was fumbling with his keys. She
looked emotional, under strain, but also immaculate. He'd always
marvelled at the way she could do a demanding job, bring up two
children and still devote time to hair and clothes and make-up. Some
of her friends teased her about it, calling her 'Superwoman', and
although Craig joined in he was secretly proud. Today, though, it
irked him. She had no right to look so good.

She stepped forward as if to embrace him, but perhaps sensing it
wouldn't be welcome, settled for lightly caressing his arm. 'Is he all
right?'

'No news yet. They said they'll let me know.' Again she reached
out, but he brushed her off and made for the living room. He felt her
freeze, slightly incredulous that she had been shunned. 'What are they
saying on TV?'

'Mostly speculation,' she said, 'recycled over and over. Reporters
interviewing each other because no one will speak to them.'

Craig grunted. He threw himself on to a sofa.
Sky News
was showing
what appeared to be the same aerial footage from earlier. The voiceover
said, '. . . now confirmed to be one of the worst spree killings in recent
years.'

'Where are Tom and Maddie?'

'Still at Mum's. They can stay over, if need be. I thought it was
best . . .'

Craig nodded, rested his head back and stared at the ceiling. He
ran his hands through his hair and down around his neck, holding
them there as if he wanted to throttle himself.

'Where were you this morning?'

Nina flinched, but hid it well. She turned to the armchair behind
her and found some comics to tidy away before sitting down.

'I was at work,' she said, imbuing the words with a scorn that implied
he had insulted her by asking.

'No you weren't. The guy I spoke to told me he'd looked everywhere.
He said your PC was on standby, and your coat and bag were
gone.'

The words tumbled into the room like grenades, turning their
familiar living room into hazardous territory.

Nina's eyes sparkled with tears. She shook her head. 'Don't do this
now.'

'What do you mean,
Don't do this now
? How can you say that?'

'I mean, let's have this conversation another time. When we know
your dad is safe.'

He isn't safe
, said a voice in his head.
He's dead.

He sighed. She had as good as told him already, hadn't she?

'Who is it?'

'Craig, please. You're upset because of this, and we're still—'

'Who?'

'No. Listen to me.'

'Just tell me. Tell me his fucking name.'

She leaned forward, pressed her knees tight and hugged her arms
together, as if making herself as small as possible. He looked away,
disgusted with himself as much as with her.

She breathed in, held it, breathed out. Then she said, 'Bruce Abbott.'

She got up and left the room. He listened to her putting on shoes
and a coat, pick up her keys and leave the house. She over-revved the
Citroën and the wheels squealed as they fought for grip.

Six hours ago he'd been lying in bed, contemplating a weekend of
relaxation and marital harmony. Now he might have lost both his
father and his marriage. What was next?

He stood up. He knew exactly what was next.

As a rule they didn't keep much alcohol in the house. Red wine,
mostly, which Nina drank, and sometimes a bottle of white. Beer was
a no-no, and had been for more than four years. Four years, three
months and ten days, in fact.

Spirits were also barred, but there was a bottle of good malt which
Nina had won in a raffle at Christmas and not yet given away. That
would do for starters.

Two cars tailed them back to London, and when they turned into
Cadogan Place there was a TV van and a group of people waiting
outside the house. George had expected as much. He wasn't a particularly
high-profile figure, but from time to time he featured in the
financial pages. For an event of this magnitude, that was probably
more than sufficient to single him out for attention. Vanessa gave a
cry of alarm when she spotted them.

'We won't stop,' he assured her. True to his word, he almost ploughed
into them as he passed the house. Vanessa twisted away from the
lenses, covering her face with her hands. He quite understood her
reaction, but knew it would only encourage the use of the photos. It
made them look guilty of something.

Oblivious to their own safety, the reporters pursued them along the
street, hurling questions as they ran.

'What did you see in Chilton?'

'Will you give us your reaction to the massacre?'

'What did the police tell you, Mr Matheson?'

He ignored them all. Kept that same steely gaze and drove on until
he found somewhere to park. He kept telling himself that later he
would allow himself some time to reflect. He sensed that his life had
changed beyond recognition: the ramifications of this were impossible
to predict.

It came as a greater shock to realise, an hour or more after they
were safely ensconced in their respective refuges – she in her bedroom,
he in his study – that he had given no reaction, nor barely any thought,
to Vanessa's news.

Weeks. She had only weeks to live.

Alone in his study, toying with a brandy, he tried to imagine himself
a widower. He had known it would happen. The initial diagnosis had
been about as bleak as they come. What he had never imagined was
that he'd have to combine it with this . . . devastation.

People might look to him, he realised. Despite everything, it caused
a tiny swelling in his heart. He might be called upon to give a lead.

Ironic, really, considering that until now he'd been depicted as the
would-be destroyer of Chilton's perfection.

But it might take weeks, perhaps months for the dust to settle. And
in the meantime . . . everything would be in limbo. His life would
be in limbo.

The tears came without warning, a hot rush suddenly there on his
cheeks, and a single deep sob that convulsed his chest. His life was
over. Destroyed.

Afterwards he didn't feel better, as everyone always predicted if 'you
just let it out'. He felt worse. Utterly wretched and exhausted, and
wishing he could drop dead right there and be spared all the trials
that now lay ahead of him, as unavoidable as night after day.

Starting now, he decided.

Starting with Kendrick.

The phone was picked up on the third ring. 'Yes?'

'It's George Matheson.'

'What a nice surprise.' The sly amusement made George furious.
It was bad enough that he couldn't speak to Kendrick directly. Having
to go through Vilner, of all people, was nothing short of humiliating.

'I assume you've seen the news?'

'Watching it now,' Vilner said. 'I told myself, someone had better
have a bloody good reason to drag me away from it.' He laughed. 'I
guess you qualify.'

'I need to see Kendrick as soon as possible. I'm sure he'll want to
discuss the . . . implications.'

Another throaty laugh. 'Implications?' he repeated, as though it
were an absurd euphemism.

'Yes,' said George firmly. 'If you let me have his number I'll call
him myself.'

'I'm seeing him later. He'll get the message.'

'See that he does.'

Vilner's tone hardened. 'Toby all right these days?'

George grunted. That was the next call he had to make.

'So where does this leave the development?' Vilner went on. 'Seems
to me it could go belly up.'

'Not necessarily. But it does seem prudent to consider all eventualities.'

'Yeah, you can spill out that bollocks till the cows come home. Just
don't forget what you owe me. If I'm not getting the contract Toby
promised, then I want the cash instead.'

George fought back his rage, and said quietly, 'You will get it.'

'When?'

'I can't possibly say.'

'Listen, George, I've been more than patient. I won't let anyone
make a fool of me.'

'We'll talk again soon,' George said. His hand trembled as he
dropped the phone in its cradle. Dealing with Vilner always left him
feeling squalid.

He had intended to call Toby as well, warn him to keep his mouth
shut, but he simply wasn't capable of it. Overcome by a craving for
oblivion, he thought of Vanessa's painkillers. It really could be that
easy.

'Oblivion,' he murmured, reaching for the brandy.

* * *

Craig was drunk when the doorbell rang. After years of abstinence
the alcohol hit him like a train. He'd bypassed the pleasurable stage
altogether and gone straight to hangover. Instead of giddy euphoria
there was just disgust that he'd added weakness of character to his
many other flaws.

He saw the police car draw up outside and was at the door before
they rang the bell. There were two of them, both men: one uniformed
and very young, the other CID and about Craig's age. It was almost
fully dark outside, just a few streaks of purple and red in the western
sky, the temperature probably below freezing.

Despite the cold an obnoxious neighbour was standing across the
way, blatantly waiting to see what might happen. For that reason as
much as anything Craig made an attempt at sobriety and ushered
them inside. Stumbling in the doorway didn't help, but if they disapproved
they gave no sign of it.

'Offer you a drink?' he said, trying hard not to slur.

'Good idea,' the detective said. 'My colleague will put the kettle on.'

Not hearing, Craig took a couple of steps towards the kitchen. The
uniform waylaid him, directing him to a seat like an errant child.

'Is your wife here, Mr Walker?'

Craig shook his head. 'Left me,' he said.

'Oh.' The detective seemed flummoxed by this. Craig thought he
should elaborate, then decided he lacked the energy. But he did need
to sharpen up a bit.

He slapped his face a couple of times, the sound echoing in the
quiet house. He was surprised to find moisture on his fingers. He
touched his cheeks again, dabbing gently, like a man tracing a leak.

'I won't put you through any more agony,' the detective said. 'I'm
afraid your father, Philip Anthony Walker, was a victim of the gunman
in Chilton this morning.' He waited a second. 'He was fatally injured
and died at the scene. I'm very sorry.'