Skin and Bones (9 page)

The police were professional and sympathetic and practical. They
encouraged him to drink two mugs of strong coffee, and by the time
they left Craig felt almost sober.

It was seven o'clock, and he still hadn't heard from Nina. He had
no idea where she was, or if she was coming back. The rest of the
evening yawned ahead of him: he could either stay like this or get
drunk all over again.

Before he could decide, the doorbell rang. He went to answer
it, wondering if the police had forgotten to tell him something.
But it was Abby Clark, looking tired but oddly exhilarated. She was
holding a pizza box from a local takeaway.

'I know this is an imposition . . .'

'But?'

'Can I eat in here? I'm very cold and very hungry.' She moved
closer, wafting melted cheese and pepperoni fumes under his nose.
There was an audible growl from his stomach.

'Sounds like you could do with something.'

He shrugged. 'No appetite. The police have just left.'

'I know. I watched them go.'

He couldn't help smiling. 'So you waited just long enough . . . ?'

'Not too long. Pizza would have gone cold.' The twinkle in her
eyes was like a laser, obliterating any resentment he might have felt.
She followed him into the hall and shrugged off her coat. 'Isn't Nina
here?'

'No.' He paused on the threshold to the lounge. 'Do you want a
plate? Cutlery?'

'Nah. And I insist on sharing.'

She sat beside him on the sofa, dragged the coffee table closer and
opened the box. She tore out a thick cheesy wedge and thrust it at
him. 'Eat.'

He took a desultory bite. Chewed, swallowed, winced. It felt like
cardboard in his gullet, but at least it would help soak up the alcohol.

'Bad news, I take it?' Abby said, hooking a long strand of cheese
from her chin.

He nodded. He went to tell her his father was dead and found
himself speechless. He'd assembled all the right words in his head but
his mouth just wouldn't let them out.

It should have been Nina who comforted him, not Abby, but right
now that didn't matter. This was grief so raw and unexpected that it
couldn't be suppressed. Its ferocity shocked him. He cried for practically
the first time since his children were born, without once feeling
self-conscious or stepping back to scrutinise his feelings in the way he
was usually given to doing.

To her credit, Abby was up to the task. She didn't shirk from holding
him close. Didn't complain when his tears ran down her neck and
dampened her shirt. She smelt warm and wonderful, thrillingly unfamiliar,
and when that thought filtered into his head he knew it was
time to break apart.

'Sorry,' he said. 'And thank you.'

'You'd do the same for me. Albeit with an erection.'

It was such a frivolous comment, and yet so true, it surprised a
laugh from him. He felt briefly guilty, then much better. Better than
he'd felt all through this long and dreadful day.

'I'll warm the pizza up,' he said.

'Good idea. Cup of tea would be bliss.'

Accompanying him into the kitchen, she spent a few seconds
admiring the units, and then said, 'So where's Nina?'

'No idea. She doesn't even know about Dad yet.' He stopped short,
felt another pang of guilt. 'She's been seeing someone else, and today
wasn't exactly the ideal time to find out.'

'You're kidding me?'

He shook his head.

'Is it serious?'

He dropped the pizza on to a baking tray and turned to face her.
'Does it matter?'

'Yes. It doesn't have to destroy your marriage. Not if you don't want
it to.'

'Would you say that if Nigel slept around?'

'We split up last year.'

'Did you? Oh God, I didn't realise. Was there anyone else
involved . . . ?'

'Sort of.' Now she blushed slightly, something he'd never seen her
do.

'Are you with someone now?'

She nodded. Studied him and laughed. 'Don't look so disappointed.'

'I wasn't.'

She narrowed her eyes. 'I was just teasing.'

'I know.' He busied himself filling the kettle. After a respectable
pause, he said, 'What's he like?'

'Very nice, thanks. Only it's a
she
.'

'Oh.' He was suitably gobsmacked.

'I don't broadcast it. Early days. But we're very happy.'

He nodded, thinking back over all the years he'd known her,
wondering if she'd ever given any hint.

Reading his mind, she said, 'It was just about the last thing I
expected. As much a surprise to me as anyone else.'

'How has Nigel reacted?'

A snort. 'He doesn't know whether to challenge her to a fight or
suggest a threesome.'

They took the pizza back into the lounge, and he went over what the
police had said. He'd been told to expect a long and detailed investigation,
but off the record the facts were pretty clear: a young man
had gone on a killing spree. In the next day or two he'd have to make
a formal identification of his father's body. An inquest would be opened
and adjourned, and the body released for burial. Every affected family
had a police liaison officer assigned to them, available for information,
guidance and support over the coming weeks.

Abby listened solemnly and then ran through her own experience.
The police had held their first full press conference at two o'clock,
hosted by the detective chief superintendent in overall command of
the operation. By that time all the injured had been conveyed to
hospital.

'How many victims in total?' he asked.

'Fourteen confirmed dead at the scene. Another four wounded,
three of them seriously.'

Craig let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. 'So the
death toll might rise?'

She nodded. 'A girl from the farmhouse is in a coma. And there
was the woman who fell out of a tree.'

'What?'

'I got that little nugget by chatting up one of the search team.' She
winked; some of her natural exuberance leaking out at last. He couldn't
reproach her for it. This was the type of event that could make a journalist's
career.

'They think she was chased by the killer,' Abby went on. 'She must
have tried to hide in the tree, but he shot her and she fell.'

'Will she live?'

'Anyone's guess at the moment,' Abby said. 'After going through
that, I hope so.'

Another sigh from Craig. He cradled his mug in both hands and
held it close, although it was virtually empty. 'What do you know
about the killer?'

'Young. Male. Possibly local. That's all we've got.'

'Nothing on the grapevine?'

Abby shook her head, then grew pensive. 'Craig, I don't know how
you'll feel about this, but I'd like to mention your dad in my article.
He was obviously a high-profile figure in the village.'

Craig gave her a sidelong glance. 'So this wasn't just a social visit?'
She looked suitably abashed, but before she responded he said, 'Don't
worry. I don't blame you.'

'I've been looking at some of the local issues, and it's clear that
Matheson's plan stirred up a lot of controversy. I thought it would
make for an interesting background story. Your dad was leading the
fight.'

'For all the good it did him.'

'But the proposal was rejected. Surely that's a victory?'

'They won the first skirmish, that's all. A man like George Matheson
doesn't give up easily.' As he said it he was aware of an uneasy feeling
that this wasn't the time to unburden himself of such thoughts.

Abby said, 'I can't see him trying anything now.'

'Who knows? Maybe it will help him.'

She was staring at him, desperately trying to conceal her excitement.
Craig saw it, knew he should change the subject. But he couldn't
resist.

'Maybe this just clears the path for him,' he said viciously. 'After
all, who's left to fight him now?'

The killer powered up his laptop and opened Internet Explorer for
the second time that evening. It was almost midnight. On TV a panel
of worthies was debating the possible repercussions of what had already
been dubbed 'The Chilton Massacre'.

He'd first logged on an hour or so before. He signed into Hotmail,
using the email address and password he'd been sent four months ago,
from someone he knew only as Decipio.

There was a new entry waiting for him in the Drafts folder. His
finger poised over the mousepad for a few seconds. He took a deep
breath and clicked it open.

Was I supposed to be impressed by that? If
anything, you've made the situation worse.
You failed in your main objective.
She's still alive.

He had stared at the message for a long time, feeling sick and
furious and most of all despairing. He felt like a marathon runner
who turns what he thinks is the last corner and instead sees a vast
unforgiving road stretching to the horizon.

Then he deleted the message and composed a reply.

I don't know why he ignored my orders. He
knew exactly what he was supposed to do,
but he went berserk. I stopped him as soon
as I could, at great risk to me.

Are you sure about the survivor? I dealt
with her myself.

He saved the draft, then logged off. Decipio had instructed him to
keep the language vague, but this was really an unnecessary precaution.
By sharing the log-on and using only the draft function, they
ensured the messages were never transmitted, and thus couldn't be
eavesdropped. It was the same method by which some of the 7 July
London bombers had communicated.

Then he'd gone back to the TV, and listened to a rentaquote MP
assert that further restrictions on firearms might be necessary. A senior
churchman wanted greater moral leadership in society, and
a psychologist argued there was inadequate screening or support for
the kind of unstable men who are driven to commit such atrocities.
The government representative, a junior Home Office minister,
seemed on the brink of tears.

The killer muted the TV and opened Hotmail again. Read the
new message that had taken the place of his own in the Drafts
folder.

Quite sure. You failed.

Try again. This time get it right.

No loose ends.

He snarled at the screen, feeling a resentment familiar to footsoldiers
everywhere. All very easy to dish out orders from a comfortable office
somewhere; not quite so simple to accomplish on the ground. And
where was the recognition of what he had achieved?

He felt disgusted. On the verge of refusing. But he knew he
wouldn't. There was too much at stake. He had no choice but to
carry on.

Like the message said, he would have to try again. And this time,
make sure he killed her.

No loose ends.

In the dreams she always died.

In the dreams she was chased, hunted, caught and killed. Each
time she died she found herself back in the darkness, her pursuer hot
on her trail, and the whole terrible story played out again. The dreams
went on in another world, where fears could not be rationalised,
reflected on, dismissed.

A world with no escape.

Then, quite abruptly, she found herself in a room flooded with
light. At first she didn't know who she was, but that lasted only an
instant. With identity came one startling recollection: her parents
were dead.

The grief was suffocating. She wanted to believe it was part of the
nightmare, but when she searched her memory the details came too
clearly and rapidly to be anything other than genuine.

It was mid-December, a squally evening. Both she and her brother,
Neil, had spent the day trying to reach them by phone, and finally
Julia agreed to drive over after work.

Pulling up outside the terrace in her red Mini Cooper, she had
noticed the house was completely dark. For a minute she remained
in the car, gathering her nerve. Rain pounded on the roof, making
her feel cocooned and yet vulnerable at the same time.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she unlocked the front
door. A wave of cloying heat was sucked into the storm, leaving an
imprint of the stillness which had preceded it, like the after-image of
a flashbulb. There was something else, too. An ominous quality to the
silence that ran like a cold finger along her spine. She felt an overwhelming
urge to turn and flee.

She stepped inside and turned on the light. Once she'd filtered
out the muted howl of the wind, she began to identify sounds from
inside: the sombre ticking of a carriage clock, the staccato buzz of
the fridge, the roaring boiler.

Already the heat was building again. It felt sinister and out of place.
Her father was notorious for his thrift. When she and Neil were kids
he'd always been turning off lights in their wake. He wouldn't go out
and leave the heating on at this level.

Which suggested that they hadn't gone out. They were here. In the
dark.

'Mum! Dad!' she cried. 'Are you there?'

No answer. She could see all the downstairs rooms were unlit, but
there was still a chance they were in one of the bedrooms.

It was a forlorn hope, she knew as she climbed the stairs. With
each step her legs seemed to grow heavier and more reluctant.
Reaching the landing, she experienced a little pitch of nausea and
had to grab the handrail.

There were no lights on upstairs.

'Mum?' she called again, and paused, stalled by dread. 'Dad?'

She faced her parents' bedroom and slowly eased the door open.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch. Despite the
gloom she could just make out the twin shapes beneath the lilac M&S
duvet. It brought back a long-forgotten memory of childhood, one
Sunday morning, giggling with her brother on the landing while
strange gasps and moans emanated from the bedroom. Then, as now,
she'd felt she was intruding on something she didn't understand.

But she couldn't turn back. She had to know.

She switched on the light, offering a desperate prayer:
Let them be
asleep
.

And just for a moment, until she saw their faces, it seemed that
they were.

Her parents were dead, and she had found the bodies. But where was
she now? Had she suffered a breakdown as a result of the trauma?
Was she confined to a mental hospital?

Desperate to stay away from the dark world of her dreams, she
clung to the memory of that night in December. She would force
herself to relive the experience, and perhaps by doing that she could
find a path back to the present day.

They had looked as if they'd just come in from one of Dad's route
marches over the Downs. Lying snugly beneath the duvet with the
rosy glow of obscene good health, she had almost expected her father
to rear up in bed and berate her. 'Turn the bloody light off, Julia.
Your mother and I fancied an early night.'

But he wasn't going to do that. Not tonight or any other. They were
dead. And in an instant several things had made sense: their complexions,
the stifling heat, Julia's vague headache and nausea. The sort of
thing you hear on the news: a dreadful but essentially mundane tragedy
that always happens to someone else.

Until it happens to you.

She lunged for the window and threw it open. Dashed downstairs
and into the kitchen, knocking a picture from the wall in her haste.
The boiler hung in the corner like a malevolent caged dragon,
breathing death into the house. She shut it down, grabbed her parents'
cordless phone and ran into the garden. Now the wind and rain were
a kind of salvation.

She dialled 999 and explained in a shaky voice what she suspected.
The operator ran her through a sequence of questions so smoothly
that she had no choice but to reply calmly, without panic. It was a
form of hypnosis, she realised much later. He told her the emergency
services were on their way, and asked if she felt all right. Was there a
friend or neighbour who could wait with her?

She mumbled something about going next door and ended the call.
Almost immediately the whole thing seemed unreal. What if she had
imagined it, or been mistaken? She'd look such a fool. Surely she
ought to go back in and check?

She got as far as the door before an immobilising terror stopped her
in her tracks. Of course she hadn't imagined anything. They were dead.

She thought about Neil. He was four or five hours away. But she
could feel her throat closing even as she imagined trying to tell him.

Then the phone rang, making her jump. She pressed the Talk
button, expecting to hear the 999 operator.

'Can I speak to Jules?' a voice shouted.

'It's me, Steve.'

'I couldn't get you on your mobile.'

'There's no signal here,' she said, noticing for the first time how
abnormal her voice sounded. But if it was apparent to Steve, he gave
no sign. Earlier he had derided her concerns and refused to accompany
her, preferring to play squash instead.
It's obvious they don't like
me
, he had said.
I don't wanna go and see them
.

Well now you won't have to, she thought. You'll never have to.

'It took me bloody ages to find your mum's number,' he said. 'When
are you gonna be home? I was thinking I could drop by after the pub.
Bring a takeaway, bottle of vino?'

'No, Steve. I can't.'

'Don't give me that. We might as well be an old married couple
for the sex life we've had lately. Fucking non-existent . . .' His
grumbled complaints tailed off, and she spoke into the sullen silence.

'My mum and dad are dead,' she told him. 'I'm in their garden, waiting
for the police, so I'm not really in the mood tonight. In fact, I'd like you
to piss off. Can you do that for me, Steve? Can you piss off?'

* * *

Her awareness now extended to an array of equipment around her
bed. There were tubes tethered to her body; machines that hummed
and bleeped in response to her gradual healing. It made her sickly
aware of her own heartbeat, her breathing. It hurt when she breathed,
she realised. Lots of vague, generalised pain that managed to be intense
and yet muffled at the same time.

She was in hospital, then. But not a psychiatric ward. She was
recovering from some sort of physical injury. An accident? That seemed
plausible. In the aftermath of losing her parents, she wouldn't have
been thinking clearly. Perhaps her concentration had lapsed while
driving.

Then an abhorrent thought: perhaps she had tried to commit suicide?

Fire officers with breathing apparatus had entered the house first and
declared it safe. Julia was ushered into the kitchen by a police officer,
who set about making tea. Shortly afterwards another officer returned
from upstairs, nodded grimly at her colleague and addressed Julia:
'They're both dead. I'm very sorry.'

After that, time passed in a blur. Julia had little clear recollection
of how long she sat in the kitchen, while various people trooped up
and down the stairs. Some introduced themselves, some did not. Most
lingered in the doorway for a few seconds, looking at her with a vague
professional curiosity, as though they might have welcomed a dramatic
reaction. Something to make the evening memorable for them.

Eventually she summoned the courage to phone her brother. She
expected him to ask lots of questions, but instead he absorbed the
news in a dull, shocked silence. She was still waiting for a coherent
response when his wife Donna took the phone. It was as if they'd
already known, she told Julia. As if they'd known all day.

Unable to sleep on such news, they arranged for Donna's parents
to come over and look after the children. Then they packed a suitcase
and left Knutsford in the early hours, arriving at Julia's flat just
after dawn.

The sight of Neil as he stumbled from the car – pale, red-eyed,
faltering – brought home to her the enormity of their loss. It was just
the two of them now, brother and sister. Orphans.

Now there were voices. Sometimes distant and vaguely soothing, like
running water. Sometimes loud and brash. Her senses felt cruelly
heightened, overwhelming her, threatening to send her back to that
other world. The world where he waited, again and again, to complete
his task.

But who was he? Why did he want to kill her?

She continued tiptoeing cautiously through her memory of the days
that followed. The post mortems confirmed that Bernard and Lisa
Trent died from carbon monoxide poisoning. The local authority
arranged for the central heating system to be examined by an engineer,
who concluded that the boiler had been poorly maintained. In
addition, a crucial vent had been blocked, possibly to prevent a
draught. Julia felt sure her parents would have had it serviced, but
a search of the house revealed no paperwork to corroborate that.
She'd even contacted some local plumbers, but none recalled
working on it.

The family liaison officer explained that an inquest would be
held. It would be for the coroner to determine the ultimate cause,
but the likelihood was either accidental death or an open verdict. The
sheer senselessness of it was one of the hardest things for Julia to bear.
The thought that two lives had been lost for the price of a routine
service.

A week or more had passed in a dull haze of grief. She was too
numb to be affected by the funeral, and suffered a delayed reaction
that hit at the worst possible time: just as she sat down to Christmas
dinner with her brother and his family in Knutsford. Like the rest of
the adults, she'd been determined to make an effort at normality
for the sake of the children, but she found herself weeping so helplessly
that in the end even her four-year-old nephew decided it was impolite
to stare. Neil virtually had to carry her from the room.

The solicitor had made it clear there was no hurry to do anything
with the cottage. Julia and her brother were sole beneficiaries, and
there was no mortgage. But they both agreed there was no question
of keeping the house. It had never been a family home, and now it
would only ever be associated with tragedy.

Simple geography dictated that Julia would take care of clearing
out the furniture and sorting through a lifetime's accumulation of
belongings. Once she'd started back at school and had the first couple
of weeks under her belt, she finally steeled herself to get on with it.

I can't keep putting it off
. That's what she had told someone. In a
shop. An old-fashioned village store.

She remembered a cold, sunny morning. A deep frost on the grass
and the tiled roofs. It was a Saturday, very early. No one around.

It was Chilton, she realised. Whatever it was, it had happened in
Chilton.

'Is there any improvement?'

She recognised the voice as her brother's. Neil was here, at her
bedside. She could even smell his aftershave. Hugo Boss. It was what
she usually bought him for Christmas.

In reply, a man with a soft Indian accent said, 'She's definitely on
the mend. We're reducing the sedatives, so she should be back with
us quite soon.'

From her brother, a heartfelt rush of breath: pure relief. She felt
touched, but also scared.

'She was very fortunate,' the other man said. 'The bullet could have
done a lot more damage.'

She was hiding in the tree, but he knew she was there. A man in
black motorcycle leathers
.

Oh God. No.

'It's the psychological effect that worries me,' her brother said.

'I quite understand, but let's concern ourselves with that at the
appropriate time. For now, we should be thankful she survived at all.
So many did not.'

'I know.' A hand took hold of hers, and she knew it was Neil. 'She's
a real fighter, aren't you, love?'

This was addressed to Julia, and she longed to answer, longed to
reassure him she was all right, but nothing would work, not her mouth
or throat, her arms or legs, everything comfortable but locked in place,
as though she were immersed in some kind of thick resin. As a child
playing hide-and-seek she had crawled into her parents' wardrobe and
piled all the winter coats on top of her until she could barely move.
It was the same warm safe weight lying on her now: she was powerless
against it.

Just as she had been powerless to stop the bullets strafing the tree.

She felt the draw of the other world and tried desperately to resist,
but of course it was hopeless. The machines dutifully recorded her
panic, but no one came to her aid.

This time, she knew who was waiting.