Skin and Bones (30 page)

Craig took a taxi home from the station, the driver regaling him with
accounts of ships run aground and motorway pile-ups caused by the
storm. It made him wonder if he should stay over in Crawley. He
could sleep in the spare room and leave early tomorrow.

Now he knew the fate that had befallen Abby, the threat to his children
seemed even more potent. It made him consider whether it was
wise to go on living apart from them. At the very least he ought to
tell Nina about the photograph, but equally he feared her reaction.
She, like any sensible person, would probably insist that he stop investigating
the massacre, whereas Craig was inclined to do the opposite:
confront his enemy head on. But first he needed to be sure who that
enemy was.

Stopping at a junction, the car rocked on its suspension as if pushed
by unseen hands. The windscreen wipers were slashing back and forth,
but had little effect on the torrent of water falling on the car. The
driver peered over his steering wheel at traffic lights that were barely
more than smudges of colour in the darkness.

'Filthy weather,' he muttered. 'Any other night I'd knock off early,
but I can't miss a Saturday.'

'Hard to imagine anyone going clubbing.'

'Oh, they will.' The driver snorted. 'And wearing next to nothing,
too.'

Craig had his key ready when he got out of the taxi, but even the
short dash to the front door left him drenched. In the hall he took
off his coat and paused, registering the unnatural stillness: it caused
a moment of utter, debilitating panic. He was too late.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and Nina came down, wearing
a bathrobe. Her toenails looked newly painted, and her hair was
wrapped in a towel.

'Where are the kids?'

'Mum and Dad's,' said Nina. 'They're sleeping over.'

'Oh.' His relief that they were safe was mixed with disappointment
at not seeing them. He might as well brave the weather and go back
to Chilton.

Nina stepped forward, coming close enough to touch. Her robe
was open, revealing plenty of cleavage, her breasts damp and flushed
and glistening. He could smell body lotion and feel the heat radiating
from her skin.

'Stay here tonight,' she said. 'I'll cook a meal. We can talk.'

'Maybe,' he said, his stomach churning as he pictured her in bed
with Bruce Abbott. Then he thought of the kiss he'd shared with Julia,
the desire he had felt. Last night he'd endured a barrage of accusations
from Nina after stupidly lying to her on the phone, but judging
by her mood now, perhaps she had accepted his denials.

It struck him that she hadn't asked about Abby. He stepped sideways,
easing away from her. 'I need to change out of these clothes.'

Nina bravely ignored his lack of enthusiasm. 'Why not have a
shower?'

She's going to suggest we make love
, he thought, turning towards
the stairs so she wouldn't see his face. 'Anyone rung?' he called back.

'Yes,' said Nina, with evident displeasure. 'Lots of reporters, wanting
to speak to you. They wouldn't tell me why. I took their numbers.'

He grunted. Probably wanting his reaction to the Alice Jones story.
He decided he'd wait to hear from Julia before he went back to them.

Upstairs, he stripped off and decided a shower was a good idea. He
stood under the hot spray, slightly worried Nina would seek to join
him. If the timing hadn't been so dreadful, he might have welcomed
her suggestion to discuss their predicament over a meal, calmly, intelligently,
like proper grown-ups. But he couldn't imagine doing it right
now. Not with Abby dead, and his kids unwitting pawns in the game,
and the second killer still out there—

And not when you're in love with Julia
, a quiet voice shamed him.

He sighed. Just being here, having a shower, sent the wrong signals.
He couldn't pretend to be interested in reconciliation, but nor could he
humiliate her by appearing to encourage an advance. He should have
said something straight away, the moment she stepped into his personal
space.

And then he had it, all at once. Dad's garden. The intruder. Julia
reading her father's diary.

Not personal space.

Territory
.

Vilner's phone rang again. The killer was well away from the pub,
making good progress. The atrocious driving conditions had slowed
him a little, but on the upside the roads were virtually deserted.

He pulled into a layby, glancing warily at a stand of trees looming
over the car. He could hear them creaking as they swayed. The rain
flew at the windows in horizontal waves, like someone tossing buckets
of water at the car. He picked up the phone and answered with a
cheery, 'Hello!'

'Vilner?' A slightly mystified voice. Hard to make out any detail
with the storm raging around him, but it was male, with some sort of
unusual accent.

'He's not here,' the killer said, having to shout.

'Who is this?'

'You'll find out soon enough. For now all you need to know is that
Vilner is no longer on the scene. You'll be dealing with me, and only
with me. Is that clear?'

A long silence followed. Whether it was shock, or anger, or
incredulity, the killer had no idea.

He ended the call.

Craig ran into the bedroom, ignoring the fact that he was soaking
wet. He wiped his hand on the bed and picked up his phone. Rang
Julia's mobile. It was switched off. He rang her home number. No
answer.

He tried her mobile again, returning to the bathroom to grab a
towel. While he dried, he replayed her message.

Craig, it's Julia. I thought I should warn you, Alice Jones has sold
her story. The journalist wants me to corroborate it, so I've agreed
to a meeting this evening. I'll ring you when I get back, probably
around eight. If you get a chance, ring me and we can discuss
how much I should reveal.

Dressing quickly, he tried her number one more time, then hurried
downstairs. Nina heard the urgency and came out of the kitchen,
frowning.

'Where are the numbers?' he called.

'What?'

'The reporters that rang you. Where are their numbers?'

Something in her face changed. Her voice was harder when she
said, 'What's happened?'

'I don't know yet.' He grabbed his shoes and began putting them
on.

'You're not going out in this weather?'

'I might have to.'

She sighed in a way that suggested she was trying very hard not to
scream, and stomped back into the kitchen. Craig laced his shoes and
ran through his idea once again, testing it for flaws.

Julia's father had encountered Carl and the other killer, practising
in woodland owned by George Matheson. When challenged, the killer
had accused Julia's father of trespassing on private land.

Craig remembered how he had reacted when he found the souvenir
hunter in his father's garden. He'd said, 'Get the fuck off
my
property.'
Not because he stood to inherit the house, but because the family
connection gave him a sense of ownership.

Now he asked himself: what if the killer's attitude was borne from
the same instinct? That the reason he'd been so arrogant was because
he considered the woods belonged to him.

Because he was related to George Matheson.

He thought of the nephew, Toby, forced to offer Vilner a contract
after running up gambling debts. He felt a tingle of excitement. Under
scrutiny, the idea didn't fall apart. But he also felt a much stronger
current of fear. Because the one person whose opinion he valued
wasn't answering her phone. And he had no idea where she was.

Kendrick put the phone down. He looked at Jacques, just back from
a futile expedition to find James Vilner. Jacques immediately saw something
was wrong.

'If I'm not mistaken,' Kendrick said, 'that was a declaration of war.'

Jacques looked confused. 'From Vilner?'

Kendrick shook his head. 'I suspect Vilner was the first casualty.'
He gazed at the floor, all kinds of scenarios running through his mind.
'No. From Toby.'

'Toby's got Vilner?' Jacques sounded more shocked than surprised.

'We should have guessed when the emails stopped. He's obviously
decided to go it alone.'

'What do you think he's planning?'

Kendrick shrugged. 'I don't know, but it's time to find out.'

'I just went past Chelsea,' Jacques said wearily. 'I could have checked
the fucking apartment.'

'I don't think he'll be there, but send a couple of men. The rest of
us will be going to Sussex. We're paying a visit to Uncle George.'

Jacques gave a greedy smile. 'I'll get the guns and the radios.'

Kendrick nodded, then turned towards the window. Having grown
up with hurricanes, he'd barely paid attention to the storm raging
outside, but now he listened to the howling wind, and grew thoughtful.

'Do we have a chainsaw in the garage?'

'I think so.'

'Good. Bring that as well.'

There were half a dozen names on the list Nina gave him. Craig
recognised most of them. The first three had obviously been on
fishing expeditions. They were vague about the story they were
proposing to write, as though they'd heard something was in the
offing and wanted to see what he knew about it. He told them he
knew nothing.

The fourth was a Scottish woman, Sheila Naughton. She admitted
Alice Jones had come to her with an exclusive about the Chilton
massacre. Before she could ask him to comment, Craig jumped in
with his own question.

'Have you spoken to Julia Trent about this?'

Naughton was taken aback, but admitted she had. 'I talked to her
briefly this afternoon.'

'You didn't arrange to meet her, or get a colleague to meet her?'

'No. She put the phone down on me.' Exasperation quickly turned
to curiosity. 'Why?'

'It doesn't matter,' Craig said, and ended the call.

But it did matter. It meant Julia had gone to meet an impostor.

Nina was the other side of the room, radiating tension and hostility,
all thoughts of reconciliation apparently long gone. 'Well?'

'Julia's missing. I need to find her.'

Nina shook her head, as if Craig were guilty of some terrible lapse
of judgement. 'I told her to stay out of our lives. Maybe she's—'

Craig cut her short. 'You did what?'

Nina threw up her hands in despair. 'She's the problem, Craig.
Egging you on with this ridiculous obsession. I'm offering you a chance
to mend our relationship, and all you care about is running off into
the night to find that bloody woman.'

Craig was almost breathless with shock. It took him a few seconds
before he could speak. 'When? When did you tell her that?'

Nina reddened, sensing she was now on the back foot. 'This morning.
She rang after you'd gone out.'

Craig stared at her for a moment, feeling utterly betrayed, then
strode into the hall. Nina followed, hesitating in the doorway. She
watched him putting on his coat, her eyes shining with tears.

'You're overreacting,' she told him. 'She'll turn up somewhere.'

'Yeah, that's right,' Craig said. 'She might turn up the way Abby
Clark turned up. Dead.'

He opened the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

Julia's head cleared slowly. The heat from the exhaust became painful,
forcing her to curl up even tighter. She could hear little apart
from the barrage of rain on the bodywork, the hiss of tyres on wet
roads, the rumble of passing vehicles.

In the darkness she tried to assess her injury. She was cut just above
her right ear. She didn't think it was deep, although the blood was
matted and sticky in her hair. She had a thumping headache, but
other than that she felt okay.

Grimly she reflected on how she had been deceived. He'd sounded
so plausible on the phone. What he told her about Alice going to the
media made perfect sense after the call she'd had from Alice herself.
And the other caller, the Scottish woman, had also referred to it.

That part must be true, she deduced. Alice really had gone to a
newspaper, probably the one which employed the Scottish woman,
and the killer had been tipped off. It was perhaps no more than pure
chance that he had reached her before the genuine journalist.

She cursed. If she'd spoken to the woman first, she wouldn't be in
this predicament. After the near miss at Kate's hotel, and again at her
parents' cottage, he had finally got her. But who was he?

Not James Vilner. She and Craig had got that wrong. She wondered
what else they'd got wrong. Then she thought about Craig. If not for
Nina's outburst this morning, she probably would have asked him to
accompany her this evening. And then what . . . ?

It was pointless to speculate. It was done now, and it had to be
faced. She tried to dredge up the courage she'd found on 19 January.
Every second she stayed alive was a tiny victory
. Wasn't that what she
had told herself?

She said it again now. Said it over and over. But somehow it was
different this time. Deep down, she didn't believe it.

She believed she was going to die.

Just as he'd predicted to anyone who would listen, the meeting at
Scotland Yard achieved nothing. 'A six-hour wank session,' were his
exact words, and by the time he got home Sullivan's mood had only
worsened. Half his weekend already wasted, and now it was blowing
such a gale that even a stroll to his local pub didn't hold much appeal.

And despite spending much of the day tuning out the conference
while he pondered his own problems, he still hadn't formed a viable
plan to resolve them. During the breaks he'd made some calls and
discovered that Craig's journo buddy wasn't missing any more: she'd
been fished out of the Thames.

That was very bad news, and not just for her. It was getting much
harder to disregard what Craig had been telling him. There was something
big and bad going on here, almost certainly connected to the
massacre, and as he saw it, only one person could give him the answers
he needed.

It would be easier to do by phone, and because he'd had a long
day and it was such shitty weather, Sullivan was sorely tempted. But
it would be very unwise. With the stakes so high, only face-to-face
contact would suffice.

The other factor, which he thought less likely all the time but
couldn't quite abandon completely, was that he might persuade George
to cough up some cash while he was there. For if he had to summarise
his game plan right now, it basically amounted to
take the money and
run.

It took him less than twenty minutes to reach the farm. The biggest
challenge wasn't negotiating the narrow, storm-lashed roads. It was
controlling his excitement. In one day he'd outwitted his two most
dangerous opponents, and now he had both at his mercy.

Answering Vilner's phone had been a slightly impetuous act.
Probably not sensible to goad this man Kendrick when he knew so
little about him. Still, posing as a journalist had been a stroke of pure
genius. He had George to thank for warning him about Alice Jones.
It provided the perfect opportunity to lure Julia into a trap, safely away
from her home and the protection of her friends and neighbours.

Later he would return to the pub and dispose of her car. Before
that, there were many other tasks to complete. Some would be easy,
some extremely challenging. He was determined to enjoy them all,
especially the chance to make Julia suffer. Pay her back for the worry
she'd caused him, all the extra work she had forced him to do.

He pulled up outside the farmhouse. The path had turned into a
sea of mud. The wind was screaming through the trees, and it looked
as though one of the outbuildings had lost part of its roof. He had a
sense that he was poised on the brink of a supreme triumph, his destiny
about to be fulfilled. It seemed quite apt that a storm should be laid
on in his honour.

The car went through a series of sharp turns. Julia had to brace her
shoulders and feet against the sides of the boot to stop herself being
thrown about. A couple of minutes later she felt the car bumping over
an uneven surface. When it came to a stop, she had only a few seconds
to prepare for what lay ahead. She made a conscious decision not to
do anything rash. She felt weak and disorientated, in no state to take
him on.

He opened the boot. Rain blew in over her face and she blinked,
struggling to clear her vision as he loomed over her. He had discarded
the glasses; he looked younger and thinner, but no less threatening.
She could see in his eyes the arrogance of the man who had shot
Carl Forester at point blank range. The man who had tried to kill her
not once, but twice.

'Out!' he shouted, and stood back, pointing the gun at her.

She got to her knees and managed to climb out of the car. At first
she was surprised by the rural setting, but when she saw the old redbrick
farmhouse and the ramshackle outbuildings she had the first inkling
of where they were.

He slammed the boot and marched her towards the house. A couple
of times she stumbled on the muddy path, and in response he jabbed
her with the gun.

'Is this the farm?' she said when they got to the house. Without
answering, he bundled her inside. The internal doors were shut and
the hallway felt cramped and cold. There was an unpleasant smell
in the air. Something familiar. Something that reminded her of
Chilton's church on 19 January. Before she could identify it, a far
more powerful thought overwhelmed her.

'You killed my parents.'

He examined her closely. 'Why do you say that?'

'My father saw you with Carl, out in the woods. He put it in his diary.'
She could feel control of her voice slipping away, her throat closing up.
'That's what you were looking for yesterday morning. The diary.'

He smiled. 'Quite the detective, aren't you?'

'George Matheson must have told you about it,' Julia said. 'He was
the only one who knew.'

The killer tipped his head slightly, as if conceding the point. 'They
were a loose end,' he said. 'They had to be dealt with.'

It took her a few seconds to comprehend that he was referring to
her parents. He was admitting it. She shook her head, tears welling
in her eyes.

'Who are you?'

But he didn't answer. He grabbed her arm, opened the door to her
right and thrust her into a scene straight from hell.

At first she thought it was a pool, a shimmery blue surface, and the
man trussed up in the centre seemed to be floating adrift on it. By
her side there was a bucket containing some sort of pink, fleshy creature.
A starfish? The gleam of metal confused her and she looked
closer. It was a signet ring.

Her bile rising, she looked again at the man lying prisoner and
recognised James Vilner. She saw the bandages dark with blood where
his hands should have been, and knew then why the smell had
reminded her of the church.

'Oh my God.'

Her legs collapsed but the killer caught her, lowered her until she
was sitting against the wall. The plastic sheeting was cool and slippery.
Blood had pooled and dried in its creases. She rested her head
back and shut her eyes. This would go away if she wished it hard
enough. It would all go away.

The killer removed her coat and picked up a roll of packing tape.
He pulled her hands behind her back and bound her wrists together.
While he worked, Vilner began to stir. He was lying sideways on, his
legs tied with nylon cord. His head flopped in her direction, and
his eyes fluttered open. He regarded her with an expression she'd seen
on children suffering at the mercy of playground bullies:
Why me?

The killer noticed and said, 'I believe you've met Mr Vilner here.'

'What have you done to him?'

'He won't answer my questions.'

There was a noise from Vilner, an objection. 'Fucking . . . madman,'
he said. His voice was a hoarse whisper.

'You just have to admit it,' the killer said. Satisfied that Julia was
securely bound, he moved across to Vilner and used the nylon cord
to pull him into a sitting position. Vilner let out a howl of agony, his
arms hanging uselessly at his sides.

'Go on, then,' the killer said. 'Tell me. Why did Carl run into the
village?'

'I don't know.'

'Where did he get the gun? You gave it to him, didn't you? You're
Decipio?' The killer casually tapped one of the stumps, and Julia saw
fresh blood bloom through the bandages. This time Vilner made no
sound. He gritted his teeth and gave his tormentor a look of such pure
malevolence that even Julia flinched.

'I don't know . . . what you're talking about.'

'Very well. Was it Kendrick who tried to set me up?'

Julia frowned. Kendrick was the name that Abby had given to Craig.
She had no idea who or what Decipio was, and it seemed that neither
did Vilner.

The killer hunched forward and set to work, doing something to
Vilner's leg. Vilner jerked and kicked, but the killer swatted the other
wrist to subdue him. When he moved aside, Julia could see he'd tied
a tourniquet around Vilner's left ankle.

He picked up a large twin-bladed electric saw, caked with blood.

'Please,' Julia cried. 'He's told you he doesn't know. You must believe
him.'

The killer ignored her. He brought the saw down and stopped an
inch from Vilner's foot. Vilner stared at it and went rigid, the veins
standing out at his temples, sweat beading on his forehead and upper
lip. He began to talk rapidly, his dry lips smacking together between
each sentence.

'Kendrick's buying the company. From your uncle. Didn't want
you involved. Neither of them. Kendrick's using the massacre to force
a lower price. He got me to be go-between, to piss George off. He
knows about your debts. And the contract you offered me.'

'But if I'm cut out of the deal, you won't get the contract.'

'Kendrick promised me a nice commission either way. Fucking
scary, the way he operates. You're nuts . . . if you think you'll get away
with this.'

'Why should Kendrick care what happens to you? You were quite
prepared to double-cross him.'

Vilner grinned. 'I just hedged my bets. So much shit happening.
So many secret agendas.'

'And that's why you tried blackmailing my uncle? That's why you
barged into my apartment and threatened me
with a gun
?' His voice
rose to a screech on the last three words. The blade moved closer and
Julia screamed at him to stop, but the sudden shrill whine of the saw
made her appeal meaningless.

James Vilner was going to die, but he felt no fear.

For several hours he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness,
until he hardly knew the difference any more. He'd had all kinds of
visitors: his mother and father, holding hands like newly-weds. Several
of his lovers, standing shyly in a line. The first man he'd killed. He
greeted them all. Made peace with them all.

Now there was a woman in the room. She was familiar, but he
couldn't quite place her. She was attractive enough to be Louise, the
girl he was dating, so that's who she became. He was particularly glad
to see her.

The others were his past. Louise was his future.

He watched Toby bring the electric saw down on his right ankle
and he felt strangely calm. He knew there was pain, but it was like
watching an explosion from behind bombproof glass. It couldn't reach
him.

There wasn't much blood. Afterwards Toby picked up the foot, still
in its brown boot, and dropped it into a bucket. The woman went
white and vomited, and for the first time it occurred to Vilner that
maybe she wasn't a hallucination.

Toby said something to her, then turned back to Vilner. He looked
like a child denied his favourite treat.

'Just confess, and all this will be over. You're Decipio, aren't you?
You sent Carl into the village?'

Vilner shook his head. Afterwards the room drifted lazily back into
place.

'Tell me.' Toby showed him the gun in his hand. He aimed it at
Vilner's chest and said, 'Speak to me, you bastard.'

Vilner made a momentous effort, sucking up all the little strength
that remained and forcing it out in three tiny words.

'
Let her go
.'

Toby shook his head, leaning close enough to embrace him. 'Wrong
answer.'

Vilner felt the muzzle against his chest and knew this was the end.
Ignoring Toby, he gazed instead at the woman. Weeping, she met his
eye and he smiled, recognising a rare courage. He prayed she had a
better chance than him.

Not Louise
, he thought, as the pressure on the trigger nudged the
barrel a little closer to his heart.
Julia
.