by Tom Bale
Wiping her cheeks, Julia got up and opened the door.
'I'm okay,' she said. 'Really.'
'You don't look it.' Kate hesitated, then said, 'I don't know if I should tell you this . . .'
'It's all right. I've already spoken to him.'
Kate's gaze shifted from Julia to the bed, where the report still lay open, then back to Julia. She was bursting with questions, but to her credit all she said was: 'He's in the car park.'
He was waiting in a black VW Golf. Julia felt slightly irritated to see him sitting there, as if he had known she would have to seek him out, but there seemed little point in snubbing him. He might just come back tomorrow or, worse still, leak her whereabouts to the media.
This time she'd brought the walking stick with her. She was reluctant because she didn't like the assumptions people made when they saw it. But he'd already seen her using it in Rye, and more importantly a voice of caution warned against getting into his car.
He opened his window, his smile fading as he registered her sombre expression.
'There's a café just down the road,' she said. 'Shall we go there?'
'Fine.' He went to put his seatbelt on.
'I'd prefer to walk.'
'Sure?' He glanced at the walking stick. 'Wouldn't it be easier by car?'
'Maybe. But I'd like to walk.'
He gave her a look, as though he might object, then thought better of it. 'Sure.'
Bringing the laptop bag with him, he followed Julia out of the car park. It was a short journey on level ground, and with the aid of the stick she was able to keep up a fairly brisk pace. She didn't want him feeling he had to dawdle for her sake.
The pavement was narrow, with a covering of sand deposited by winter storms, and once or twice his arm brushed against hers as they walked. Remembering her earlier panic in Rye, she was impressed that it didn't make her flinch.
The café was a grim single-storey building on the edge of a large car park serving the beach. Next to it were a couple of shops selling beachware and tourist tat, but they were locked up and shuttered for the winter. Inside the café there was only one table occupied, an elderly couple quietly bickering in the corner. Julia and Craig sat down in the opposite corner and ordered coffees from a surly teenage girl.
Julia had brought the report with her, and the envelope now lay on the table between them.
'It must have been painful to read,' Craig said.
She was tempted to answer glibly: Not as painful as living it. But she wasn't entirely sure that was true. She tore open a sachet of sugar, poured it into her coffee and stirred for longer than was necessary.
'That last section must have really pissed you off.'
She frowned. 'Actually, I didn't . . . By then I was just skimming it.'
He upended the envelope and the report slid on to the table. Julia had to struggle not to recoil from it. She watched him flick through the pages. His hands were large but smooth, the nails neatly trimmed except for those on his thumbs, which were bitten ragged.
'Here it is,' he said, tapping the relevant paragraphs.
It was nearly two weeks before detectives were permitted to question the last of Forester's victims, Julia Trent. During interviews she was highly emotional and her recollection was often flawed and inconsistent. Fortunately her description of Forester's pursuit on to the village green can be partially corroborated by Alice Jones, who was the last witness to see Forester alive.
However, Trent also made a number of allegations about the involvement of another person in the shootings. No evidence could be found to support these allegations, either in terms of forensic evidence at the scene or from witnesses such as Alice Jones or the other surviving residents of the village. In addition to her ordeal on 19 January, it must be remembered that Ms Trent suffered the loss of her parents in a domestic accident in December 2007, and this no doubt contributed to her fragile mental state.
It is therefore the conclusion of the senior investigating officer that Carl Forester, acting alone and for reasons known only to him, attacked a total of eighteen people, killing fourteen and injuring four, before taking his own life.
'There you go, then,' Julia said. 'It's a wonder they didn't just cart me off to the nuthouse.'
Craig looked away, developing a tactful fascination with his own drink. 'Maybe this is too soon,' he said.
Julia put her coffee down and dug in her bag for a tissue. She blew her nose loudly, then let out a long sigh.
'I don't know what to think any more. By the time the interview finished, they almost had me believing I was a madwoman.'
'What did you tell them, exactly?'
Julia looked at him. He was leaning forward, close enough for her to catch the smell of mints on his breath. It made her conscious that she'd eaten a tuna sandwich. She leaned back in her seat, giving the impression she was much more relaxed than she felt.
'Do you really want to know?'
He nodded. Quite vehement. She thought again of the detective's warning: Don't breathe a word of this.
She glanced at the report. During interviews she was highly emotional and her recollection was often flawed and inconsistent.
Fuck you, she thought.
So she told him.
Thirty-Three
Toby Harman owned a BMW M6, courtesy of his uncle. The journey to Sussex was a perfect opportunity to open it up, but today he just couldn't summon the kind of carefree attitude the drive required. George had sounded troubled on the phone. He wouldn't say why he wanted to see Toby, but it was unlikely to be good news.
After education at a minor public school in West Sussex, Toby had gone to Durham University and scraped a 2:2 in Ancient History. Almost immediately he'd been set to work in his uncle's organisation, embarking on an individually tailored training scheme that would see him move between different companies and departments over a period of years, in order to fully understand and gain experience of working at every level, before taking his place amongst the senior management team.
In practice, it hadn't quite worked out like that. For one thing, Toby was easily bored or distracted, and the training role wasn't sufficiently challenging to hold his interest. There were other problems as well, often involving female colleagues. Getting caught having sex in the boardroom didn't go down terribly well with his uncle.
Then there were the issues with timekeeping. He saw no good reason to adhere to the nine-to-five rigidity imposed on the rest of the workforce. Everyone knew he was different, and there was no point pretending otherwise. If he wanted to come in at eleven after a particularly late night at a casino, why shouldn't he?
His finances were another constant source of tension. On one occasion, after he'd persistently siphoned the petty cash at a manufacturing firm, George had threatened not just to sack him, but to prosecute him for theft.
From that point, Toby agreed to mend his ways, in return for a higher degree of involvement. He was given a couple of directorships, and allowed to concentrate his energies on the one area that truly interested him: property development. So far it had been a mixed success, complicated by the fact that he'd been unable to kick the gambling habit. He fully expected today's meeting to involve yet another reading of the riot act.
He left the A23 at Hickstead, skirted around Burgess Hill and headed into the countryside of East Sussex. The Downs loomed over him, and the shadows of trees scurried across the windscreen. He always found the lush greenery faintly unsettling. He preferred a world of tarmac and concrete and steel.
As he drove through Chilton he caught a flash of light. For a moment it looked like the yew tree was on fire. With a start he realised it was sunlight reflecting on cellophane, wrapped around the dozens of bouquets and wreaths that had been left at the site. He kept his gaze on the road ahead, ignoring the sightseers who roamed the green. Worthless scum, the lot of them.
He turned into Hurst Lane, reaching for the remote-control key fob that opened the gates. He mistimed it sligh
tly, and had to wait a few seconds, the car pulsing forward on the accelerator until the gap was wide enough. Then he gunned the engine and roared up the drive, spraying gravel in his wake.
George was waiting for him in front of the double doors. He was dressed in grey slacks and a blue jacket, his hand delving into one pocket in a faux-regal pose. He frowned as the BMW slewed to a halt, and when Toby got out of the car the first thing he said was: 'Show a little respect, would you?'
* * *
Despite protestations from Craig, Julia insisted on getting up to order more coffee. She wanted to prove she wasn't useless, that she could walk without the stick.
When she came back to the table Craig still looked stunned. She had watched his jaw drop with each new revelation. He hadn't interrupted or bombarded her with questions. Better still, he hadn't looked even slightly sceptical.
'I thought there was probably a conspiracy,' he said at last. 'But I hadn't dreamed it would be something like this. I can see why the police dismissed it.'
'Because it's so far-fetched?'
'No. Because it's untidy. According to my source, the only thing they can't figure out is where Carl got the pistol. Pretty soon they're just going to forget it. They want this wrapped up.'
'To be fair, I wasn't the most convincing of witnesses. And the way it happened, the second killer probably didn't leave any evidence.'
'Which means he's got away with it,' Craig said. 'He's out there somewhere now, walking around scot-free.'
Julia shivered. 'Don't remind me.'
'I couldn't understand why Carl stole the shotgun from Chilton Manor,' he said. 'If there were two men, that explains it.'
'But if he'd got one gun from the Russian mafia, or whoever it was, couldn't he have got two?'
Craig paused, then nodded reluctantly. 'True. There's still a lot that doesn't make sense.'
'Perhaps it's unrealistic to try. The actions of a man like Forester can't be analysed rationally.'
'If he'd acted alone, I'd agree with you. But he didn't, did he?' There was a challenge in his voice that she found disturbing.
'We don't know.'
'Well, it looks like—' He stopped abruptly. 'Tell me you're not doubting it?'
Julia felt herself blush. 'No. I just . . . I'm not sure what to make of your reaction.'
'What do you mean?'
'You've accepted it so readily.' She gestured at the report. 'I don't want to find you're one of those conspiracy theorists, obsessed with hidden meanings that aren't there. Someone who can't accept that, sometimes, bad things just happen for no reason.'
Unbidden, an image of her parents' bodies flashed through her mind.
'So because I believe you, that makes me a nut?' He laughed, but there was a bitter edge to it.
'Seeing it there in black and white, who's to say my memory is any more reliable than the official version?'
'Okay. Carl Forester killed himself. Simple as that.' He pulled the report away from her and picked it up. He looked as though he was going to storm out of the café, and Julia felt a surge of disappointment. She'd just alienated the only person who believed in her.
'But if that's the case,' he went on, 'why did you panic when you saw me in Rye?'
'You might have been a reporter.'
'Crap. You thought I was the other killer. That's why I wrote the message in the sand, and that's what persuaded you to talk to me.'
She cleared her throat. 'It wasn't just that. There was another reason why I reacted the way I did.' She hesitated again, aware that she didn't owe him an explanation. At the same time, she was reluctant to let him make a false assumption. 'I was attacked in the street when I was nineteen. Someone tried to rape me.'
Craig sat up with a jolt. 'Oh Christ. I'm sorry.'
'You weren't to know.'
'What happened?'
'I was out with friends in Brighton on New Year's Eve. I'd had quite a lot to drink, but it was one of those nights when the alcohol and the partying just weren't having an effect. You know how sometimes you just can't get into the mood?'
Craig smiled. 'Only too well.'
'This guy had hit on me at the bar. Rubbed himself against me and made a few obscene suggestions. I told him to get lost. A bit later I had a silly argument with one of my friends over something really trivial, so I decided to leave early and walk home. In those days my parents lived in Hove, less than a mile from the pub. It was about ten to midnight, and of course the streets were almost deserted. I didn't realise I was being followed until I heard footsteps. Someone grabbed me round the neck and pulled me into the gardens near Palmeira Square.'
'The man from the pub?'
'I think so. He wrestled me to the ground and started pulling at my clothes. He said he had a knife, and he'd kill me if I didn't lie still.'
Craig said nothing. Julia cleared her throat again.
'At first I froze. I was so terrified, I was all set to obey him, let him rape me. And then I heard a woman laughing, very close by, and I thought: This is crazy. How can he do this to me when there are people walking past, just a few feet away? So I screamed and kicked and fought him off.' She snorted. 'I think I caught him in the groin. He ran away and the people I'd heard found me and called the police.'
'Was he caught?'
She shook her head. 'I couldn't give a very detailed description. Even in the pub I hadn't really seen him properly. You know what it's like when you're all crushed together at the bar. And in those days there weren't CCTV cameras everywhere like there are now. But a year or two later I read about a man who'd been convicted of murdering his girlfriend, and when I saw his picture I was fairly sure it was him.'
'It's terrible that he wasn't brought to justice for your attack.'
'Me and God knows how many others.' She shrugged. 'Actually, at the time I was almost relieved. The idea of having to relive the experience under cross-examination seemed even worse than the original attack. But the key moment was when I went back to university. For a week or two I hardly left my room. I was a bundle of nerves, jumping out of my skin at every noise, every shadow.
'And then one day I came to my senses. I knew I had a simple choice. Either I was going to let this incident define me and destroy my life, or I was going to put it behind me and move on.'
Craig nodded. 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.'
'Exactly. So I started pushing myself to do things I wouldn't have done before the attack. I exercised a lot more, got in really good shape. Took a self-defence class. I went out on my own, even late at night, almost daring something to happen because this time I was going to prove I could handle it. I chose to be a survivor, and I'm convinced that's what helped me get through on 19 January.'
Craig chose his response carefully. 'I'm sure it did. But isn't that even more reason not to give up now?'
'I haven't given up. I was just pointing out that we're in a pretty hopeless position. We can't prove the police are wrong. We can't prove the second killer exists.'
Craig appeared to listen sympathetically, but there was a sly look on his face.
'Maybe we can.'
Thirty-Four
The two men climbed the stairs and entered George's office. Their footsteps echoed on the polished oak floorboards, emphasising the lack of life and spirit in the cavernous old house. As they reached the door, Toby thought he could make out the faintest strains of classical music from the far end of the hall.
'Is Vanessa here?'
'London,' said George.
Toby made no comment. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen his aunt, and he wasn't particularly sorry. He was the bastard son of Vanessa's younger sister, a drug-addled dropout who had died when Toby was seventeen, and as such he'd always carried with him the taint of failure and disgrace. Except on one notable occasion, Vanessa had always been careful to keep him at a distance.
The office was a large room with windows on two sides and floorto- ceiling shelves on the other two. One end was dom
inated by George's desk and chair, both crafted to order from reclaimed timbers salvaged from a folly that had once stood in the manor grounds. George took his seat with all the satisfaction of a monarch settling on his throne.
Toby went straight for the Jura coffee machine and made himself an espresso with three sugars. Deciding that he didn't want to sit opposite George like some hapless candidate at a job interview, he sank on to one of the leather sofas at the other end of the room. He was surprised to see George had a glass of sherry on the go. The old man didn't usually drink during the day.
'Heard anything from your friend Vilner?' George began, speaking as if shouldering a heavy burden.
'Not lately. Why?'
'No reason. What about settling your debts? Any progress?'
'Look, I have every intention of getting my finances straight.' Toby gestured unhappily towards the tall sash windows and the land beyond. 'If this was cleared, it would all be resolved overnight.'
'What do you mean?'
'The plans for the village. We agreed I'd come in as an equity partner.'
George looked bemused. 'Funded by . . . ?'
'Well, it would have been funded by last year's loan.'
'Which you frittered away on God knows what.'
'That's because the project was shelved. I have to live, you know.'
'You get eighty grand a year from the directorships,' George reminded him. 'For which you do, let's face it, sod all.'
'That's not true. Give me a serious stake this time and I'll work my balls off.'
'I've heard that before. In any case, it could be years away, if it happens at all.'
Toby frowned. It wasn't like George to be so negative. 'You're still buying up the empty homes?'
'I've made offers to the executors,' George corrected him. 'Some of the survivors are undecided whether to stay or sell, but I've made it clear I'll arrange a quick cash purchase, if that's what they want.' He saw Toby's expression and looked aggrieved. 'It's the least I can do to help. Otherwise those properties might be virtually impossible to sell.'
'Exactly. No one will want to live in Chilton now. So why not go one better? Buy up the village and then demolish the place. Stick up a nice memorial and build a completely new town next door.'