by Tom Bale
'Why didn't the Caplans go to the police?'
'It was awkward. Carl had worked for me – and for them – for several years. For most of that time he'd been a satisfactory employee. We all agreed losing his job was punishment enough.'
'And I daresay you wanted to avoid the bad publicity?' Craig said.
'In fact, it was Laura Caplan who made the final decision. For Megan's sake.' He shut his eyes for a second. 'Not that it did either of them any good, ultimately.'
'How is Megan now?' Julia asked.
'On the Glasgow coma scale she scores seven, from which I understand she may survive and she may not. If she does, she may have serious brain damage, or she may not. We just don't know.'
As if that sombre note seemed a suitable place to conclude, he stood up. 'I understand how bitter you must both feel, but I'm afraid these allegations are ludicrous. I don't accept for a minute that Forester collaborated with anyone, and neither do the police.' To Julia, he added, 'I'm sure there's some other explanation for what you believe you saw.'
She didn't respond. Having kept her emotions in check for this long, she wasn't about to be goaded into tears. She got up and nodded at Craig to let it go. In her assessment the encounter had ended in a draw, which considering they were on hostile territory was a reasonably good result.
Walking to the door, she sensed Vilner's gaze on her, his stillness crowding the room like an oppressive weight. She felt her legs go weak and prayed they wouldn't buckle beneath her.
George accompanied them back across the hall. This time there were no handshakes, no pleasantries.
'It would be hypocritical of me to wish you luck,' he said as he opened the door. 'I can only say, I hope you know what you're doing.'
Forty-One
Julia felt little relief as the front door shut behind them. If anything, the crawling sensation of being watched intensified as she headed for the car. Checking behind her, she saw no one at the ground-floor windows.
Then she looked up, and gave a start.
'What is it?' said Craig.
She shook her head, spoke in a low voice. 'Upstairs window.'
Craig reached the Golf and took a casual glance at the house.
'Bloody hell.'
A ghostly figure stood at a window on the first floor. She wore a white gown and a sort of cowl over her hair. Her face was so pale it glowed, her dark eyes burning with intensity. She was staring straight at Julia, and when she saw them looking she gave no reaction. She didn't smile, or flinch, or turn away.
Julia got in the car and slammed her door shut. 'Who is that?'
'I think it's his wife. I saw her on 19 January.'
Julia shivered and hugged herself. 'At first I thought it was . . . I don't know. Not human.'
Craig grunted. He started the engine, then paused, his brow furrowed.
'I hope you know what you're doing,' he quoted. 'Does that sound like a threat to you?'
'Maybe, but right now I couldn't care less. I just want to get out of here.'
Vilner didn't wait for George to return to the drawing room, or whatever the hell it was called. He strode into the hall and caught George in a pose of utter despair, his forehead resting against the door as if he'd just tried to ram it.
'I'm leaving too,' Vilner said.
George sprang up, fighting a losing battle to conceal how stunned he was. Not the only losing battle in his life right now, Vilner suspected. By contrast, he thought he'd concealed his own reaction pretty well.
'You'll be briefing Kendrick?' George said.
'That's right.'
'I could make it worth your while to give him an abridged version.'
Vilner stared at him. A grin slowly lit up his face. 'Uh uh,' he said. 'I only back winners.'
George winced, exactly as if it had been a physical slap in the face. 'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' he said. 'It's a good offer, and I'm only making it once.'
'Don't waste your time, George,' a voice rang out. Thin and reedy, but projected with real determination. Vilner turned to see Vanessa Matheson at the top of the stairs. It was the first time he had seen her in the flesh, and she was nothing like the photos, most of which were years out of date. She looked terrifying: a gaunt spectre, so thin and light she was virtually floating above them. Her small black eyes drilled contempt right through him.
Vilner summoned a smile for her as he pulled the front door open. 'Good advice,' he said to George. 'I'd say you've got enough problems at the moment.'
He left without another word. Crossing the driveway, he reached for his mobile, then thought better of it. Phones were a risky form of communication, and mobiles were especially vulnerable. His conversation with Kendrick would have to wait.
Neither of them spoke as they drove along Hurst Lane. At the fork in the road Julia glanced along the track that led to the farm. There was a dark green Land Rover parked about a hundred yards away. She felt sure she'd seen it somewhere else today.
She considered mentioning it to Craig, but thought better of it. For one thing, it would initiate a conversation when what she craved was silence. And after being spooked by George's wife, she didn't want him to think she was paranoid.
They reached the village proper, where the day's contingent of tourists seemed to be packing up and leaving. It was almost four o'clock, the sun low in the sky, long shadows stretching like fingers across the green.
'I'm sorry you've got to drive me back,' Julia said, as Craig gave a slightly wistful glance at the Old Schoolhouse.
'It's the least I can do,' he said.
They followed a minibus past the shop and round the bend. Spotting a vacant parking bay outside her parents' cottage, Julia said, 'Can we stop a minute? I'd like to check on the house.'
'Sure.' Craig pulled in. 'Do you want me to come with you?'
Julia was searching her handbag for the right set of keys. It was tempting to say yes, but if she didn't find the courage to go in alone now, it would be even harder next time.
'No, I'll be fine.'
She got out of the car. Despite the fine weather, the temperature was rapidly falling. Could be in for a frost tonight, she thought, glancing at the row of cottages, their chimney pots and TV aerials silhouetted against an indigo sky. Light poured from the homes on each side, while the dark windows of her parents' house resembled missing teeth.
She slotted the key in the lock, picturing the night in December when she had found them dead. Her hand trembled until she got the better of it. She turned the key and thought: Peggy Forester's road.
That's where she had seen the Land Rover. Or one very like it.
She went inside and turned on the light. Waited a moment, just as she had done two months ago. The house felt empty, abandoned, but still she called, 'Hello?' As if her mother might call out from the kitchen – 'In here!' – and she'd go in to find Mum rolling pastry while her father fetched vegetables from the garden for the evening meal, and they could celebrate that nothing bad had happened because someone had found a way to roll back time . . .
Not going to happen.
She sniffed. The air felt stale and clammy. It was over a week since Neil had last checked on it, just before he returned to Cheshire. One of the neighbours had a key, but only for emergencies. In the living room the wallpaper was beginning to curl away from the corners, and she could smell the fusty, organic aroma of mould spores. If they didn't do something with the house soon it would be uninhabitable.
Before attempting the stairs, she rested for a minute. Without fully realising it, she had been putting on a front for Craig, and it was only now she appreciated how much it was taking out of her.
The next challenge was more emotional than physical: venturing into her parents' bedroom for the first time since their deaths. She could barely bring herself to look at the bed, but a large leatherbound diary on her father's bedside table caught her attention. For over forty years he had faithfully recorded the minutiae of his daily life, and there were whole b
oxes of them in the spare room, along with stacks of paperwork that would, sooner rather than later, need to be sorted out.
She picked up the diary and wiped dust off the cover with her elbow. She suddenly had a very clear recollection of herself as a child, going to kiss him goodnight as he sat at his desk. Sometimes she would read a little at his shoulder, frowning to make sense of his elegant squiggles, and once she had asked what he was doing. 'Capturing all the precious moments, so they're never forgotten,' he had told her. She had considered this, and asked, 'How do you know what's precious?'
Now she recalled his sad, wise reply: 'When enough years have passed, everything is precious.'
The Scotch was concealed in the rear footwell, behind the driver's seat. It sang to him the instant Julia went inside. He tried to ignore it, but held out for less than a minute.
One swig. Not even a full mouthful. That couldn't hurt. He'd had, what, a couple of pints at lunchtime? Still below the limit.
Craig wiped his mouth, savoured the burning in his throat, then found the Extra Strong Mints in the glove compartment and popped a couple into his mouth. Couldn't risk Julia smelling it on his breath.
He waited a couple more minutes, and was debating whether to have another sip when Julia emerged from the house. When she got in the car, he saw she was holding a diary.
She looked at him and sniffed. He thought he was busted, until he noticed the tears running down her face.
'You okay?' Without thinking, he reached out towards her. His fingers had almost touched her cheek when she twisted away. He withdrew his hand as though it had been burned.
'I'm fine.' She sniffed again. 'Why?'
'You're crying.'
She rubbed her cheeks, looking slightly incredulous, as though she hadn't been aware of it. Feeling embarrassed for her, he started the car and checked over his shoulder before pulling out. It had been a long, stressful day for both of them, but at least it was nearly over.
After Vilner left, George wearily climbed the stairs to join his wife. He was only fifty-six, but most of the time lately he felt about a hundred. He wondered if Toby was right. Perhaps he should take himself off to Antigua for a few months. To hell with the business, and Kendrick, and the rest of them. If it all fell apart while he was away, did it really matter? He had nothing left to prove, and scarcely anyone to prove it to.
Vanessa watched him approach. She was gripping the banister, shaking with the effort of remaining upright. Still she had this compulsion to push herself to the limit, no matter the toll it took on her. He didn't know whether to feel admiration or pity. He had tried both, and both had been met with scorn.
'How are you?'
'Dying,' she said. 'What's your excuse?'
He offered his arm, and she took it grudgingly. More and more now she was confined to her room, and he had arranged for private nurses to help care for her. Her doctor had suggested a hospice might be more comfortable for her last days or weeks, but Vanessa was adamant that she wanted to stay at home.
He helped her into bed, trying not to feel aggrieved by her intervention with Vilner. It was humiliating that she'd witnessed just how sordid his professional life had become.
Once she was settled, he sat beside her and recounted the visit, not sparing her any of the details. It felt surprisingly good to unburden himself: a sign that the bond between them, stretched thin by time and neglect, nonetheless remained. She was all he had left, and soon she would be gone.
'Vilner's presence has backfired,' he said. 'Now Kendrick will know exactly what type of trouble we're in.'
Vanessa ignored the veiled criticism of her decision. 'Do you believe their story?'
'That's hardly the point. Julia Trent believes it, and clearly she's convinced Walker. How much longer before other people start to fall for it?'
Her eyelids slipped shut, and she was silent for a long time. Perhaps mulling over the problem, or perhaps asleep. Reaching under the covers, he found her hand and wrapped it in his. It felt no bigger than a child's. The image brought tears to his eyes, imagining how it might have been to sit here as a father, reading a bedtime story in a room filled with toys and games instead of monitors and morphine.
Vanessa's eyes snapped open. She saw the tears and looked away, as if to spare him further indignity.
'If the allegations are true, do you think Kendrick had something to do with it?'
George sighed. 'I don't even want to think about that.'
'You'll have to warn Toby. It's not fair to leave him exposed.'
'But can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?'
'You let him take a copy of the report,' she reminded him.
He considered a moment. He went to ask her a question, but her eyes had closed and the tone of her breathing had changed. This time she was asleep, and she needed it. She needed to be left alone.
Just go, a voice in his head urged him. Run away now. Before it all gets a lot worse.
But he knew he wouldn't.
Forty-Two
The drive back was slow and fraught. There was no easy route across country, and almost immediately they became entangled in a mix of school-run and early commuter traffic.
'Don't know why they call it the rush hour,' Craig grumbled. 'It starts at three and lasts till eight.'
'Overpopulation,' said Julia. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
'He won't give up. A few years from now there'll be housing estates all round Chilton.'
'Don't be a pessimist.' She thought about George's comment: I don't necessarily intend anything of the sort. Had she detected the emphasis on I, or was it her imagination?
Craig said, 'What did you make of him?'
'I'm not sure. I think he already knew about the police report. His initial surprise was because we've got a copy, but he was faking his reaction to the content.'
'I thought so, too. I wonder how he got hold of it.'
'Same way you did, I suppose. A connection in the police.'
'That's a worrying thought,' Craig said.
'I didn't realise you were going to tell him about the second killer.'
'I wanted to see how he reacted.'
'He seemed genuinely upset when he was talking about the Caplans. That would be quite a challenge to feign, if he was the one who killed them.'
Craig scowled. 'I'm not suggesting he did it himself. He'll have hired someone.'
'What? A hit man?'
'Yeah.'
'Then why involve Carl? Why not just get the hit man to kill everyone?'
'Because it raises too many unanswered questions. Sooner or later the police would discover that Matheson had the perfect motive. This way the answer was served to them on a plate. Some maladjusted loner with a grudge goes on the rampage and then kills himself. A nice tidy conclusion. No need to look any further. No need to think about who benefits.'
She considered this for a moment. She had a feeling they were thinking the same thing. Then Craig said, 'That other guy. Vilner.'
Julia gripped the diary close, worrying at a loose flap of leather in the corner. He sent her a look. Testing the water before he said it.
'Could it have been him?'
She didn't answer for a long time. They were approaching the small town of Battle. Ahead of them the traffic was slowing again, a chain of red lights flashing in the darkness.
'Maybe,' she said.
As they drove into Battle, Craig suggested they stop and grab a drink. He got the feeling Julia only agreed out of politeness.
They found a tea room still open on the High Street, close to the abbey. Craig ordered coffee and a bacon sandwich; Julia a pot of tea. When she got up to use the toilet, Craig asked if he could borrow her mobile. 'The person I'm calling is avoiding me,' he explained.
He looked up the number on his own phone and dialled it on Julia's. While it rang, he looked around the café. It was a small, tidy place, picturebook pretty and slightly twee, but exactly in keeping with its location. And it wasn't lice
nsed, which was probably a good thing.
Abby picked up with an uncertain 'Hello?'
'You haven't been answering my calls.'
'Craig, I'm really sorry. I didn't—'
'I know, I know. Your editor talked you into it, you had no idea of the trouble it would cause, blah blah blah. That's not why I called. I need a favour.'
There was a pause while Abby registered that she'd been forgiven, albeit with strings attached. In the background he could hear soft music, then a woman's voice. He heard Abby draw away from the phone and mention his name.
'Okay,' she said to him. 'What is it?'
'Will you find out everything you can about a man called James Vilner? He's in his late thirties, supposedly some kind of businessman.'
'Supposedly?'
'If he's in business, it's likely to be of the illegal variety.' He gave her a brief description. 'He has a Northern accent, but I imagine he's based in London or the South East.'
'And what's your interest in him?'
Craig smiled to himself. He didn't have to tell her, but he knew the truth would be a great motivator. 'He's an associate of George Matheson's.'
Another pause. When Abby spoke, she made a bad job of concealing her interest. 'Can I use what I find?'
'I wouldn't expect anything else.'
Abby winced. 'I suppose I deserve that. I'll get started on it tonight.'
The killer saw them park and set off on foot. He was glad of the chance to stop and regroup. He could see all manner of opportunities opening up, but to exploit them fully he had to do some preparation.
He drove back to the petrol station he'd just passed and bought fuel. Then he returned to the car park and pulled up in sight of Walker's Golf. There was a supermarket adjoining the car park. It took him less than five minutes to buy what he needed.
He drank some water and ate a cheese and pickle sandwich. The bread was dry and the cheese was sweaty, but he didn't care. He had brought chocolate as well. He needed calories. There was still a lot to do. He felt tired but elated. It had been a long and busy day, but an extremely productive one.