by Tom Bale
Back in the car, he took off his fake glasses and removed the padding under his shirt. He wiped his face, then picked up Vilner's phone again. One missed call, it said. He found the number and stared at the name in the display.
Then he started the engine. It wasn't yet seven-thirty, on one of the longest, most demanding days of his life, and there was still a lot to do. But phase one was complete.
Mission accomplished.
Sixty-Six
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.
Sixty-Seven
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.
Sixty-Eight
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.