Skin and Bones

by Tom Bale

  '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.

  Sixty-Nine

  Craig drove to Lewes first. It was a frustrating journey, all the more so when it proved fruitless. Julia's car was nowhere in sight, and she didn't answer her doorbell. He managed to rouse one of her neighbours, who let him into the building, and together they stood at Julia's door, knocking and calling for several minutes.

  He returned to his car, musing over what he knew. He was satisfied Sheila Naughton had told the truth. Perhaps one of her rivals had got wind of the story, and was fooling Julia for his or her own purposes, but Craig didn't think so. Julia had been deceived by someone with far more sinister motives.

  If it was the second killer, and the killer was Toby Harman, he had somehow acquired enough inside knowledge to appear convincing. It was evident from what little the other reporters knew that the story had been kept tightly under wraps. So how had he known about Alice?

  It was now gone eight o'clock. The rain had eased off slightly, but the wind was as ferocious as ever. The radio had reported an overturned lorry on an exposed section of the A27 near Lancing, and there were trees down across the South East. Driving into the wind, Craig had to press the accelerator to the floor just to do thirty or forty miles an hour.

  He decided to head for Chilton. If nothing else, he could check out her parents' cottage. If she wasn't there, he really only had one option left.

  On the B2112 a fallen branch had partially blocked the road. Craig swerved round it and had a brief flashback to his accident on Wednesday night. Thank God he'd stayed sober tonight.

  He pulled up by the cottage, got out and hammered on the door. While he was waiting, a roof tile shattered in the road a few feet from his hire car. A curtain twitched next door and he glimpsed a pale face, staring at him as though he was mad.

  Perhaps I am, he tho
ught. Anyone with a scrap of sense was indoors. He jumped back in the car and drove along the High Street. Something came flying at him out of the darkness and splattered against the windscreen: a sodden bouquet of flowers. The floral tributes had been blasted all across the green, and the pond was frothing like a miniature sea. Only the yew tree seemed immune, the slow nod and sway of its huge limbs managing to convey a kind of dignity.

  Hurst Lane was full of debris, but by now Craig had ceased caring what happened to the car. He skidded to a halt at the entrance to Chilton Manor.

  'It's Craig Walker,' he yelled. 'Let me in.'

  No answer, but the gates began to move apart in sluggish jerks. As soon as the gap was wide enough he floored the accelerator and raced along the driveway, feeling slightly disconcerted that George had let him in so willingly.

  A security light illuminated his way up the steps. George Matheson opened the door, looking a decade older than the last time Craig saw him. He was unshaven, his hair untidy, and he wore a saggy cream cardigan. He had the demeanour of a bewildered old man with nothing ahead of him but loneliness and death.

  In contrast, Craig was fast and strong and angry. He wanted answers and he was determined to get them. He barged into the house and saw George recoil, as if expecting to be assaulted.

  'What have you done to her?' he demanded.

  Vilner was dead. At the final moment it was almost a relief to know his torment was ended. The suffering he'd experienced would be forever seared in Julia's memory. The dig and spit of the saw on bone. The stench of blood and burning flesh. The boom of the gunshot and the sick dizzy silence that followed, as though even the storm had been cowed into retreat.

  Toby sat back on the plastic. His posture relaxed, and he turned to face her, tired but elated, his mouth half open, his wet tongue lolling like a dog's. She felt his gaze on her skin, burning through her clothes, and knew he had rape on his mind. She had to distract him.

  'Vilner was telling you the truth,' she said. 'There's no way he could have lied to you. He's not who you think he is.' And you're not who we thought you were. She and Craig had got it wrong, and for that she might end up paying with her life.

  'You're Toby Harman?' she said. 'George's nephew?'

  He nodded, still staring at her body, a preoccupied smile on his face.

  'Why did you kill my parents?'

  Now he met her eye. 'Like you said, they saw us in the woods.'

  'So you sabotaged the boiler?'

  The pain in her voice seemed to fire his enthusiasm, as if she had enquired about an unusual hobby.

  'It was an interesting challenge. I went in several times when they were out, to look at the system and see how to block the flue. Then I let myself in after they'd gone to bed and put the heating on. The first night one of them must have woken up and turned it off. So I had to go in again the next night.' A smile bloomed in his eyes. 'The next night, they didn't wake up.'

  She shut her eyes. She could feel something deep inside her curl up and die. She wanted to collapse with grief, or scream and sob out her pain, but she forced herself to stay in control. There was something she wanted even more than that. More than anything. That's what she had to concentrate on.

  When she opened her eyes he had edged closer. He was curious, waiting to be entertained. She remembered her mantra: Every second she stayed alive . . .

  'Why kill them before the massacre? Why not let Carl do it for you?'

  'He was unreliable.' From the way he scowled, Julia knew she'd hit on a sore point. It provoked an understanding so powerful that she gasped.

  'It was a mistake, wasn't it?'

  'What?' He blinked rapidly, like a nervous tic.

  'The massacre. You didn't plan it at all.' She reached back to the moment when the second killer marched on to the green, recalling how at first his determination had seemed to offer hope. He'd been angry when he said: What the hell are you doing with that? Then the abrupt change of mood: the high five, Carl's whoop of celebration. That was Toby wisely playing along, until he could get hold of the gun.

  'He got away from you. He wasn't supposed to be in the village at all.'

  The accusation carried a physical force, changing the dynamic between them. She saw the truth in Toby's eyes, and drew strength from it.

  'But you couldn't stop him, because he had the handgun. I didn't understand what you meant at the time, but you were asking him about the Walther.' She dredged up all the contempt she could muster. 'Those people died because Carl went crazy and you were just too cowardly, too weak to stop him?'

  He moved with astonishing speed, hitting her in the face. An openhanded blow, but delivered with a lot of strength. She hit the back of her head on the wall and cried out. She could taste blood in her mouth. One of her teeth had come loose.

  Taking her by the arm, he dragged her up and into the hall. The wind bellowed overhead and there was a distant crash, like a cry for help. The whole house shook, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps they weren't alone. When she spoke, she couldn't keep the fear from her voice.

  'Where are we going?'

  'Upstairs,' he snarled. 'To the bedroom.'

  Seventy

  Craig repeated the question. 'What have you done to her?'

  Quickly regaining his composure, George was equally forthright. 'I've no idea what you mean. How dare you come barging in here.'

  'Julia's gone missing. Just like Abby Clark.'

  'Who the hell is Abby Clark?'

  'Don't give me that.'

  George sighed. 'Let's discuss this like grown men, shall we?'

  Reluctantly, Craig followed him into the sitting room. The curtains weren't yet drawn, and the security light revealed a glittering torrent of rain falling almost horizontally. While Craig described Julia's message and his attempts to contact her, George poured himself a brandy. The sight of it caused a pang of longing, but when offered a drink, Craig shook his head. The exterior light snapped off and the tumult beyond the house ceased to exist.

  'Let me see if I understand you,' George said, settling into an armchair. 'You believe Julia was enticed to a meeting with someone posing as a journalist?'

  'It's the second killer. But to do it, he had to know about Alice Jones.' He paused a moment. 'You have a police insider, don't you? DI Sullivan.'

  George couldn't close down his reaction quickly enough: he flinched.

  'I'll take that as a yes. He gave you a copy of the report.'

  'What of it?' said George. 'The report was leaked to you as well. It doesn't make either of us complicit in the massacre.'

  A fair point, which Craig chose to ignore. 'Did Sullivan tell you what Alice Jones was doing?'

  George stared morosely into his glass, as though fearing what it would cost to answer truthfully. 'He rang me this morning.'

  Before or after I saw him? Craig wondered. He said, 'And who did you tell?'

  George gave him a sharp look. 'You really think she's been kidnapped by the other gunman? Carl's conspirator?'

  Craig nodded. 'I'm glad you agree there was a second killer.'

  'I thought it was ludicrous at first. But now . . . I accept it's a possibility.'

  'And if the massacre wasn't just Carl venting his rage, what do you suppose was the real motive?'

  George shook his head, as if this was further than he could go. Craig kept up the pressure. 'Your nephew, where does he live?'

  'Toby? He has an apartment in London. Why?'

  'He owes money to Vilner?'

  George's face clouded with shame. 'Gambling debts. That's how Vilner ingratiated himself in our affairs.'

  'So Toby needs the development to go ahead, even more than you do?'

  'We've been over this ground before,' said George wearily. 'It's a matter of debate whether the massacre has helped or hindered the application. More importantly, I don't believe anyone would commit murder on that scale just to smooth the way for a housing development. Certainly not my nephew.'

  'Not
even with millions at stake?'

  'No.' George sounded emphatic, but Craig saw doubt in his eyes.

  'Where does Kendrick fit into all this?'

  'What do you know about Kendrick?'

  'Very little. Abby Clarke, a friend of mine, was investigating him. The police recovered her body from the Thames this morning. And I've had an anonymous threat that my children will be harmed if I talk to the police.'

  George blanched. 'I told you,' he said. 'I tried to warn you of the risks you were taking.'

  Craig stood up. 'Is that an admission of guilt?'

  'Absolutely not. But when you pry into matters that don't concern you, there's no telling what the consequences will be. Your friend might have stumbled on something quite unrelated.'

  'What is Kendrick, then? A criminal?'

  'What is Kendrick?' George repeated softly. 'You might well ask. On the surface he's a businessman from Trinidad. He inherited his father's empire, such as it was, and made a great success of it. I wouldn't be surprised if some of his tactics were rather . . . unorthodox.' His eyes lost focus as he looked inward, and shuddered.

  'What does he want with you?' Craig asked.

  There was a strange sound, something between a cough and a laugh, and it took Craig a moment to realise it hadn't issued from George. He turned to see a spectral figure in the doorway, gripping a walking stick. This was the face at the upstairs window on Wednesday afternoon, and Julia had been right. At first glance it didn't look quite human.

  George followed his gaze and gasped, half rising to his feet. But it was left to Vanessa Matheson to answer Craig's question.

  'He wants everything.'

  He made her climb the stairs ahead of him, jabbing the gun in her back when she faltered. With her hands bound behind her, Julia had to work hard not to stumble.

  Rather than contemplate what he might do to her, she thought about the admissions she had forced from him. Ultimately it might be of no help, but she wanted to know. She wanted to understand.

  On the landing she stopped, taking in the worn carpet and faded wallpaper. Yellowing gloss paint on the skirting and doorframes. There was something sad about this house. Unloved.