by Tom Bale
She expected to fall into a prickly but yielding hedge. Instead her shoulder struck something solid. A wooden gate. In desperation she hauled herself up and slithered over, falling out of sight just as the Jeep rumbled past.
Squinting at the ghostly forms of plants and bushes, she sought out the contours of the building and finally understood where fate had directed her.
The Old Schoolhouse.
* * *
It took Toby less than a minute to pull the dead bodies from the Jeep. There was blood all over the driver's seat and steering wheel, but this was no time to be squeamish.
The big 4x4 was unfamiliar. He stalled it once as he made a threepoint turn, then stamped on the accelerator and was nearly pitched out of his seat when the front wheels bounced over the rutted track.
He felt sure Julia would be heading for the village. Setting off after her, he had a flashback to 19 January, when he'd watched helplessly as Carl went loping along the lane with the shotgun on his back and a newly acquired pistol in his hand. Although Toby had been horrified by the unexpected turn of events, hadn't he secretly exulted in the devastation that Carl was sure to leave in his wake?
The answer was yes. He had felt it then, and he felt it again now, as he rolled into Chilton and drew up between the green and the church. There was no one in sight. Then he saw something that made him smile. The BT box had been vandalised, just as it had been in January. Kendrick had made sure the phones were cut off.
Toby imagined the mindset of the remaining residents. In the midst of a ferocious storm, finding their phones were dead, would anyone really open their door to an unexpected caller? After everything they'd been through, would they want to help a stranger in trouble?
'No,' he said aloud. No chance at all.
So where had she gone?
'Vanessa was right, wasn't she?' said Craig. 'You supplied Carl with the handgun, the silencer. Was the massacre your idea? Did you send him into the village?'
'Those are not questions you should ask,' Kendrick warned him.
'But it achieved what you wanted?'
Kendrick's snort was answer enough.
'So why are you here now?' Craig said.
'Because Toby fucked up, and so did Vilner. They've made a mess which I'll have to clear up.'
'You'll never get away with this.'
Kendrick laughed, and said cryptically, 'I know the man I am, and I think I will.' His radio squawked. This time he didn't bother turning away. Craig heard every word.
'Yes?'
'We're at the farmhouse. Jacques and Barrett are dead, and the Jeep's gone. I reckon we just missed him.'
'He won't have got past the roadblock,' Kendrick said. 'Load the bodies into your car, then go and find him.'
Craig kept his expression neutral. Kendrick's face was flushed with anger. He threw himself down on a sofa and glowered at the ceiling. The wind pushed at the windows with a low groaning sound, and the lights dimmed for a second or two. Craig tensed, ready to spring, but the lights recovered.
Having Toby on the loose was a mixed blessing. It was keeping Kendrick preoccupied, and probably the reason he and George were still alive. On the other hand, he was desperately afraid for Julia. How much longer could she stay out of Toby's reach?
Julia bent low and hurried across the garden. Broken tiles littered the lawn. The TV aerial was hanging by its cable, halfway down the roof. The back door was locked, and a quick search of the surrounding area revealed no obvious hiding place for a key. She considered knocking, but the house was dark and clearly unoccupied. Craig must be in Crawley, safe at home with his wife and his children. He probably hadn't even realised Julia was missing yet.
She searched for a fragment of tile to break a pane of glass in the door. She waited for a strong gust of wind to mask the noise, and tried to cover her hand with her sleeve. The glass shattered on her first attempt, and at the same time another tile slid from the roof and exploded right at her feet. Her yelp of alarm was snatched away and lost in the night.
She reached in and felt for the latch. As the door swung open she was aware of an approaching engine. She ducked inside and knelt on the kitchen floor as another big four-wheel drive went past. A vivid spasm of pain shot through her stomach and made her curl up tight. Bright spots danced in front of her eyes, and nausea rose in her chest.
It was nearly a minute before it subsided enough for her to stand up. As she did, a wave of vertigo sent her clinging to the kitchen units, the roaring gale completing the illusion that she was on the deck of a ship, pitching through the ocean. She was desperate to lie down, desperate to close her eyes and blot out her predicament. But she couldn't. Not until she had called the police, at least.
Thankfully there was a phone sitting on the worktop, ghostly pale against the dark granite. She shuffled along and picked it up. Listened for a dialling tone, but there was only silence. She stared at the blank display and had a flashback to a young mother, curled protectively over the body of her son. Blood on white-blond hair.
They had done it again. Isolated the village. Cut her off from help. And at that thought, something in her gave way, just as it had done in January. The first thread of sanity, perhaps. Then, she had kept fighting, but it was different this time. Her stomach was in agony. She was cold, terrified, exhausted. She couldn't fight any more.
Several loud bangs came from outside, faintly audible through the droning wind. They barely registered in her consciousness. She dropped the phone and stumbled into the hall. Groped for the light switch and turned it on. She climbed the stairs as if in a dream. She didn't care where she was going. She didn't care about anything. As far as she was concerned, she might as well already be dead.
Seventy-Six
Sullivan's foreboding grew with every mile, with every blocked or flooded road. After passing a dozen accidents and abandoned cars, he pulled in just past Handcross Hill, seriously doubting the wisdom of his journey. He tried phoning George but couldn't get through. Having come this far, he decided reluctantly to press on.
Turning off the B2112, it was no great surprise when his headlights picked out a fallen tree across the road. He pulled up behind a Jeep and swore to himself. Spotting a large figure at the wheel, Sullivan wondered if between them they might be able to move the tree far enough to get past.
He got out of the car, the rain pelting his face and soaking through his shirt. The wind tore at his parka, which no longer zipped up over his belly. Pressing it together, he hurried over to the Jeep. The driver was a white man, about thirty, with cropped dark hair and a tough suspicious face. He opened his window a couple of inches. 'Tree's down, mate.'
Yeah, thanks for that, Einstein. 'Don't suppose you've got a tow rope?' Sullivan said. 'Or better still, a chainsaw?'
He was joking, but the man did a weird double take. It was a look Sullivan had seen a thousand times in his career: the involuntary twitch of a guilty man.
'Nah, mate,' he said. 'I'd turn round if I were you.'
But Sullivan was already moving towards the tree. Almost immediately he noticed the shape was wrong. The trunk ended in a clean line. It had been cut.
His hand automatically reached for his warrant card. Time to get some sense out of this joker, he thought. Turning back, the Jeep's door opened and Sullivan cautioned himself to play it cool. In his younger days a suspect who resisted arrest could expect a good kicking, but out here there was no help at hand, and this bloke looked pretty useful.
'Go on,' the man growled. 'Piss off out of here.'
'Hey,' said Sullivan, instantly forgetting his own advice. 'You don't talk to me like that.'
He produced the warrant card, but the other man seemed unconcerned. He turned his back on Sullivan and strode towards the policeman's car.
'Hey!' Sullivan yelled, furious at being ignored. He started after him, and as he drew alongside the Jeep a second man appeared from his hiding place on the far side of the vehicle. He was holding a gun.
For such a
large man, Sullivan was remarkably quick to react. He ducked and threw himself towards the trees, but he didn't stand a chance. The bullet struck him in the back, just above his kidneys. The impact propelled him on to the verge, where he stumbled and fell, rolling to a rest in a muddy, bramble-filled ditch.
Toby couldn't remember when he had last felt so supreme, so magnificent. He only wished there was time to stand back and contemplate his brilliance.
Anticipating that Kendrick would send more men, Toby parked the Jeep in plain sight at the southern end of the High Street, close to the shop. He got out and ran across the green, trampling over sodden bouquets, and took shelter under the yew tree. Resting against its trunk, he had the unsettling impression that he was in the presence of something not just alive, but sentient. The bark felt as warm as flesh, and seemed almost to be trembling. Just the wind, he told himself.
Within seconds another Jeep emerged from Hurst Lane. Toby quickly checked his gun. It was a Croatian-made nine-millimetre automatic pistol with a fifteen-round magazine. He'd bought it with the help of an acquaintance, a City banker who supplemented his already lavish income with cocaine dealing. Toby never actually made contact with the vendor, and his banker friend had every reason to keep quiet about the transaction. About as secure as he could hope for.
Just as he expected, the other Jeep stopped as soon as the headlights picked out the vehicle he'd commandeered. Two men got out, warily inspecting the village. Both kept their hands inside their jackets, concealing their guns from anyone who might be watching.
Toby had deliberately parked badly, angling the Jeep so the front tyre was half up on the kerb, and he'd left the door open a fraction. It was a subliminal message that told of abandonment, of a hasty escape on foot. And that was exactly how the two men responded to it.
They might look the part, Toby thought, but they weren't very bright. For a start they didn't split up. Side by side they walked towards the Jeep, glancing round once or twice in a half-hearted way.
Toby crept silently over the grass. One of the men cupped his hands and peered through the back window, while his partner made for the driver's door. Toby took him out first, shooting from about ten feet away. He had ample time to close in on the second man, who was caught on the turn and shot twice in the chest. He died instantly, but the first one was bucking on the ground, trying to speak with a mouth full of blood. Toby finished him off with a head shot.
Then he stood very still. Waited and listened. He could hear trees crashing together and loose fence panels banging and what sounded like a metal dustbin trapped in an alley, clattering back and forth. And over it all the wind continued to howl and scream. Against all this, the gunshots were insignificant. Toby almost felt disappointed when no lights came on, no doors opened.
This is how Carl must have felt, he realised. The whole village at his mercy. House after house of unwitting victims. It made him reconsider the motive for the massacre. Maybe there wasn't any mystery to uncover. Maybe Carl had done it just for the sheer hell of it.
Then one of his observations caught in his mind and wouldn't be dislodged. No lights came on.
He turned a full circle, checking every house in sight, and when he reached Hurst Lane he gave a joyful smile.
The Old Schoolhouse had been in darkness a moment ago. Now there was a light on upstairs.
Perfect.
A few more minutes ticked by. Craig tried to look relaxed, resting his head against the seat and surveying the room with half-closed eyes. George was still on the floor, a couple of feet away to his left. He had begun to weep silently, and did nothing to check the tears rolling down his cheeks. From time to time Kendrick shot him a disgusted look.
The other man in the room, Moss, was standing just behind him, to Craig's right. Still alert, watchful. Still holding the gun loosely at his side.
Craig sighed. The odds weren't good. He hadn't yet seen evidence that Kendrick was armed, but it seemed likely that he would be. So he went on waiting, but he knew it was a foolish strategy. Two against two offered a better chance than anything they'd get when the other men returned.
And when they came back, either with or without Toby, he felt sure that would be it.
He studied Kendrick. For the first time there was tension visible in his face. His jaw kept clenching and unclenching, and the veins at his temple stood out like worm trails on a sandy beach. His fingers performed busy trills along the arm of the sofa.
Craig reflected on the questions he'd asked earlier, and wondered if he should press him some more. Kendrick had virtually admitted to piggybacking on Toby and Vanessa's plan. If not for him, the only victims on 19 January would have been the Caplans. Instead Kendrick had persuaded Carl to continue his murderous spree. But why? Had he thought it would help him gain control of George's empire?
He was about to ask when Kendrick jumped to his feet, as if responding to some unseen signal. Craig felt the blood drain from his face, a queasy rush of adrenalin in his stomach.
But nothing happened. Kendrick paced up and down the room a couple of times, peering furiously out of the windows with a manner that suggested he felt the whole outside world was failing him. He produced the walkie-talkie and pressed the call button.
'Lloyd? Are you there?'
No response. Craig noticed Moss shifting uneasily. Probably not used to seeing his boss this rattled.
'Lloyd?' Kendrick shouted. 'Answer me. What's happening?'
There was an electronic burp, and then Craig heard a voice say, 'This is Parvez. We had a visitor. He wouldn't take a hint, so I had to do him.' A pause. 'Turns out he's filth. A Detective Inspector Sullivan.'
'Shit,' said Kendrick quietly. 'All right. Clear the fucking tree and turn round. We'll be there in ten.'
'Sounds like you're in trouble,' Craig said, disguising the dread he felt. The mention of any other police officer would have lifted his spirits, signalling that help was on its way. But Sullivan had almost certainly been coming here in a private capacity. The only saving grace was that Kendrick might not know that.
'Your men have seen sense and run away,' he went on. 'Why don't you follow their example?'
'Shut your mouth,' Kendrick ordered. But he looked shaken by the taunt, because neither of them believed for a moment that the men had fled.
It was much worse than that.
'Ten minutes,' Kendrick said to Moss. 'Then we kill them and cut our losses.'
Upstairs, Julia drifted into the nearest room and turned on the light. Finding herself in a study, she was taken by the possibility that there might be a different phone up here. She could try the police again.
There was a phone, on the desk, but of course it was dead too.
She sighed. Not thinking clearly.
There was an ornate captain's chair behind the desk. Julia sat down in it and leaned forward, crossing her arms and resting her head on them. For a few blissful moments she could deny the world's existence. The pain in her abdomen gradually receded, and she realised she felt absurdly tired, even sleepy.
The wind blew hard at the house. The light went out, then came back on. She jerked upright, the way you do when you doze off on a train or a bus. Outside, the broken TV aerial dragged over the tiles like fingernails on a blackboard. Julia shivered and stood up, needing action, needing to do something decisive.
Her attention was caught by the many framed photographs on the wall. Formal portraits from Philip Walker's long and evidently distinguished career. Poignant photos of a doting grandfather in carefully staged horseplay with Tom and Maddie. Even a couple with Craig as a young man: one on his graduation day, the other taken on an exotic palm-fringed beach.
And next to that, a slight oddity. A framed copy of a newspaper story, with the headline:
ATTORNEY GENERAL CATCHES THIEF
In a brave show of public duty, a member of Montserrat's Government apprehended a violent burglar late on Tuesday night. Philip Walker, who is currently one year into his term as Attorney Gene
ral, had been visiting friends when he spotted Robert Meade fleeing from a villa in Mayfield Road, Olveston. Local man Meade, 29, was found to have stolen cash and jewellery from the property. Following his arrest, officers from the Royal Montserrat Police Force discovered the householder, 53- year-old Errol Herbert, unconscious with serious head injuries. He was airlifted to Antigua for medical treatment and is in a stable condition. Mr Walker was hailed as a hero. 'Without his action, Mr Herbert would almost certainly have died,' said one officer.
The text was accompanied by two pictures. One was a photograph of Philip, taken at least ten years ago. The other was a grainy headshot of the arrested man, who was of mixed race. His pale eyes glared at the camera with brutal indifference. That Philip Walker had tackled such a man helped explain why, years later, he had given his life to save her from Carl Forester.
Her thoughts were cut short by a noise from downstairs. Broken glass crunching underfoot on the kitchen floor.
There was someone in the house.
Seventy-Seven
She froze, listening for another sound, another clue. But the wind and the loose aerial made it impossible to hear clearly. There was only one way to be sure.
First she needed a weapon. In the top drawer of the desk she found a letter opener with a mother-of-pearl handle and a long thin blade. Gripping it at shoulder height, she crept across the room and on to the landing. She paused, hardly daring to breathe. The house shifted and groaned. The TV aerial rattled.
Still she waited, paralysed. A gust of wind was followed by the clink of glass hitting the floor, and she wondered if that was all she'd just heard. A piece of glass falling from the doorframe.
The warring voices were back. One said: No, that was a different sound.
The other said: Either way, you have to check. You can't stay here.
If it was him, Toby, then he was here for a reason. He was here because he knew she was here. So hiding wouldn't get her anywhere. Trying to climb out of an upstairs window would leave her fatally exposed to an attack. And bearing in mind what he'd done in Camber, he could simply start a fire and kill her that way.