SKIN AND BONES

TOM BALE

For Emily

CONTENTS

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part II

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Part III

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Acknowledgements

Thank you!

More from Tom Bale

About the Author

Also by Tom Bale

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books

Come, dip on in

Leave your bones

Leave your skin

Leave your past

Leave your craft

Leave your suffering heart

JAMES, ‘SOUND’

PART I

1

A glance to her left was all it took. A simple glance as she pushed open the door to the village shop. If Julia had kept her eyes straight ahead, or looked to the right instead, she might never have become involved. She might have been spared.

Her conscious mind, bruised by the experience of the past month, refused to believe what it had seen. But her subconscious knew and understood.

There was a dead man in the street.

It was the third Saturday of January, not yet eight in the morning. She parked outside her parents’ cottage on the outskirts of the village and decided to delay the day’s grim task by a few minutes. The store was no more than fifty or sixty yards away, tucked around a bend at the foot of the High Street: a ludicrous name for a place with only one shop and one pub.

Julia was thirty-one, a tall, slender woman with dark shoulder-length hair. She taught at a junior school in Newhaven, and like the best teachers she had perfected a good-natured toughness that equipped her to cope with the worst that any ten-year-old could throw at her. In the past few weeks she had needed that resilience more than ever.

Her breath rose in clouds as she walked along the edge of the narrow road. A clean shimmer of frost lay over the grass verge. Roof tiles sparkled in the late Downland sunrise. The air tasted clean and sharp, and made her wish she was out jogging. Made her wish she had the day free to do as she chose.

It took her less than a minute to reach the shop. In that time she didn’t see or hear another soul. No traffic, no tradesmen, no walkers or cyclists. But it was a Saturday, she reasoned. It was January. It was bitterly cold.

At the point where she glanced to her left, she had a clear view along the High Street, all the way to the Green Man pub at the north end of the village. A Royal Mail van was parked by the church, facing towards her, its rear doors open. If there was a body, it was lying in the road just beyond the van, only the feet visible.

Telling herself she must be mistaken, Julia entered the shop.

A bell rang as she stepped inside. The warm, fragrant air was a cosy blend of bread rolls, sliced ham, newsprint and mailbags. The kind of smell you’d like to bottle for nostalgia. Essence of Village Store.

The shopkeeper, Moira Beaumont, was a small twitchy woman in her fifties. She pulled her baggy cardigan together in response to the draught.

‘Hello, love. You’re an early bird. Don’t tell me you stayed overnight?’

Julia’s curt shake of her head disguised a shudder. ‘I’ve just driven here,’ she said, adding, ‘I can’t keep putting it off.’

Moira nodded sadly. ‘It’s Lewes where you live, isn’t it?’ She spoke as though the county town was some distant exotic locale, when in fact it was less than ten miles away.

Julia browsed the newspapers for a minute, aware of the shopkeeper’s scrutiny. A couple of weeks ago it would have bothered her, but Julia was used to it by now. All things considered, she felt she was coping pretty well.

So why the body in the street? her subconscious piped up. Hallucinations were hardly a sign of robust mental health.

Pushing the thought aside, she picked up the Guardian, a carton of semi-skimmed milk and on impulse a packet of chocolate biscuits. A little treat for the long and difficult day ahead.

When she reached the counter Moira leaned over and grasped her hand. ‘I just want to say, I’m dreadfully sorry for what happened. They were such a lovely couple.’

Julia swallowed, nodding tersely. She had learned just how easily such expressions of sympathy could unlock the grief.

‘Is your brother not coming to help clear the house?’ Moira asked, taking Julia’s money and prodding at the till.

‘He offered, but it seems ridiculous when he’s up in Cheshire.’

‘I suppose so. What a shame you and Peter aren’t still together. I know your mother always thought you were made for each other.’

‘So did I,’ said Julia. Another subject she was keen to avoid.

‘But you’ve a new feller now, haven’t you? I can’t remember his name…’

‘Steve.’

‘That’s it. Steve.’ Moira gave a rather disdainful sniff. Probably remembering Mum’s verdict on him, Julia thought.

‘He’s not really in the picture any more, to be honest,’ she said.

‘Oh my, you’ve really been in the wars, haven’t you?’ Moira clicked her tongue. ‘I’d lend you a hand myself, but Glynn’s away to Leicester to watch the football. Time off for good behaviour,’ she added wryly.

Julia grinned. ‘I’ll be fine. And if I don’t get it finished today… well, there’s no great hurry.’

‘You’ll feel better when it’s done, believe me.’ Moira pressed her hands together as if in prayer. ‘In my experience, it’s the most unexpected things that can catch you out. If they do, you know where to find me.’

‘Thanks.’ Julia propped the biscuits under her arm and picked up the milk. ‘Quiet round here this morning,’ she remarked.

‘There were a couple of folk in when I opened at seven, Mrs Collins and Clive Bradbury with those ruddy dogs of his. But it’s freezing out there. I bet everyone’s decided to stay in bed, lucky beggars.’

‘I expect that’s it,’ Julia agreed.

When she reached the door, Moira called, ‘Keep in touch, won’t you? Don’t be a stranger!’

Julia trapped the door with her foot and turned back, smiling. At that moment, with her own heart weighing so heavily, she would never have believed Moira had less than fifteen minutes to live.

Leaving the shop, her attention was caught by a poster in the window of the house opposite. Another of Philip Walker’s campaigns, she guessed from the headline in bold four-inch letters.

This is OUR village! Don’t let them DESTROY IT!!

Walker was the outspoken leader of a group of local activists, waging a war against developers seeking to expand the village. Probably a futile endeavour, if history was any judge, but Julia had some sympathy for them, and her parents had been enthusiastic supporters of the cause.

Then, unable to resist the nagging voice of her subconscious, she turned to look north once again. There was still no activity in the village. The Royal Mail van remained in place. And the body still lay behind the van, feet angled up on the pavement.

Oh Christ.

Shielding her eyes against the low morning sun, Julia took a few paces forward. She could feel her mouth going dry, her heart speeding up at the memory of slowly climbing the stairs in her parents’ cottage…

She couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t expose herself to⁠—

And you can’t let him die, a stronger voice spoke up. He might have had a heart attack or a stroke. He might be epileptic. Her knowledge of first aid was only rudimentary, but she could at least raise the alarm and keep him warm.

So she continued forward, her confidence wavering as she drew near the van. The man seemed to have collapsed and rolled partly beneath the rear doors. Maybe a hit-and-run, she thought, and steeled herself for an unpleasant sight.

But it was far worse than a hit-and-run. The postman had gunshot wounds to his head and chest. One eye was missing, and the other stared lifelessly at her, wide with surprise that this could happen in such an idyllic corner of Sussex.

Julia gasped and dropped her milk. The carton split open and leaked across the pavement, mixing with the blood in the gutter.

2

A robbery – that was her first thought. Julia peered into the back of the van, but it told her nothing. There were several grey sacks of mail, but plenty of space where other sacks might have lain.

The blood on the road was fresh, glistening like resin in the sunshine. That meant it had happened recently. She hadn’t seen or heard any vehicles, so the killer must have escaped on foot.

The implications weren’t lost on Julia. She turned slowly, searching for signs of anything else out of place.

The village was roughly rectangular, with the cottages she’d just passed forming the eastern flank from the shop up to the sturdy Norman church of St Mary. Next to the church was the Rectory, and then the Green Man, a handsome Tudor inn. Beyond that was Hurst Lane, a private road which ran north for half a mile to Chilton Manor and Hurst Farm.

On the other side of the lane was the Old Schoolhouse, home to the NIMBY activist Philip Walker. After that came Arundel Crescent, a line of grand Georgian houses which ran down the western flank and gave way to another terrace of smaller homes, ending opposite the shop back at the southern tip.

Chilton’s centrepiece was the village green, complete with pond and a magnificent yew tree said to be over six hundred years old. The pond was partially frozen, and a couple of seagulls paced the perimeter, jostling smaller birds like hooligans on a day trip. They were the only living things in sight.

It’s too quiet, Julia thought. Eight o’clock on a Saturday, someone should be out here, walking their dog, going shopping, ferrying the kids to football. And surely someone would have heard gunshots and come out to investigate?

Because she’d only intended to pop to the shop, she’d left her handbag and phone in the car, along with the boxes and crates for packing up her parents’ belongings. Not that her mobile would have helped, she remembered. Walker’s action group had also fought off plans for a phone mast. She would have to find a landline.

Or you could walk away, a small, shameful voice spoke up. The postman’s beyond help, and you’ve dealt with enough tragedy in the past few weeks.

For a moment Julia might have succumbed – until she imagined how her parents would have regarded such cowardice. She didn’t really believe in an afterlife, but since their deaths she had frequently imagined them watching over her, passing comment on her choices and decisions. Now they would expect her to do whatever she could to help.

She ran on shaky legs to the nearest house, in the terrace next to the churchyard. The garden gate creaked as she opened it, underscoring the oppressive silence of the morning. The front door was painted a cheery red, with a small handwritten sign at eye level: Doorbell not working. Please knock.

So she did. Leaning close to the door, she could hear music playing inside: something melodic, with a 1960s twang.

There was no response. She knocked again, thumping the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. ‘Please!’ she called. ‘It’s an emergency!’

Her cry provoked mournful cawing from the rooks in the trees around the church. Julia felt her skin crawl and cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, suddenly convinced she was being watched.

She waited a few more seconds, debating whether to run back to the shop. She knew Moira was a nervy creature, probably not the coolest of heads in a crisis. Besides, the postman might be a personal friend of hers. St Mary’s was a safer bet: someone was bound to be up and about by now.

The churchyard was enclosed by a waist-high wall of Sussex flint. She passed through the lychgate and followed the gravel path to the entrance porch. Her route was lined by weathered gravestones, listing at drunken angles.

To her relief, one of the heavy oak doors was open. She stepped into the vestibule and saw another of Philip Walker’s posters on the noticeboard, alongside lists of services, cleaning rotas, an advert for a jumble sale.

Pushing through a second set of doors, she entered the nave and immediately felt calmed by the soft light and atmosphere of peaceful reflection. The air smelled of dust and damp stone. And possibly something else – though Julia refused to acknowledge it.

A sudden wave of dizziness had her grabbing the back of a pew. She eased herself down and bent over, her hair falling across her face like a fan. Slowly that other smell was permeating her senses: sharp and foul and metallic.

This is no good, she told herself. You have to find a phone.

She repressed an urge to vomit, made herself breathe through her mouth, slowly and deeply. It was at the mid-point, the breath suspended in her lungs, when she heard a scrabbling sound. Something was moving on the ancient stone floor in front of the pews.

Julia sat upright, every muscle rigid with terror. If the gunman was here, lying in wait, she would never outrun him.

The noise came: a heel scuffing over stone. Then a man’s voice, so weak it was barely intelligible. He said, ‘Please…’

Then: ‘Uhh.’

It was such a distinct exhalation, Julia immediately understood what it meant. The man who’d made that noise had just lost his life, not twenty feet from where she was sitting, paralysed with fear.

A rush of guilt had her climbing to her feet. She approached the front of the church, trying not to think about what she might find.

Two bodies, this time, lying in the space between the front pew and the chancel. The vicar was in a foetal position, a smear of blood on the floor where he had dragged himself towards the aisle. His eyes were open, staring at Julia with sorrowful reproach. You didn’t help, he might have been saying. You heard me and you didn’t help.

A few feet beyond him was the body of a grey-haired woman in sweat pants and a blue fleece. She’d been shot in the back of the head. A tin of Pledge rested at her side, a blood-speckled yellow duster still gripped in her hand.

Julia backed away, almost in a place beyond shock. Beyond horror.

This wasn’t a robbery.

It was a massacre.

With that thought, visions flooded her mind of news footage down the years: Hungerford, Dunblane, Port Arthur, as well as countless American tragedies. The perpetrator invariably male, white, a troubled loner nursing real or imagined grievances in a cauldron of paranoia.

Julia pictured him walking from house to house, the villagers readily opening their front doors, expecting to greet a neighbour or perhaps the postman with a parcel. And instead, he was killing them all. Wiping out an entire community.

Moira.

It was the jolt Julia needed. First she checked the vestry, then a small office next to it, but there was no phone. Leaving by the main entrance felt too risky, so she made for the side door in the east chancel.

The creak as the heavy door opened sounded horrifically loud. Julia stepped out, blinking in the bright sunshine, and followed the path diagonally across the churchyard. A gate led to a footpath that ran behind the cottages, parallel to the High Street.

She was level with the first house, the one she’d tried earlier, when she noticed the back door was ajar. She’d been intending to make straight for the shop, but now she stopped. She could phone the police from here.

There was a low fence at the back of the property, easily vaulted. The garden was a narrow strip of turf, strewn with partially deflated footballs and a plastic cricket set. Julia could hear a radio playing in the kitchen, the mindless chatter of a DJ.

She stepped inside, calling out, ‘Hello? I need to use the phone. Is anyone there?’

No one answered, but the sound of shifting crockery made her jump.

The dishwasher. According to the display, it had eight minutes left to run. There was a mug of herbal tea on the worktop. Julia felt it with the back of her hand. Still warm.

Someone should be here.

She crept into the narrow hallway. The door to the living room was open. She spotted the phone and the bodies simultaneously.

A young woman in a towelling dressing gown was sprawled over her child, a small boy with glorious white-blond hair. Toy trucks and cars were scattered around them. The woman had obviously tried to shield her son, and in the final moment, unable to save him, she had covered his eyes with her hand.

Julia wobbled again. Felt she was breaking apart.

She turned away, snatching the phone from its perch on the wall. There was no dialling tone. She stabbed the call button. Listened. Stabbed it again. Nothing.

The phone was dead. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Movement outside caught her attention. Across the green, a door had opened in Arundel Crescent, causing a flash of reflected sunlight. The man who emerged was short and stocky, with spiky straw-coloured hair, wearing a denim jacket and camouflage trousers. He held a pistol in one hand, and there was a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

He closed the door behind him, then slowly surveyed the scene. For a moment he seemed to be staring directly at Julia. When he smiled, she thought her heart would give out.

Then she realised he was looking at the postman’s body. Admiring his handiwork.

He strode away, disappearing behind the massive yew tree. The direction he was taking would lead him to the shop.

In desperation Julia tried the phone again, but she knew it was hopeless. The village was cut off from the rest of the world, just as the gunman intended.

She was on her own.

3

She ran back through the kitchen. On the radio the Rolling Stones seemed to be mocking her: You Can’t Always Get What You Want. The words echoed in her head as she retraced her steps through the garden. Again she thought of her parents. She hoped they would be proud of her for overcoming the urge to flee.

As she sprinted along the path, the crunch of her pounding feet seemed to reverberate around the village. The shop backed on to a yard containing several wheelie bins. There were two small opaque windows, protected by metal grilles. The back door was solid timber and couldn’t be opened from the outside.

Julia knocked as loudly as she dared, while another bout of giddiness made her sway on her feet. Don’t pass out now, she told herself.

Then a voice: ‘Who’s there?’

It was a struggle to speak, but she managed: ‘Ju-Julia. Open… can you open…?’

Thankfully a bolt was drawn back, the door opened and Moira peered out, reacting with alarm at the sight of Julia’s face. ‘What’s happened, love?’

A flood of nausea made Julia unable to reply. Her chest heaved and she turned away, clutching her stomach and spitting bile on to the dusty cement.

‘Oh, you poor dear,’ Moira said. ‘Come on in. I told you it could happen, didn’t I?’

‘No, it’s not…’ Julia tried to explain as she stumbled over the threshold, Moira stroking her arm. ‘They’re dead. I found them⁠—’

Moira shushed her. ‘Now, now, my love. You just rest a minute.’

She thinks I mean Mum and Dad. There was a chair in the corner; Moira dragged it towards Julia, causing a bell to ring from somewhere. A eureka! moment, Julia thought, and wondered if she had finally lost her mind.

‘There. Sit yourself down while I pop the kettle on.’

Julia frowned. Why would moving a chair cause a bell to ring?

Then she understood, but could only issue a strangled cry. Moira turned towards her in what seemed like a kind of slow motion; at the same time Julia had a clear line of sight through the shop. The man with spiky hair was walking towards the counter. He was young, no more than mid-twenties, with pale eyes and an uneven growth of bristles on his chin.

He saw her and smiled. His teeth were yellow and crooked, with a distinctive left canine jutting out like a vampire’s fang. He raised the gun and Julia noticed the thick cylinder attached to the barrel. A silencer. That was why no one had heard gunshots.

Moira was still focused on Julia, talking softly, when a spray of blood blew from her neck; her eyes widened, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise as she lurched forward.

He fired again. This time Julia felt the bullet brush past her hair, thudding into the doorframe behind her. Then there was a moment where Moira’s falling body obscured her view of the gunman. A third shot hit the shopkeeper as she fell, and finally Julia’s survival instinct kicked in.

She leapt out of the stockroom, dragging the door shut behind her, grabbed one of the wheelie bins and pulled it across the door. At most it would gain her a few seconds – but which way should she go?

She had two options: back up the lane towards the church, or along the alley by the side of the shop and rejoin the main road. That was the one she favoured. Once on the High Street she could make a run for her car. Fifty or sixty yards, she’d cover that in no time…

It was the wrong choice. She knew it when she heard the bell ring again, but by then it was too late. Her momentum sent her skidding on to the narrow pavement, just as the gunman emerged from the shop.

He had outguessed her. Then she registered his surprise and realised it was worse than that. He’d just been lucky. Sometimes that’s all it came down to, she thought.

They stood a couple of feet apart, facing each other. There was no way she could escape. Julia stuck out her jaw and tried to look defiant. She wasn’t going to beg for her life.

The gunman made a dry snickering noise. He examined her for a long second, his attention lingering on her body, noting that Julia was tall, slim, shapely…

Finally he met her gaze. His pale eyes gleamed. His smile hinted at the pleasures of anticipation, and she knew all too well what that meant. He wasn’t going to kill her straight away.

Julia understood this perhaps half a second before he spoke.

A single word in a low, guttural whisper.

‘Run.’

Julia took his advice. It didn’t matter that she was giving him what he wanted. It meant she had a chance. Every second she stayed alive was a tiny victory.

There was no point trying for her car: he’d never let her get close to it. She spun on her heels and ran back the way she’d come. Back on to the lane behind the cottages, towards the church.

Remembering something she’d read, she began to weave from side to side, trying to present a more difficult target. The churchyard was only sixty or seventy yards away. She had maybe ten yards on the gunman, and could probably extend that to twenty. But it wouldn’t be enough.

The problem was the gate. The latch was heavy and cumbersome. If she stopped to open it, he would be on her in seconds.

She studied the gate, and the wall either side of it. Both were about three feet high. She’d jumped taller obstacles in her life, but not since her schooldays. A good fifteen years or so.

Except there was no choice: it was that or die.

No, she reminded herself. It was that or be raped, and then die.

She pumped her arms, measured her stride. She was aiming at a spot on the wall just to the left of the gate. She focused on timing the jump, thanking God she’d worn jeans and trainers today.

She almost made it. She launched herself into the air at exactly the right spot. Her leap was strong, her body lithe and primed by adrenalin and fear. Her feet lifted and curled to give her clearance, and as she started to descend she thought she’d made it. But then her left foot dropped, just a fraction, and caught on a lump of flint.

She pinwheeled, frantically trying to maintain her balance, and landed heavily on her right foot. A searing pain tore through her ankle. She fell sideways and rolled on the wet grass. Her knee scraped a gravestone, tearing her jeans, and she heard a whoop of laughter from the path.

Well, fuck you. A surge of fury gave Julia the strength to get up. The gunman had reached the gate. He was smiling, as though he expected to chase her around the village for as long as it amused him, then finish her off.

There was an agonising jolt when she put her weight on her right foot. Julia took a few steps, hobbling at first, testing the ankle until she trusted it not to give way on her.

Ignoring the church, she cut across the grass, towards the lychgate. There was no destination in mind, no objective beyond putting some distance between her and the gunman.

Disturbed by the commotion, the rooks flapped above the churchyard, their bleak throaty cries like a comment on her prospects. Julia reached the gate and wrenched it open. The houses in Arundel Crescent were bathed in sunlight, lending a honeyed tint to the white render. She wondered if any were unlocked.

Another glance over her shoulder: the gunman scowling as he trotted heavily in her wake, as though he’d expected to catch her by now. It made Julia feel absurdly proud.

But hitting tarmac increased the pain in her ankle. She realised she couldn’t run for much longer. She had to find somewhere to hide.

She crossed the road a few feet from the mail van, disturbing a sleek black crow perched on the postman’s chest. It turned its inky gaze upon her, decided she was no threat, then pecked at the dead man’s face.

Shuddering with revulsion, Julia looked away and caught something far more significant: a woman’s stricken face in an upstairs window in the crescent. A moment’s guilty eye contact and she was gone.

Julia increased her speed, wincing as her ankle protested. She clung to a vision of a front door opening, the woman beckoning her inside. If they timed it right, she could rush through and slam it shut before the gunman reacted. Then the two of them could barricade themselves in. Wait for help to arrive, or even find a weapon and fight back.

She was halfway across the green, still believing she could make it to safety, when the bullet brought her down.

4

She didn’t hear it coming. Didn’t even feel much at first: just a coldness on her skin, a disturbing friction, and she glanced down to find blood soaking through her jeans. The bullet had grazed her right calf, taking a sliver of flesh with it.

A moment later the pain hit and her leg seized up, slapping her to the ground. Julia landed awkwardly, one arm caught beneath her body, forcing the air from her lungs.

Bastard! she thought. He’s not playing fair.

She twisted round and saw him, standing in front of the lychgate. He looked immensely satisfied, as if winging her had been precisely his intention. Now the real fun would begin.

Some primeval imperative refused to let her surrender. She struggled to her feet. Her right leg wouldn’t bear her weight for more than a second at a time. Instinct propelled her towards the yew tree, even though her rational mind knew it was hopeless as a hiding place.

She took one difficult, lurching step. Then another. Turning away from the gunman was the hardest part. Every nerve screamed with tension, expecting another bullet to strike. Probably he’d aim low again. He would want her conscious for what else he had in mind.

‘You. Cowardly. Evil. Wretch.’

The voice came from nowhere. Not a shout but a determined growl, delivered slowly and through terrible pain. Julia and the gunman reacted to it at the same time.

It was Philip Walker. He was a tall, thin man, perhaps seventy years old, with white hair and a face almost as pale. He was slumped in the doorway of the Old Schoolhouse, pressing a blood-soaked towel to his chest.

The gunman seemed taken aback by this intervention; he’d obviously left Walker for dead. The old man caught her eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod: Get away!

In her peripheral vision Julia tracked the gunman as he approached the Old Schoolhouse. It should have given her renewed hope, but instead there was an awful temptation to collapse on the grass; just close her eyes and let it happen: defilement, death, whatever he had planned for her.

Then she rebelled against the defeatism. But she also knew she’d never make it to the house in the crescent. Her best chance was the yew tree.

She limped towards it, dragging her useless leg like a ball and chain. As she drew close she saw the tree comprised four massive trunks, creating a natural hollow in the middle. Moving around the base, she located a gap large enough to squeeze through.

Walker was speaking again, snarling at the gunman, who laughed in response. Julia heard the creak of the garden gate. She concentrated on pushing herself into the centre of the tree, experiencing a burst of excitement as she realised she was now out of the gunman’s sight.

Then came the peculiar spitting sound of the silenced gun. She peeked out and saw Philip Walker, shot at point blank range, drop at his killer’s feet.

Julia ducked back, tears clouding her vision as it hit home that he had sacrificed himself for her. She owed it to him not to waste this chance.

Grabbing a branch at chest height, she pressed her back against one of the trunks and began to lever herself up. Even with her bad leg, it was a surprisingly effective way to climb. The bark was cool to the touch and resembled sunburned skin, dry patches flaking away from the smoother surface beneath. The branches were thick and sinewy, like something from a fairy story. At any moment she expected one to curl around her waist and lift her to safety in the higher reaches of the tree.

She was seven or eight feet above the ground when she regained a view of the gunman. He was walking away from the Old Schoolhouse, doing something with the pistol. Reloading, Julia guessed. She could see Walker’s body crumpled in the doorway of his home.

The gunman replaced the magazine, reached the green and stopped abruptly. He looked round, at first confused, then angry. Julia felt a savage exhilaration. That’s twice I’ve outwitted you.

She continued to ascend. The short needles of the yew grew thickly around her, obscuring her from view. To get a clear shot, the gunman would have to climb up after her. She might be able to fight him off, perhaps kick him or stamp on his fingers.

It suddenly felt like she had a real chance of surviving. After all, Julia reasoned, this nightmare can’t go on for ever. Help must come eventually.

Something’s got to happen, she told herself.

And then it did.

He looked like something from a movie. A superhero, a Special Forces agent and James Bond all wrapped up in one.

Her saviour.

He was clad entirely in black leather: boots, trousers, jacket, gloves, as well as a black motorcycle helmet with a full face visor. He burst into view from Hurst Lane and marched towards the gunman. He didn’t appear to be armed, and yet he showed no fear. His movements were fast, confident, determined.

It was the most thrilling sight Julia had ever seen.

He called out in a gruff voice. The gunman heard it and spun round, his demeanour instantly changing. He seemed to shrink, bowing his head in deference to the man striding towards him.

‘What the hell are you doing with that?’ the man demanded. Julia’s heart leapt with joy.

The gunman didn’t respond. The man in black shook his head, as if disgusted, and raised his arm in the air. It looked like he might punch the gunman in the face, and Julia willed him on, praying that the murdering bastard wouldn’t read the blow in advance.

But it wasn’t a punch.

It was a high five.

What shocked her most was that she had been about to shout a warning. She saw the gunman adjust his body to what the other man was doing. He’s going to dodge it, Julia thought. And then he’ll shoot you. She couldn’t bear to see this man, this wonderful brave man, become yet another victim.

So she opened her mouth to scream a warning, delaying half a second while she searched for the right phrase: Be careful! Or Watch out! Or He’s got a gun!

And then the man in black slapped his hand against the gunman’s hand, and the gunman grinned and whooped and nodded ferociously at something the stranger was saying. Talking in a low voice, their heads close together, the gunman almost blushing with pride as the man in black spoke to him.

Congratulating him.

Julia’s whole body spasmed with terror. She threw both arms around the tree and clung to it until the feeling passed. Her left leg was wedged uncomfortably against the trunk, her injured leg dangling in the air as if it no longer belonged to her. Blood ran over her shoe and dripped on to the leaves below.

The sight of it made her head swim. She gulped in fresh air and looked up instead. Saw aircraft trails criss-crossing a milky blue sky. It seemed incredible to think that beyond the village there was a whole world carrying on as normal.

And then she cocked her head. She could hear something. Faint and far away, but it was there.

A siren.

The gunman’s words floated up to her: ‘I shot this bitch, but she got away.’ Julia peered through the leaves and saw him gesturing towards the tree. The man in black also turned to look. Something about the faceless visor sent a lightning bolt of terror through her.

‘…hiding over there,’ the gunman was saying, his voice whiny and defensive.

The man in black murmured something Julia couldn’t hear. To her astonishment, the gunman meekly handed over the pistol, then slipped the shotgun off his shoulder.

Then both men froze. They could hear the sirens.

The man in black took a step away from his partner and pointed across the green. The gunman swivelled his shotgun in the same direction. Julia almost went to look herself, but then had a flash of insight: It’s a bluff.

She saw the gun coming up and instinctively shut her eyes. Heard the familiar phutt.

When she opened her eyes the gunman was falling, shot in the temple at point blank range. Julia let out a noise, a little yelp of horror.

Then the branch cracked.

It didn’t break, but just dropped an inch or two; Julia dropped with it, scrabbling desperately with both hands to hang on. Her movement caused the tree to shake, the leaves whispering as they rubbed together. Telling on her.

The man in black whipped round to face the tree. At the same time Julia realised the siren was fully audible. A couple of minutes away, maybe less.

But still too late to save her.

She hung suspended in the tree as the man in black approached. At times his head seemed to be dipped, facing the ground. Julia was confused, until she noticed the state of her trainers.

He was following the blood trail.

Then he stopped, still some distance away, straightened up and fired a rapid burst of shots into the tree. Julia heard the bullets striking leaves and branches above her head, gouging out chunks of bark. The debris rained down on her, but she couldn’t squirm away from it without revealing her position.

The next sweep was a couple of feet lower. She felt the bullets whipping past, the lethal zing of displaced air.

Bizarrely, she didn’t feel the bullet that hit her.

The impact caused her to topple sideways, where she struck her forehead on a branch and then slithered and fell through the tree, finally bouncing off the lowest branch and dropping cleanly the last four or five feet to land, with a dull thud, face up on the grass.

The siren was very loud now, battering against the vivid peace of the morning. The man in black could spare only a second, studying her body for movement, before he placed the gun carefully by his partner’s corpse and hurried back towards Hurst Lane. Then he vanished, as if he’d never been here.

As if he had never existed at all.

5

The first police car arrived twenty seconds later. It was an Armed Response Vehicle with two male officers from the Tactical Firearms Unit, PCs Davies and Eade. They had been diverted from routine patrol in mid-Sussex following a report of an incident involving a firearm. A second ARV, from Brighton, was approximately fifteen minutes away. Two unarmed police vehicles and an ambulance were also en route, but wouldn’t enter the village until the ARV gave clearance.

According to the control room, a householder in Chilton had witnessed the shooting of a Royal Mail driver. The 999 call had been logged at 8.09 a.m. It was now 8.22 a.m. If it had been an armed robbery, which seemed the likeliest explanation, the perpetrator would be long gone.

PC Davies, in the passenger seat, had checked the village’s location and noted that it had only one access road. He’d warned his colleague of the possibility that they might encounter the getaway vehicle driving towards them along Chilton Way. He had also drawn his weapon, a Sig Sauer P226.

As it was, not a single vehicle passed them on the short journey from the B2112 to the village. This gave Davies a twinge of unease.

Rounding a bend close to the village shop, they saw the Royal Mail van parked at the kerb. As Eade reduced his speed, Davies killed the siren and began scanning the village for any visible threat. The passenger window was open, and he realised how quiet it was. There was nobody in sight. Nothing moving.

Then he spotted a form on the green, maybe ten or fifteen yards away. At the same time PC Eade realised there was a body lying behind the van.

Both men exclaimed softly in unison. As the car pulled up, there was a moment when they exchanged a glance and understood they’d each reacted to something different.

As soon as he got out of the car, Davies saw the shotgun lying on the grass next to the body. The 999 call had described the suspect as carrying both a shotgun and a handgun. The description of his hair colour and jacket also matched the body lying on the grass.

‘I think this could be our shooter,’ he called to Eade, who had also drawn his weapon. Eade took aim at the body, providing cover while Davies made a cautious, circular approach, ensuring he didn’t stray into his colleague’s line of fire.

Another few feet and he could see enough to know the man was dead. A single shot to the temple from the handgun. Looked like a .22. Nevertheless he knelt down, careful not to disturb the scene, and checked for signs of life.

Then he stood up. Made a note of the time. Looked at PC Eade and pointed to the postman’s body.

‘Take that one. I’m going to have a look round.’

Even as he spoke he spotted the next victim, in a large house across the road. An elderly man lay slumped in the doorway.

Twenty past eight on a Saturday morning, in one of the smallest, sleepiest villages in the county. What the hell was going on?

He turned to Eade, who was standing by the postman. ‘Dead?’

‘Yep.’

‘Hit the siren for a minute, will you?’

Eade returned to the car and activated the siren. The slow whoop sounded eerie as it echoed off the fine Georgian terrace. A flock of birds took flight from the trees around the church.

Davies raised his hand: enough. The silence returned so abruptly it made him shiver.

He resumed a slow 360-degree scan of the village, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

Ten seconds. Nothing.

Twenty seconds. Nothing.

Then came the sound of a front door opening. One of the big Georgian houses on the far side of the green. A woman peeped out, made eye contact and abruptly seemed to sag, like a punctured balloon.

Davies broke into a run, skirting a large yew tree, and in his haste he almost collided with another body. This one was a young woman, face up on the grass, covered in leaves and blood.

‘A third victim here,’ he yelled to his colleague, and hurried on. His priority was the living witness. He wanted to reach her before she fainted.

‘It’s all right,’ he called. ‘It’s all under control.’

She went on staring at him, her eyes haunted.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

She managed the tiniest shake of her head.

‘I’m PC Davies,’ he said. ‘We’re going to take care of this, okay?’

The woman only laughed. It was the bitterest sound he’d ever heard.

He glanced round. Eade was returning from the house where the man lay in the doorway. He made a thumbs-down gesture.

Davies turned back to the woman. ‘What happened here? Where is everyone?’

The woman shut her eyes tightly, perhaps praying she was still asleep and this was just a dream. Then she opened them, and gave him the answer he was dreading.

‘They’re dead.’

He heard a shout from Eade, and told the woman to go back inside. Someone would be with her very soon.

This time he gave the body by the tree a wide berth. Eade was almost hopping with impatience. ‘What did she say?’

‘Says they’re dead. I don’t know if she means the entire village, but it’s not looking good, is it?’

‘Major Incident?’ Eade said.

‘And then some,’ Davies agreed. ‘We’ll have to seal the whole area. Search every house.’ Never mind that he was supposed to be off duty in a couple of hours. A tiny voice reminded him of his intended plans for the day: quick scoot round B&Q with the missus, out with some friends for a few pints and a curry in the evening; then a lie-in and hopefully a leg-over Sunday morning.

All of it blasted away by some nutter.

‘The church door’s open,’ Eade said. ‘I’m going to check it out.’

Davies nodded, still absorbed in his reverie as he reached for his Airwave radio. Then he heard a groan, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

As he turned, he saw the woman’s leg twitch. He knew that corpses sometimes made little movements, caused by stray electrical impulses running through the muscles. The process of dying could take hours beyond the actual moment of brain death.

But then her head moved, very slightly. A bubble of blood materialised on her lips.

Oh shitting hell. She’s alive. She’s alive and I ran right past her.

He fumbled with his radio and shouted, ‘We have a Major Incident here. Repeat, this is a Major Incident. Three confirmed fatalities so far, plus one serious casualty. We need that ambulance ASAP. Hotel 900 too, if it’s available.’

He dropped to his knees and checked the woman’s airway was clear. Felt for a pulse and found one. Very weak. There was so much blood that at first he couldn’t work out where she’d been hit. Somewhere on her right side, he guessed, with various cuts and scratches adding to the confusion. It almost looked like she’d fallen out of the bloody tree.

Then Eade came barrelling out of the church. ‘Two more in there. This is a fucking disaster.’

No, it’s a massacre. ‘This one’s alive,’ Davies called back. At the same time he was told Hotel 900, the police helicopter, could be there in ten minutes. The paramedic on board was being briefed about the situation.

Good luck to him, Davies thought. He took the woman’s hand and squeezed it gently. Her eyelids fluttered and he leaned close. ‘Hang on, love,’ he urged her. ‘Be strong for me. We’ll have you in an ambulance in no time.’

He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He’d seen plenty of dead and dying bodies before, mostly from his time in Traffic. The woman lying here looked just as bad as any crash victim. And if she died, he would always question whether finding her sooner might have made a difference.

‘Be strong,’ he said again. Whether to her or to himself, he wasn’t quite sure. ‘Stay alive for me, will you?’

Stay alive.

6

The man in black raced along the narrow lane. His heart thumped inside his chest and his boots pounded on the tarmac. Despite the icy weather it was hot inside the motorcycle gear; he had sweat rolling down his face and stinging his eyes. The helmet bruised his shoulders with every step and the visor made him feel entombed, like an exhibit under glass.

But he couldn’t risk lifting it, not even for a single gulp of air. His meticulously planned operation had turned into an almighty fuck-up, and as a consequence he was running for his life.

Nobody saw me. He clung to that hope, repeated it to himself like a mantra. Nobody except the woman in the tree, of course. And she was dead.

Almost certainly dead.

He rounded a curve in the road and there was the bike, partially concealed by the thick hedge that bordered Hurst Lane. He covered the distance like an Olympic sprinter. Like a hero.

Then he skidded to a stop, and saw how stupid he’d been.

He could be a hero. The man who ended a massacre. For half a second he saw himself in that role, paraded and garlanded and acclaimed by the nation…

Until he considered the discrepancies. What had he been doing there? How had he disarmed the gunman? Why did he shoot him at such close range?

It was a stupid idea, the product of a mind in disarray. He told himself to get a grip.

The bike was a Kawasaki KDX200, lightweight and fast, road legal but well equipped to handle rough farm tracks and fields. He’d bought it two months ago for eight hundred pounds in cash. Registered it in a false name, kept it garaged where no one knew him.

He gripped the handlebars and pulled the bike upright. Then he turned his head slowly, scanning in every direction. There was no movement, no birds singing; just a tremendous crushing silence.

Then suddenly the whoop of a single siren, not close but carrying well in the still morning air. The sound chilled the sweat on his face and made him realise how lucky he was. The siren had saved him from another fuck-up.

The police were in the village, less than half a mile away. If he started the bike they’d hear it easily. Maybe they wouldn’t think anything of it – but maybe they would. He couldn’t take the chance.

He wheeled the bike as fast as he could, bouncing the Kawasaki along a road that was now little more than a beaten dirt track. His lungs burned and his muscles screamed, but he ignored them and allowed himself a little hope.

You can still do this. You can still get away with it.

The sight of the farmhouse, looming into view beyond a line of beech trees, sent a shudder through him. The farmhouse was where it had all gone wrong.

The front door was open slightly. He could’ve sworn he’d shut it, but he wasn’t absolutely sure. He eyed it nervously as he rolled past, half expecting someone to spring out.

Beyond the farmhouse the lane twisted to the right, between a barn and a large corrugated-steel shed. Deciding it should be safe to ride from here, he mounted the bike, then raised the visor and wiped his face. A flash of light caught his attention – a helicopter, no more than a speck against the South Downs. The perspective made it appear to be gliding along the top of the hills. Its destination was the village: had to be.

For a second he was transfixed. The enormity of the event was only now starting to sink in. Not just murder, but wholesale bloody slaughter.

He imagined alarms sounding across the south east, the emergency services descending in vast numbers, the media hot on their heels. The impact reverberating around the whole world.

This realisation sent a bolt of adrenalin through him. With it came a peculiar spreading warmth in his chest, which belatedly he identified as pride. Against fearsome odds he had somehow prevailed.

The bike started on the first attempt. He set off along the track, heading north of the farm. When he looked back, he could no longer see the helicopter. He forgot about it and accelerated, keeping a light grip on the handlebars as the bike juddered over the track.

After half a mile he turned on to a bridle path that took him north-west. He raced past winter fields of churned up mud, frost in the ruts glistening like icing sugar on melted chocolate. Another mile and he went left across a meadow of wild flowers, threading through a knot of trees that marked the farm’s northern perimeter, then he burst on to a tarmac road and sped away.

And as he did, he allowed himself a long, unbridled scream of manic laughter. He had never in his life felt so vital, so extraordinary, so complete.

He had found his vocation.

7

The first media report was broadcast at 9 a.m., by a local independent radio station. The BBC picked it up shortly afterwards and prepared to insert a mention into the next round of headlines. At this stage it was merely an unconfirmed report of a shooting in a small Sussex village.

Craig didn’t hear the first bulletin. He was watching SpongeBob SquarePants and refereeing between his children. Usually good-natured and co-operative, this morning they seemed to have picked up on his irritable mood and were determined to push him over the edge.

Nina had gone to the office again. Christmas aside, she had worked something like seven out of the past eight weekends. Usually Saturday mornings, but once or twice the whole day, and a couple of Sunday afternoons.

‘I need to do it,’ she had said. ‘My career matters to me.’

‘More than your family?’ he’d retorted. He stopped short of saying, More than your marriage?

‘No. And don’t try emotional blackmail. Did I ever complain when work took you away for days or even weeks at a time?’

‘That’s why I went freelance,’ he had reminded her. ‘To have more control over my life.’ But it was a valid point, he knew that.

Nina left the house at eight. Her office was in the centre of Crawley, a ten-minute drive away. After a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, she’d promised to be back as soon as she could. ‘Let’s say oneish, maybe two at the latest.’

‘Two at the latest,’ he repeated, as if her own words might bind her.

She had nodded, though with something unreadable on her face as she backed off the driveway. A look that Craig was seeing more and more frequently, and didn’t like at all.

During the ad break he got up to make coffee and asked if the children wanted another drink.

‘More juice, please,’ Maddie said, picking up her plastic cup.

‘Can we watch something else?’ Tom reached for the remote control, only to find his sister snatching at it. In doing so she slopped the dregs of her orange juice over the sofa.

‘Bloody hell!’ Craig roared. He was a big man, six feet tall and broad-shouldered, and often he was clumsy himself. Part of him knew he was overreacting even as he took the cup from her, but then Tom grabbed the remote control.

‘You’re not having that, either,’ Craig said, and Tom, seeing the look on his face, meekly handed it over.

‘Fetch a cloth to wipe this up.’ As Maddie hurried from the room, bottom lip trembling, Craig felt the familiar pang of guilt that his anger had upset them. He made sure to thank her when she returned with a hand towel.

‘Go and play upstairs,’ he suggested. ‘Better still, tidy your bedrooms.’

Alone in the room, he did some idle channel-hopping. On News 24 a grim-faced male presenter said, ‘…village of Chilton.’ He’d already pressed the remote again, and had to wait for it to go back. This time he caught, ‘More on that as soon as we have it.’

The newsreader went on to the next story. Craig sat forward, watching the ticker flow along the bottom of the screen. Then, beneath the banner of BREAKING NEWS: Reports of a shooting incident in a Sussex village. Emergency services are at the scene.

At first the words didn’t sink in. Chilton was practically the most sedate place he’d ever been. He could only imagine that someone had taken their own life with a shotgun.

There was a cordless phone on the unit next to the TV. He picked it up and pressed number four on the speed dial. Instead of a ringing sound, a recorded voice announced, ‘Sorry, we have been unable to connect your call.’

He tried again: no connection. Then he dialled the number from memory, in case the programmed number was wrong. Same result.

It didn’t mean anything, necessarily. But he was aware of a small but robust conviction that something was very, very wrong.

Craig had a laptop open on the dining room table. He wanted to search for the village pub, but somehow the name had escaped him. Was it the Green Man or the Long Man?

It was the Green Man. He found their website, complete with phone number, and gave them a call. He got the same result: no connection possible.

He found a number for the village store and tried that. Nothing. This was absurd, he thought. Probably just a technical fault.

Back to the living room, and now it was the lead story. The background image was a distant shot of an idyllic rural village: red tile roofs and a church tower peeking from a stand of oaks. The news ticker read, SUSSEX SHOOTING: MAJOR INCIDENT DECLARED.

The presenter was saying, ‘…have now confirmed a serious shooting in the Sussex village of Chilton. As yet the extent of the casualties remains uncertain, but we do know that emergency services are at the scene in significant numbers, and the Major Incident Plan for Sussex has been initiated.’

The words tumbled around inside Craig’s head before finally making sense. He picked up the phone to try Dad again, then had a better idea. Abby.

The number he wanted was on his mobile, and that was in the kitchen. He discovered the kids had grown bored upstairs and were sitting at the breakfast bar, watching The Simpsons.

‘I’m hungry,’ Maddie announced.

‘Get yourself some sweets.’

She gave him a sharp look. Such instant capitulation was unheard of, and prompted a reminder from Tom: ‘Mum says we’re not allowed until after tea.’

‘Is Mum here?’ Craig asked.

Tom shrugged: good enough for him.

On TV the presenter was now interviewing a retired chief constable, nudging him towards ever more newsworthy speculation. Craig tuned it out when a familiar voice said, ‘Craig? It’s been a while.’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘Don’t be silly. I have a living to earn.’

Now he made out the hum of traffic in the background. ‘Where are you?’

A gentle laugh. ‘Classified, my dear. I could tell you…’

‘I’m watching TV. Something about a shooting in Chilton.’

Her tone quickly changed. ‘That’s where I’m headed. What have you heard?’

‘Nothing. I was hoping you’d know.’

‘Sketchy, but the word is another Hungerford.’

There was a brief, blunt silence. Hungerford was a small market town in Berkshire, where in 1987 a man named Michael Ryan had gone on the rampage, killing… how many?

‘So what’s your interest?’ Abby asked.

Craig went to speak, but his tongue sat like a dry sock in his mouth. Moistening his lips with his tongue, he said, ‘My dad lives there.’

Abby Clark was a journalist on The Times. Fifteen years ago she and Craig had started out together on a local paper in Hampshire. Contact had been pretty sporadic in the past few years, which was entirely Craig’s fault. She had been greatly amused to hear of his move into features and sports writing, without knowing much about the reasons that lay behind it. ‘Always in search of the easy life, eh?’

He hadn’t taken offence. Abby could say the most outrageous things to him and get away with it. ‘Because you’ve got a crush on me,’ she’d once teased him, and she was probably right.

Now she said, ‘I’m sure it’s not on the scale of Hungerford at all. You know what the initial stage is like. All kinds of crazy rumours competing for attention.’

Craig appreciated her effort to allay his fears, but it didn’t succeed. ‘I’ve tried phoning. The whole village seems to be cut off.’

‘The police have probably taken the lines down. Or commandeered them for their own use.’

‘Maybe.’ There was another reason why the police would cut off the phones, but neither of them said it aloud. A hostage situation.

‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Abby insisted. ‘I’ll call you the minute I hear anything, okay?’

Craig smiled. Her concern was quite sincere, even while the brisk delivery signalled that she couldn’t afford to tie up her phone with a personal conversation.

After thanking her, he tried his father’s number again. No connection. On TV a local correspondent was in Lewes, standing outside police headquarters. She divulged that, unofficially, the casualty numbers were believed to be ‘significant’. Back in the studio, the presenter’s unnecessary recap made great play of the words ‘significant’ and ‘casualties’.

It wasn’t personal, and Craig knew that as well as anyone. He could well imagine the excitement filtering through news agencies and TV stations across the country. Tragedy meant a story: it meant papers read, TV watched, advertising consumed. Viewed from that perspective, you couldn’t blame a fellow journo for a little thrill, even if the event in question might encompass the death of his father.

The idea hadn’t truly crossed his mind before, and now it caused a jolt. Although in his seventies, Philip Walker was still fit and active. After a long legal career as a QC, circuit judge and finally a spell as Attorney General on the island of Montserrat, in retirement he’d found a new lease of life as a dedicated guardian of the village he had made home. If Abby was right, and someone had gone on the rampage, there was very little chance that Dad would have settled for running or hiding. It simply wasn’t in his nature.

With a sigh, Craig jabbed the remote control and the screen went blank. In the silence that followed he registered what he’d been hearing subliminally for some time but had attributed to the TV.

He hurried out to the hall, his heart beating in peculiar rapid trills. When he opened the front door the sound grew louder and unmistakable.

Sirens.

Goosebumps rose on his skin as he stood on the driveway and listened. The Maidenbower estate was situated on the south-eastern edge of Crawley, and the road in which he lived was less than half a mile from the M23. Sirens were simply part of the soundtrack of their lives, barely noticeable any more.

But Craig had never heard anything like this: a cacophony so intense, so unwavering, it could only mean that an entire fleet of vehicles was racing in convoy towards their destination.

And their destination was Chilton. Craig had no doubt about that.

Briefly the sirens were obscured by the deep throbbing burr of a helicopter. It roared almost directly overhead, travelling south. A few seconds later another followed, diverting his attention so completely that when someone grabbed his leg, Craig almost cried out.

He looked down to see Maddie, watching him with a worried expression. The sound of the helicopters receded, allowing the wailing chorus of sirens to dominate again.

‘Is that police cars, Daddy?’

‘I think so, darling. Police or ambulance.’

‘Or fire brigade.’

‘Or fire brigade,’ he agreed.

‘There’s lots of them. Has something really bad happened?’

Craig tried to look genuinely untroubled. Lying to his daughter had never been such a challenge.

‘I don’t know.’

8

Julia regained consciousness once on the way to hospital. At first she thought it was the man in black holding her down, and her relief at being alive was tempered by the knowledge that he had taken her prisoner. Terrified of being raped, she struggled against her restraints and tried to scream, but there was something blocking her mouth.

As she thrashed in panic, she heard muffled voices, almost drowned out by a deafening clatter of engines. Someone shouted, ‘Whoa! Careful!’ Someone else said, ‘Watch the IV, she’ll pull it out.’

She was moving, but immobile. Strapped to a board, being manhandled into a vehicle of some sort. She tried to open her eyes but saw only blurs of light. Her senses were overloaded by noise and movement and a terrible threatened pain, lurking close by like a deadly animal barely restrained. If it broke loose it could kill her, and with this knowledge came an understanding that she mustn’t struggle. She had to accept her fate.

She drifted away for a time, then opened her eyes again. There were people huddled beside her: she recognised them as paramedics. The terrible rhythmic noise increased, and a slice of blue sky shifted oddly downwards.

She was on a helicopter. She no longer had to fight.

She was being rescued, not captured.

9

George Matheson sat in the waiting room, his mind blank. It was an ability he had cultivated through years of interminable meetings, seminars, and tours of inspection. And now it was needed more than ever.

Not to think about Vanessa, or the prognosis. Not to think about the business, or how it might be wrenched from his grasp…

He shared the room with two other people: the consultant’s secretary and a patient. He ignored them as studiously as they ignored him. There was a wall-mounted TV, but it was switched off. The only sound was the soft patter of keys from the secretary’s laptop and the rustle of the patient’s Telegraph.

The sudden bleep of his mobile phone came as a rather tasteless intrusion. Nodding an apology, George examined the display. The number intrigued him, so he stood and walked to the door before answering.

George was a burly man in his mid-fifties. He had been a keen amateur boxer in his youth, and continued to exercise hard until only a few years ago. His subsequent weight gain had helped, somehow, to give him a more cultured look, befitting a man who had risen from nothing to create a billion-pound empire.

The caller was Detective Inspector Terry Sullivan, a useful acquaintance of many years’ standing – and in no mood for pleasantries, evidently.

‘Where are you?’

The question disarmed him. George was on the second floor of a converted town house in Harley Street, in a waiting room whose low leather sofas, Persian rugs and mood lighting were in stark contrast to the consulting rooms beyond. None of your business, George thought.

‘You’re not in Sussex?’ Sullivan added.

‘No. We stayed in London last night.’

George heard a loud sigh. His frown deepened as he picked up other noises in the background: raised voices, sirens, possibly the clatter of a helicopter.

Sullivan said, ‘There’s been an incident in Chilton.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you own a shotgun?’

George, startled, was about to repeat the detective’s last word, but managed to stop himself in time. ‘Yes, I do.’

A muttered expletive, then Sullivan asked, ‘Is there a TV where you are?’

George glanced over his shoulder; both the receptionist and the patient were staring at him. ‘Uh, yes.’

‘Turn it on. I’ll call you again in a minute.’ Somebody shouted the policeman’s name. ‘If I can,’ Sullivan added darkly, and ended the call.

George stared blankly at the display for a moment, then offered the secretary his most disarming smile.

‘Would you mind switching the television on?’

There were four consulting rooms, two each side of a central corridor. Lavatories were at one end of the corridor, and the waiting room at the other. Vanessa quietly closed the door to consulting room number three and entered the ladies’ cloakroom.

The room was empty, thankfully. She had no need of the toilet, but a great desire for solitude.

She stood in front of the sink. There was a shelf above it, containing a pretty little basket of soaps, each wrapped in shiny pink paper. Above the shelf was a mirror, and in the mirror was no one she recognised. Vanessa had given up on mirrors months ago, practically as soon as the chemotherapy began.

The pointless, futile chemotherapy.

The secretary was the usual formidable creature these places seemed to favour, but on this occasion she complied with George’s request. In silence all three of them watched the screen swim into life, revealing a headline in bold red letters: SHOOTING IN SUSSEX VILLAGE.

There was a live camera feed from a helicopter, hovering somewhere above Chilton’s southern perimeter. It showed the road into the village choked with emergency vehicles. Dark figures scurried in the neighbouring fields. An unfamiliar white square had appeared on the village green, and another on the road by the church.

Forensic tents, George realised, just as Sullivan rang him again.

‘You watching it?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘We’ve got a lad dead on the village green. Shot in the head with a Walther P22, complete with suppressor. There’s also a Purdey shotgun by the body.’

‘I don’t understand. Who did it?’

‘Looks like he topped himself. I need to know if the gun is yours.’

‘It-it could be,’ George stammered. ‘Does that mean… the house?’

‘We’ve not been there yet. Got more than enough to occupy us in the village. Communications are shit, but hopefully we’ll have the landlines fixed soon.’

George’s attention was distracted by the sound of a door opening, so he didn’t quite catch what Sullivan said. Vanessa was walking slowly, gingerly towards him. Her eyes met his for a moment, bright and cold.

He looked away. What did Sullivan mean about fixing the landlines?

‘There are other fatalities,’ the policeman said.

‘How many?’

‘Dunno yet, but it’s a lot.’

On screen the aerial image flickered and went black. Back in the studio, the presenter apologised for the loss of picture before summarising the situation. A gunman was believed to have carried out a shooting spree in the Sussex village of Chilton.

He heard Vanessa gasp. She took a couple of steps forward and grasped the reception desk for support. A buzzer sounded, and the secretary invited the other patient to go through. Sullivan had been interrupted again, but he came back on the line just as something else occurred to George.

‘What about the farm?’

‘What?’

‘Hurst Farm. It’s along the same road as the house. The Caplans live there, Laura and Keith, with their daughter. Megan.’

Another curse from Sullivan, as if an impossible job had just got harder still.

‘We’ll check it out.’

A hand touched his shoulder. Vanessa said, ‘Can we go?’

George half turned, distracted and irritable – until he remembered why they were here. ‘What did he say?’

‘It can wait.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He gestured at the television. ‘You can see why…’

There was a brief report from outside Sussex Police HQ, then it was back to the aerial shot, this time a little further from the village. It showed a helicopter taking off, while another waited its turn to land.

With an impatient sigh, Vanessa manoeuvred around him and set off towards the foyer. Reluctantly, George followed, his head swimming with fear and confusion. He felt compelled to speak, hoping it might seem less unreal.

‘Terry Sullivan rang me. He was worried we might be there.’

‘Do they know what happened?’

‘Not really. Sounds like pandemonium at the moment. I just hope the Caplans are all right.’

Vanessa said nothing. She summoned the elevator, then turned to face the doors.

‘Dreadful business.’ Lost in thought, George went on staring at his phone. ‘Absolutely dread⁠—’

‘Eight to ten weeks.’

He looked up, confused. ‘What’s that?’

‘Mr Templeton’s prognosis.’ Vanessa swallowed loudly. ‘I have two months to live. At best.’

10

He’d been in Chilton less than an hour, but PC Davies was already exhausted. A second Armed Response Vehicle had arrived at eight-forty, quickly followed by half a dozen patrol cars and the first contingent of CID. They were joined by fire and medical crews, and the arduous task of searching the entire village began.

The man lying dead on the green might well be the sole perpetrator, but the chief inspector who’d assumed the role of silver commander urged caution. So far the only witness was the woman from Arundel Crescent, and she was unreliable at best. He wanted one or more armed officers assigned to each team, along with a paramedic and a couple of uniforms.

Everyone present knew this approach might mean that an injured victim died before medical assistance could reach them. It also meant forcing entry to homes and screaming at the occupants to get down, traumatising people who were already in a state of shock, and in some cases badly injured.

Once the first couple of survivors had confirmed the description of a single gunman, Davies began to take greater risks with his own safety; he suspected some of his colleagues were doing the same. His team were first to finish searching their allotted properties. He emerged from the village shop and left a uniformed colleague to supply the command post with details of the only occupant: a middle-aged woman in the stockroom, fatally wounded.

Stopping on the edge of the green to wipe his face, a passing paramedic offered him water and he took it gratefully. As he tipped the bottle up, he saw a helicopter descending into the field behind Arundel Crescent and recognised it as the one which had transported the female victim to hospital. He wondered if she’d made it there alive.

He heard a shout and looked round. An overweight man with untidy grey hair was striding towards him. Davies vaguely recognised him, but glanced at his warrant card just the same: Detective Inspector Sullivan.

‘Need to check out Hurst Lane,’ Sullivan told him, while signalling to the paramedic who had given Davies the water. She was a short, slight woman with jet black hair and several eyebrow piercings.

The car groaned as Sullivan sank into the driver’s seat. Davies caught a whiff of body odour, masked by a generous dose of aftershave. Sullivan drove one-handed, his belly wedged against the steering wheel, through a village that was beginning to resemble a scene from Apocalypse Now. Helicopters swooping in and out, fed with casualties by stretcher bearers running to and fro. Forensic teams in paper suits, swarming around the victims like white blood cells around a wound.

As they weaved through a cluster of emergency vehicles outside the church, Sullivan nearly collided with a SOCO taking photographs of the dead postman. ‘Fucking nightmare,’ he muttered.

‘It’s like a vision of hell,’ the paramedic piped up from the back seat.

After that, nobody spoke until they reached the farmhouse.

The first thing Davies noticed was the front door standing open. His gut twisted with apprehension, and he thought, Don’t let me find any more.

But there would be more; he knew that as soon as he got out of the car. The stillness, the silence felt totally unnatural. Someone should have heard the sirens and come out to investigate.

‘No one in there,’ DI Sullivan said as he followed Davies towards the door. ‘No one alive, anyway.’

From behind them, the paramedic said, ‘We shouldn’t give up hope.’

Davies nudged the door open with his foot. He peeked over the threshold and immediately caught the stench of blood and human waste.

He stepped inside. It was an old dwelling, with low ceilings and small rooms. The decor was tired, but efforts had been made to brighten it up with well-chosen knick-knacks. It spoke of a woman’s taste and ingenuity, trying to offset a man’s reluctance to spend time or money on decoration.

The living room was dominated by a big old TV. No DVDs or game consoles. The room opposite, next to the stairs, had a large oak dining table and looked like it was rarely used. By contrast, the kitchen was warm and cluttered and much more welcoming. It was here that he found them.

He was in the doorway, staring at the bodies, when Sullivan came in behind him. ‘Clear?’

Davies shrugged. He hadn’t checked upstairs yet, but it all seemed a bit academic now. He moved aside to let Sullivan see the room.

Like several other victims, the occupants of the farmhouse had been having breakfast when the killer struck. There were two plates on the pine table: one with a half-eaten pile of eggs, bacon, sausages and mushrooms; the other with poached eggs on toast, untouched.

The farmer was sprawled on the floor. He had been blasted in the stomach with a shotgun, but it hadn’t killed him straight away. The blood and intestines covering his hands suggested he had literally tried to hold himself together.

The woman had also been killed with the shotgun, a blast to the head at close range. There was little of her face left, but they could tell she was fairly young, maybe early thirties, with a slim figure. Her jeans lay discarded on the floor. Her sweater and T-shirt had been hiked up, and her bra torn off. There were marks on her skin where she had been pawed by her killer.

Sullivan whistled. ‘This is a bit different.’

‘Rage,’ Davies said. ‘Sexual rage.’

‘Seen any others where the shotgun was used?’

‘Not yet. Wonder what it means?’

‘Doubt we’ll ever know. Fucker took his secrets with him.’

A soft thud from overhead jolted them both. Davies whipped round, bringing his gun up. The paramedic, waiting by the front door, reeled back in terror.

‘Hey,’ Sullivan said. ‘Where’s the kid? They’ve got a daughter.’

Davies took the stairs as lightly as he could. Reaching the top he sensed movement at the end of the landing, as if someone had ducked into the bedroom. If it was the girl, why had she run away from him?

Because she’s bloody terrified!

‘Armed police!’ he shouted, trying to sound stern but not overly intimidating. ‘Come out slowly. You’re going to be all right.’

Silence. What if it wasn’t the girl? Davies knew it was unlikely, but the sexual assault on the woman had challenged his assumptions. It felt like there was something else going on here.

Maybe he should withdraw, get a full team to storm the house? Except he’d never hear the last of it if there was only a little girl, too petrified to show herself.

‘I’m a policeman,’ he called, more softly this time. ‘My name’s Chris. Will you tell me your name?’

No answer. He sighed. Took a cautious step forward.

Then he heard a low, frightened mewling. He smiled, thanking God he hadn’t called for back-up, and strode towards the end bedroom. Poised on the dressing table was a large black cat, regarding him with spectacular disdain.

‘Have you found her?’ Sullivan called up.

Ignoring him, Davies turned and opened the door he’d just passed. A spare bedroom, with a single bed. But the duvet was rucked up, and there was a Tom Clancy paperback on the bedside table. A crumpled pair of jeans on the floor.

Next door was the bathroom, and the final room was a little girl’s bedroom. The walls were painted a light purple, with a matching lightshade fringed with beads. Posters of Girls Aloud on the wall, and a row of Jacqueline Wilson books on a glass shelf.

The girl was in bed. At first glance she might have been asleep. Her pink duvet was drawn up to her chin, just as you would expect on a cold morning. She lay on her side, nothing visible except a pale sliver of cheek and a sweep of long brown hair. Only the pillow lying partly across her face gave any indication that things were not as they seemed.

‘Up here,’ he shouted. For the first time that day, Davies felt tears straining behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly and turned away.

Sullivan hurried into the room, followed by the paramedic. The detective took a brief look at the girl, then touched Davies’s shoulder. ‘You okay?’

‘Fine.’

Sullivan grunted, as if he didn’t fully buy it. There was a hushed exclamation from the paramedic. She’d pulled back the duvet, and at first Davies imagined she was reacting to some terrible violation of the child’s body. Then he registered the awe in her voice.

‘I’ve found a pulse.’

11

By the time Nina called, Craig was on the A23 in his VW Golf, heading south as fast as the Saturday morning traffic would allow. It was almost eleven o’clock and he was no closer to finding out if his father was safe.

‘What’s the matter? Are the kids all right?’ His wife sounded different, somehow. Slightly flustered, slightly upset, but with an aggressive edge to her voice.

‘They’re fine,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you answer your mobile?’

‘I switched it off. I always do when I need to concentrate.’

‘I wasted ages trying to reach you. The guy on the switchboard couldn’t find you anywhere.’

‘The switchboard isn’t manned on Saturday.’

‘Well, someone answered. He said you weren’t at your desk.’

A long, theatrical sigh. ‘Maybe they looked in the wrong place – or I’d popped out to the loo.’

‘I had to take the kids to your mum’s. She tried phoning you, as well.’

‘Bloody hell, Craig. Why?’

He fought back an impulse to yell, How can you not know? By ten o’clock both the BBC and ITV had broken into their normal schedules to bring live coverage on their main channels. It was at his in-laws’ house that he’d first heard the word ‘massacre’ in relation to Chilton.

Now he said, ‘You really don’t know?’

‘No. What?’

‘There’s been a mass shooting. In Chilton.’

Nina’s gasp was followed by a peculiar busy silence. Something made him ask, ‘Who are you with?’

‘No one. Have you spoken to your dad?’

‘I can’t get through to him.’

His peripheral vision caught blue lights in the rear-view mirror. He veered left, leaving the outside lane clear. A convoy of six vehicles sped past: police cars and scientific support vehicles. And there was a black Ford Transit, unmarked, which after a moment he realised was probably a mortuary van.

‘Craig? You’re not going there, are you? Wouldn’t it be better to call the police?’

Craig ended the call before he said something he would regret.

A travel update warned of long delays in the area. For that reason Craig stayed on the A23 until Albourne, which was slightly south of the village, but meant spending less time on slower, single-lane roads. It was heavy going through Hurstpierpoint, but when he reached the adjoining town of Hassocks he knew a couple of short-cuts that got him on to the B2112.

He turned north, with the Downs behind him, and almost immediately joined a slow-moving line of traffic. The next mile took almost fifteen excruciating minutes. With practically nothing coming the other way, Craig was sorely tempted to pull out and overtake – until the driver behind him tried just that, only to encounter an ambulance with a police escort.

Half a mile from the turn-off to Chilton, the queue came to an emphatic halt. Up ahead he could see cars pulling on to the grass verge. Craig did the same, and set off on foot. Only then did he appreciate the scale of what was happening. The road ahead was a mass of people, abandoning their cars and trudging towards the village. It reminded him of big outdoor events, rock festivals or the South of England Show at nearby Ardingly, but with one major difference.

There was no jollity. No excitement, or anticipation; just an oppressive silence and an air of undisguised dread. Eye contact was made reluctantly, faces dull with worry and shock. Nobody was going to ask why he had come, because nobody wanted to be confronted with the answer. They were all here for the same reason.

To find out if their loved ones had survived.

After cresting a low hill, Craig saw what had stopped the traffic. There was a roadblock just south of the turning to Chilton, and another to the north. The road in both directions was an identical scene of haphazardly parked cars and grim clusters of people making for the police cordon.

Next to the junction was a large grassy area, thronging with people. Many were in uniform, erecting tents and tables, setting up for a long operation. There was a catering van doing a brisk trade, and a lorry unloading portaloos.

An ambulance sped along Chilton Way and paused briefly at the junction. Police and civilian workers in orange tabards held back the crowd, some of whom were wailing at the sight of the ambulance. One group of onlookers surged forward and began photographing both the ambulance and the emotional reaction to it.

It struck him that Nina was right. He would be competing with dozens of equally concerned relatives for what meagre scraps of information were available. He knew how chaotic such operations were in the early stages. Keeping the public informed was a low priority, and the police knew better than to release information until it could be confirmed beyond doubt.

Then someone in the crowd turned in his direction: a slim, elfin woman with short dark hair. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she peered at him and raised her other hand.

‘Thought you’d be here already,’ Abby said as they hugged.

‘Nina’s at work. I had to find someone to have the kids.’

‘I hate to say this, but it might be a wasted journey.’

‘Are they in a mess?’

‘Could be worse.’ She indicated the tents behind them. ‘That’s the command post, which is as far as anyone gets. They’re setting up a casualty bureau and a media-briefing room. The fire brigade and civil defence volunteers are trying to seal off the entire village. Breaking the cordon doesn’t go down well, as some of my colleagues have discovered. One of them got chased away at gunpoint.’

They both turned and stared in the direction of the village. Fields and trees and bushes in a hundred shades of green, still sparkling with melted frost, and the grey church tower peeking above the treetops. A chocolate box portrait of Olde England, he thought. Utterly benign.

‘Beautiful part of the world,’ Abby murmured. When he didn’t respond, she added, ‘Your father was campaigning against development in the village, wasn’t he?’

‘Yep.’

He registered her use of the past tense, just as she said, ‘Oh God, sorry. I wasn’t implying…’

‘I know.’ He stared at the trees. Until a breeze caused them to sway, he could almost believe they were false: painted scenery that might fall away and expose the horror of what had happened here.

He jumped when Abby patted his arm. She indicated a couple of officers sitting at folding metal tables. A large queue was forming in front of them. ‘That’s where they’re taking details of friends and family.’

There was a ripple of noise and movement from the crowd. They turned to see a car approaching from the north, on the wrong side of the road, sounding its horn to clear pedestrians out of the way. It was a brand new Jaguar XJR with tinted windows. Craig could just make out a man behind the wheel, and a woman in the passenger seat.

A policeman stepped into the road and raised his hand. For a moment it looked as though the driver would ignore him. Onlookers gasped, but the Jaguar braked sharply and stopped just in time. There were a few jeers, and shouts of ‘Send him back.’

The driver’s window opened. The officer walked round and they conferred in low tones. The photographers moved closer, raising their cameras. Just before they blocked his view, Craig saw who was in the car.

‘That’s George Matheson.’

‘Ah. I wondered if he’d be putting in an appearance.’

Craig was surprised that Abby knew who he was, until he remembered her comment about his father’s campaign.

‘Lucky he wasn’t here this morning.’

‘Very lucky,’ Abby echoed. ‘But then they have several homes. Villas in Nice and Antigua, and a townhouse in Knightsbridge, I believe?’

It sounded like she was fishing, but Craig only said, ‘You know more about him than I do.’

The shouts from the crowd increased when the Jaguar was permitted to go on its way. George Matheson’s gaze was set straight ahead, while his wife, cloaked in sunglasses and a headscarf, raised a hand to cover her face. They turned into Chilton Way and increased speed.

‘One rule for the rich…’ Abby said, only partly in jest.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Craig muttered.

12

George Matheson had become a master at denial. Bit by bit his life was falling apart, yet here he was, still functioning. Still pretending none of it was happening.

Vanessa, apparently, was doing the same. If she was troubled by the abuse from the crowd, she gave no sign of it. She’d barely spoken on the journey from London, and because of the dark glasses he couldn’t tell whether she was awake or asleep.

He would never forget his first sight of the village. Normally so serene, it had been transformed into something resembling a war zone, or a refugee camp after a natural disaster. What seemed like dozens of police cars and ambulances were parked along the High Street. Everywhere he looked he could see armed police, doctors and paramedics, grim-faced search teams and forensic investigators in white suits.

There was another roadblock outside the village store. George gave his name and waited while the officer consulted a list on a clipboard. His eye was caught by a man unloading something from a van. Body bags, made of heavy-duty vinyl, folded and stacked on the village green.

‘They’re waiting for you at the manor,’ the officer said. ‘Watch how you go.’

As he set off again he glanced at Vanessa, and found her staring, transfixed, her hand cupped over her mouth as if to hold in her shock. He wanted to offer some comfort, but had no idea what to say.

He drove slowly, stopping to let an ambulance get past a Royal Mail van. There was a tent set up behind the van; George glimpsed a man’s leg and a pool of dried blood on the road. A group of emergency workers stood nearby, drinking from Styrofoam cups. They all turned and stared as the big Jaguar glided past, and something in their blank unwavering gazes seemed to transmit a sense of the carnage they had encountered.

He shivered.

Hurst Lane provided a brief respite. For a few seconds it was almost possible to believe this was just a terrible dream. Then he reached the fork in the road and took the right-hand path, drawing down a blanket of denial over the likely fate of the Caplans. He would know soon enough.

The gates to Chilton Manor were open, presumably a forced entry by the police. He drove along the wide gravel driveway and saw a black Vauxhall saloon parked beside a patrol car. DI Sullivan was standing by the driver’s door, wearing a heavy blue parka, grubby-looking jeans and trainers: weekend clothes.

As he turned, George searched the detective’s face for some tiny hint of reassurance. He got nothing.

They shook hands. Sullivan’s was freezing cold, and the tip of his nose was red.

‘Did you check the farm?’ George asked.

Sullivan nodded. ‘We found the adults dead in the kitchen.’

George had braced himself for this, yet still he felt utterly destabilised. He groped for the Jaguar behind him and half leaned, half sat on the bonnet.

‘And their daughter?’

‘Smothered with a pillow. She’s been airlifted to the Royal Alex in Brighton. They don’t expect her to survive.’

There was a sombre silence. George realised the passenger door was opening, Vanessa slowly easing herself from the car. Sullivan lowered his voice and said, ‘Might be better if your wife waits here.’

George exchanged a glance with Vanessa, who glared at Sullivan and shut the door.

‘I’m afraid the house will be out of bounds for a while,’ the detective said. ‘We think the killer broke in.’

‘My shotgun?’

‘It’s gone.’ Sullivan was staring straight at George. ‘Did you have any other firearms? Any handguns?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘What about the alarm system?’

‘I set it yesterday morning. Why?’

‘It’s deactivated, and doesn’t appear to have been tampered with. Are you certain you set it?’

‘It’s such an automatic thing to do…’ George faltered. ‘I can’t remember precisely, but I’m sure I would have.’

‘There’s no one else living here? No staff?’

‘Not full-time. There are gardeners, and we use a cleaning company twice a week, but they don’t have keys or the alarm code.’

Sighing, Sullivan rolled a bit of loose gravel back and forth beneath his shoe. ‘You say you left here yesterday morning?’

‘Yes.’ George drew himself up to his full height. ‘Am I suspected of something?’

‘Don’t be silly. We’re just trying to build up a picture of what happened.’

Stung by the dismissive tone, George cleared his throat and said, ‘May I see where he broke in?’

Sullivan nodded. ‘Wait a second.’

He fetched a digital camera from his car, slipping it into his coat pocket. George saw Vanessa watching them and walked over to her. When he relayed what Sullivan had told her, she pursed her lips and said, ‘Be careful. He’s an odious man.’

George grunted, concerned that Sullivan would overhear. ‘We’ll be better off in London, anyway.’

‘What have they taken from the house?’

‘Apart from the gun, I don’t know.’

She gave a curt nod and turned away from him. Conversation over.

‘One bit of advice,’ Sullivan said as they followed the stone path around the perimeter of the house. ‘Not a word to anyone about our past association, or I’ll be kicked off the case. And I’m no help to you then.’

‘What makes you think I’ll need your help?’

Sullivan didn’t respond, but the way his breath whistled through his nostrils made him seem habitually scornful. ‘Take me through your itinerary yesterday.’

‘We left here around ten o’clock. I was in meetings all afternoon. Vanessa had an appointment in Harley Street this morning, so we stayed up in town.’

‘Nothing serious?’

George made an involuntary sound in his throat, but didn’t answer the question. ‘My shotgun. Was it used at the farm?’

Sullivan met his eye. ‘I’m afraid so.’

They reached the corner of the house. Wide lawns covered almost an acre, leading on to a tennis court, a Victorian walled garden and a small orchard. Beyond that, miles of open farmland.

Sullivan, gazing at the view, said, ‘How long had you known the Caplans?’

‘Oh, it must be at least six, seven years. Keith was a very capable farmer. They were nice people. I counted them as friends, not just employees.’

The detective nodded thoughtfully, and they walked on in silence. The western side of the house had a ground-floor extension added in the late nineteenth century; it was here that one of the windows had been smashed. A uniformed officer stood on the path beside it.

‘Is there much damage in the house?’ George asked.

‘Superficial. I can’t say whether any valuables have been taken, but it seems unlikely.’ Sullivan looked to be fighting a smirk. ‘Our perpetrator also took a dump on your dining-room table.’

George shuddered in disgust. ‘Do you think this was premeditated, or done on the spur of the moment?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘The fact that he came here to steal my shotgun. How was he to know the place was empty?’ He glanced in the direction of the village. ‘If we’d been at home, perhaps none of this would have happened.’

‘As far as we know, he already had the pistol with him. He might have blasted in here, killed the two of you and taken the shotgun anyway.’

It was an odd sort of consolation to offer someone. Sullivan took the camera from his pocket and turned it over several times, pondering something.

‘Right now, there’s a lot we don’t understand.’ He glanced at the uniform, who read his expression and turned away as if rebuked. Then he held up the camera for George to see. ‘Take a look at this.’

There was a tiny screen on the back. The image in the display was of a man’s head, taken at close range but with part of it obscured, perhaps deliberately, by a sheet of paper. Concealing a wound, George guessed. But there was enough of the face visible for him to understand two things.

The man was dead. And he was familiar.

‘I think that’s Carl Forester.’

Sullivan’s eyes widened. ‘Who is he?’

‘He used to work for me, some years ago. He helped out on the farm.’ Remembering something else, George felt the blood drain from his face. Fortunately Sullivan had chosen that moment to switch the camera off, and by the time he looked up George had recovered.

He would have to tell the police at some point, of course. But not now.

‘He lived locally, then?’ Sullivan asked.

‘Falcombe, I think. He had a very disruptive home life. Father’s long gone. Mother is an alcoholic. Carl himself was a bit of a tearaway, I believe.’

‘So we’ll find him in our records?’

‘I imagine so. Motoring convictions. Petty theft, perhaps.’

‘Any sex offences that you know of?’

George felt dizzy again. ‘What?’

Sullivan shoved the camera back in his pocket. ‘Mrs Caplan was sexually assaulted before she died.’

13

It was nearly two in the afternoon when Craig got home. Nina’s Citroën was on the driveway. After parking beside it he remained in the car for a minute, not so much collecting his thoughts as dispersing them. His preoccupations felt like steel cables, coiled so tight they might suffocate him.

When Abby rejoined her colleagues in the media tent, Craig had stood in line at the grandly named Friends and Relatives Reception Centre. Eventually he spoke to a community support officer, who by now had been politely resisting demands for information for several hours and could reel off official platitudes while simultaneously filling out forms and keeping an alert eye on potential troublemakers further along the line.

Craig had envisaged that he would insist on learning his father’s fate. Refusing to budge until he knew the facts. Probably everyone else in the queue thought the same. But when the moment came, faced with the implacable barriers of bureaucracy and innate politeness, almost everyone accepted they couldn’t be told anything right now. The priority was to secure the scene and give help to the injured. To protest would be not only unseemly, but also an insult to the victims.

‘Best thing is to go home,’ the officer told him. ‘Soon as we know something definite, we’ll be in touch.’

Craig had looked for Abby before he left, but couldn’t find her. He had his press card and no doubt could have talked his way into the media tent, but it was bound to lead to trouble. He knew exactly the kind of morbid humour that journalists employed at times like this, and he’d just end up overreacting to some wisecrack and getting into a fight.

Now he forced himself from the car, aware of how much he wanted to turn around and drive away. Except that he’d told the police he would be at home.

Nina opened the door while he was fumbling with his keys. She looked emotional, under strain, but also immaculate. He’d always marvelled at the way she could do a demanding job, bring up two children and still devote time to hair and clothes and make-up. Some of her friends teased her about it, calling her ‘Superwoman’, and although Craig joined in he was secretly proud. Today, though, it irked him for reasons he couldn’t put into words.

She stepped forward as if to embrace him, but perhaps sensing it wouldn’t be welcome, settled for lightly caressing his arm. ‘Is he all right?’

‘No news yet. They said they’ll let me know.’ Again she reached out, but he strode into the living room. He felt her freeze, slightly incredulous that she had been shunned. ‘What are they saying on TV?’

‘Mostly speculation,’ she said, ‘recycled over and over. Reporters interviewing each other because no one will speak to them.’

Craig slumped on to a sofa. Sky News was showing what appeared to be the same aerial footage from earlier. The voiceover said, ‘…now confirmed to be one of the worst spree killings in recent years.’

‘Where are Tom and Maddie?’

‘Still at Mum’s. They can stay over, if need be.’

Craig nodded, rested his head back and stared at the ceiling. He ran his hands through his hair and down around his neck, holding them there as if he wanted to throttle himself.

‘Where were you this morning?’

Nina flinched, but hid it well. She turned to the armchair behind her and found some comics to tidy away before sitting down.

‘You know where. At work.’

‘No you weren’t. The guy I spoke to said he looked everywhere. He said your PC was off. Your coat and bag were gone.’

The words tumbled into the room like grenades, turning their familiar living room into hazardous territory.

‘Craig, don’t do this now,’ Nina implored him, her eyes sparkling with tears.

‘What do you mean, “Don’t do this now”?’

‘This conversation. Let’s wait until we know your dad is safe.’

He isn’t safe, said a voice in his head. He’s dead.

Craig sighed. She had as good as told him already, hadn’t she?

‘Who is he?’

‘Please. You’re upset because of this, and we’re still⁠—’

‘Just tell me his name!’

Nina hunched over, hugging her arms together. She breathed in, breathed out, and said, ‘Bruce Abbott.’

Craig said nothing. He didn’t react when she left the room. He listened to her putting on shoes and a coat, picking up her keys and leaving the house. She over-revved the Citroën and the wheels squealed as they fought for grip.

Six hours ago he’d been lying in bed, contemplating a weekend of relaxation and marital harmony. Now he might have lost both his father and his marriage. What was next?

He stood up. He knew exactly what was next.

As a rule they didn’t keep much alcohol in the house. Red wine, mostly, which Nina drank, and sometimes a bottle of white. Beer was a no-no, and had been for more than four years. Four years, three months and ten days, in fact.

Spirits were also barred, but there was a bottle of good malt which Nina had won in a raffle at Christmas and not yet given away. That would do for starters.

Two cars tailed the Mathesons back to London, and when they turned into Cadogan Place there was a TV van and a group of people waiting outside the house. George had expected as much. He wasn’t a particularly high-profile figure, but from time to time he featured in the financial pages. For an event of this magnitude, that was probably more than sufficient to single him out for attention. Vanessa gave a cry of alarm when she spotted them.

‘We won’t stop,’ he assured her. True to his word, he almost ploughed into them as he passed the house. Vanessa twisted away from the lenses, covering her face with her hands. He quite understood her reaction, but knew it would only encourage the use of the photos. It made them look guilty of something.

Oblivious to their own safety, the reporters pursued them along the street, hurling questions as they ran.

‘What did you see in Chilton?’

‘Will you give us your reaction to the massacre?’

‘What did the police tell you, Mr Matheson?’

He ignored them all. Kept that same steely gaze and drove on until he found somewhere to park. He kept vowing that later he would allow himself time to reflect. It felt as though this morning had changed his life beyond recognition: the ramifications were impossible to predict.

It came as a greater shock to realise, an hour or more after they were safely ensconced in their respective refuges – she in her bedroom, he in his study – that he had given no reaction, nor barely any thought, to Vanessa’s news.

She had only weeks to live.

Toying with a brandy, he tried to imagine himself a widower. He had known it would happen: the initial diagnosis had been about as bleak as they come. What he had never imagined was that he’d have to combine it with this… devastation.

People might look to him, he realised. Despite everything, it caused a tiny swelling in his heart. He might be called upon to give a lead.

Ironic, really, considering that until now he’d been depicted as the would-be destroyer of Chilton’s perfection.

The tears came without warning, a hot rush suddenly there on his cheeks; a single deep sob that convulsed his chest. His life was over. Finished.

Afterwards he felt no real benefit for having vented his emotions. He felt wretched, exhausted, wishing he could drop dead right there and be spared all the trials that now lay ahead of him, as unavoidable as night after day, demanding to be faced.

Starting now, he decided.

Starting with Kendrick.

The phone was picked up on the third ring. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s George Matheson.’

‘What a nice surprise.’

The sly amusement made George furious. It was bad enough that he couldn’t speak to Kendrick directly. Having to go through James Vilner, of all people, was nothing short of humiliating.

‘I assume you’ve seen the news?’

‘Watching it now,’ Vilner said. ‘I told myself, someone had better have a bloody good reason to drag me away from it.’ He laughed. ‘I guess you qualify.’

‘I need to see Kendrick as soon as possible. I’m sure he’ll want to discuss the… implications.’

Another throaty laugh. ‘Implications?’

‘Yes,’ George said firmly. ‘If you let me have his number I’ll call him myself.’

‘I’m seeing him later. He’ll get the message.’

‘See that he does.’

Vilner’s tone hardened. ‘Toby all right, is he?’

George made a dismissive noise. That was his next task.

‘So where does this leave the development?’ Vilner went on. ‘Seems to me it could be a total non-starter.’

‘Not necessarily. But the prudent action would be to consider all eventualities.’

‘Yeah, you can spill out that bollocks till the cows come home, George. Just don’t forget what you owe me. If I’m not getting the contract Toby promised me, I want the cash instead.’

Through gritted teeth, George said, ‘And you will get it.’

‘When?’

‘At this precise moment, I can’t say.’

‘Not good enough. Just remember, I won’t let anyone make a fool of me.’

‘We’ll talk again soon.’ George’s hand trembled as he put the phone down.

While he’d planned to call Toby as well, and warn him to keep his mouth shut, he realised he simply wasn’t capable of it. Overcome by a craving for oblivion, George thought briefly of helping himself to Vanessa’s painkillers but, like the miserable coward he was, settled for more brandy.

Craig was drunk when the doorbell rang. After years of abstinence the alcohol hit him like a train. He’d bypassed the pleasurable stage altogether and gone straight to hangover. No giddy euphoria, just disgust that he’d added weakness of character to his many other failings.

He saw the police car draw up outside and was at the door before they rang the bell. There were two of them, both men: one uniformed and very young, the other CID and about Craig’s age. It was almost fully dark outside, just a few streaks of purple and red in the western sky, the temperature probably below freezing.

Craig made an attempt at sobriety and ushered them inside. Stumbling in the doorway didn’t help, but if they disapproved they gave no sign of it.

‘Offer you a drink?’ he said, trying hard not to slur.

‘Good idea,’ the detective said. ‘My colleague will put the kettle on.’

Not hearing, Craig took a couple of steps towards the kitchen. The uniform waylaid him, directing him to a seat like an errant child.

‘Is your wife here, Mr Walker?’

Craig shook his head. ‘Left me.’

‘Oh.’ The detective seemed flummoxed by this. Craig thought he should elaborate, then decided he lacked the energy. And the man was speaking again.

‘You’ve probably guessed why we’re here. I regret to say that your father, Philip Anthony Walker, was a victim of the gunman in Chilton this morning. He was fatally injured and died at the scene. I’m very sorry.’

14

James Vilner had come a long way in his thirty-eight years, both geographically and socially. He reflected on this as he drove his Range Rover into the basement car park of one of London’s most exclusive hotels.

Born in Scarborough, his life had changed dramatically at the age of seven when his father died in an industrial accident. Denied compensation by a legal blunder, financial hardship drove his mother to supplement social security benefits with prostitution. Young Jimmy quickly learned that, to survive in this harsh new environment, he had to be financially independent.

He stole his first car stereo at the age of nine, and within two years had become a proficient thief. At twelve his mum kicked him out, and he took to camping out with friends or sleeping rough, curled up in bus shelters or office doorways in the streets around Park Row.

One night he was propositioned by a middle-aged businessman; spotting an opportunity, Jimmy began to lure men into toilets on the promise of sex, then produce a knife and demand their money. It was a good earner, but several times he picked the wrong targets, and once he came close to being raped by two men.

Then, at fourteen, he lost control of a stolen car on the Armley Interchange and flipped it, killing his passenger, a fellow thief. Jimmy was caught trying to flee the scene, despite a broken leg and half a dozen cracked ribs. He served two years in a young offenders’ institute, which effectively served as a crime academy. After graduation he immediately began putting his newly acquired skills to good use – but life soon went tits up again.

He and two other men held up a sub-post office in Roundhay Road, but the family who ran the store put up a fight. Jimmy discharged his shotgun during his escape, injuring the shopkeeper’s daughter, then fired blindly from the car while trying to shake off the police on the inner ring road. He was sent to Wakefield prison at the age of twenty-one and served just over six years.

It was a much smarter operator who emerged. Moving to London, he made use of prison contacts to find work as an enforcer, and within a few years he’d built enough of a reputation to set up on his own. With the approval of one of the big North London crime families, the Mortons, he carved himself a share in several clubs and restaurants, using the proceeds to set up similar, legitimate ventures. A small chain of video and DVD rental shops was particularly successful, and soon he was laundering money for others, before diversifying into money lending.

Now he had a four-bedroom home near Finsbury Park and a couple of cars each worth more than the houses he’d grown up in. By any measure he was a success, but still it rankled to know there was a whole other league above him. People with so much money that they didn’t even think about money any more.

His aim was to achieve that status by the time he reached forty – the age at which his mum had died of a brain haemorrhage. At first he had no idea how such a grand ambition would be realised, but he was a patient man, with an optimistic outlook. The right opportunity was out there somewhere. All he had to do was find it.

And then, one day, he did.

He found the Mathesons.

He was ten minutes early, but not from any desire to be here. He had no time for posh functions in posh hotels, and no idea why Kendrick had told him to attend.

Stepping out of the lift, he saw two of Kendrick’s men stationed outside the Dorset Room. One of them recognised him, nodding him past. He entered a function room that was smaller than he’d expected, but beautifully laid out. A huge ice sculpture shaped like leaping dolphins formed the centrepiece of the buffet table, flanked by ice luges. The catering staff, still busy setting up, seemed to be exclusively young, female and attractive. A smart move, considering the majority of guests would be middle-aged, male and ugly.

There were no guests here yet, Vilner noted – unless he fell within that category. As he smiled at the thought, Jacques emerged from an adjoining room. He was a thin, dapper man with slicked-back hair, pale brown skin and very dark, almond-shaped eyes. Whereas the muscle was mostly locally recruited, Jacques had come from the Caribbean. It was clear he’d worked hard to install himself as Kendrick’s right-hand man, and he was pathologically jealous of anyone who might threaten his status.

‘You’ve left it too late.’ The little man had a prissy voice that perfectly suited his pinched features.

‘I only need two minutes.’ Vilner pointed at the side room. ‘Is he in there?’

‘Yes. Be quick.’

Vilner went through the side door and found himself in a small anteroom. Max Kendrick was sitting at the only table, tapping deftly on a laptop. He looked up as Vilner approached. ‘With you in a moment.’

‘Okay.’

It was only then that Vilner noticed the woman in the corner. A young black girl, barely out of her teens, she was tall and willowy, wrapped up in a tight velvet dress like a gift too exquisite to open. She had the nervy poise of a beauty contestant facing the flare of cameras for the first time; Vilner could almost hear the voice in her head screaming, This is not me!

With a pianist’s flourish, Kendrick finished his typing and rested back. A year or two older than Vilner, he was a handsome man whose striking features were also, somehow, disquieting. From what Vilner had gleaned, Kendrick was from Trinidad, the son of a successful businessman with interests in the Caribbean ranging from leisure and tourism to insurance and oil. His father had been a white Englishman, but his mother’s heritage was a complicated mix of native Caribbean, Venezuelan, Indonesian and Dutch. Perhaps this explained the dark, wavy hair, the coffee-and-cream complexion and brilliant blue eyes.

Kendrick’s Caribbean lilt was equally disconcerting, mostly because of its similarity to the patois adopted by a generation of white kids who’d never travelled beyond the M25.

‘Been quite a day, has it not?’ Kendrick said.

‘I had a call from George Matheson. He’d like a meeting.’

Kendrick nodded slowly. ‘Well, I guess I can spare some time next week. You heard anything more from the playboy?’

‘Toby? No. He’s on his best behaviour.’ Vilner was tempted to ask why Matheson hadn’t been invited along today, but decided against it, saying instead, ‘I’m not sure why I’m wanted here, to be honest.’

‘As a guest, James. This is a celebration of future success. You are as entitled as anyone to share in that.’

‘You don’t think it’ll seem insensitive, celebrating on a day like this?’

Kendrick looked amused. ‘You think these folk care about anything except preserving their own pampered existence? No way. You could wipe out half the population before they took any notice.’

Vilner shrugged: if you say so. Kendrick put on his suit jacket, then reached into the leather bag and brought out a small black revolver. Noticing Vilner’s frown, he held it out.

‘Smith & Wesson 686, four-inch barrel. Isn’t it a beauty?’

‘What do you need that for?’

The question came out harsher than Vilner intended. Kendrick showed a flash of anger before slipping the gun into his waistband and making sure it was concealed by his jacket.

‘You’ll see.’

15

Toby Harman had spent most of the day slumped on his long white sofa, skipping from one news channel to the next like a junkie chasing bigger and bigger hits. It was a grim lesson in the law of diminishing returns, but by now he was too lethargic to do anything else.

Toby was twenty-six years old, five ten and weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. He wasn’t muscular and he wasn’t flabby. He belonged to an expensive gym but rarely attended it, and although he liked to eat well in restaurants he was lazy about cooking at home. During periods of social inactivity he could subsist for days on Ritz crackers and cheese.

He had a long face, dark wavy hair and thick black eyebrows. His upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower, with pronounced crests that made him seem to be sneering, or about to blow a sarcastic kiss. In general, women were either entranced by him, or they found him repulsive. Toby savoured both reactions, though the latter made for a more satisfying conquest.

When the phone rang, it sent a bolt of energy through him. About time.

‘I thought I should warn you,’ George said, ‘the media are camped on my doorstep. They followed me back from Chilton.’

‘You’ve been in Chilton?’ In fact Toby already knew this, because several channels had reported it, but he thought that playing dumb might prove more fruitful.

‘Terry Sullivan wanted me there. Ca— the killer apparently broke into the manor.’

Toby nearly dropped the phone. ‘You know who it is. What did they tell you?’

His uncle sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood for this.’

‘It’ll come out soon enough. I don’t see why you can’t let me⁠—’

‘Good Lord, Toby. The Caplans were murdered today, along with God knows how many others.’

‘The latest is twelve dead, according to the BBC.’

A noise from George: a stifled groan, as if this were a tragedy beyond words.

‘Is Philip Walker one of the victims?’ Toby asked.

‘I’ve no idea.’ George seemed taken aback by the question, as though he hadn’t considered it.

Surely you have, Toby thought.

‘If he is, then who knows what could happen? After this, the protestors might not have the stomach to go on fighting.’

‘Listen to me, Toby. If one whisper of what you’ve just said were to leak out, can you imagine the flak it would attract?’

‘Just thinking aloud, that’s all.’

‘Well, I’d rather you didn’t. It’s bad enough that, thanks to you, I’m still obliged to keep James Vilner off our backs.’

Toby sighed; his uncle’s irritability now made a lot more sense. ‘What’s he saying?’

‘If he doesn’t get the contract you promised him, he’ll want another instalment.’

‘You should tell him to piss off.’

‘Don’t lecture me on what to do. It’s your bloody debts I’m sorting out, remember?’

‘This affects my earnings as well,’ Toby protested. ‘Supposing we have to wait longer for a second application, how am I supposed to live in the meantime?’

The silence that followed was so intense that Toby could picture his uncle vibrating with indignation.

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ George said quietly, and ended the call.

Vilner didn’t feel much like a guest. Kendrick ignored him completely, and so did Jacques. Even the catering staff were a bit slow to offer him their trays of champagne.

That suited him fine. Piling a plate from the buffet table, he found a chair on its own in the corner. He ate slowly, scanning the room, and wondered exactly what Kendrick was trying to achieve.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

It was a select gathering, no more than thirty-five or forty people. Everyone looked immaculate, prosperous and smug. The ruling class. Until he’d moved to London, Vilner had been sceptical about the concept. He thought it was a cliché of the past, watered down if not washed away altogether. Yet here they were: florid cheeks and braying laughs, bred to give orders and recognise only their own kind.

Vilner couldn’t distinguish much of what was said, but it did seem to him as though a low thrill passed through the crowd at each mention of the Chilton shooting. An equally powerful thrill accompanied Kendrick’s presence as he moved from group to group, skilfully working the room. At first Jacques followed, trying to join in with his boss’s conversation, but gradually it sunk in that he wasn’t welcome. He ended up standing by the wall opposite Vilner, gazing into his glass and pretending solitude was a deliberate choice.

It’s like an old-time dance hall, Vilner thought. And we’re the boys who can’t dance…

Then Kendrick moved in front of the ice sculpture, and one of his men clapped his hands for silence. Kendrick began by grinning modestly.

‘Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. For those who don’t know me so well, let me tell you a bit about myself. I was born in Trinidad, to an English father and Trinidadian mother.’

His audience were listening intently, but there were fixed smiles, and one or two quiet sniggers. Because of his accent, Vilner realised.

Kendrick sensed it, too. He hesitated, and Vilner spotted that dangerous look in his eye again. The moment passed and Kendrick spoke a little about his childhood. About his troubled teenage years, and his triumphant return to the family fold in his late twenties, when he resolved to knuckle down and build on his father’s legacy.

‘I wish he had lived to see me now, on the brink of a whole new chapter.’ His voice wavered with emotion. ‘My dear mother, too. But I know how proud they would be.’

Vilner watched people grow fidgety; Kendrick was in danger of losing his audience, but now he ramped it up.

‘I want to thank all of you,’ he said. ‘It’s a thrilling journey we’re embarking on together.’

His accent was momentarily stronger: a trillin journey we’re embarkin on… Vilner had no doubt it was deliberate.

‘Some of you have already worked with me, here and back in the Caribbean. I’m hoping you all want to be on board as we grow and diversify in the UK, and I tell you now, I haven’t come all this way just to start small and slow. I’m already in discussion to acquire a major business in the UK with interests in land, property, leisure and construction.’

That’s why George Matheson wasn’t invited, Vilner thought. His presence would have given the game away.

Kendrick acknowledged the exclamations of surprise. ‘Your support is warmly appreciated,’ he went on, ‘but I need to know how far that support goes. Some of the places I’ve done business, the rule of law can’t always be relied on, you understand?’

There were nods and grunts, but they sounded slightly confused. His audience sensed a subtle change in tone, and so did Vilner.

‘Trust,’ Kendrick declared. ‘In business, it means everything. You agree with that, Maurice?’

His attention zeroed in on a short, overfed man with thinning ginger hair and a freckled scalp. He stared at Kendrick, red in the face and blinking furiously. Then his mouth dropped open, and when Vilner turned back to Kendrick he saw why.

Kendrick was holding the revolver. He opened the cylinder and displayed it to his audience. There were six chambers, five of them empty. Just a single, ominous round in the gun.

Kendrick spun the cylinder and slapped it back into place. ‘Come here, Maurice,’ he said.

Silence in the room. Nobody moved. Vilner noticed the catering staff had made themselves scarce. The gorillas were standing in front of the doors, discreetly preventing entry or exit.

‘Come on now, Maurice. Don’t be scared.’

Nudged by the man next to him, Maurice took a couple of reluctant steps towards Kendrick.

‘Maurice here kindly lent his assistance on one of my last deals back in the Caribbean. Told me about a hotel in Jamaica, ripe for redevelopment. Promised he could get me the best price for it, and offered to act as go-between.’

Maurice was now only two feet away from Kendrick. Everyone else had shuffled as far back as they reasonably could without drawing attention to themselves.

Kendrick went on: ‘What I didn’t know was that Maurice had a stake in the business, which someone else was keen to buy. News of my interest sent the price much higher – and that, of course, was his plan all along.’

Silence, except for Maurice’s high, wheezing breath.

‘Now I’m sure Maurice and his partners didn’t intend me any harm. It was a tactic, that’s all. Using me to make a little more money for themselves. And it didn’t cost me much, financially. Some lawyers’ fees – including this wily lawyer right here!’ He prodded Maurice in the belly with the Smith & Wesson; Maurice squealed and shut his eyes.

‘But it damaged my reputation,’ Kendrick said. ‘Some people think I was beaten to a deal. Well, I can live with that, I guess. But others know I was set up.’

At this, Maurice finally seized the courage to protest, but Kendrick cut him off.

‘Professional suicide,’ he declared, raising the gun and jamming it against his own temple. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. Betraying trust is professional suicide.’

He squeezed the trigger. There was an audible click. A woman screamed. An elderly man sank to the floor, his face ashen.

Kendrick, unharmed, grimly lowered the gun and pointed it at Maurice. ‘Your turn.’

Maurice opened his mouth again, but couldn’t speak. Someone behind him exclaimed and pointed at his legs. There was urine running off his shoes, pooling on the floor.

‘Russian roulette is a fool’s game,’ Kendrick said. ‘I know you’re not a fool, Maurice. None of you here are fools, are you?’

It took a second for the question to penetrate, then came a frantic display of nodding. No one was laughing at him now.

‘To succeed in life, it’s essential to be lucky,’ Kendrick concluded, tapping the gun against his chest. ‘I guarantee my luck by careful preparation, and by working with people I can trust. I know none of you are going to let me down.’

More nodding. More keen murmurs of assent. It was a masterful performance, thought Vilner, and it worried him that Kendrick had wanted him to see it.

Did Kendrick think he needed this kind of warning to stay loyal?

16

The police were professional, sympathetic and practical. They encouraged him to drink two mugs of strong coffee, and by the time they left Craig felt almost sober.

It was seven o’clock. He still hadn’t heard from Nina. He had no idea where she was, or if she was coming back. The rest of the evening yawned ahead of him, but before he could go back on the booze, the doorbell rang.

He opened the door to find Abby Clark, looking tired and yet oddly exhilarated, and holding a large pizza box.

‘This is an imposition, I know, but any chance I can eat in here? I’m freezing cold and bloody starving.’ She moved closer, wafting melted cheese and pepperoni fumes under his nose. When his stomach responded with an audible growl, she said, ‘There’s enough to share.’

‘No appetite. The police have just left.’

‘I know. I watched them go.’

‘So you waited just long enough…?’

‘Not too long – the pizza would have gone cold.’ The twinkle in her eyes was like a laser, obliterating any resentment he might have felt. She followed him into the hall and shrugged off her coat. ‘Isn’t Nina here?’

‘No. Do you want a plate? Cutlery?’

‘Nah.’ She sat beside him on the sofa, dragged the coffee table closer and opened the box. Tore out a thick cheesy wedge and thrust it at him. ‘Eat.’

Craig knew better than to argue. He took a desultory bite, chewed, swallowed, winced. It felt like cardboard in his gullet, but at least it would help soak up the alcohol.

‘Bad news, I take it?’ Abby said, hooking a long strand of cheese from her chin.

Nodding, Craig went to tell her that his father was dead and found that the words simply weren’t there. He was robbed of speech – and only now did the grief come slamming down.

It should have been Nina consoling him, Craig thought dimly. But his emotions were so raw, so ferocious, that nothing on earth could have suppressed them.

He sobbed for practically the first time since his children were born – and to her credit, Abby rose to the task of comforting him. She didn’t shirk from holding him close. Didn’t complain when his tears ran down her neck and dampened her shirt. She smelled warm and wonderful, thrillingly unfamiliar, and when that thought finally wormed its way into his mind, Craig knew it was time to break apart.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘And thank you.’

‘You’d do the same for me. Albeit with an erection.’

It was such a frivolous comment – and yet so true – that it surprised a laugh from him. He felt briefly guilty, then much better.

‘Shall I warm the pizza up?’ he said.

‘Good idea. And a cup of tea would be bliss.’

Accompanying him into the kitchen, she finally asked, ‘So where’s Nina?’

‘No idea. She doesn’t even know about Dad yet.’ He stopped short, and decided to tell her. ‘She’s been seeing someone else. Today wasn’t exactly the ideal time to find out.’

‘You’re kidding me! Oh, shit. Is it serious?’

He dropped the pizza on to a baking tray and turned to face her. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes. Because it doesn’t have to destroy your marriage – not if you don’t want it to.’

‘Would you say that if Tim slept around?’

‘We split up last year.’

‘Did you? Sorry, I didn’t realise. Was there anyone else…?’

‘Sort of.’ Abby blushed slightly.

‘Are you with someone now?’

She nodded. ‘Don’t look so disappointed.’

‘I wasn’t. What’s he like?’

‘She is very nice, thank you.’

‘Oh. Great.’

‘Early days, but we’re happy so far.’

He found himself thinking back over all the years he’d known her. Reading his mind, she said, ‘It was just about the last thing I expected. As much a surprise to me as anyone else.’

‘How did Tim react?’

‘He couldn’t decide whether to challenge her to a fight, or beg for a threesome.’

They took the pizza back into the living room, and Craig went over what the police had said. On the face of it, the basic facts were reasonably clear: a young man had gone on a killing spree. In the next day or two he’d have to make a formal identification of his father’s body. An inquest would be opened and adjourned, and the body released for burial.

Abby listened solemnly before recounting her own experience. The police had held their first full press conference at two o’clock, hosted by the detective chief superintendent in overall command of the operation. By that time all the injured had been conveyed to hospital.

‘How many victims in total?’ Craig asked.

‘Fourteen confirmed dead at the scene. Another four wounded, three of them seriously.’

Craig let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. ‘So the death toll might rise?’

She nodded. ‘A girl from the farmhouse is in a coma. And there was the woman who fell out of a tree.’

‘What?’

‘I got that little nugget from chatting up one of the search team. They think she was chased by the killer, and must have tried to hide in the tree. He shot at her, and she fell out.’

‘Jeez. Will she live?’

‘Anyone’s guess at the moment. But after going through that, I hope so.’

Craig nodded in agreement. ‘What do you know about the killer?’

‘Young. Male. Possibly local. That’s all we’ve got.’

‘Nothing on the grapevine?’

Abby shook her head, then grew pensive. ‘I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but I’d like to mention your dad in my article. He was obviously a high-profile figure in the village.’

Craig gave her a sidelong glance. ‘So this wasn’t just a social visit?’ Abby looked suitably abashed, but before she responded he said, ‘It’s okay. I don’t blame you.’

‘I’ve been looking at some of the local issues, and it’s clear that George Matheson’s plan stirred up a lot of controversy. I thought it would make for an interesting background story. Your dad was leading the fight.’

‘Yeah, for all the good it did him.’

‘But the proposal was rejected. Surely that’s a victory?’

‘They won the first skirmish, that’s all. A man like Matheson doesn’t give up easily.’ As he said it, Craig was aware that this wasn’t the time to unburden himself of such thoughts.

Abby shrugged. ‘I can’t see him trying anything now.’

‘Who knows? Perhaps it’ll help him.’

His friend made a poor job of concealing her excitement. Craig knew he should change the subject, but by now he couldn’t resist.

‘Maybe this has cleared the path to development,’ he said viciously. ‘After all, who’s left to fight him now?’

17

It was almost midnight when the second killer – the man in black – went online for the second time that evening. On TV a panel of worthies was debating the possible repercussions of what had already been dubbed ‘The Chilton Massacre’.

He’d first signed into Hotmail an hour ago, using the email address and password he’d been sent four months ago, from someone he knew only as Decipio. A new entry had been waiting for him in the Drafts folder:

Was I supposed to be impressed by that? If anything, you’ve made the situation worse. You failed in your main objective.

She’s still alive.

He had stared at the message for a long time, feeling sick and furious and most of all despairing. A marathon runner who turns what he thinks is the last corner, only to find a vast unforgiving road stretching to the horizon.

He’d deleted the message and composed a reply:

I don’t know why he ignored my orders. He knew exactly what he was supposed to do, but he went berserk. I stopped him as soon as I could, at great risk to me.

Are you sure about the survivor? I dealt with her myself.

Decipio had instructed him to keep the language vague, but this was really an unnecessary precaution. By sharing the login and using only the draft function, they ensured the messages were never transmitted, and thus couldn’t be eavesdropped.

On the current affairs show a rent-a-quote MP was asserting that further restrictions on firearms might be necessary. A senior churchman wanted greater moral leadership in society, and a psychologist argued there was inadequate screening or support for the kind of unstable men who are driven to commit such atrocities. The government representative, a junior Home Office minister, seemed on the brink of tears.

The killer opened Hotmail again, and read the new message that had taken the place of his own in the Drafts folder:

Quite sure. You failed.

Try again. This time get it right.

No loose ends.

He snarled at the screen, feeling a resentment familiar to foot soldiers everywhere. All very easy to dish out orders from on high; not quite so simple to accomplish on the ground. And where was the recognition of what he had achieved?

He felt disgusted. But he knew he couldn’t refuse. There was too much at stake.

As the message said, he would have to try again. And this time, make sure he killed her.

No loose ends.

18

In the dreams she always died.

In the dreams she was chased, hunted, caught and killed. Each time she died she found herself back in the darkness, her pursuer hot on her trail, and the whole terrible story played out again. The dreams went on in another world, where fears could not be rationalised, reflected on, dismissed.

A world with no escape.

Then, quite abruptly, she found herself in a room flooded with light. At first she didn’t know who she was, but that lasted only an instant. With identity came one startling recollection: her parents were dead.

The grief was suffocating. She wanted to believe it was part of the nightmare, but when she searched her memory the details came too clearly to be anything other than genuine.

It was mid-December, a squally evening. Both she and her brother, Neil, had spent the day trying to reach them by phone, and finally Julia agreed to drive over after work.

Pulling up outside the terrace in her red Mini Cooper, she had noticed the house was completely dark. For a minute she remained in the car, gathering her nerve. Rain pounded on the roof, making her feel cocooned and yet vulnerable at the same time.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she unlocked the front door. A wave of cloying heat was sucked into the storm, leaving an imprint of the stillness which had preceded it, like the after-image of a flashbulb.

She stepped inside and turned on the light. Once she’d filtered out the muted howl of the wind, she began to identify sounds from inside: the sombre ticking of a carriage clock, the staccato buzz of the fridge, the roaring boiler.

Already the heat was building again; it felt sinister and out of place. Her father was notorious for his thrift. He wouldn’t go out and leave the heating on at this level.

‘Mum! Dad!’ she called out. ‘Are you there?’

No answer. She could see all the downstairs rooms were unlit, but there was still a chance they were in one of the bedrooms.

She ascended slowly, her legs seeming to grow heavier, more reluctant with each step. Reaching the landing, she experienced a little pitch of nausea and had to grab the handrail.

There were no lights on upstairs.

‘Mum?’ she called again, and paused, stalled by dread. ‘Dad?’

She faced her parents’ bedroom and slowly eased the door open. Despite the gloom she could just make out the twin shapes beneath the duvet. It brought back a long-forgotten memory of childhood, one Sunday morning, giggling with her brother on the landing while strange gasps and moans emanated from the bedroom. Then, as now, she’d felt she was intruding on something she didn’t understand.

She switched on the light, offering a desperate prayer: Let them be asleep.

And just for a moment, until she saw their faces, it seemed that they were.

Her parents were dead. Julia had found the bodies. But where was she now? Had she suffered a breakdown as a result of the trauma?

Desperate to stay away from the dark world of her dreams, she clung to the memory of that night in December. She would force herself to relive the experience, and perhaps from there she could find a path back to the present day.

You might have thought they’d just come in from one of Dad’s route marches over the Downs. Lying snugly beneath the duvet with the rosy glow of obscene good health, she had almost expected her father to rear up in bed and berate her. ‘Turn the bloody light off, Julia. Your mother and I fancied an early night.’

But he wasn’t going to do that. Not tonight or any other. And in an instant several things had made sense: their complexions, the stifling heat, Julia’s vague headache and nausea.

She lunged for the window and threw it open. Dashed downstairs and into the kitchen, where the boiler hung in the corner like a caged dragon, breathing death into the house. She shut it down, grabbed her parents’ cordless phone and ran into the garden. Now the wind and rain were a kind of salvation.

She dialled 999 and explained in a shaky voice what she suspected. The operator ran her through a sequence of questions so smoothly that she had no choice but to reply calmly. He told her the emergency services were on their way, and asked if she felt all right. Was there a neighbour who could wait with her?

She mumbled something about going next door and ended the call. Almost immediately the whole thing seemed unreal, as if she’d imagined it. She found herself turning to go back inside and check, until an immobilising terror brought her to a halt.

Of course she hadn’t imagined it. They were dead.

She thought about Neil, living four or five hours away. But she could feel her throat closing even as she imagined trying to tell him.

Then the phone rang, making her jump. She pressed the Talk button, expecting to hear the 999 operator.

‘Can I speak to Julia?’ a voice shouted.

‘You are – this is me, Steve.’

‘Oh. I couldn’t get you on your mobile.’

‘There’s no signal here,’ she said, noticing for the first time how abnormal her voice sounded. But if it was apparent to Steve, he gave no sign. Earlier he had derided her concerns and refused to accompany her, preferring to play squash instead. ‘It’s so fucking obvious they don’t like me,’ he had said. ‘I don’t wanna go and see them.’

Well now you won’t have to, she thought. You’ll never have to.

‘It took me bloody ages to find your mum’s number,’ he grumbled. ‘When are you gonna be home? I was thinking I could drop by after the pub. Bring a takeaway, bottle of vino?’

‘No, Steve. I can’t.’

‘Don’t give me that. We might as well be an old married couple for the sex life we’ve had lately. Bloody non-existent…’ As his complaining tailed off, Julia spoke crisply into the silence.

‘My mum and dad are dead. I’m in their garden, waiting for the police, so I’m not really in the mood tonight. In fact, I’d like you to piss off. Can you do that for me, Steve? Piss off and don’t come back.’

Her awareness now extended to an array of equipment around her bed. There were tubes tethered to her body; machines that hummed and bleeped in response to her gradual healing. It made her sickly aware of her own heartbeat, her breathing. It hurt when she breathed, she realised. Lots of vague, generalised pain that managed to be intense and yet muffled at the same time.

She was in hospital, then. Recovering from some kind of physical injury. An accident? That seemed plausible. In the aftermath of losing her parents, she wouldn’t have been thinking clearly. Perhaps her concentration had lapsed while driving?

Fire officers with breathing apparatus had entered the house and declared it safe. Julia was ushered into the kitchen by a police officer, who set about making tea. Shortly afterwards another officer, together with a paramedic, returned from upstairs. The cop nodded grimly at her colleague, and then addressed Julia: ‘They’re both dead. I’m very sorry.’

After that, time passed in a blur. Julia had little clear recollection of how long she sat in the kitchen, while various people trooped up and down the stairs. Some introduced themselves, some did not. Most lingered in the doorway for a few seconds, looking at her with a vague professional curiosity.

Eventually she summoned the courage to phone her brother. She expected a bombardment of questions, but instead he absorbed the news in a dull, shocked silence. Then his wife, Donna, took the phone. It was as if they’d already known, she told Julia. As if they’d known all day.

Unable to sleep on such news, they arranged for Donna’s parents to come over and look after the children. Then they packed a suitcase and left Knutsford in the early hours, arriving at Julia’s flat just after dawn.

The sight of Neil as he stumbled from the car – pale, red-eyed, faltering – brought home to her the enormity of their loss. It was just the two of them now. Orphans.

There were voices: sometimes distant and vaguely soothing, like running water; sometimes loud and brash. Her senses felt cruelly heightened, overwhelming her, threatening to send her back to that other world. The world where he waited, again and again, to complete his task.

But who was he? Why did he want to kill her?

She continued tiptoeing cautiously through her memory. The post mortems confirmed that Bernard and Lisa Trent had died from carbon monoxide poisoning. The local authority arranged for the central heating system to be examined by an engineer, who concluded that the boiler had been poorly maintained. In addition, a crucial vent had been blocked, possibly to prevent a draught.

Julia felt sure her parents would have had it serviced, but a search of the house revealed no paperwork to corroborate that. She’d even contacted some local plumbers, but none recalled working on it.

The family liaison officer explained that an inquest would be held. It was for the coroner to determine the ultimate cause, but the likelihood was either accidental death or an open verdict. The sheer senselessness of it was one of the hardest things for Julia to bear. The thought that two lives had been lost for the price of a routine service.

A week or more passed in a dull haze of grief. She was too numb to be affected by the funeral, and suffered a delayed reaction that hit at the worst possible time: just as she sat down to Christmas dinner with her brother and his family in Knutsford. Like the rest of the adults, she’d been determined to make an effort at normality for the sake of the children, but she found herself weeping so helplessly that in the end even her four-year-old nephew decided it was impolite to stare. Neil virtually had to carry her from the room.

The solicitor had made it clear there was no hurry to do anything with the cottage. Julia and her brother were sole beneficiaries, but they both agreed there was no question of keeping the house.

Simple geography dictated that Julia would take care of clearing out the furniture and sorting through a lifetime’s accumulation of belongings. Once she’d started back at school in January and had the first couple of weeks under her belt, she finally steeled herself to get on with it.

I can’t keep putting it off. That’s what she had told someone. In a shop. An old-fashioned village store.

She remembered a bitterly cold morning. A deep frost on the grass. It was a Saturday, very early. Nobody around.

It was Chilton, she realised. Whatever it was, it had happened in Chilton.

‘Is there any improvement?’

She recognised the voice as her brother’s. Neil was here, at her bedside. She could even smell his aftershave: Hugo Boss. It was what she usually bought him for Christmas.

In reply, a man with a soft Indian accent said, ‘She’s definitely on the mend. We’re reducing the sedatives, so she should be back with us quite soon.’

From her brother, a heartfelt rush of breath: pure relief. Julia felt touched, but also scared.

‘She was very fortunate,’ the other man said. ‘The bullet could have done a lot more damage.’

You were hiding in the tree, but he knew you were there. A man in black motorcycle leathers.

‘It’s the psychological effect that worries me,’ her brother said.

‘I quite understand, but let’s concern ourselves with that at the appropriate time. For now, we should be thankful she survived at all. So many did not.’

‘I know. She’s a real fighter.’ A hand took hold of hers. ‘Aren’t you, love?’

This was addressed to Julia, and she longed to answer. Longed to reassure him she was all right. But nothing would work: not her mouth or throat, her arms or legs, everything comfortable but locked in place. As a child playing hide and seek she had crawled into her parents’ wardrobe and piled all the winter coats on top of her until she could barely move. It was the same warm safe weight lying on her now; she was powerless against it.

Just as you were powerless to stop the bullets strafing the tree.

She felt the draw of the other world and tried desperately to resist, but of course it was hopeless. The machines dutifully recorded her panic, but nobody came to her aid.

This time, she knew who would be waiting.

19

Sullivan chose a little pub up the hill from the station. Brighton wasn’t his manor, but he knew it was a lively place, and he wanted somewhere discreet.

At eight o’clock the pub wasn’t busy: a bunch of students clearly intending to move on somewhere more exciting, and a few late commuters sipping pints and reading The Argus. Sullivan had once been the same, knackered after a day’s work but reluctant to go home and face the missus. Now she was long gone, and it made no difference whether he went out or stayed in. Either way he drank alone and pleased himself.

He was halfway through his Guinness when Craig Walker appeared, radiating the same glowering intensity as the last time they’d met, four or five years ago. Somehow he seemed to have barely aged at all. Pity I can’t say the same for myself, Sullivan thought ruefully.

Craig didn’t bother disguising his reaction. ‘You look even worse than you did on TV.’

‘It’s called getting older. What can you do about it?’

‘Exercise? A healthy diet? Drink less?’

‘Another Guinness – don’t mind if I do – and get me some peanuts. Ta.’

Craig glared at him, but turned to the bar without a protest. Sullivan was still contemplating what the other man might want from him when a bag of dry roasted plopped into his lap. He looked up and noticed how a little beer slopped from each glass as Craig set them down. Now he took in the trembling hands, the red-rimmed eyes. ‘Looks like you’re a fine one to give advice on healthy living.’

Craig responded with a sarcastic smile. Sullivan finished the dregs of his first pint and raised the fresh one in a toast. ‘So how come you’re not putting the world to rights any more? From what I hear, you’re interviewing C-listers and reporting on the sports events no one else wants to go to.’

‘I moved on.’ He stared at Sullivan. ‘Got tired of dealing with all the lying, cheating scum in my old job.’

‘I know that feeling. That’s why I do my best to put ’em behind bars, where they belong.’

‘What about Chief Inspector Kennedy? Did he end up where he belongs?’

Sullivan chuckled. ‘He’s got a very nice place in Malaga, as it happens.’

‘Along with the rest of the villains,’ Craig said bitterly. ‘Still see him, do you?’

‘Been out there once or twice. Bit too hot for me.’

‘You won’t be following him over there, then?’

‘Nah. Bournemouth’s more my scene.’

‘You’ll be in a wooden box if you don’t get your act together.’

‘Sweet of you to worry.’ Sullivan drained a third of the pint and wiped the foam from his lips. ‘Kennedy’s old news. And I had no idea he was bent.’

‘You covered for him,’ Craig snarled. ‘And I fell for it.’

Sullivan tossed a handful of peanuts into his mouth, chewed them quickly and noisily, then sprayed a few fragments as he answered. ‘I was a lowly Detective Sergeant. All I did was give him the benefit of the doubt, and I asked you to do the same. Now tell me what you want or sod off.’

Craig settled back in his seat, apparently pleased that he’d provoked a reaction. ‘I hear you’re part of the Chilton investigation.’

‘Yeah.’ Deciding it was time to cool the atmosphere, he said, ‘Sorry about your old man.’

He waited, watching Craig assess the sincerity of his comment. He wondered if Craig was aware of his connection to George Matheson.

‘I want to know what happened,’ Craig said. ‘The full story.’

‘Carl Forester went on the rampage.’

‘That’s really all it was?’

Sullivan didn’t answer. He thought about the scene at the farmhouse. The woman assaulted. The dying husband forced to watch.

‘What do you reckon it was?’ he said.

‘I think it’s something to do with George Matheson and the planning application. You must know that the villagers were fiercely opposed to the development.’

Sullivan was careful not to react. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’ Then he laughed. ‘You know about the woman who fell out of the tree?’

‘I did hear something. Julia… Trent?’

‘That’s right. She still isn’t well enough to be interviewed. But from what we’ve pieced together, it looks like Carl chased her on to the village green. Somehow she managed to climb the tree, even though he would have been hot on her heels.’

Sullivan paused, waiting to see if Craig had caught his emphasis.

‘“Somehow”?’

‘Did they tell you your dad was shot twice?’

‘Two bullets, you mean?’

Sullivan shook his head. ‘Two separate occasions.’

The colour drained from Craig’s face. ‘What?’

‘The first was a chest wound. Serious, maybe even fatal. But not necessarily.’ He let the words sink in.

‘You mean Carl went back to him…?’ Craig faltered. ‘Why?’

‘Maybe because of the woman. It’s only speculation, but it looks like your dad opened his front door and tried to intervene. Carl made a detour to shoot him before he dealt with Julia Trent.’

‘So Dad could have stayed inside? And he might have survived?’

‘Yep.’ Sullivan leaned forward. ‘I’m telling you this because it’s important to understand it was just an act of random craziness. If you want to start blaming people, fine. But in that case Julia Trent got your dad killed, as much as anyone else. There was no grand plan, and certainly nothing that involved George Matheson. If he’d been in Chilton that day, he would have been one of the victims, I’m sure of that.’

Craig was quiet for a moment. When he spoke he sounded much calmer than Sullivan expected. ‘When you do interview this woman, Julia, will you let me know what she says?’ He raised a hand. ‘Before you say it, I’m not going to threaten you. But if you’re honest with yourself, and you truly didn’t know Kennedy was on the take, then you’ll agree you still owe me a favour.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Because if I hadn’t kept my mouth shut, all kinds of shit would have been thrown at him – and at you – and I’m willing to bet that some of it would have stuck.’

Craig stood up, bumping the table in his haste; when Sullivan instinctively went to protect his drink, Craig looked amused.

‘Go on, surprise yourself,’ he said. ‘Do the right thing for once.’

20

Friday. It mattered to Julia that she could keep track of the date, now that three days had effectively vanished. That loss, so trivial in the scheme of things, had produced a strange, lingering disorientation.

Julia thought about her class, probably still lethargic after the Christmas break. She’d give anything now to be standing in front of them rather than lying here in a hospital bed.

The memories of what happened had returned, not gradually but in a rush. Finding the postman dead behind his van, trying to save Moira, the chase, seeing the first killer shot. Then the second killer, staring at the grass; the moment when he’d worked out where she was hiding…

The doctor had explained that amnesia was quite normal after such a period of unconsciousness, but equally that she might be completely unaffected. So far Julia had been cagey about what she told them, and no one had pushed her on it. Yet.

Her brother had been delighted by her recovery. Tears rolled down his face the first time he spoke to her, his emotions no doubt heightened by the recent loss of their parents. Neil had clearly been terrified that he would lose her as well.

After a few minutes, he’d asked how much she remembered. ‘Enough,’ she’d replied: a cue that she wasn’t yet ready to discuss it.

But he had taken her hand in his, and told her, ‘They’ve identified the gunman. A local man, Carl Forester. The typical oddball. He killed himself… afterwards.’

For the briefest moment Julia was exultant, and it must have shown in her face. ‘They found his body on the green,’ Neil went on. ‘He can’t hurt you any more.’

She smiled back, somehow managing to conceal her shock. Her brother was talking about the first gunman. Not the man in black.

She wanted to tell him, but fear and confusion held her back. She knew he’d watched it on TV, read the newspapers, perhaps even spoken to officers directly involved in the case. And if he believed there was only one killer…

So did everyone else.

The cold, clear spell had given way to wind and rain. Even at midday most of the traffic on the main road had their headlights on.

Parking close to the hospital was virtually impossible, but he had expected that. He found a space half a mile away. He was driving a ten-year-old Ford Escort, bought using the same routine as with the Kawasaki: private sale, cash purchase, false details.

He wore jeans and trainers and a hooded top. He knew there would be CCTV everywhere, but he also knew the images were frequently useless. Eyewitnesses would notice only what he wanted them to notice: the slicked-back hair, the goatee beard, the tinted contact lenses.

He walked briskly and confidently on to the hospital site. Took out his phone and dipped his head as he passed the cameras above the main doors. Once inside he put the phone away and walked confidently, as if he knew exactly where he was going.

Her consultant was Mr Chapman, a rotund man in his fifties who reminded her of a badger. Black and white hair, big bushy eyebrows and a solemn but sprightly manner. It had fallen to him to describe the emergency laparotomy to establish the extent of the damage, and the subsequent three-hour operation to repair it.

‘The bullet was lodged in retroperitoneal tissue between your right kidney and the inferior vena cava, which brings blood from the lower part of the body to your heart. There was slight damage to the pancreas, but not the main pancreatic duct. In many ways, you were extremely fortunate.’ A smile to acknowledge that Julia might not see it that way. ‘The bullet was a .22, low velocity, fired from some distance. A larger calibre or a shot fired at closer range would have carried far more destructive force.’

In addition, she had sustained dozens of minor cuts and widespread bruising from the fall. She also had a badly sprained ankle and a laceration to her leg that differed in nature from the others.

‘Another bullet,’ she’d said, and Mr Chapman had nodded, as if he’d suspected as much. Julia could see him regarding her with a mixture of pity and horrified fascination. It was her first experience of feeling like a circus exhibit, and she knew it would get much worse when she told them what really happened.

Maybe it would be better to say nothing at all.

He had allowed himself a reconnaissance mission, the day before. He’d wandered the corridors, taking note of the stairwells and fire exits, the signs and instructions for visitors; then he’d sat in the café and conducted a thorough risk assessment, all the while relishing the knowledge that she was very close now.

Almost in his grasp.

Today he took the elevator directly to Level Eight and stepped out into an empty corridor. Turned towards a set of green double doors with three porthole windows arranged vertically on each door. As he pushed through them he spotted a nurse at the far end of the corridor, but she was facing away from him.

Perfect.

In the days after the shooting, media interest in the survivors had been predictably intense. The hospital was besieged with reporters, who had to settle for regular updates, when what they really craved was access to the patients themselves. The pressures eased a little when some of the survivors came forward voluntarily, but in Julia’s case it was judged that a general ward wasn’t sufficiently secure. After being discharged from Intensive Care, she was moved to a side room on her own.

Julia knew very little about the media coverage. She hadn’t once switched on the TV in her room, and her brother’s offer to bring in newspapers had been politely declined. He’d visited this morning, bringing some toiletries and a couple of books from her flat. When she felt herself getting sleepy, he’d kissed her forehead and quietly left the room.

Now she woke quickly, aware that something had disturbed her. A noise outside the door?

She rubbed her eyes and checked the clock on the unit beside her bed. Just after midday. The door opened slightly and one of the nurses, Shauna, peeked into the room. She was a chatty young Irish woman, very friendly but with a tendency to outstay her welcome.

‘Oh good, you’re awake. There’s a feller here to see you. Says he’ll not stop long if you don’t feel up to it.’ She glanced back over her shoulder, then mouthed at Julia, ‘He’s police!’

Julia frowned. All visitors were supposed to be cleared by her consultant.

Then a thought that struck like a bolt of lightning: the second killer was still at large. Learning that Julia had survived, wouldn’t he come after her again?

‘I can’t reach Mr Chapman,’ Shauna chattered on, ‘but since you’re making such good progress I thought, well, what’s the harm in seeing him…’

By now she’d entered the room, and Julia saw the man was right behind her. He was in his forties, quite tall, with neat dark hair and a serious face. He didn’t look like a killer, but then he didn’t look like a policeman either. He met her gaze and gave an enigmatic smile.

‘I don’t think…’ Julia began, but it was too late. The man stepped around the nurse and started to reach inside his jacket. The gesture took her back to the village green, when the man in black had brought the gun up and aimed it at her hiding place…

This time she had nowhere to hide.

21

The door had a porthole window at eye level. He could see her lying in bed, surrounded by the equipment that had saved her life. Little good that would do her now.

His hand was on the door when a voice called out, ‘Help you?’

He looked round and saw a policeman ambling towards him, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and several chocolate bars in the other. He was short, paunchy, and at first glance looked lazy and slow-witted; it wasn’t until he came a bit closer that the killer saw a hard edge in the man’s eyes.

Shaking his head, the policeman said, ‘You fellers disappoint me, you know?’

The killer said nothing, aware that everything now was at stake.

‘Fair enough, you have to earn a living, but trying to sneak a picture of a nine-year-old girl lying in a coma.’ The cop tutted, then took a slurp of coffee. ‘Poor little mite doesn’t deserve that.’

Flooded with relief, the killer managed a shrug. ‘Yeah, well, got a devil of an editor on my back. And if I don’t get it, somebody else will.’

‘Not on my watch, they won’t. Try it again and I’ll have you up the station, explaining yourself to my sergeant. You get me?’

The killer nodded ruefully and turned away. Leaving the hospital, he reflected that it wasn’t all bad news. He’d verified that the girl was still in a coma, nearly a week after she’d been smothered. There must be a good chance that she would never wake up. And if the cop was only there to protect her from the media, it meant they didn’t anticipate any other kind of threat.

The one potential danger to him was the woman in the tree. But he knew that she’d now regained consciousness, and since there hadn’t been any suggestion of a second gunman in the media, he was guessing she probably had amnesia – in which case he was safe.

Relatively safe, at least.

Suddenly the room was full of people. The nurse was shouting, and a doctor shouldered his way through. Julia was dimly aware that she was hanging half off the bed. The man who had caused the panic was trying, haplessly, to lift her back into position. A woman in police uniform was just behind him, looking very upset.

Above the shouts and running footsteps Julia could hear an awful keening noise, which eventually she realised was emanating from her. The distress on everyone’s faces was mirroring her own distress.

They gave her a sedative. Slowly the noise drifted away, and she felt herself sinking into warm sand. She recalled wanting to talk to the police, wanting to give them her side of the story, but that didn’t matter any more.

Nothing mattered any more.

22

With several reporters camped outside the house, Craig ignored the doorbell and kept his phone off the hook all morning. Which meant he didn’t find out why they were there until Nina returned from shopping in Crawley.

He was in the kitchen, brooding on last night’s meeting with DI Sullivan. When he’d first spotted the detective in a TV news bulletin, it had seemed like a good idea to call in a favour, but now he wasn’t so sure. The revelation that his father had been shot twice was a terrible blow, and one he wasn’t yet ready to discuss with anyone.

Nina came in, displaying a newspaper open to the middle pages. ‘That’s your friend, isn’t it?’

He saw Abby’s name and nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘You might want to read it,’ Nina said, then turned and left the room.

It had been like that all week: an uneasy truce. She’d returned late on Saturday night and found Craig dozing on the couch, the pizza box and empty bottle of Scotch lying on the floor. When she woke him, he groped his way upstairs and collapsed on the spare bed.

The next morning she brought him coffee and offered to talk. He gave her a brief account of what he knew, and he mentioned seeing Abby, without divulging that she’d been here and shared the pizza with him.

Nina had been keen to explain the affair, but Craig couldn’t deal with it. Instead he’d left the house and stayed out all day, drifting from pub to pub, drinking alone. He thought seriously about never going back, until he woke in a drunken stupor, freezing cold on a park bench in the late afternoon, and saw how easily a single tragic event could initiate a downward spiral that, once underway, might never be reversed.

So he went home, resolving to lay off the booze. At first the kids were delighted to see him, then quickly mystified by the false bonhomie which he and Nina exhibited in their presence. Now Maddie was throwing tantrums and refusing to go to school, while Tom had started wetting the bed.

And Craig’s abstinence had lasted only until Monday afternoon, when he was driven to Brighton mortuary to identify his father’s body. Since then he’d managed to sustain a permanent state of semi-intoxication. It made sharing the house with Nina slightly more bearable, while simultaneously adding to the strain on their relationship.

He waited until Nina had gone back upstairs before reading the article. It was a long, reflective piece, the kind of writing Abby excelled at. She had the tone exactly right, judging that by now the horror at what happened wouldn’t feel quite so raw. The first scabs were forming, and here she was to gently pick at them.

There were some nice comments about her father, but Abby left the controversy until last:

The consensus is that the massacre has finished off George Matheson’s plans for a large housing development in Chilton. But not everyone is so sure. ‘Maybe this has cleared the path,’ says Craig Walker, son of murdered campaigner Philip. ‘After all, who’s left to fight him now?’

‘Oh, Abby,’ he moaned, trying to think himself back to Saturday night. He had a horrible feeling that the quote was accurate – possibly even word for word.

Perhaps, he thought bitterly, she had recorded the whole thing.

It was Friday afternoon before Kendrick deigned to see George Matheson. For some reason he suggested they meet in Brighton, on the roof of the multi-storey car park in the marina. George understood the other man’s desire for anonymity, but surely there were better venues he could have chosen.

Kendrick’s Jeep Grand Cherokee was parked at the far end of the roof, well away from the exit ramps. There were only a handful of other cars up here, and no one else in sight. George parked his Jaguar and got out, buttoned up his overcoat and shivered.

It was a dismal day, with low cloud clinging to the hills above the city. Seagulls drifted in a blustery wind, and the grey-green water seethed below them.

As George walked towards the Jeep, the front passenger door opened and Kendrick got out. There were two other men in the car, but they stayed in place.

George offered his hand. Kendrick held it a few seconds longer than necessary, staring deep into George’s eyes. ‘Had some business down this way. Hope you don’t mind?’

‘I’m honoured,’ George said drily. ‘I did wonder if I’d be seeing Vilner instead.’

Kendrick grinned as if he appreciated the joke, but his eyes said he didn’t. ‘I know Vilner’s a little bit rough and ready, but you wouldn’t deny he’s useful.’

George grunted. ‘I don’t appreciate the way he’s become your emissary. It certainly wasn’t my idea to have him involved in my organisation.’

‘Another of Toby’s messes, then?’

George wasn’t going to answer that. He stared at Brighton Pier, ghosting from the gloom, its multi-coloured lights smeared on the water. Kendrick, hands thrust in his pockets, was a picture of relaxation beside him.

‘You know I came to England once before, when I was ten years old. I couldn’t believe that people would live somewhere so cold and grey.’

‘Hard to believe this city is a top tourist destination, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, Brighton has a certain charm. As it happens, Trinidad is mainly geared around industry. Far better beaches on some of the other islands.’

George nodded. ‘I have a villa in Antigua. Don’t get so much time to spend out there these days.’

‘You’re in a hurry to finally put your feet up? Enjoy your wealth and good fortune?’ Kendrick’s tone, even allowing for his accent, sounded too much like a taunt to merit a reply. Then he grew serious. ‘What happened Saturday makes a big difference, George. Going forward I can envisage a lot more scrutiny – which has to be detrimental to the value of your business.’

After clearing his throat, George said, ‘I concede that the situation is, ah, rather delicate at the moment. But things change. People have short memories.’

‘So you will be looking to put in another application?’

‘It depends on the timescale. But if you acquire the land along with the business, I don’t see why it couldn’t be pursued.’

Kendrick chuckled. ‘You’re suggesting that I should take on the headache of getting planning approval?’

‘It might not be a headache. As I say, attitudes change.’

‘Philip Walker’s son made the exact same point in The Times this morning. You’ve seen that?’

‘Yes. A horrible, vindictive little piece.’

‘But maybe he’s right. Not a lot of opposition left in the village.’

‘An ironic charge, given that he seems intent on taking up the baton.’

‘Nevertheless, there’s gotta be quite a few empty properties in Chilton – and maybe some survivors who can’t face living there any longer?’

‘I’m aware of that potential. It’s in hand.’ George turned, wandering towards the northern perimeter wall. ‘In recent weeks you’ve given some very conflicting signals. I’d like to know if you’re in or out.’

‘Interesting. Is this because you have other buyers beating down your door?’

George blanched. ‘You don’t expect me to answer that question?’

‘My friend, you don’t need to.’ With a throaty laugh, Kendrick clapped him on the back. ‘Let’s watch how the dust settles over the next week or two, then we can discuss what kind of adjustments are required.’

‘Adjustments?’

‘To the deal, as a whole. To the price.’

George said nothing. Spotting a pebble at his feet, Kendrick placed it on the wall, toyed with it for a moment then flicked it over the edge.

‘I threw someone off a roof once,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Only four floors up – or maybe five.’ A shrug. ‘It wasn’t a pretty sight.’

23

Craig tried calling Abby, but got her voicemail. He thought about emailing her, and while he considered what to say he scanned the rest of the paper.

There were more stories about the gunman, Carl Forester, whose upbringing had been mercilessly scrutinised. His widowed mother, Peggy, had been arrested late on Saturday, after attacking one of the officers sent to take her into protective custody. Now, at her own insistence, she was being released. A tabloid had captured a shot of her being escorted from the station, thrashing beneath the blanket that was supposed to safeguard her privacy. THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN BRITAIN, the headline raged.

Another article confirmed what Sullivan had told him, that the police were still waiting to interview Julia Trent. Under the title, DOUBLE TRAGEDY OF CHILTON VICTIM, it disclosed that Julia’s parents had died shortly before Christmas, as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning, and quoted an unnamed ‘friend’ who raised fears about her mental stability. An invented quote to give the story a little more punch, Craig guessed.

He heard movement in the hall and the door opened: Nina, looking cross. ‘They’re still out there. What am I going to do about the school run?’

‘I can go, if you prefer?’

‘That’s not the point. I don’t want the kids getting dragged into this, Craig.’

He was stung by the bitterness of her tone, as if she blamed him for much more than just speaking to Abby.

‘When it’s time, I’ll go out and distract them. Hopefully you can slip past without being followed.’

She regarded him for a moment, then asked, ‘Did Abby make it up? Or was it an accurate quote?’

‘Guess I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was angry, upset.’

‘Drunk?’

Another well-aimed blow. ‘It was stupid. I know that.’

Nina didn’t contradict him. ‘Living like this, it’s unbearable. I think maybe one of us should move out – for the sake of the children.’

Craig could see she was fighting to keep her emotions in check. This wasn’t just about Abby’s story, or the journalists outside.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I could perhaps go and stay at Dad’s for a while.’

Now she looked appalled. ‘I meant a hotel or something.’

‘Why? I can’t avoid the place for ever. And if it draws the media away from here, it’s got to be worth a try.’ Craig wanted to add that he saw this as a purely temporary move, but decided to wait and see if Nina said it.

But she merely nodded, with evident relief. ‘It’s probably for the best.’

Returning to their cars, Kendrick said, ‘How are you going to respond to Craig Walker’s comment?’

‘I won’t, publicly. That’s not how I conduct my affairs.’

‘Glad to hear it. And Toby? He still doesn’t know about the deal?’

‘No.’

‘Good. He doesn’t strike me as someone who can keep a secret.’ A pause. ‘How will he react when he finds out?’

‘I don’t particularly care. It’s high time he made his own way in the world.’

‘So why let him work for you?’

‘He’s Vanessa’s nephew. She argued that he should have a role, and I couldn’t see a reason to object.’

‘Blood is thicker than water.’

‘Exactly.’ George felt uncomfortable; it was something about Kendrick’s emphasis on the word blood. ‘Anyway, he won’t be destitute.’

‘He will if he goes on throwing his money away in casinos. And borrowing from men like Vilner.’

George bristled. ‘This really needn’t concern you. I can assure⁠—’

‘And what about your wife?’ Kendrick interrupted.

‘Vanessa? She won’t—’ He stopped, registering Kendrick’s expression. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘I do my research, George. It’s how I guarantee my good fortune.’ A malicious gleam in his eyes as he added, ‘I know everything I need to know about you.’

His hand shot out as if to punch George, slowed at the last moment and clasped his shoulder instead. He got into the Jeep. The engine fired up and it reversed sharply, tyres squealing. George watched it descend the exit ramp and disappear, Kendrick’s parting shot still ringing in his ears.

I know everything I need to know about you.

24

Craig moved out on Sunday afternoon, after a long and heated discussion about the future. Nina maintained that her affair with Bruce was over, but she wouldn’t countenance changing her job. That meant she continued to work alongside him, sometimes staying away together to visit clients or attend conferences.

‘So it’s over till the next time you’re in a hotel, and you’ve had a few drinks, and you’re lonely?’

Nina shrugged. ‘If you can’t trust me, say so. We’ll make this separation permanent.’

They were alone in the kitchen, while Tom and Maddie played upstairs. The children had been told that Craig had to go and live in Grandad’s house for a while, and would keep coming back to see them. Tom seemed happy with that explanation, but when it was time to leave Maddie clung to him and howled.

‘I don’t want you to go. Please, Daddy.’

His voice choking, Craig said, ‘It won’t be long. Just until I’ve sorted everything out.’ He glanced at Nina, who looked away.

‘But Granddad died there.’ Maddie let out an anguished sob. ‘What if you die there, too?’

Her question played on his mind as he drove to Chilton. While there might not be any physical danger, Craig couldn’t deny his misgivings about taking up residence in the house where his father was brutally murdered. However, with his freelance career on hold, he couldn’t justify the expense of a hotel when the house was standing empty.

A single police van was stationed on the corner of Chilton Way. Parked cars filled the approach road, and at the foot of the high street Craig was forced to stop for a coach as it laboriously negotiated the corner. It was packed with people, faces pressed to the glass. What the hell was going on?

The answer became clear as he drew alongside the shop. The village was swarming with tourists, staring and pointing at the cottages, the church, the pub. A large cluster stood around the tree, peering at something on the ground. For a terrible second Craig wondered if something had been overlooked during the police investigation: a splash of blood, a fragment of bone. Then he realised they were admiring the many wreaths and bouquets placed there by well-wishers.

He drove on, forced down to walking pace by people who strolled across the road as though he wasn’t there. Another coach was parked outside the church, and lots more visitors were exploring Hurst Lane. His father’s house was on the corner, with a garage at the back, accessible from the lane. But before he could put the car on the drive, he glimpsed movement behind the hedge to his left.

Someone in the front garden.

Craig stopped the car and jumped out. The garden gate was open, and a man stood on the path; he was short and thickset, taking photographs of the front door with an expensive-looking camera.

‘What’re you doing?’ Craig asked, somehow keeping his voice deceptively calm.

The man ignored him until he’d taken another picture, then he turned. He was perhaps sixty, with lank grey hair and bad teeth. ‘One of ’em died right there, in the doorway,’ he confided.

‘Is that right?’

‘Shame there’s no blood, but I can soon fix that.’ The man winked. ‘Photoshop. They fetch more that way.’

‘You’ll sell the pictures?’

‘Limited-edition prints, in sets of ten,’ he said proudly. ‘Great market for this stuff online.’

‘Is there now?’ Craig nodded as if impressed. ‘Maybe I’ll cut up the hall carpet and sell it in chunks.’

The man’s hungry expression was overtaken by a frown. ‘Was this…?’

‘My father lived here,’ Craig said. ‘Now get the fuck off my property.’

The man flinched. ‘All right, chum. No need to be like that.’

‘No?’ As the man edged past, Craig wrenched the camera from his grasp and hurled it into the air. It sailed over the heads of a group of tourists in the road and landed with a thud on the village green.

‘Hey, now that’s not⁠—’

Craig turned on him with such ferocity that the man broke off, then stomped away, grumbling beneath his breath. Watching him go, Craig became aware that he’d drawn an audience of perhaps two dozen tourists, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity, amusement and alarm.

‘What are you looking at?’ he shouted. ‘Is this not enough? You want a floorshow as well, do you?’

He got no direct response; just some muttering and mumbling which only made him angrier.

‘People died here, for Christ’s sake. It’s not a fucking theme park. People died. And they deserve respect. Now get back on your buses and leave us alone to grieve.’

At this, a few of the tourists had the good grace to turn and amble in the direction of the coach. But even as they went, they continued to snap away at the cottages, the church, the green, the flowers – and if they could, Craig had no doubt, they would just as eagerly photograph the bodies, the blood, the pain, the loss.

25

The killer felt he’d justified what had happened at the hospital, but Decipio didn’t agree.

Don’t present this as anything other than failure. She’s still alive, and therefore still a threat. You’d better pray she doesn’t wake up.

His email to Decipio had also made oblique reference to the campaigner’s son, Craig Walker. He’d warned that if something wasn’t done, people might start to make a connection between the massacre and the planning application. Despite raising a valid concern, his instructions were merely to keep an eye on Walker; nothing more. Decipio’s reply ended with:

Remember: this is your neck on the line. Not mine.

Every word was burned into his memory. No loose ends, the previous message had said. Well, there were loose ends. There was the girl. There was the woman in the tree. And then it struck him: from Decipio’s point of view, there was potentially one other loose end.

Him.

He saw how easily he could be offered up, like a sacrificial lamb. While he had his suspicions, he still didn’t know for certain who Decipio was. The name sounded like something out of Shakespeare, but when he’d looked it up he discovered it was Latin. It meant ensnare, deceive, trap.

Very appropriate. And perhaps another hint at the fate that awaited him.

But not if he fought back. Got in a pre-emptive strike.

It was time to start acting as he saw best. Protect his own interests, and no one else’s. And if that meant eliminating anyone who posed a threat, so be it.

PART II

26

February brought a spell of clear days with enough warmth to tease the early spring flowers into bloom. Perfect walking conditions, and the vast empty beach at Camber Sands was ideal terrain on which Julia could exercise, gradually building her strength.

Most of the time she felt surprisingly optimistic. She had been incredibly lucky; that was how she had to view it. With each day she grew a little stronger, a little more confident; another step closer to resuming her life…

Until the day she saw him.

The old town of Rye is a charming warren of ancient buildings and narrow lanes, perched on a hill overlooking the river Rother and the Romney Marshes. The most picturesque area, known as the Citadel, is at the top of the hill, where apart from the ever present cars and road signs, the streets around the twelfth-century church have barely changed since the days when the likes of Henry James resided here.

After exploring the cobbled lanes, Julia made a careful descent to the High Street in search of a café. She was now beyond the stage where every movement had to be planned in advance, but still her limitations came as a fresh shock every time her brain sent a signal that her limbs couldn’t instantly obey.

She moved at the pace of a much older woman, in short, shuffling steps, grateful for the walking stick she’d been bullied into taking with her. She wore a long coat and a woollen hat: clothes that offered both warmth and protection. Her obvious frailty attracted a fair few glances, but nobody had actually recognised her.

Yet.

Walking along the High Street, she became aware of a man on the opposite pavement keeping track with her, pausing each time she stopped to examine a window display. She turned and stared at a collection of watercolours in a gallery window, and in the reflection she saw him hesitate, then dart inside a newsagent’s.

For a moment she felt nothing but an all-consuming panic. Every instinct told her to run, to get away quickly, but that was the one thing she couldn’t do.

She thought about stopping a passer-by. Grab someone who looked trustworthy and plead for their help. Then the sense of panic abated. The quickest route back to the bus stop was down another steep hill, but it wasn’t far to go. The man hadn’t yet emerged from the newsagent’s. She still had a chance.

She crossed the road, gesturing with her stick to acknowledge a motorist who’d braked to avoid her. Focusing on the path ahead, she started her descent, her feet and stick clacking on the pavement in a little three-note rhythm. Her ankle throbbed, and there was an unnatural tightness in her abdomen. Julia recalled how, when the consultant had described the many potential risks and complications of an inadequate recuperation, two words in particular had chilled her to the core: internal bleeding.

Several times she glanced back, and once thought she saw the man duck out of sight. At the bottom of the hill she rested briefly, panting like a dog. An elderly woman touched her arm and asked if she was all right.

‘Fine,’ Julia gasped. To avoid further scrutiny she rammed the stick down and used it to propel herself forward, once again crossing the road with little thought for the traffic.

Then, miraculously, a bus pulled in as she reached the stop. She was relieved to see plenty of passengers, offering safety in numbers. She got on and settled on a seat halfway back. Conscious of a few curious gazes, she turned towards the window, resting her cheek against the cool glass. At last the doors closed and the bus pulled out. Julia turned and saw no sign of her pursuer.

She let out a breath. Shut her eyes and she was back in Chilton, watching the gun swing round in her direction. She captured an image of the man in black, picturing his height, his build, and compared it to the man she had just seen. Could he fit?

In her nightmares, Julia never saw his face. Even when he stood over her, pumping bullets into her body, his face was always covered by the visor.

He didn’t exist. He was a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her psychosis, brought on by extreme trauma. That was what the police had told her, when she had finally been well enough to interview, and during the day Julia could almost believe it.

But at night she would picture him, lying awake somewhere, thinking about her just as she was thinking about him. A little bit of unfinished business.

You’re stalling, she told herself. Answer the question.

But she already knew the answer.

The answer was yes. He could fit.

It was just over a week since she’d left hospital, and more than two weeks since the detective had first tried to speak to her. That disastrous attempt had provoked a furious altercation between her consultant and the cop. It was also the last Julia saw of the Irish nurse.

Negotiations between the police and her doctors had taken several days. The police were under intense pressure to complete their investigation, while the medical team had a responsibility to protect their patient. Eventually it was Julia who insisted on speaking to them, against her consultant’s advice. It was a decision she would come to regret.

Perhaps she had been too tearful and inarticulate to be taken seriously. Perhaps the detectives – a female detective inspector and a young male sergeant – had arrived with too many preconceptions. Or perhaps they were battle-weary and eager to put a gruelling investigation to bed. Whatever the reason, it was no less of a disaster than the first attempt.

Almost from the start, Julia’s memory refused to co-operate. Had she seen the postman’s body before she went into the shop, or afterwards? Had she tried to get help from the cottage or did she run straight to the church? Had Carl really invited her to run before giving chase? Every attempt to describe her ordeal gave Julia the shakes. Her throat constricted and made it physically impossible to speak.

She would never forget the reaction when she first mentioned the second killer. They might as well have terminated the interview there and then. She read it in the glance they exchanged. She heard it in the scrape of chair legs on the vinyl floor: an unconscious attempt to distance themselves from her.

The subsequent questions had a strangely half-hearted tone. On the surface the detectives remained polite but sceptical, creating a vicious circle that Julia recognised but couldn’t break. Their refusal to listen made her increasingly upset; the more distressed she became, the more it reinforced their suspicion that she was unstable, deluded, raving about a man in black leathers who killed Carl Forester and then turned his gun on her.

When it was done, the male sergeant was first to leave the room. The female DI was an older woman, with an appearance that might have been described as ‘matronly’, but she reminded Julia of a head teacher she’d once worked with. Steel wrapped in cotton wool.

‘I know this has been dreadful for you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re obviously still very confused and upset. In time I think you’ll realise your memory is playing tricks, and hopefully then you can put this behind you and move on with your life.’

Julia merely nodded; at this point all that mattered was to be left alone.

‘I must offer you one piece of advice,’ the detective went on. ‘However much you’re tempted, please don’t breathe a word of this to the media. Because whether they believe you or not, the one thing I can guarantee is that they’ll eat you alive.’

Afterwards Julia spent a lot of time reflecting on that advice. She didn’t doubt its wisdom, but saw that it had one very serious consequence. If she kept her mouth shut, it meant she was completely on her own, with the killer still out there. Still a threat. And perhaps one day he would decide to conclude his unfinished business…

Perhaps today.

27

The bus trundled east, crossing marshland and fields of winter crops where an occasional tractor went about its solitary work. Electricity pylons marched across the landscape in mighty columns, like a robot army hatched from the great brooding power station at Dungeness. In winter it was a bleak, cold, unforgiving place.

Until today, Julia had thought it was perfect.

She was staying at a private hotel called Bayside, in Camber Sands – the result of another compromise with her consultant. He had strongly recommended a nursing home that specialised in convalescent care, but Julia had gratefully latched on to an alternative suggestion from the detective inspector. Bayside had just a dozen rooms, and specialised in a women-only clientele. The proprietor, Kate, was a former police officer, and the hotel was sometimes used to accommodate vulnerable prosecution witnesses.

Now, as she grew calmer, Julia began to consider the other possibilities. She wasn’t a hundred per cent certain the man had been following her; even if he had, it could mean he was a journalist. To avoid media attention, she’d been discharged from the hospital late at night, and her brother had driven her to Camber Sands. Very few people knew she was here, but there was always a chance that somebody had been sweet-talked – or bribed – into giving up her location.

The hotel occupied a substantial plot of land right on the coast, with a golf course on one side and a scattering of large private homes on the other. The upper floor offered spectacular views of the bay and the wide expanse of sand that gave the area its name.

As a precaution Julia stayed on the bus until it had gone past the hotel, then got off at the next stop and walked back. None of the passing traffic aroused any suspicion, and there were no unfamiliar vehicles in the car park.

Kate was behind the reception counter, talking on the phone. She was a tall, striking woman in her early fifties, with long white hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing Julia, she quickly finished the call and said, disapprovingly, ‘You look shattered. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up back in hospital.’

‘I’m okay. Just need a lie-down.’

Kate tutted, then looked regretful. ‘Somebody was here this morning, asking for you.’

Julia clasped a hand to her chest. ‘When? Who?’

‘About half ten. He didn’t give his name, and I couldn’t ask for it – because of course you’re not staying here, and I’ve never heard of you.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Mid-thirties, probably. Quite tall, slim, scruffy dark hair. Wearing black jeans and a blue tailored jacket.’

Julia nodded, struggling to keep her panic in check. ‘A journalist?’

‘I think so. I acted dumb, so hopefully he’s long gone.’

‘No. He was following me in Rye.’

‘Oh, bugger.’ Kate turned towards the door as if expecting him to burst inside. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Just let me know if he comes back.’

The stairs seemed twice as steep as usual, and each one brought a jolt of pain. Hauling herself up, Julia felt drained of hope as well as energy. If one journalist had found her, soon there would be more. Either she would have to give them what they wanted, or else find somewhere else to hide.

Her room was on the first floor. It was a good size, clean and nicely decorated in neutral tones, but it wasn’t home. She’d brought a single suitcase, packed by her brother on her instructions, but after a week she had hardly unpacked, almost as if, unconsciously, she had been preparing for sudden flight.

Propping the walking stick by the door, she shrugged off her coat. The room felt a little stuffy, but as she went to open a window she was stopped in her tracks.

The tide was a long way out, the distant sea looking glassy and unreal. A thin haze of cloud diffused the sunlight, giving the air a strange vanilla glow. Fishing boats bobbed in the distance, and seagulls dipped and swooped above the beach. The sand lay flat and damp and brown beneath her, and there wasn’t a soul in sight…

Except for one man.

He stood about a hundred yards away, arms crossed, patient and resolute. He was staring in her direction, but with the light reflecting off the glass she had no idea if he could see her.

He must have come straight here, she realised. All that effort to evade him, the risks she’d taken with her health, all for nothing.

There was a stick lying at his feet, probably driftwood. From this distance it looked like a small dark snake. Julia understood what it was only a second before she registered what it had been used for.

Just behind him, in letters six feet high, he had etched a single word.

SORRY

There was a knock on the door. She jumped, aware that she had been caught in a daze.

It was Kate, bringing her a tuna sandwich and a glass of cranberry juice. When Julia protested, she said, ‘You’re meant to eat regularly, and you’ll forget otherwise.’

Julia thanked her, then said, ‘Come and see this.’

Kate followed her to the window, and reacted with the same shock. ‘That’s the guy from this morning.’ After studying him for a moment, she said, ‘What’s he sorry for? Hassling you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s unusually polite, for a journo.’ Still in a thoughtful pose, Kate said, ‘Gotta say, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’

Julia snorted. ‘Perhaps I should find out what he wants?’

‘Don’t do anything hasty. Have your lunch first, at least.’

She left the room. Julia sat on the bed and took a bite of her sandwich. She could still just about see the man from here, but probably couldn’t be seen. After a minute or two he stretched and turned round, examining the message he’d written. Was there now a hint of despondency in his posture?

Then he turned back, lifting one hand to shield his eyes. Without quite knowing why, Julia stood up and moved to the window. Now he could see her, and after giving a small, hesitant wave, he picked up the stick and began inscribing a new message in the sand.

Julia sighed, still unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. She waited for the words to form and tried not to second-guess, but found herself doing so anyway.

I’M

I’m sorry? she wondered.

I’M NOT

I’m not a journalist? Not a sleazeball? Not here to cause you more pain?

But the message, when he stood clear to reveal it, was something far more shocking. Julia nearly choked on her sandwich.

I’M NOT HIM

28

He knows, she thought. He knows there was a second killer. He’s trying to reassure me.

Then she thought: How can he know? Julia hadn’t told anyone, other than the police. And they hadn’t believed a word of it.

She went on staring. The man dropped the stick and approached the hotel, coming right up to the back fence. He bent over and retrieved a black laptop bag. Delving inside it, he produced a thick brown envelope and then inclined his head, as if to say, May I?

Be careful, an inner voice warned her. It could be a trap.

But Julia didn’t think so. Her instinct was that he had something important to say, and while she might not be ready to trust him, she knew there was no way she could ignore him.

The lobby was deserted when she got downstairs. Julia walked gingerly across to the doorway, where she leaned against the frame. The pose gave a sense of exaggerated nonchalance, but it was actually because she had succumbed to vanity and left the walking stick in her room.

A minute later the man jogged into view. At close range he looked taller, with the sort of lean, triangular frame that suggested a swimmer’s physique beneath the jacket. His thick brown hair was in need of a trim, and as he reached the steps she could see a torment in his face that could have mirrored her own expression for much of the past few weeks.

As he reached the steps she moved to fill the entrance, making it clear he wasn’t welcome to come any further. ‘If you’re a journalist, you’re wasting your time.’

He stopped and gave her an uncertain smile. His eyes were a rich dark brown, deep and liquid and full of hurt. ‘I am, actually. Freelance sports and features, but that’s not why I’m here.’ He swallowed. ‘My name is Craig Walker.’

‘Craig…?’

‘Philip Walker’s son.’

Julia had to clutch the door for support. It took a few seconds before she could speak. ‘He saved my life.’

‘I know,’ he said, and Julia thought she detected a slight coldness in his voice. ‘I’m sorry about earlier, in Rye. I wasn’t sure how best to approach you.’

‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I, uh… I have a contact in the police.’

‘And he leaked the information?’

‘He didn’t have much choice.’ Seeing her frown, he said, ‘It’s a long story, and now’s probably not the right time.’ He held up the envelope. ‘He also gave me this. The preliminary report into the massacre. I’m hoping you’ll agree to read it, and then maybe discuss it with me.’

Julia hesitated, but then took the envelope, unaware that she was trembling until it rattled in her hands. She held it tight to her chest.

‘What did you mean, “I’m not him”?’

Craig looked taken aback. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’

‘Carl Forester didn’t dream up that massacre on his own. Someone put the idea into his head, and that person is just as guilty.’

Julia said nothing for a moment. She tapped the envelope. ‘Is that what it says in here?’

‘No. But I don’t believe that,’ he said simply. ‘I believe you.’

He thanked her for listening to him, and said he’d be taking a walk on the beach. He would wait as long as it took.

Julia returned to her room. As she peeled the envelope open she was conscious of her thudding heart, and told herself not to be so ridiculous. It was an official document, and nothing more. Just words on paper.

After everything she’d been through, what harm could it do to her?

29

STRICTLY PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL

SHOOTING INCIDENT AT CHILTON, EAST SUSSEX, ON 19 JANUARY 2008

PRELIMINARY REPORT PREPARED BY CHIEF SUPT MALCOLM ELLIS

FOR THE CHIEF CONSTABLE

INTRODUCTION

On Saturday 19 January a series of shootings occurred in and around the village of Chilton, resulting in the deaths of fourteen people and injuries to a further four. This report has been prepared with the agreement of the Chief Constable to cover all the events of 19 January. Certain enquiries are ongoing and will be covered in more detail in the final report, due for completion on 1 May.

CHILTON

The hamlet of Chilton is situated ten miles northwest of Lewes. It lies approximately one mile along Chilton Way, a no-through-road which provides the only vehicular access. An unadopted access road, Hurst Lane, runs north from the village to Chilton Manor and the neighbouring farm.

Prior to 19 January the population of Chilton was sixty-three people, including fifteen children, resident in thirty-five properties. Most of the buildings are Georgian or Victorian, with a handful of Tudor cottages and a twelfth-century Norman church.

Chilton’s residents work hard to maintain the village’s unspoilt appearance, and to this end they have fought many campaigns against local development, recently defeating a proposal to build several hundred homes on adjacent farmland. They also successfully opposed plans to site a mobile-phone mast on the tower of St Mary’s church, a move which had significant implications on 19 January.

There are few local services other than the church, the Green Man public house and one shop. Responsibility for policing lies with Burgess Hill police station, approximately four miles away, but historically crime in Chilton has been practically non-existent.

CARL FORESTER

Carl Brian Forester, aged twenty-five, had lived all his life in the neighbouring village of Falcombe. An only child, Carl lived with his mother, Peggy, aged fifty-three. His father, Albert, walked out on the family when Carl was five and soon after died of a heart attack.

Forester’s mother is a chronic alcoholic with a long record of public-order offences. She served several prison sentences, during which time her son was placed in care. The family was well known to social services, and Forester was a persistent truant from the age of seven.

Leaving school with no qualifications, Forester’s most stable period of employment began at the age of nineteen, working as a groundsman for George Matheson at Chilton Manor. His duties included assisting with pheasant shoots, and it is thought his fascination with firearms stems from this period. He also helped out on a seasonal basis at Hurst Farm, owned by Matheson but managed by Mr Keith Caplan.

His employment was terminated two years ago, following an alleged assault on Mrs Laura Caplan. According to George Matheson, Forester entered the house by stealth and exposed himself to Mrs Caplan in the presence of her daughter, Megan, then aged seven. After that, Forester did no further work for Matheson, although the incident was not reported to the police.

It is believed Forester subsequently nursed a grudge against both the Mathesons and the Caplans. Whilst it cannot be stated with certainty that this led directly to the events of 19 January, it must be considered an important factor.

Enquiries have revealed no close friends, but there were a number of individuals with whom Forester drank on a regular basis, usually in the King’s Head public house in Falcombe. Most have alcohol and/or drug dependency issues. They all describe Forester as a loner, incapable of forming proper relationships. His drunken approaches to women frequently saw him ejected from the pub, and as a result he was regarded as a rather pathetic figure.

During our enquiries, however, two of the females from this group made allegations against Forester, ranging from indecent exposure to attempted rape. Once again, these offences were never reported at the time, possibly because of the aforementioned drug use.

There was unanimous agreement that Forester was terrified of his mother, and frequently beaten during his childhood, an allegation that met with frankly unconvincing denials from Peggy Forester. During the police investigation, Mrs Forester was often violent towards the officers interviewing her, and on one occasion stabbed a female officer with a kitchen knife.

Even allowing for her heightened emotional state following her son’s death, it suggests Forester grew up in a volatile environment. He had a number of criminal convictions, mostly relating to minor acts of vandalism and theft, as well as a range of vehicle offences, but prior to 19 January Forester’s potential for violent or sexual assault was unknown to the authorities.

FIREARMS

The principal firearm was a Walther P22 semi-automatic pistol, fitted with a suppressor and firing .22 subsonic ammunition. Indications are that it was part of a small consignment of arms smuggled into the UK in 2003 by individuals with links to Russian organised crime. Despite extensive enquiries, it has not yet been established how or where Forester made the sort of connections necessary to source such a weapon.

The other firearm was a Purdey double-barrel twelve-bore shotgun, used for two killings. This was a legally held weapon, purchased by George Matheson from a registered firearms dealer. Matheson holds a valid shotgun licence, and the weapon was stored in an approved gun safe.

The following section covers the events of 19 January in more detail.

Overcome by nausea, Julia threw the report aside and hurried to the window, opened it wide and took several gulps of cool, fresh air. On the beach a woman in a green anorak was walking her Labrador. There was no sign of Craig.

However much she dreaded it, Julia knew she had to read on. But first she opened her suitcase and rooted around in it. When he’d dropped her off at the hotel, her brother had presented her with a selection of books and a half bottle of brandy.

She poured a small measure and took a sip. It was her first taste of alcohol since before the massacre, and its burning warmth felt comforting in her stomach. A little rush of courage.

She would need it.

30

EVENTS OF 19 JANUARY

It must be stated that there is a considerable degree of conjecture in the sequence of events stated here. Immediately after the incident, a team of twenty-four detectives and almost fifty other officers was employed to conduct the most thorough investigation possible. However, the lack of eyewitness evidence means that in some cases it was necessary to make educated guesses about Forester’s movements.

We know Forester rose early, at around 0530. His mother estimates that he left the house at approximately 0600. He was dressed in camouflage trousers and a blue denim jacket, and armed with a crowbar purchased from a builder’s merchants in Burgess Hill on 15 January. It is believed he also had the Walther P22 in his possession at this time.

From Falcombe he made his way on foot to Chilton Manor, approximately two miles away, gaining access to the house by breaking a ground-floor window. The owners, George and Vanessa Matheson, were at their London home, and appear not to have set the alarm the day before. There is no evidence that Forester had any knowledge of the security codes or could have disabled the alarm.

Forester used the crowbar to break into Matheson’s gun cabinet and removed the Purdey shotgun. He also ransacked the house and defecated on a dining table, before moving on to Hurst Farm. Keith and Laura Caplan were eating breakfast in the kitchen, but it appears their nine-year-old daughter, Megan, was still in bed.

It is thought Mrs Caplan answered the door and was led back to the kitchen at gunpoint. Mr Caplan rose from his chair and was shot in the stomach with the shotgun. It is likely he was forced to watch as his wife was sexually assaulted, and at some point he died from his injuries. Mrs Caplan was also shot and killed with the shotgun. Forester then went upstairs and attempted to smother Megan with a pillow. She suffered serious oxygen deprivation, and as of the date of this report she remains in a coma.

Forester left the farmhouse at approximately 0720, heading along Hurst Lane towards Chilton. As he passed the Green Man public house he saw the publican, Mr Barry Johnson, attending to his pet rabbits in the garden. Mr Johnson appears to have been running for cover when he was shot three times and killed.

Telecommunications in Chilton are routed via a BT cabinet ‘green box’ situated on the corner of Hurst Lane. Forester forced entry to the box and severed the wires at 0733, rendering the village without landline communication. As previously mentioned, local opposition to a phone mast meant that mobile coverage was severely lacking.

Forester next approached the Old Schoolhouse, the residence of seventy-two-year-old widower Philip Walker. Mr Walker was shot in the chest and left for dead in the hallway of his home.

It appears Forester crossed Hurst Lane again and made for St Mary’s church. Here he found the vicar, the Reverend Mark Armitage, and a Mrs Dorothy Poplett, aged sixty-three, who was employed as a cleaner. Both were shot several times. Mrs Poplett died immediately, but Revd Armitage appears to have lived for another twenty-five minutes, and was possibly still alive when one of the few surviving witnesses, Ms Julia Trent, sought help in the church at approximately 0800.

Forester moved on to the terraced cottages south of St Mary’s. At number 18 High Street he killed Ms Samantha Todd, aged thirty-four, and her six-year-old son, Frankie.

The occupants of number 16 were away, so Forester went to number 14, where he killed the only resident, eighty-one-year-old Audrey Wheeler.

At number 12 he killed Mr Geoffrey McBride, fifty, and then stopped to reload. His wife, Rose McBride, fifty-two, managed to warn her two children, who were able to hide. Forester shot and wounded Mrs McBride as she fled upstairs, then moved on to number 10, where he shot and injured Mrs Doreen Collins in the hallway of her home. Mrs Collins, seventy-seven, survived the incident but was left paralysed from the waist down.

Forester then retraced his steps, possibly in response to the appearance of a Royal Mail van driven by Mr Trevor Fox, aged thirty-seven. Mr Fox had opened the rear doors of the van when Forester appeared from his left and shot him twice in the face.

The murder was witnessed by Mr Ian Cornish, at number 5 Arundel Crescent. Mr Cornish shouted to his wife and children to get up and called 999. Finding the landline dead, he attempted to call on his mobile phone but without success. He then led his family through their back garden and across farmland for approximately one mile, until they reached the main road. Eventually Mr Cornish got a signal and made an emergency call at 0809.

Gaining entry to number 1 Arundel Crescent, Forester killed fifty-nine-year-old Clive Bradbury and his wife Mavis, fifty-eight, who had just sat down to breakfast. He also killed their dogs, two red setters, then remained in the home for some ten or fifteen minutes, eating their breakfast.

At this point, shortly after 0800, Julia Trent discovered the body of Trevor Fox and went into St Mary’s church to raise the alarm, only to find the Reverend Armitage and Mrs Poplett. She made her way to the footpath that runs parallel to the High Street and entered number 18, where she discovered the bodies of Ms Todd and her son.

Meanwhile, at number 2 Arundel Crescent, Mrs Alice Jones had also witnessed the murder of Trevor Fox. She bolted her front door and went upstairs with her three young children, where they barricaded themselves in the master bedroom. Mrs Jones focused on keeping the children calm and quiet, but occasionally looked out. At approximately 0813 she glimpsed Julia Trent running on to the green with Forester in pursuit.

From the living room of number 18 High Street, Ms Trent saw Forester emerge from number 1 Arundel Crescent and walk towards number 2. Receiving no answer there, he moved on to number 3, whose occupants, Mr and Mrs Granger, had been to a party until the early hours. Mr Granger believes he was vaguely aware of the doorbell, but decided to ignore it. He and his wife continued to sleep through the incident, and did not stir until wakened by the noise of the police helicopter at 0840.

It is thought Forester may have grown frustrated by the lack of response, for he ignored the remaining houses and instead made for the village store. Unfortunately, Forester entered the shop and killed the proprietor, fifty-seven-year-old Mrs Moira Beaumont, while Ms Trent was attempting to warn her of the danger. Forester then pursued Ms Trent back along the path to the church. Her recollection is somewhat unreliable, as will be noted later, but she alleges that Forester prolonged this chase for his own amusement.

Trent fled through the churchyard and on to the green, as confirmed by Alice Jones, and was brought down by a long-range shot which grazed her leg. At this point, Ms Trent’s life was saved by the intervention of Philip Walker. Despite being severely wounded, Mr Walker distracted Forester, who returned to the Old Schoolhouse and shot him dead. Ms Trent used this diversion to reach the yew tree on the green, which she managed to climb to a height of approximately ten or eleven feet.

It is thought Forester returned to the green and discovered the trail of blood leading to Ms Trent’s hiding place. Possibly by now he could hear the first police siren. In any event, he raked the tree with fire from the pistol, hitting Trent in the side and causing her unconscious body to fall from the tree.

Finally, Carl Forester took his own life, with a shot to the temple. It is thought he died just a minute or two before the first police officers arrived on the scene, at 0822.

31

The report became progressively harder to read. Without knowing it, Julia began muttering, ‘No… No…’ A cry to ward off the horrors of that day, but also a protest at the report’s conclusion.

Carl Forester took his own life.

There was the confirmation, in stark black print, that she was on her own.

She quickly scanned the next section. Under the heading ‘Police Response’ it detailed the actions taken by the emergency services to secure the scene and provide aid to the victims. It went on to give a summary of the huge investigation launched on that morning, and then touched on the country’s reaction to the tragedy.

Her eyes followed the words, but at some point Julia stopped taking it in. All she could see was that one dreadful sentence. The official verdict.

Carl Forester took his own life.

End of story.

Gradually she became aware of a tapping on the door, Kate asking if she was all right. Wiping her cheeks, Julia got up and opened the door.

‘I’m okay. 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 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.’

Craig was waiting in a black VW Golf. Julia felt slightly irritated at the sight of him – his assumption that she would be compelled to seek him out – but there was 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. When he opened his window, his smile fading as he registered her sombre expression, she said, ‘There’s a café just down the road.’

‘Perfect.’ He went to put his seatbelt on.

‘I’d prefer to walk.’

A glance at the walking stick. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier by car?’

‘I’d prefer to walk.’

He gave her a look, then shrugged. Hooking the laptop bag over his shoulder, he accompanied 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. The pavement was so narrow that once or twice his arm brushed against hers as they walked. Recalling her earlier panic in Rye, Julia was impressed that it didn’t make her flinch.

The café was a single-storey building on the edge of a large car park serving the beach. 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 slightly surly teenage girl.

Julia had brought the report with her. The envelope now lay on the table between them.

‘It must have been painful to read,’ Craig said.

Julia was tempted to answer glibly: Not as painful as living it. She poured a sachet of sugar into her coffee and stirred for longer than was necessary, but Craig wouldn’t leave it there.

‘I mean, that last section must have really pissed you off?’

She looked up. ‘Actually, I didn’t… By then I was just skimming it.’

He took out the report, and Julia 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 held it out for her to read.

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 frequently 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. 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 only a month before the shooting. 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.’ Julia had to stifle a sob. ‘It’s a wonder they didn’t just cart me off to the nuthouse!’

Craig seemed embarrassed on her behalf. ‘Maybe this was too soon?’

Julia dug in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘I don’t know what to think any more. By the time the interview finished, they almost had me believing I was a madwoman.’

She expected this to repel him, but instead Craig leaned forward, close enough for her to catch the smell of mints on his breath. ‘What did you tell them, exactly?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

He nodded, vehemently. Julia 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.

32

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 was unable to conjure up 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 gain experience at every level before he took his place among the senior management team.

In practice, it hadn’t quite worked out like that. For one thing, Toby was easily bored, 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 well with his uncle.

Then there were 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: why should he have to pretend otherwise?

His finances were another 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 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 his gambling habit. As such, he expected today’s meeting to involve yet another reading of the riot act.

Leaving the A23 at Hickstead, he skirted around Burgess Hill and headed into the countryside of East Sussex. He always found the lush greenery faintly unsettling; he much preferred a world of tarmac and concrete and steel.

As he drove through Chilton he caught a flash of light, and for a moment thought the ancient yew tree had caught fire. Then he realised it was sunlight reflecting on cellophane, wrapped around the dozens of floral tributes that had been left at the site.

He turned into Hurst Lane, reaching for the remote-control key fob that opened the gates. He mistimed it slightly, 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 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 remotely 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. Because of the political pressure to get it 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. He’s out there somewhere now, walking around scot-free.’

Julia shivered. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘I’ve been trying to 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, before nodding 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 Julia found disturbing.

‘We don’t know.’

‘Well, it looks like—’ Craig broke off. ‘Tell me you’re not doubting it?’

Julia felt herself blushing. ‘No. I just… I’m not sure what to make of your reaction.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve accepted it so readily. I don’t want to find you’re a conspiracy theorist, who just can’t accept that, sometimes, bad things happen for no reason.’

As she spoke, an image of her parents’ bodies flashed through her mind. Craig saw her shiver; he looked incredulous and perhaps slightly offended.

‘So because I believe you, that makes me a crank?’

‘Well, seeing it written there in an official document, who’s to say my memory is any more reliable than the official version?’

‘Okay. Carl Forester killed himself. Simple as that.’ He slid the report away from her and picked it up. Julia felt a surge of disappointment: she’d just alienated the only person who was willing to listen.

‘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.’

He shook his head. ‘You thought I was Carl’s accomplice.’

‘Actually, there’s another reason why I got scared.’ She cleared her throat. ‘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 so sorry. What happened – or would you prefer not to say?’

‘No, it’s fine. I was out with friends in Brighton on New Year’s Eve. This sleazy guy had hit on me at the bar. Rubbed himself against me and made a few obscene suggestions. I told him to piss off. A bit later I had a silly argument with one of my friends and decided to leave early. In those days my parents lived in Hove, only about a mile away. It was a few minutes before midnight, so the streets were almost deserted. As I walked home, I was grabbed from behind and pulled into the gardens near Palmeira Square.’

‘It was 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. 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? So I screamed, and kicked, and he ran away. The people I’d heard found me and called the police.’

‘And was he caught?’

Julia shook her head. ‘I couldn’t give a very detailed description. Even in the pub I hadn’t really seen him properly, because we were crushed together at the bar. And in those days there weren’t CCTV cameras everywhere like there are now. But two years 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.’ Julia shrugged. ‘Actually, at the time I was almost relieved. The idea of having to re-live 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 jumping out of my skin at every noise, every shadow – until one day I came to my senses. I knew I had a simple choice. Either I allowed this incident to define me, or I put it aside and got on with my life.’

Craig nodded. ‘That takes a lot of guts.’

‘I think I see that more now than I did at the time,’ Julia admitted with a smile. ‘I started exercising a lot more, got into really good shape. I took self-defence classes. I went out alone, even late at night – almost daring something to happen because I wanted to prove to myself that I could handle it. I chose to be a survivor, and I’m convinced that’s what helped me get through on January 19th.’

‘I’m sure it did.’ Craig paused, before adding, ‘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.’

33

The two men climbed the stairs to George’s office. 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?’ he asked.

‘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 illegitimate 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 very notable occasion, Vanessa had always been careful to keep him at a distance.

The office was a large room with windows on two sides. While George took a seat behind his enormous desk, Toby went straight for the Jura coffee machine and made himself an espresso. He was surprised to see his uncle had a glass of sherry on the go; it wasn’t like George to drink during the day.

Unwilling to sit opposite him like some hapless candidate at a job interview, Toby sank on to the leather sofa at the other end of the room. He was raising the cup to his mouth when George said, ‘Heard anything from your friend Vilner?’

‘Not lately. Why?’

‘What about settling your debts? Any progress?’

‘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 your directorships,’ George reminded him. ‘For which you do, let’s face it, practically nothing.’

‘That’s not true. Give me a serious stake and I’ll work my balls off.’

‘I’ve heard that before, Toby. 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 told them 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 – so why not go one better? Buy up the entire village and demolish it. We could stick up a memorial and build a completely new town next door.’

He sat back, satisfied that he’d proved George wrong about not earning his directorships. This idea alone was worth a few million. But his uncle only stared at him as if he’d just proposed moving the village to Neptune.

‘Well, why not?’ Toby went on. ‘You’ve said yourself, the place is full of ghosts.’

‘And what about the listed buildings? What about the twelfth-century church?’

‘You’ve ignored plenty of restrictions like that in the past. The point worth emphasising is that a brand new development would be in everyone’s best interests.’

‘You don’t think that making tens of millions in profit might strike anyone as offensive? The fact that our best interests happen to be rather more rewarding than anyone else’s?’

Toby shrugged. ‘If you’re worried about public opinion, then why try to buy up the village in the first place?’

‘To help the victims. I know it’ll be misinterpreted, but that really is my only motive.’ He gave Toby a stern look. ‘We do need to be patient here. Otherwise it will look as though Carl Forester did us a huge favour.’

The mention of Forester seemed to suck some of the oxygen from the room. But Toby wasn’t easily deterred.

‘Perhaps he did. Is that really so terrible to admit?’

George opened a drawer and took out a folder. With what sounded like a disgusted sigh, he tossed it across the desk.

‘You’d better read this.’

Julia said, ‘What do you mean? Prove it, how?’

‘Maybe there’s some way we can flush him out.’ Rather than elaborating, Craig asked a question of his own. ‘You know about George Matheson’s planning application?’

‘You could hardly miss it, thanks to your father. It seemed like there was a story in The Argus every week.’

‘Mmm. Once something fired him up, Dad could be a tenacious old sod.’

‘Didn’t you agree with him, then?’

‘I had mixed feelings. I didn’t see him or the others raging about housing developments in other people’s back yards. But, yes, for all the selfishness of a NIMBY mindset, it doesn’t invalidate the basic argument. Chilton is a beautiful, unspoilt village. Matheson shouldn’t be allowed to dump housing estates all round it and walk away with twenty or thirty million quid.’

Julia gasped. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘At least that much. He owns hundreds of acres around the village, so even if only a fraction gets developed he’ll make a fortune. And if he uses his own construction company to build the homes he’ll profit twice over.’

‘That’s shocking. I didn’t realise there was so much money involved.’

‘The fact is, we have a severe shortage of housing in the most affluent part of the country. For landowners and developers, the stakes have been raised to the point where all kinds of corruption become tempting. So you start off, perhaps falsifying a report here and there. You put pressure on councillors, planning officers, you offer bribes and inducements. But if the bribes don’t work, maybe you have to use threats?’

He paused, staring at his coffee and seeming to make a conscious effort to calm down. Then he looked up at Julia again.

‘Once you get started down that road, where do you stop? We’re living in a world where people will kill for the loose change in your pocket. What do you think someone would do for thirty million?’

It was a peculiar experience to read about such devastating violence, described so dispassionately. Toby would rather have studied the report alone, away from his uncle’s brooding presence. Glancing up, he saw George pouring himself another sherry.

‘What’s the latest on the Caplans’ daughter?’

‘No change.’ George wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘I visited her at the weekend. Keith’s sister is there every day. I’ve offered to cover the cost of a private clinic, but really they’re doing all they can for her.’

‘Getting very generous in your old age,’ Toby muttered.

George grunted, and said, ‘It’s this Julia Trent that worries me.’

‘Really? The police seem to think she’s delusional.’

‘It could still attract some unwelcome attention, especially after that quote from Craig Walker.’

‘I saw that. Are you going to sue him?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Philip Walker died a hero. The last thing I can afford is a slanging match with his son.’ He picked up his sherry, swilled it round and regarded it with sudden distaste. ‘He’s asked to see me.’

‘Craig?’

George nodded. ‘Hopefully I can forestall any more bad publicity.’

‘Would you like me to be there?’

A look of amusement warmed his uncle’s face. ‘I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him, thank you.’

Toby shrugged, biting back an urge to respond. George quickly grew morose again. ‘Do you really see Carl Forester dreaming up something like this?’

‘Who knows what his state of mind was like?’ Toby waited a beat, then added quietly, ‘The police obviously think losing his job was a factor.’

‘Good Lord! What choice did I have, after that dreadful business with Laura? It was two years ago. Surely it wasn’t sufficient provocation for… what he did?’

‘We’ll never know, will we?’ Toby lifted the report. ‘I haven’t read this properly. May I take a copy?’

George grudgingly assented. ‘Keep it safe. Don’t show it to anyone.’

Toby switched on the photocopier. As it went to work, he made himself another coffee.

‘I know how stressful this has been for you,’ he said. ‘Why not have a break? A couple of months in the Caribbean, maybe? I can watch over things in your absence.’

‘I’ll take a holiday when I’m good and ready,’ George snapped. ‘And only when I’m certain the business is in safe hands.’

Toby felt his face heating up. ‘If you had allowed me to liquidate some assets, I would never have had to borrow from someone like Vilner.’

‘Nonsense,’ George barked. ‘You’d have squandered that money as well. Anyway, you can’t unload shares when a business is struggling. It sends all the wrong signals.’

Toby said nothing. He watched the photocopier at work, a thrilling flash of light as each page gave birth to another.

‘At least let me start on the paperwork. I could get the plans for the access road amended, to address some of the objections to it.’

George eyed him suspiciously. ‘And you’re prepared to knuckle down, are you? No return to the old habits?’

‘Absolutely. You have my word.’

The doubt remained on his uncle’s face, but at last he nodded. Toby suspected it was more to get rid of him than anything else: a tactic Toby had exploited successfully in the past.

‘Very well. But strictly below the radar at this stage. Nothing can be filed until we have public opinion firmly on side.’

They shook hands on it, more like business acquaintances than family. At the front door Toby said his farewell, adding, ‘Give my regards to Vanessa,’ with his customary lack of sincerity.

‘I will,’ said George, in a matching tone.

34

Julia absorbed what he’d said, then shook her head. ‘That’s quite a leap to make. You can’t go accusing someone like George Matheson of mass murder.’

Craig shrugged. ‘Actually, I already have.’

‘What?’

‘Someone asked me if I thought the application could ever be revived. I pointed out that George might be in a better position because of the massacre.’

‘Someone?’

‘A person I trusted,’ he said. ‘Who also happens to be a journalist.’

Julia grimaced. ‘What was Matheson’s reaction?’

‘Not a lot in public. But I received a nicely crafted letter from his solicitors, drawing my attention to the laws of libel and defamation.’

‘I don’t suppose you can blame him. Just because he stands to benefit, it doesn’t mean Matheson had anything to do with what happened.’

‘And if I choose to disagree, that would make me… what? A nutty conspiracy theorist?’

Julia grinned. ‘I can’t rule it out.’

‘In that case, maybe we should find out one way or the other.’

‘What?’

‘George Matheson. I’ve arranged a meeting with him tomorrow.’

Julia felt her heart speed up. ‘Tomorrow? And you want me to come?’

He held up his hands to placate her. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. Forget I mentioned it.’

Julia lifted her cup, almost as a defence mechanism, but the coffee had gone cold. ‘Time I was getting back,’ she said.

When she stood up, Craig went to help with her coat, but Julia turned and shrugged it on herself. She picked up the walking stick and propped it under her arm like a baton. Her next challenge was to make the return journey without using it.

Stepping outside, they found the wind had strengthened, picking up grains of sand as it whipped over the beach. Julia shielded her face with her hand, and Craig muttered, ‘Should have brought the car.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I understand now why you were so wary of me.’

They set off in silence, then Julia said, ‘What exactly did you mean about “flushing out” the second killer? You want to investigate what happened in Chilton?’

‘Yes.’

‘But how? We’re not detectives.’

Her use of the plural wasn’t lost on him. Julia cursed herself for the slip of the tongue.

‘To start with, we talk to Matheson, and we find out more about Carl Forester.’

‘Okay. But supposing we uncover evidence that someone else was involved? What then?’

‘Give it to the police, of course. I wasn’t suggesting we turn into vigilantes.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Remember, we’re searching for a man who took part in a killing spree, then calmly murdered his partner and made it look like suicide.’ Julia turned to face him. ‘So what will he do if he realises there’s someone on his trail?’

Vanessa waited until she was sure that Toby had gone. Then she waited a little longer, to see if George would come to her. He didn’t.

It took whole minutes to get up from her chair and walk along the hall. In the weeks since the last diagnosis – the terminal diagnosis – a strange separation had occurred. There was Vanessa; and there was Vanessa’s body. Vanessa’s body was an appalling creature, weak and pain-wracked and crumbling from within like a gutted building. It bore no resemblance to Vanessa: the person, the lifeforce.

And yet, when the body finally expired, Vanessa the person would die with it. That seemed outrageously unfair. Sometimes, at night, she screamed out her fury until her eyes poured with tears and her throat burned and her chest throbbed.

She screamed, but always without making a sound. Because George mustn’t know how she felt.

The door to his study was heavy; she needed both hands to push it open. George exhibited genuine surprise when she entered the room. He was at his desk, with the report open in front of him. Something else as well, which he’d hurriedly slipped between the pages. A furtive glance to make sure it was hidden.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I meant to come and see you.’

‘I’m not a cripple.’ To prove it, she remained standing. She walked over to the photocopier and rested both hands on the lid. Its lingering warmth was enough to prompt a confession.

‘I let him take a copy of the report.’

‘Was that wise?’

‘I told him to be discreet.’

Vanessa chuckled at the concept. ‘What did he make of it?’

‘Dismissive. He’s all gung-ho to prepare another application.’

‘I take it you’ve not yet told him about Kendrick?’

‘No.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think I should?’

‘It’s your business. You’re entitled to do with it as you wish.’

George nodded slowly. ‘But…?’

‘No, I mean it. Toby is as much a disappointment to me as he is to you.’

George continued to wait for the inevitable barbed comment. It was perhaps the most enduring feature of their long marriage, and Vanessa knew he had developed an almost masochistic attachment to them.

But when nothing came, he closed the report and patted it reassuringly, along with whatever treasure was concealed within it. ‘I told him about Craig Walker. He asked if I wanted him to be there.’

Vanessa shared his half-smile, but said, ‘You might consider having someone present. James Vilner, perhaps.’

‘Really? Why is that?’

‘Craig Walker’s father was brutally murdered. From what he said to the press, it’s quite possible that he blames you. Who knows how he might choose to vent his anger?’

‘I very much doubt that he’s coming here to attack me.’

‘Perhaps not. But he does remain a thorn in your side. And Vilner’s presence could achieve far more than any solicitor’s letter, at a fraction of the cost.’

George pursed his lips and tapped them with a forefinger: it was his habitual and quite unconscious signal that he intended to appropriate someone else’s idea.

‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he said.

Which meant yes.

35

Just before they reached the hotel there was a gap in the dunes, allowing a glimpse of the sea. The tide was coming in, racing across the sand from several directions at once. Julia thought of Craig’s message, wiped smooth and gone for ever.

‘You know, I think it’s partly because he’s still at large that I came here,’ she said as they entered the car park. ‘I’m hiding from him.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Craig. ‘But remember how you felt when you locked yourself away at university. It doesn’t work forever.’

‘I know. I’m just not sure if I’m ready right now.’

Craig unlocked the Golf and put his bag on the back seat. ‘The trouble is, we don’t have a lot of time. That report’s supposed to be confidential, but I reckon we’ve got a week at most before the media get their hands on it.’

As Julia’s face fell, he quickly added, ‘Of course, there’s a chance they’ll overlook what you said. But if they don’t…’

‘They’ll eat me alive. That’s what the police told me.’

Craig nodded. ‘And once your allegations are made public, the danger you’re talking about will exist regardless of what you do.’ He waited a second. When she didn’t speak he smiled and patted her arm. ‘Anyway, you need to get inside. It’s cold out here.’

He opened the driver’s door and climbed in. Julia watched him reverse from the space and thought about the report, almost wishing it hadn’t made any reference to her allegations. Then Craig wouldn’t be here, and she wouldn’t be facing this dilemma.

There was a flash of brake lights as he reached the road. She felt an odd gnawing in her stomach. Not fear, exactly. Indecision. Regret. Shame.

During interviews she was highly emotional.

‘Wait!’ She took a couple of wobbly steps forward, waving her hand until he spotted the movement in his mirror. He backed up, and opened his window. Julia clutched the door handle and crouched at eye level.

‘I’ll come with you tomorrow.’

The doubts rushed in the moment he drove away. Outwardly Craig had been friendly and likeable, but there had been moments when she’d sensed a certain degree of antipathy, or resentment: something which cautioned her to be wary of him.

Back in the hotel, she was making for the stairs when Kate appeared, the timing so precise that Julia wondered if she’d been lying in wait.

‘I thought you were popping outside to speak to him, not gallivanting off somewhere.’

Julia grimaced. ‘We just walked along to the café.’

‘So who is he? What does he want from you?’

‘His name’s Craig Walker. He’s the son of Philip, one of the Chilton victims.’

At this, Kate’s attitude seemed to soften a little. ‘Not a journalist, then?’

‘Actually, he is. But it’s not relevant to this.’

‘I hope you’re right. I feel like that name is familiar.’ Kate sighed, examining Julia’s face as if for signs of wear and tear. ‘Anyway, the main thing is that he leaves you alone from now on.’

Julia had no chance of hiding her reaction. She felt like a wayward teenager, hoping to get permission from an overbearing parent. ‘I’ve agreed to go somewhere tomorrow. Just for a few hours.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

Now Julia had to shrug. ‘Anything but sure.’

Having gambled on persuading Julia to work with him, Craig had avoided a long return journey by booking a room at a B&B a couple of miles away on the Lydd road.

In contrast to the enticing photographs on its website, Seascape turned out to be a semi-detached house with a brown pebble-dash exterior and moss on the roof. The owner was a woman of a certain age, widowed or divorced, with improbably big hair and make-up applied on an operatic scale. When he got to his room, the first thing Craig did was make sure the door locked from the inside.

The second thing he did was have a drink. He’d packed an overnight bag with just the essentials: a change of clothes, toiletries and a litre of Scotch. He had to use a plastic beaker from the bathroom, but that barely affected the flavour. He’d have swigged it from the bottle if need be.

It wasn’t as full as he expected. Then he remembered having a few mouthfuls on the beach, while Julia was reading the report. It had been a close call, but in the end he’d won her over. Surely that was an achievement to celebrate?

While he drank, he allowed himself to feel a twinge of guilt, but no more than that. There was a lot at stake here, and it wasn’t as though he’d lied to Julia.

He just hadn’t told her everything.

After a relaxing soak in the bath, Julia ate alone in the hotel dining room, reflecting on her encounter with Craig. Then she sat in the guests’ lounge for a while, playing cards with a reticent young woman who was appearing as a witness at the Crown Court in Maidstone.

Kate pounced as she was about to call it a night. ‘I’ve Googled him.’

‘What?’

‘Craig Walker. He might have told you the truth about what he writes nowadays, but before that he was an investigative reporter. Worked on quite a few cases involving organised crime.’ Kate paused; Julia couldn’t understand why she looked quite so tense until she said, ‘He had a bee in his bonnet about police corruption.’

‘Ah.’

‘I can’t criticize him for that,’ Kate added. ‘I know full well that some officers are corrupt. I just want you to be aware, because it could mean that his agenda is completely different to yours.’

Julia returned to her room, pondering whether to rethink her decision, but finally decided to see how she felt in the morning.

Sleep came easier than she expected, but it was fitful and troubled. Amid many disjointed dreams was one of startling clarity and impact, quite unlike any she’d had before.

It was a cold, clear night. She was on the beach at Camber Sands, the tide far out, foamy waves gleaming in the distance. In the centre of the beach the yew tree from Chilton’s village green loomed over her. She approached it barefoot, feeling her toes sinking into the sand. The upper branches of the tree swayed gently. Maybe from a light breeze. Maybe not.

He was hiding. Waiting for her.

She carried a heavy iron bar, its solidity lending her a courage she had no right to feel. Reaching the trunk of the tree, she ran her hand over the smooth bark and the tree responded, its shiver of pleasure dislodging the intruder who had dared conceal himself in its embrace.

The man in black dropped from the upper branches and landed on his back. He lay still, but she could see his chest rising and falling. His head was encased in the black helmet.

Then her perspective changed and she saw herself from a distance, slowly leaning over and lifting the visor. She gasped, stepping back – and now she was inside herself again, reeling with a terrible knowledge.

You’ve seen his face. You know who he is.

The first blow came almost as a surprise to her. It shattered his visor and sent shards of plastic flying across the beach. The man let out a gurgling exclamation. Julia gripped the crowbar tighter, using both hands to bring it down with all her strength, again and again, not ceasing until every bone was shattered, and blood and sand clung to her legs like treacle.

Then she dropped the crowbar and stood, breathing hard, her muscles vibrating with energy. She heard the waves sucking on the sand, closer now. The tide would come in and cover this abomination, and when it retreated the world would be clean again. And safe.

She looked up and saw her parents, watching from an upper window of the hotel. It was clear from the tilt of her father’s head that he was ashamed. This isn’t how we brought you up to behave.

‘No!’ Julia screamed. She would rather die than suffer his disapproval.

Grabbing the crowbar, she took a few steps away from the body. A full moon lit up the sand as she carved out her message.

I’M NOT HER, she wrote. Over and over, while the blood dried on her legs and sweat ran into her eyes and dripped from her nose on to the sand.

I’M NOT HER.

Then she woke, drenched in sweat, and threw herself out of bed. Stood stock still in the middle of the room, the thudding of her heart eclipsing all the tiny noises of the hotel at night. The dream continued to parade in her head: the body exploding under the barrage of blows; her parents’ disappointment and shame.

I’m not her.

Please, God.

I’m not her.

36

Max Kendrick was always up early. Even after more than a decade of freedom he found prison hours the most natural routine. Illogical, perhaps, but if he lay in bed there was always a nagging sensation that he was missing out on something.

He was renting a large house in Berkshire, overlooking the Thames, costing more than twelve thousand pounds a month. Not cheap, but it was an attractive, peaceful location close to the river.

Every morning he worked out in the small gym that formed part of the master bedroom suite. Then he took a run outside, a mile or so each way along the exclusive private road. Two of the team accompanied him – always carrying firearms. Perhaps not necessary here in the UK, but it was another old habit he found hard to break.

On the way back, he nodded regular greetings to a professional golfer and the chairman of a FTSE 100 company, while ignoring the platoon of ghostly Eastern Europeans who cooked and cleaned for them. It amused him to realise how seamlessly he’d made the transition to First World supremacy.

He had taken to business like a natural, but he was conscious that he lacked a proper education. To compensate he prided himself on thinking longer and harder than anyone else. Preparation was his watchword. Know everything: then you couldn’t be outsmarted.

It was thorough research that had uncovered Toby Harman’s gambling debts, and led him to James Vilner. He knew George Matheson had been furious when Vilner was appointed as Kendrick’s go-between, but there was little George could do about it. Which made his request for Vilner’s help today all the more intriguing. Matheson was meeting the dead campaigner’s son, Craig Walker, and he wanted Vilner present. No reason given.

Back at the house on this cold, bright Wednesday, Kendrick found Jacques was in the kitchen, nursing a mug of black coffee. Jacques shunned physical exertion of any kind; he remained thin only because he had no interest in food or alcohol. No vices at all, in fact, except killing.

They had met in August 1997, when Kendrick was one of ten high-risk prisoners transferred to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to serve out the rest of a sentence for aggravated burglary. Volcanic eruptions had forced a closure of Montserrat’s prison and destroyed its capital city, Plymouth.

By that time an even more momentous encounter had taken place: the one that was to transform Kendrick’s life. It was Jacques who quickly recognised the potential of his plan, and suggested he set his sights much higher. From then on he had served as a faithful lieutenant. It was Jacques who’d willingly helped remove any of the obstacles in his path. And it was Jacques alone who knew his real identity.

‘Shari was looking for you,’ the little man said.

Kendrick scowled. ‘Why?’

Jacques assumed a hideous falsetto: ‘“Why does he bring me all the way to England if he don’ wanna be with me?”’

‘That’s what she said?’

‘That’s what I made sense of. She was all weepy and whispering – because I scare her so much.’

‘Sensible girl.’ Kendrick poured a glass of grapefruit juice while Jacques waited, puppylike. ‘It’s time she went,’ he decided. ‘I don’t need the distraction.’

Jacques agreed. ‘Plenty of women over here if you want one.’ He sounded vaguely contemptuous of the idea. ‘I’ll give her the news, then?’

‘Nothing to tell. Just get someone to put her in a car and send her back.’

‘Alive?’

Too late, Kendrick had tipped the glass to his lips. He spluttered juice from his nostrils and laughed.

‘Yes. Alive.’ He pinched his nose, then sniffed. ‘If I wanted her dead, wouldn’t I’d have requested it?’

Jacques, slightly crestfallen, said, ‘Always pays to ask.’

When Julia woke on Wednesday, she immediately remembered the nightmare. It wasn’t just the first one where she had been the attacker rather than the victim, but the first where she had lifted his visor.

She could clearly recall the powerful sensation that accompanied the sight of the killer’s face, but no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to recreate that image in her mind. Now she was about to spend the day with a man she hardly knew, and they were intending to pay a visit to George Matheson…

And that, she realised with a start, almost certainly meant going back to Chilton. Just the thought of driving through the village made her fluttery with panic.

Over breakfast she thought about Craig, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned his investigative work, and thinking about the pent-up anger she’d sensed within him. Although he’d insisted that he wasn’t a vigilante, Julia couldn’t rule out that his objective was to make someone pay for his father’s death.

Unless…

Her sudden intuition as to the reason for his hostility towards her was almost as shocking as last night’s dream. She should have seen it straight away. The question now was: should she confront him, or try to ignore it?

Kate wandered into the dining room, holding a mug of tea. She perched on a chair opposite Julia and gave a contrite smile. ‘Sorry if I was a bit heavy last night.’

‘That’s all right. I know you’ve got my best interests at heart.’

‘Are you going with him today?’

‘I think I have to.’

Kate nodded slowly, as if she’d guessed as much. Her name was called from the kitchen and she took a quick gulp of tea, then stood up.

‘Just be careful, okay?’

Julia was in the lobby shortly before nine. The presence of a police car outside made her jump, until she saw they were here to collect the woman appearing as a witness.

Craig arrived a couple of minutes later. As she went outside, Julia realised it felt good to be doing something active. Scary but exhilarating. The weather was beautiful for mid-February, with a clear blue sky and a light breeze.

She strode over to his car with a decisive, almost normal gait. She had decided to dispense with the walking stick altogether today. It wasn’t about vanity, she told herself, but independence.

After greeting her, Craig said, ‘You’re definitely up for this?’

Julia nodded, then saw the weariness in his face. ‘Rough night?’

‘Not great.’

‘Was it a long drive over?’ she asked, realising she had no idea where he lived.

Sheepishly, Craig said, ‘I was in a B&B down the road. I booked it on the off-chance that you’d agree to this.’

Presumptuous. But after what she’d worked out over breakfast, Julia didn’t feel capable of criticising him.

Once underway, they settled into a pattern of alternating silence with small talk, starting neutral and easing towards the personal. Craig made light of his journalism, claiming to write a lot of frothy nonsense.

‘Surely you get to attend some big sporting events?’ Julia asked.

‘Sometimes. More often I’m stuck on a broken-down train at the arse-end of the country, on my way to watch a bunch of overpaid idiots hoofing a ball around a field in the pissing rain.’

‘In that case, I hope it pays well.’

‘Patchy, when you’re freelance. Luckily my wife’s an accountant. Partner in a large firm in Crawley.’

‘Quite high-powered, then?’

‘Oh yes, she’s climbing the corporate ladder, all right. Almost one of the boys.’

It was an odd comment, delivered with unmistakable bitterness, and he seemed to recognise that.

‘Tell me about your teaching. I saw that thing on the local news.’

Julia smiled. While she was in hospital, a TV crew had visited her school and filmed touching get-well messages from her pupils. The recording had brought her to tears.

‘They’re a lovely bunch. I can’t wait to get back to work, hopefully after Easter.’

‘Must get stressful, though, controlling a whole class of kids?’

‘Sometimes. But children have so much energy, it seems to transfer itself. It’s invigorating.’

‘I wouldn’t have the patience. I find it hard enough with my two.’

‘You’ve got children?’ Julia registered the surprise in her voice and scolded herself. Why shouldn’t he have children?

‘Tom and Maddie. They’re a handful sometimes, but great with it.’ A pause, during which his gaze grew inexpressibly sad. ‘What about you? Do you have a partner?’

She made a dismissive gesture. ‘I was with a guy, Peter, for nearly six years. He was head of English at a secondary school in Brighton. He’d always been very skilful at avoiding talk of marriage and babies, so last year I got sick of it and I put him on the spot.’ She laughed. ‘Basically he did a runner on me. Said he wasn’t interested in settling down. A few weeks later he buggered off to America on a teaching exchange program.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Yep. My next one was a classic rebound relationship. I met a guy called Steve at my local gym, who turned out to be an even bigger prick. Keeping him happy remained his priority, even when…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Even when I lost my parents.’

Craig winced. ‘I heard about that. I’m very sorry.’

Encouraged by the sympathy in his voice, she told him about finding their bodies, and realising what had happened to them. Talking about it wasn’t as difficult as she had feared.

‘We still have the inquest to come. And there’s the house to clear.’

‘If you need a hand with that, let me know. I’m in Chilton a lot of the time.’

‘Are you?’

‘Staying at my dad’s place. The media attention wasn’t fair on the kids. It also means I can keep an eye on the house.’

‘How do you manage with the children?’

‘Nina works from home some days. Her parents help out. And three times a week I collect them from school, then stay with them till Nina gets in.’

Craig sounded casual enough, but Julia had a feeling he was holding something back. He suddenly became restless, tapping out little tunes on the steering wheel. Then he said, ‘I have a small confession to make.’

Her whole body tensed. ‘Go on.’

‘We’re not actually seeing George until this afternoon. There’s someone else I want to visit.’

‘Who?’

‘Carl’s mother. Peggy Forester.’

The killer had received another message last night. Once again there was an implicit threat to betray him.

Craig Walker is asking questions. He’ll be at Chilton Manor tomorrow. Go over everything you did and make sure you’re watertight. Can anyone link you to our half-witted friend?

Remember: one slip-up and you’re finished.

The situation was becoming intolerable. It only reinforced his view that he had to take control. Find some way to turn the tables on Decipio. And yet, he couldn’t ignore the warning. Was he watertight?

The instant he posed the question, one name popped into his head.

Peggy Forester.

37

‘Stop the car.’

‘What?’

‘I mean it. Stop the car.’

Craig muttered an objection, but he checked his mirrors and pulled in at the kerb. They were on the outskirts of Hastings, heading towards Bexhill. Julia opened her door a couple of inches before she felt Craig’s hand on her arm.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ll get a bus back to Camber.’ She glared at him until he retracted his hand.

‘Jesus, you’re overreacting, aren’t you?’

‘Am I? What else haven’t you told me, Mr Big Shot Investigative Reporter?’

He looked flabbergasted. ‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Kate, at the hotel. She used to be a police officer.’

‘That makes sense. Okay, so I used to do some serious journalism, and now I don’t. It’s no big secret.’

‘Kate thinks you might have ulterior motives. Perhaps you’re just out to discredit the police?’

Craig looked disgusted. ‘That bastard killed my dad, remember? All I want is the truth. If the trail leads to bent coppers – or anyone else – then so be it. Now if you don’t want to come along, that’s fine. But I happen to think you’re owed the truth as well.’

He reached down and pressed the button that released her seatbelt, then folded his arms and waited. Julia pushed the door open a little further, but made no move to get out.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Peggy?’

‘I didn’t want to load it all on you at once.’

‘Because you knew I’d say no?’

‘Probably. It was stupid of me. Stay in the car, and I’ll see her on my own.’

Julia considered, then pulled the door shut. She felt cheated, but she was also conscious of a terrible fascination with the idea of meeting Peggy Forester.

‘All right. But from now on I need you to be straight with me.’

Falcombe was two miles east of Chilton. The oldest part of the village wasn’t much bigger than its neighbour, but whereas Chilton had remained unspoilt, Falcombe had long since succumbed to the lure of expansion. Estates spread out like tree rings, from a cluster of post-war prefabs near the centre to insipid twenty-first-century boxes around the perimeter. The sight of the tightly packed homes gave Julia renewed appreciation for Philip Walker’s crusade.

Peggy Forester lived in a 1950s council estate of wide streets with grass verges and generous front gardens. In a row of virtually identical homes, Peggy Forester’s wasn’t hard to miss. Sheets of hardboard had been nailed to every window, and there was graffiti all over the wood and the front wall, none of it complimentary about the occupant. The garden was devoid of grass or shrubs, a dark bumpy landscape that Julia assumed was freshly turned soil.

She was wrong. The stench assaulted them the instant they got out of the car.

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Craig clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘What the hell is that?’

Julia could only shake her head, her mouth clamped shut on rising bile.

The entire front garden was filled with dog shit. Dozens of turds, accumulated over what must have been weeks. Some of it fresh and glistening, some dry and crumbling, some a mouldering paste. Scraps of plastic lay trapped in the muck, indicating that many people were bagging up their animals’ waste and throwing it in the garden. There were also half a dozen little white bundles that Julia identified as soiled disposable nappies, planted in the excrement like obscene bulbs.

‘Come on,’ Craig said. ‘We’ll try round the back.’

‘You don’t seriously think she’s living there?’

‘We’ll soon find out.’ Ruefully he shook his head. ‘The tabloids delight in stirring up a frenzy, before skipping away to the next story. This is what they leave in their wake.’

Back in the car, he took a couple of left turns that brought them roughly parallel to Forester’s road. They parked outside another row of council houses and found a narrow path, overgrown with brambles and nettles, that ran past Forester’s back garden. The property was bordered by a thick hedge that had gone untended for years. Buried deep within it was a rusty iron gate.

Craig reached out and tested it, then brushed the metal flakes from his hand. ‘We can probably force it open – unless you’d rather go back to the car?’

‘Not now I’ve come this far. But you’re going first.’

‘Fair enough.’ He began wrenching the gate back and forth, breaking off the foliage that blocked its path. Once he’d created a big enough gap, he knelt down and wriggled through, just as a thought occurred to her.

‘What if she’s got a dog?’

‘No sign of one,’ Craig called back. ‘You’ll be all right.’

Trying not to imagine how Kate – or her consultant – would react to this, Julia turned sideways and eased between the gate and the hedge in awkward crab-like steps, wincing as a stray branch clawed at her hair.

The rear garden was a jungle of weeds and long grass. A crumbling concrete path led to the back door, which was half glazed and intact. There were no boards over the rear windows, and as Julia looked up she glimpsed movement in the kitchen.

They heard a lock turning, and the door opened. Carl Forester’s mother was small and wiry, dressed in jogging pants and a faded grey sweatshirt. She had greying brown hair in wild curls and a mean face with a raw, mottled complexion.

‘Get off my place! This is mine!’ she yelled. Her voice was slurred and indistinct.

‘Mrs Forester?’ As Craig took a couple of steps forward, the woman brought a large bread knife into view, jabbing it forward.

‘Go away!’

Craig motioned to Julia to stay where she was, then dug in his pockets and produced a roll of banknotes.

‘Mrs Forester, it’s all right. I’ve brought the money you’re owed.’

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Money?’

‘From the newspaper. You remember they did an article about you.’

They could see her trawling her memory. She looked confused, but slightly less suspicious. ‘It’s all lies.’

‘I know. The man who wrote it was fired.’

‘Fucking should have been.’

‘They still you owe you a fee.’ Craig showed her the money. ‘Two hundred pounds.’

Peggy Forester blinked a few times, her brain working so furiously they could almost hear the cogs turning. Then she put the knife on the draining board and thrust out her hand. ‘Give it here.’

‘We have to come in, I’m afraid.’ Craig started to approach. ‘You need to sign a receipt.’

The woman eyed him, as if she didn’t understand. ‘Give it.’

‘I will do, Mrs Forester. But only once you’ve signed for it.’

Craig calmly held her gaze, offering no possibility of a compromise. Julia edged closer and saw that the woman’s eyes were milky and restless, her hands shaking as if under someone else’s control.

After checking his watch, Craig gave the tiniest of shrugs and turned to Julia, as if preparing to depart. A flash of panic showed in Peggy’s eyes.

‘Come on, then,’ she snapped.

The killer was either very lucky or very unlucky: he couldn’t decide which. A few minutes either way could have made all the difference.

The VW Golf had passed him while he was still planning his approach. He watched them pull up outside her house. Saw the man get out and realised it must be Craig Walker. It took him slightly longer to identify the woman, and at first he couldn’t believe it was really her.

He didn’t want to believe it.

He sat very still, controlling his reaction. When they got back in their car he dared to think he’d had a lucky escape, but he didn’t entirely believe it. They wouldn’t give up this easily.

He decided to explore on foot, and soon found the overgrown path that ran along the back. He got close enough to hear them thrashing through the hedge, then returned to his car. If he had acted perhaps ten, fifteen minutes earlier, there would be no one for them to talk to; on the other hand, he might have left the house and blundered straight into them. That would have been a catastrophe.

He drove round the corner and parked at a safe distance from the Golf. It was important to observe them when they came out: something in their body language might hint at what they’d learned.

Peggy Forester stood back to let them enter, then shut and locked the back door. The kitchen was small and filthy and stank of nicotine and grease. There was a tiny round table and two chairs. A half-empty bottle of supermarket-brand vodka sat on the table. An old saucer doubled as an ashtray, overflowing with butts.

Julia felt claustrophobic and frightened. The room wasn’t big enough for three adults, especially when one of them had a knife within reach. But Craig admired it with the relaxed enthusiasm of an estate agent at a viewing. ‘Nice kitchen,’ he said, without a trace of irony.

‘It’s my place,’ Peggy grunted, then turned her head and muttered something unintelligible.

Craig gave Julia a cryptic smile and indicated the chairs, but Julia shook her head. She felt safer standing.

‘Why don’t you sit down, Peggy,’ he said, taking the other seat for himself. ‘Terrible mess out front,’ he added conversationally.

‘Never go out there,’ she said. ‘Not safe.’

‘You mean you’re not safe?’ Craig asked.

‘Not safe anywhere. Only here. I don’t go nowhere.’

Julia couldn’t help shrinking back as Peggy crossed the room. She poured some vodka into the mug and slurped it down.

Craig produced a sheet of paper and smoothed it out on the table. It was filled with text and had two dotted lines at the bottom for a signatory and a witness.

‘I don’t suppose you get many visitors?’ he said.

‘Eh?’

‘People coming to see you. Carl’s friends, for instance. Do they visit you?’

Peggy’s eyes narrowed hatefully. Her hands twisted together, working out her agitation. ‘Don’t see no one,’ she said. ‘Got my money?’

‘Yes. Two hundred pounds.’

She nodded hungrily.

Craig said, ‘What if I gave you three hundred?’

More nodding. ‘Three hundred.’

‘I need you to tell me something. Something about Carl.’

‘Don’t know nothing. Told the police. That fucking bitch.’

‘It’s all right, Peggy. We’re not the police.’

‘Fucking police. Hate ’em.’

‘I’m sure you do. I want to know about Carl’s friend. The one who helped him on 19 January. Do you understand what I mean?’

Her eyes roved the room, anxious not to make contact with him. ‘Didn’t know him.’

‘You didn’t know the other man?’

‘What other man?’

Craig glanced at Julia. The exchange had the rhythm of a comedy routine, but nobody was laughing. ‘Tell me about Carl,’ he said.

‘Little bastard stole from me. Always thieving. Tried to make him learn. You’re allowed to hit ’em if they’re yours. To make ’em learn.’ She grabbed the mug and drank greedily. A dribble of alcohol ran down her chin; she caught it with her hand, then licked her palm like a child with an ice cream.

Suppressing a shudder, Craig turned to Julia: What now?

On impulse she said, ‘Mrs Forester, did Carl have a motorbike?’

Peggy jumped, as if she was only just registering Julia’s presence. ‘It wasn’t his. I said he must’ve stole it.’

Julia stared at Craig, her heart now thumping so loudly she imagined he could hear it. ‘He stole a motorbike?’

‘He said it was a lend. Giving it a ride.’

‘Who lent it to him?’

‘Said it was secret. Thieving little bastard.’

‘Why was it a secret?’ Craig asked.

‘Wasn’t allowed to tell. Said he’d kill me.’ Peggy took another mouthful of neat vodka, swallowing it as though it were water.

‘Carl threatened to kill you?’

‘Not Carl,’ she spat, prompting Craig to recoil from the fine spray of vodka.

But Julia understood. ‘You mean the other man? Carl’s friend would kill you. Is that what Carl told you?’

Peggy nodded. ‘Said he’d come here. In the night. Said he’d kill me.’

‘And did you tell this to the police?’ Craig asked.

Peggy addressed Julia as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Fucking bitch copper, saying I made my boy wrong. I stuck my knife in her.’

‘What about the other man?’ Julia asked. ‘Why did he tell Carl he’d kill you?’

‘’Cause he could. He could do anything, Carl reckoned.’ Peggy raised the mug, then stopped and looked directly at Julia. ‘Carl said he was the Devil.’

38

In all the long months of planning and preparation, he’d only been unlucky twice.

The first incident, he’d dealt with it promptly and effectively. It was old news now. He barely gave it a thought.

The second one, he’d needed to visit Forester at home. Some important last-minute instructions. He made sure the mother was out, but still he’d worn a suit and carried a briefcase. He had a cover story ready, in case Peggy walked in on them. Carl, dumbfuck that he was, couldn’t see why one was necessary.

‘So I don’t have to kill her, remember?’

Just as he was finishing up she blundered in, pissed and incoherent and bleeding from the nose. She’d got into a fight with two men over a game of darts and been thrown out of the pub.

He introduced himself as an insurance salesman. Could he interest her in a life policy at a modest monthly premium? Peggy went ballistic, accusing him of trying to take advantage of her dimwitted son. At this, Carl had scowled angrily, but said nothing.

After screaming at him for letting a stranger into the house, Peggy slapped her son’s face hard enough to leave a handprint on his cheek. Carl just stood there and took it. The next time they met, Carl was sporting a black eye and a split lip. But he swore he’d kept to the story. And Peggy had swallowed it.

Even so, there was a slim chance she would remember him. If she did, she might be able to identify him. And that made her a threat.

He’d been waiting about fifteen minutes when Walker and Trent emerged from the footpath and crossed the road towards their car. It was difficult to read their mood at this distance, but he thought the woman looked a bit shaky, almost unsteady on her feet. In contrast, Walker seemed fired up, as though it had been a successful visit.

So what had Peggy given them?

He sat very still until they had driven away. Then he made sure he had what he needed, and opened his door.

Time to find out.

Nothing was said until they got back to the car, and Craig confessed, ‘I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what it would be like to meet the mother of the man who killed my father. I expected to hate her, but actually I just felt sorry for her.’

‘What was all that about a newspaper owing her money?’

‘I made it up. I knew she’d be reluctant to talk.’

‘You know she’ll just spend it on booze?’

‘Looking at how she lives, I can’t say I blame her.’ He started the car and pulled away. ‘We’ll get some lunch, shall we?’

Julia didn’t argue, although the encounter with Peggy Forester had sapped her strength. She longed to stand in the shower and scrub away every trace of the visit.

They decided on a pub in Plumpton – an old favourite of her parents, Julia recalled with a twist of sadness. As she got out of the Golf, a sudden cramping caused her to double over. She was spitting bile when Craig hurried round and tentatively placed a hand on her back.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine.’ She straightened up, her vision distorted by tears. ‘Just need to rest for a while.’

‘I can drive you home…?’

Julia shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t see how tempted she was.

‘Let’s see how I feel once we’ve eaten.’

He went in the same way as Walker and the woman, donning a pair of latex gloves as he scurried towards the house. Pressed tight against the wall, he ducked beneath her kitchen window, then reached out and scratched at the back door. It was the kind of noise a cat would make; even if she didn’t have a cat, Peggy was bound to be curious.

Sure enough, he heard her unlocking the door. As soon as it opened he sprang up and launched himself into the house, shoving Peggy in the chest. She stumbled backwards, a half-smoked cigarette falling from her mouth. She struck the table and fell to the floor. A bottle of vodka toppled over and began slopping out its contents. Perfect.

Peggy was still too shocked to scream, but he didn’t have long. He shut the door and kicked her in the stomach, just hard enough to knock the wind from her. Peggy groaned. Her head was flopping loosely on her neck, her eyes wild and disorientated. She was blind drunk, and couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

Even better.

He knelt on her chest, pinned her arms to the floor and watched carefully as her eyes swam into focus. There was no sign that she recognised him. Maybe he was in the clear.

‘Those visitors,’ he said. ‘What did they want?’

She blinked several times. ‘Money,’ she said, perhaps thinking he was here to steal from her. ‘You can have it.’

He shook his head. Pressed down harder. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re lying. They asked you about Carl. Tell me.’

‘They wanted to know about the bike. I said it wasn’t his.’

‘A bike?’ For a second he was genuinely confused. ‘What sort of bike?’

‘Someone gave him a lend. Noisy fucking thing.’

The Kawasaki. On one occasion he’d brought it down for a trial run over the fields. He’d let Carl take it for a spin, and the stupid bastard had disappeared for nearly an hour. He claimed he’d just ridden around the country lanes, but he must have gone home and showed it to his mother. And now Walker and Julia Trent knew about it.

One slip-up and you’re finished.

‘No,’ he said aloud. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Craig ordered fish and chips and a pint of Harvey’s bitter; Julia had soup and sparkling water. Combined with last night’s dream, Peggy Forester’s reference to the Devil was resonating powerfully in her mind. When she lifted the visor, was it the shock of recognition that had caused her to recoil, or something far worse?

She jumped as Craig touched her arm. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Just a silly idea.’

‘What?’

She shook her head. ‘You know, even if Peggy told the police what she just told us, I think they’d still dismiss it. They’d assume it was Carl who threatened to kill her.’

‘Maybe. But we’re not the police. We know there was someone else involved, and Peggy Forester has just confirmed it.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. Even if what she said is true, we’re no closer to identifying who this man is.’

Craig conceded the point, before taking a long drink of beer. ‘Still, it gives us some leverage with Matheson, don’t you think?’

Peggy Forester just stared at him. Sobering quickly, but still too befuddled to know what was going on.

He grabbed her arms and hauled her on to her knees, then slammed her head against the edge of the table. Her eyes rolled up in her head and blood gushed from the wound. When he let go she dropped like a dead weight, collapsing into the puddle of vodka around the table.

He plucked up her cigarette and saw it was still alight. After a careful examination of the room, he removed the key from the back door and then returned his attention to Peggy. She was unconscious, not dead. That was better, really, for his purposes.

The floor must have been uneven, for the vodka had spread in an arc, a little finger jutting out towards the hallway. Careful not to tread in it, he picked up the bottle and sloshed the rest of the alcohol over Peggy’s shoulders and hair.

Then he stepped back as far as he could and tossed the cigarette on to her body. It landed in the crook of her neck, disappearing into the folds of her sweatshirt. He’d assumed it would ignite the alcohol with an almost clear flame, like on a Christmas pudding. But nothing happened.

He’d have to rethink. Perhaps light a match.

Then a tendril of grey smoke emerged from the sweatshirt, followed by a second, slow and sinuous. Fascinated, he moved closer. Little yellow flames were blinking in and out of existence within her clothing. The sweatshirt was melting, turning black. And still Peggy lay immobile.

He realised he would have to stay and watch. Not just to make sure the fire took hold, but because it was such a compelling sight.

It took a couple of minutes for the fire to get going, by which time it had burned through to her skin. Then the vodka on the floor ignited, scorching the cheap linoleum and producing foul-smelling smoke. Excellent.

He left the kitchen window open a fraction, partly to draw in oxygen for the fire. He took the key, stepped into the back garden and locked the door behind him. Then he slipped the key through the window and dropped it on to the ledge.

He retraced his route through the hedge and along the footpath. By the time he reached his car, there was a plume of smoke rising over the rooftops.

A beautiful sight.

39

The meal left Julia feeling physically refreshed and in far better spirits. The jitters didn’t set in until they were a mile or so out from Chilton, when it suddenly struck her that they were about to confront the man who might have masterminded the slaughter on 19 January.

Unwilling to admit to her apprehension, she asked Craig what he knew about George Matheson.

‘He’s the classic self-made man. Grew up in an ordinary middle-class family. Not academically brilliant, but very bright, very tough. In interviews he’s always boasting about his instinct. When he buys a company, he doesn’t care about all the due diligence and formal paperwork. He visits the premises, talks to the staff on the shop floor. If he gets a good feel about the place, he’ll buy it regardless of what the balance sheet says.’

‘And it’s always worked?’

‘Not so much lately. There are rumours that he’s overreached. He’s been liquidating quite a few assets in recent years, to prop up the core business, but there are signs that it hasn’t worked – hence the planning application, and the possibility of an easy profit.’

Julia mulled it over. She knew they were both thinking the same thing. Was Matheson desperate enough to countenance mass murder for that money?

‘What about his wife?’

‘They’ve been married thirty years or more. Vanessa is from one of those old families with oodles of class but no money. He was the bit of rough who went out and made a fortune. She gave him the respectability and the contacts he needed on his way up.’

‘Sounds like a good match. Do they have children?’

‘No. They tried for years, according to one article I read. But there was some kind of problem.’

‘That’s sad.’

He gave her a sharp look. ‘You feel sorry for him?’

‘In that respect, yes.’ She matched his disdain. ‘We don’t know he’s done anything wrong. Let’s not prejudge, eh?’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ He sounded grumpy, and once again Julia wondered if it had been a mistake to come here with him.

Tall metal gates barred their entrance to the property. Craig pulled up alongside an intercom and pressed the button. After a few seconds a gruff male voice said, ‘Yes?’

‘Craig Walker, to see George Matheson.’

The speaker clicked off and the gates began to move apart.

‘Was that a servant, or the man himself?’ Julia asked as they drove along a winding gravel drive.

‘I’m not sure if he has any servants,’ Craig said. ‘Apparently they live quite frugally.’

‘Really?’ Frugal wasn’t a word she’d associate with the stunning white mansion gliding into view behind a screen of immaculately trimmed poplars.

Craig heard her intake of breath and said, ‘Parts of it date back to the fifteenth century. Something like eighteen rooms, plus a pool, tennis court and a couple of acres of formal gardens.’

They parked next to a brand-new Jaguar saloon. As they got out, George Matheson emerged on to the grand portico. He was tall but a little stooped, with thick grey hair and unruly eyebrows above strong features and a ruddy complexion.

At first Julia was concentrating so hard on walking without any sign of impairment that she failed to register the confusion on Matheson’s face. It was only when she reached the steps and glanced up that she saw him staring at her as though she were a ghost.

He looks terrified, she thought. But the insight did little to ease her own anxiety.

‘This is Julia Trent,’ said Craig as he walked up the steps.

‘I, ah… yes.’ Matheson shook hands with Craig, then abruptly turned before Julia had time to offer her hand.

Leading them inside, he indicated where they could hang their coats and then strode across a vast entrance hall. The walls boasted a tasteful selection of oil paintings, mostly landscapes, some precious-looking urns and an imposing grandfather clock in the corner. Julia had a moment to admire the wide double staircase and galleried landing, before they entered an equally vast living room.

Sensing movement in her peripheral vision, she turned to see a man in a black suit step away from one of the sash windows. Not as tall as Matheson, he had a slender but powerful physique and close-cropped fair hair. He was good-looking in a slightly coarse way, with a large nose and well-defined cheekbones. His eyes narrowed, emanating hostility.

‘This is James Vilner,’ said Matheson. ‘He’s, uh, an associate of mine.’

Vilner nodded curtly, but he didn’t offer a word of greeting or shift position from the window. His apparent indifference was somehow more intimidating than if he’d been peering over their shoulders.

Matheson indicated a haphazard selection of sofas and chairs, and asked if they wanted a drink.

‘Just had lunch, thanks,’ said Craig.

Julia also declined, and caught Matheson’s relief. He kept snatching furtive glances at her body – not mentally undressing her, as she first suspected, but trying to picture her wounds.

Realising that he had been caught at it, he said, ‘You seem to have made a remarkable recovery.’

‘I think so, too,’ Julia said, with an icy smile.

He turned to Craig. ‘And may I offer my condolences? As far as I’m concerned, your father’s campaign was never personal. I bore him no ill will, and I’m sure he felt the same.’

Craig nodded slowly. ‘I guess I owe you an apology. What I said about the development wasn’t intended to be made public.’

At first Matheson looked gratified, then grimly amused. ‘But you stand by your comments?’

‘I’m here to see if you can change my mind.’

‘And how would I do that?’

‘By giving us a cast-iron commitment that there’ll be no second application. A guarantee that the land around Chilton won’t be developed under any circumstances.’

‘You’re asking the impossible.’ Matheson’s gaze flickered towards Vilner. ‘Nobody can predict the future. It’s quite feasible that, in time, opinions will change.’

‘So you are intending to make a fresh application?’

‘I don’t necessarily intend anything of the sort,’ Matheson said. Julia thought she detected a degree of emphasis on the I, but Craig didn’t seem to pick up on it.

‘You know the police have completed the preliminary report?’ he said.

Matheson shook his head, but his eyes slid away. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘It’s a whitewash,’ Craig declared. ‘Julia wasn’t shot by Carl Forester. There was another man present. Wearing motorcycle leathers and a full-face helmet. He killed Carl and made it look like suicide. He got away before the police arrived.’

‘Is-is this correct?’ Matheson asked Julia. He sounded stunned.

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

There was another darting look at Vilner, and it struck Julia that perhaps Matheson found the man’s presence just as unnerving as they did. Then she gave a start as Vilner turned and marched towards them. He spoke for the first time: ‘What did the police say about that?’

‘They didn’t… they thought⁠—’

‘That you’d imagined it?’ Matheson suggested, in a smug voice.

‘We’ve just spoken to Peggy Forester,’ Craig announced, perhaps deliberately drawing their attention away from Julia. ‘Carl had befriended someone, but wouldn’t tell his mother who. This friend had warned Carl that he’d kill Peggy if she ever found out about him.’

‘And Peggy confirmed that the friend had a motorbike,’ Julia added.

Matheson waited a second, then forced a laugh. ‘And you regard that as proof of your theory? The woman’s a hopeless alcoholic, is she not?’

‘She was lucid enough this morning,’ Craig said.

Vilner’s eyes were still narrowed, unreadable. ‘So what are you after, really?’ he demanded.

Matheson raised a hand to quieten him. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t think this meeting will achieve anything.’

Emboldened by the knowledge that Vilner could be held in check, Julia asked, ‘What happened at the farm?’

Matheson looked taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘The report mentions an incident, a couple of years ago. Carl assaulted the farmer’s wife.’

‘Laura Caplan, yes.’ Matheson cleared his throat. ‘Carl let himself into the house. He had a selection of her underwear spread out on the kitchen table. When Laura walked in she found him masturbating over them. Her daughter also witnessed it. They were very distressed.’

‘He was sacked as a result?’

‘Of course. The police have said they believe it was a factor in… in what he did.’ Matheson shifted uncomfortably. ‘Believe me, I’ve examined my conscience on many an occasion since then, and I’m certain I was right to fire him.’

‘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 that losing his job was punishment enough.’

‘And I dare say you wanted to avoid the bad publicity?’ Craig said.

‘In fact, it was Laura Caplan who made the final decision. For Megan’s sake.’ Matheson 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, there might be serious brain damage, or there might not. At this stage we simply don’t know.’

Evidently he felt this was a suitable place to conclude. Rising to his feet, he said, ‘I do understand the bitterness you both feel, but 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.’

Julia 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.

Walking to the door, she sensed Vilner’s predatory gaze and felt her legs go weak. It was a relief to make it to the hall without collapsing.

Matheson accompanied them to the front door. ‘It would be hypocritical of me to wish you luck,’ he said as he showed them out. ‘I can only say, I hope you know what you’re doing.’

40

Julia felt little relief as the 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. At a questioning look from Craig, she murmured, ‘Upstairs window.’

He turned back and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell.’

A ghostly figure stood at the window. 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; when she saw them looking she didn’t smile, or flinch, or turn away. No reaction at all, as though they simply didn’t matter.

Once in the car, Craig said, ‘I think that’s his wife. I saw her on 19 January.’

‘At first I thought it was…’ Julia shivered. ‘A ghost, or something.’

Craig started the engine, then paused. ‘“I hope you know what you’re doing”,’ he quoted. ‘Did that sound like a threat to you?’

‘Maybe. Right now I just want to get out of here.’

With the meeting over, Vilner 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 off, too,’ Vilner said.

George sprang up, fighting a losing battle to conceal how stunned he was. ‘You’ll be briefing Kendrick?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Look, I could make it worth your while to give him a somewhat… edited version.’

Vilner slowly shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. I only back winners.’

George winced, but said, ‘It’s a good offer. You shouldn’t dismiss it⁠—’

‘Don’t waste your time, George,’ a voice rang out.

Vilner turned to see Vanessa Matheson at the top of the stairs. He’d only ever seen photos of her – and now realised they were years out of date. This was a spectre, so thin and light she was virtually floating above them. Her small black eyes burned with contempt.

Vilner nodded to her, and pulled the front door open. ‘Listen to your old lady,’ he told George. ‘You’ve got more than enough problems at the moment.’

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 had a vague feeling she’d seen it somewhere else today.

In Chilton itself 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 probing the village 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. Do you want me to come with you?’

Julia was searching her bag 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.

‘I’ll be fine.’

She got out of the car and tried not to baulk at the sight of the 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, recalling the night in December when she had found them dead. As she turned the key, it came to her: Peggy Forester’s road.

That was where she’d seen the Land Rover – or one very like it.

She went inside, turned on the light and then 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 find Mum busy rolling pastry while her father fetched vegetables from the garden and together they could celebrate that nothing bad had happened because someone had found a way to roll back time…

Impossible.

She sniffed. The air felt stale and clammy. In the living room the wallpaper was beginning to curl away from the corners; if they didn’t do something with the house soon it would be uninhabitable.

Climbing the stairs was chiefly a physical challenge, requiring her to rest a moment at the top. But the next challenge was more emotional than physical: venturing into her parents’ bedroom for the first time since their deaths.

Julia could barely bring herself to look at the bed, but a large leather-bound diary on her father’s bedside table caught her attention. For over forty years he had faithfully recorded the minutiae of his daily life; there were whole boxes of them in the spare room, along with stacks of paperwork that would need to be sorted out.

Picking up the diary, she used her elbow to wipe dust from the cover, and was suddenly gifted with a clear recollection of herself as a child, going to kiss him goodnight as he sat at his desk. Frowning to make sense of his elegant squiggles, she had asked what he was doing.

‘Capturing all the precious moments, so they’re never forgotten,’ he had told her. Julia had considered this, and asked, ‘How do you know what’s precious?’

Now she recalled his solemn, thoughtful 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. Craig tried to ignore it, but held out for less than a minute.

One swig: not even a full mouthful. That couldn’t hurt.

A moment to savour the burn in his throat, then he 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 was debating whether to have another sip when she emerged from the house. She was holding a diary. Only when she climbed into the car did he see the tears running down her face.

‘You okay?’ Instinctively he reached out to her, but she twisted away.

‘I’m fine. Why?’

‘You’re crying.’

She rubbed her cheeks, looking slightly incredulous, as though she hadn’t been aware of it. Feeling embarrassed for her, Craig started the car and pulled away.

It had been a long, stressful day for them both, but at least it was nearly over.

After Vilner left, George wearily climbed the stairs. He was only fifty-six, but most of the time lately he felt about a hundred. Perhaps Toby was right: he should take himself off to Antigua for a few months, and to hell with the business.

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, trembling with the effort of remaining upright. Still she had this compulsion to push herself to the limit: George wasn’t sure whether to feel admiration or pity, though he knew that either would be met with scorn.

‘How are you?’ he asked, gently.

‘Dying,’ she snapped. ‘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 with her care. The doctors had started to talk of a hospice, but Vanessa was adamant that she wanted to die at home.

He helped her into bed, trying not to feel aggrieved by her intervention with Vilner. 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, even to her.

‘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. Reaching beneath the covers, he found her hand and wrapped it in his own. 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 grimaced. ‘Not something I wish to contemplate.’

‘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.

George considered a moment, then 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 needed to be left alone.

Leave her and go! a voice in his head urged him. Run away now, before it all gets a lot worse.

But he knew that he wouldn’t.

41

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,’ Julia said. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

‘Matheson won’t give up. A few years from now there’ll be housing estates all round Chilton.’

‘Don’t be a pessimist.’ But she thought again of George’s comment: I don’t necessarily intend anything of the sort.

‘What did you make of him?’ Craig asked.

‘I’m not sure. But I think he already knew about the police report.’

‘Yeah, me too. I wonder how he got hold of it.’

‘Same way you did, I suppose. A connection in the police.’ After a second or two, Julia 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 difficult to feign, if he was the one who killed them.’

Craig scowled. ‘I’m not suggesting George did it himself. He’ll have hired someone.’

‘You mean a hitman? A professional?’

‘I guess so, yeah.’

‘Then why involve Carl? Why not just get the hitman 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 gets 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.’

She was weighing this up when Craig added, ‘That other guy, Vilner. If you pictured him in motorcycle gear…’

Julia gripped the diary, worrying at a loose flap of leather in the corner. ‘Yes. It could have been him.’

When they reached the town of Battle, the congestion was so bad that Craig suggested they stop for refreshments. 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. Abby picked up with an uncertain ‘Hello?’

‘You haven’t been answering my calls.’

‘Craig, I’m 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; in the background Craig could hear soft music, and possibly a woman’s voice.

Then she said, ‘Okay. What is it?’

‘Will you find out everything you can about a man named 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 Yorkshire accent, but I suspect he’s based in London or the South East.’

‘And what’s your interest in him?’

‘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.’

‘Oof,’ Abby exhaled. ‘I suppose I deserve that.’

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 ate a sandwich and some chocolate. He felt tired but elated. It had been a long and productive day, and it was far from over yet.

While he waited, he listened to the radio. Top story on the local news was a serious fire at the home of ‘Chilton spree killer Carl Forester’. Unconfirmed reports of a body found in the gutted building, though no word yet as to its identity.

When the bulletin ended, the DJ and his sidekick took it upon themselves to speculate further. A tragic accident, they surmised. Or suicide. Peggy Forester was a lonely woman, an alcoholic, despised by the whole community. Who could blame her if she had taken her own life?

Julia rejoined Craig, and learned that he’d asked his journalist friend to make some checks on James Vilner. She agreed it was a good idea, but lacked the energy to say much more than that.

On the walk back to the car he called his wife. Julia drifted to the other side of the pavement to give him some privacy, but she could tell the conversation was stilted, even a little cold. There was a sudden transformation when the phone was passed to his children – Julia found it heartbreaking to hear Craig inject so much vitality and affection into his voice, as if this could compensate for his absence.

Then Nina was back on, and the tension returned. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I haven’t forgotten tomorrow. I’ll be there.’

After ending the call, he told her, ‘Nina’s going away on business early tomorrow, so I’m staying over tonight and doing the school run.’

‘I bet your kids can’t wait till you’re back for good?’

Craig muttered something she couldn’t decipher, then shook his head and turned away. It took a couple of seconds for the truth to dawn on her.

She laid a tentative hand on his shoulder, and said, ‘I’m so slow on the uptake.’

‘My fault,’ Craig said. ‘We’ve separated. That’s the real reason I’m at my dad’s.’

‘With everything you’ve been through, it must have put a lot of strain on the marriage.’

He gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘That, and the fact she was screwing someone else.’

‘What? Oh, shit. I’m really sorry.’

‘It happens, doesn’t it? Probably my fault as much as hers.’

They reached the Golf. Craig unlocked, but made no move to get in.

‘So what does Nina think about all this?’ Julia asked.

‘My quest to find the truth? She thinks I’m on a fool’s errand – and I’m starting to wonder if she’s right.’

‘Are you suggesting we should give up?’

‘I don’t know. You should, perhaps.’ He shrugged, then examined her face as if seeing it for the first time. ‘You look even worse than I feel.’

Julia grinned. ‘You say the nicest things.’

There was a moment’s silence, both of them now a little self-conscious. Then Julia shook her head. ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’

The traffic thinned out as they travelled east, into more remote countryside. Julia found her eyes growing heavy. Several times she jerked awake as her head bumped against the window.

It was almost seven o’clock when the Golf turned into the hotel car park. The farewell was hurried and slightly awkward. No definite statement of intent or arrangements for the future; merely an agreement to speak again soon.

Is that it? Julia found herself asking as she got out of the car. She was aware of an odd sense of loss, a feeling that something worthwhile was at risk of being abandoned too soon, without a struggle. And although she had far more doubts about a conspiracy involving George Matheson than Craig, it still saddened her to think that their quest for the truth might be over almost before it had begun.

42

Craig was disappointed with how the day had ended. He was both frustrated and perplexed by Julia’s failure to embrace his theories about the massacre. Considering he was just about the only person who believed her account – and not to mention that he had very good reason to resent her – he thought she might have been a little more appreciative of his support.

Before driving away, he reached for the whisky bottle in the footwell. With the coffee and a sandwich in his system, another mouthful wouldn’t do any harm. He made sure no one was watching, then took one quick gulp, and another for luck.

He turned left out of the car park. By now the roads were almost deserted, whereas back home in Crawley it would still be gridlock. He lapsed into a daydream where he convinced Nina to move out this way, only to remember that they’d separated. If things stayed as they were, he could live anywhere he wanted.

Alone.

The sudden flare of headlights in his rear-view mirror came as a shock. A car loomed close, then swerved across the centre line and raced past. It was high and square, maybe a 4x4. It had to be doing seventy or eighty miles an hour.

‘Boy racer,’ he muttered, watching as the driver feathered the brakes on a tight left-hand bend and disappeared from sight. Craig checked his own speed and saw he was doing only forty: well below the limit.

He accelerated slightly, but was careful to stay within the bounds of his visibility. The road ahead was a pale narrow ribbon, twisting and turning across the featureless landscape. Darkness pressed against his windows, making him feel isolated and exposed.

This is all a mistake, Craig thought, beset by a sudden longing for light and warmth and family. He should be at home, working to save his marriage, not chasing round the country trying to prove some ridiculous theory.

Once again Kate seemed to be lying in wait for her. Knowing how exhausted she looked, Julia was anticipating another lecture, but instead she was told, ‘Peggy Forester’s dead.’

‘What? She can’t—’ Julia just stopped herself from blurting out: We visited her this morning.

‘A house fire,’ Kate went on. ‘They found a body inside. Too badly burned to identify, but they think it’s her. Good riddance, I say.’

‘When was this?’

‘Some time this afternoon. Why?’

Julia gave an unconvincing shrug. ‘No reason.’

Now came the appraisal. Kate frowned. ‘The way you’re going, you realise you’ll end up back in hospital? Or worse.’

‘I’m having a very early night, I promise.’

She made it to the stairs and gripped the banister, stifling the pain because Kate was still watching. Somehow she made it to her room, where she dropped her father’s diary on the bed and collapsed next to it, staring at the battered cover but seeing something quite different.

The grimy, claustrophobic kitchen. The vodka. The cigarettes. Peggy’s inebriation and erratic behaviour. Accident or suicide. It had to be one or the other, didn’t it?

But that idea niggled at her. Wasn’t it a terrible coincidence? And the vehicle… hadn’t she seen the same vehicle twice today?

That thought was overtaken by something far more significant: she and Craig were probably the last people to see Peggy Forester alive. That surely had all kinds of implications, even if she was incapable of working out what they were.

Julia’s last clear memory was of kicking off her shoes, shuffling a little to get comfortable and closing her eyes. Too early for bed, but it surely wouldn’t hurt to rest for a minute or two.

Craig knew as he drove that it was a bad idea to think about Tom and Maddie. He was too tired, and in the wrong mood: liable to become dangerously maudlin. But fears about their safety kept crowding in on him.

Today, in the meeting with Matheson and James Vilner, he’d seen the nature of the people he was up against. What was he playing at?

There was a right-hand bend ahead, a couple of hundred yards away. It looked tight, though his view was obscured by a large unlit building on the corner. A barn, he guessed. There was a fence running along the perimeter to his right, and some distant vague shapes that might have been sheep or cattle.

The fields to his left were unfenced, but separated from the road by a ditch. His headlights picked out tall reeds and the sinister gleam of stagnant water.

He was less than a hundred yards away when an oncoming car burst into view from the corner. The shape was familiar: high and square. It was straddling the centre line and gaining speed, its main beams bright and blinding, flooding his windscreen with light.

Craig had only a second to avoid a head-on collision. Acting on pure instinct, he wrenched the steering hard left and sent the Golf bumping across the narrow verge. He stamped on the brake, but the wheels had already lost traction on the wet grass. The bonnet tipped forward and he felt a choking pain across his torso as the seatbelt reeled him in. His head smashed against the side window and he blacked out.

43

Julia was woken by loud noises. While still emerging from sleep she’d heard thumping feet, doors slamming, people screaming. Now she was awake, and that screaming hadn’t stopped.

On top of that there was an alarm blaring. Julia had a feeling it was still early in the evening, that she hadn’t slept long. She felt groggy, nauseous, confused. Nothing made sense until she drew in a breath and felt the tickle of smoke in her nostrils.

There was a fire. She had to get out.

But when she went to act on that impulse, nothing happened. It felt as though a fast-acting concrete had been poured on to her body. She tried frantically to make her limbs obey, but it did no good. Perhaps as a result of her exertions today, her muscles had seized up.

Julia couldn’t move.

She was going to burn to death.

It was a raw cold, like nothing he’d felt in years. Icy water seeping through his jeans, and something warmer trickling in his hair. His whole body hurt.

Craig opened his eyes, but could barely see a thing. He tried to move and nearly threw up. There was a powerful throbbing just above his right ear; another searing pain at the base of his skull.

As his vision adjusted to the dark, the first thing he made out was the spent airbag. The Golf had nosedived into the ditch, and all the front windows had shattered. He was in cold, muddy water up to his waist, chips of glass sprinkled on the surface like diamonds.

He flexed his leg muscles, tentatively lifting and twisting his feet. To his relief, he didn’t seem to have any broken bones. He tried turning the ignition off, but the steering column must have distorted, jamming the key. He had to settle for wrenching the rest of the keys free. His other hand plunged into the water and groped for the seatbelt catch. He felt his ribs protest as the belt released and his body pitched forward.

Next he tried opening the door. It moved a couple of inches, then jammed. He used his elbow to sweep the frame clear of glass, then levered himself into a crouching position on the seat. As he did the car shifted slightly, sliding a few inches deeper into the muddy water. With a sudden irrational vision of the whole car going under, he reached out of the driver’s window, gripped the roof and hauled himself up and out. He left a muddy smear across the bodywork as he slithered over the back of the car and then half jumped, half fell on to the grassy bank.

He lay still for a minute, cold and wet and aching all over, but more grateful to be alive than he would have thought possible. Then he became aware of a low vibrating rumble through the earth.

Seconds later, headlights speared the darkness: a car. Craig was about to jump to his feet and flag it down when self-preservation kicked in.

The car that had forced him off the road must have followed him from the hotel, overtaken at high speed, then turned round and driven back towards him. It might still be in the area.

Then there was the shameful presence of the whisky. Perhaps not enough in his bloodstream to get him disqualified, but he couldn’t take the chance.

He waited for the car to pass, then climbed to his feet and checked himself over. His clothes were soaked, and splattered with mud. He had blood in his hair and on his face. His hands were pinpricked with wounds from the glass fragments. But when he searched his pockets, he found his wallet and phone were intact. And the phone still worked – but there was no signal.

He examined the ditch, and realised that in darkness the car was almost impossible to see. It was pitched at such an angle that dipped headlights would miss the reflectors at close range; that meant a good chance it wouldn’t be discovered until morning.

He set off back the way he’d come, feet squelching on the road, pumping his arms to try and generate some warmth. There was a small chain of lights in the distance, one of which must be Julia’s hotel. After cleaning up, he would have to use public transport to get back to Crawley, in order to take the kids to school tomorrow. But how would he explain the missing car to Nina?

After a couple of hundred yards he reached a layby and sat down. He took off his shoes, wrung out his socks and put them back on. It didn’t make a lot of difference, but he felt better for it. Then he noticed a sign for a footpath, with symbols for parking, toilets and the sea, along with the words ‘1 Mile.’

A mile to the coast, then he’d turn left and head along the beach to the hotel. That had to be quicker than following the meandering road.

It was coming up for eight o’clock. He pictured Julia warm and relaxed as she sat down to dinner. He started fantasising about a hot bath and a mug of coffee before he set off for Crawley…

The path was uneven and overgrown with weeds. He had to pick his way carefully, but his eyes were now accustomed to the dark, and he could see pretty well. The sky was clear and full of stars, the sea a distant silvery glimmer.

Then a bright yellow flare caught his attention. It came from the western end of the chain of lights, and seemed to grow and fade in strength, with a pulsing, sinuous movement. As he watched he saw the sky above it grow hazy, blotting out the stars.

That was when Craig put it together.

And he started to run.

44

Someone was shouting her name. Julia tried to respond, but the sound that emerged was too weak to be heard over the alarm. In despair she let her body go limp, and as she did a kind of nervous spasm caused her right leg to move. She flexed it, and managed to swing one foot off the bed.

From the hall, Kate called her name again, and thumped on the door. ‘Julia? Are you in there? Wake up!’

‘I’m here,’ Julia croaked, desperately afraid that Kate would give up and leave. ‘I’m coming.’

She made a huge effort to raise herself, then swung her legs round and propelled herself into an upright position. She felt woozy, disorientated, and there was an uncomfortable dull ache in her abdomen, but at least she could move.

Thank God I’m still dressed, she thought. Glancing back at the bed, she noticed her father’s diary and picked it up, then stumbled across the room. Kate was shouting again as Julia unlocked the door. The air behind her was murky with smoke.

‘Hurry!’ Kate urged, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the room. Julia did her best to run, one hand cupping her mouth against the foul, choking air.

With Kate virtually propping her up, she descended the stairs into thicker smoke, billowing from the front doorway and the residents’ lounge. A figure backed out of the room, holding a fire extinguisher. It was Sandy, the chef. She turned towards them, her face bright red, and said, ‘No good. It’s spreading too quickly.’

‘Upstairs is clear,’ Kate shouted. ‘Just get out.’

Sandy gestured towards the kitchens. ‘That way.’

Kate took the lead, still holding on to Julia, with Sandy close behind. Although Julia’s legs felt stronger now, the pain in her abdomen was growing more intense, and her heart felt like it was beating at an unnatural rhythm.

They hurried through the kitchens and saw a couple of other guests just ahead of them. The cold night air was a fabulous shock, like plunging into a pool. There were fifteen or twenty women on the lawn, some doubled over, some crying and hugging each other, some just standing in a daze.

Then came a loud crash. More flames leapt towards the French doors which led outside. Kate shouted a warning, and she and Sandy began ushering people to the far end of the garden. Julia could hear Kate muttering as she did a head count.

‘Best to head for the beach, and along the path to the road,’ she said.

‘The fire brigade are on their way,’ Sandy added.

‘What happened?’ Julia asked. ‘Was it an electrical fault?’

There was another crash from the building. At the same time, the alarm abruptly cut out. Julia glanced back and saw smoke pouring from an upstairs window. Sandy saw it too, and looked heartbroken.

‘Brick through the window,’ she said, ‘followed by a Molotov cocktail. One in the lounge, one through the front door. Bloody miracle they didn’t hit anyone.’

When Julia insisted she could walk unaided, Kate went off to check on the other guests. Julia rested for a moment and wiped her eyes. She felt much more alert now, but the nagging pain had spread to her lower back and kidneys. Trying not to dwell on it, she followed the line of guests around the perimeter of the grounds. Smoke poured into the sky, and tiny fragments of ash rained down on them.

The hotel had been firebombed. That was crazy. Why the hell would⁠—?

Then she thought of Peggy Forester, burned to death within hours of their visit.

Reaching the footpath that ran between the beach and the road, she heard sirens approaching. There was a small crowd of spectators on the pavement, watching the fire from a safe distance. When they spotted the evacuees, a few came forward to help. Julia saw one man remove his coat and offer it to a woman wearing only a thin dress.

The first fire engine drove past, braking hard as it reached the hotel. A second appliance was just behind it. Almost everyone turned to look, and there were a few muted cheers. Then Julia noticed one of the spectators had kept his back to the road. He was still watching the guests file towards him.

It was too dark to see him clearly, but she could tell his face was obscured by something: perhaps a scarf wrapped around his mouth.

Despite the distance, Julia knew the moment his gaze settled on her. She felt it in every nerve ending, and as he broke away from the crowd and hurried towards her, she recognised the set of his body: fast, powerful, determined. Exactly how he had moved when he strode into sight from Hurst Lane.

It was the second killer, the man in black.

Coming for her.

Julia turned and ran.

The killer had blocked her path to the north. The tide was too close to go south, and the burning hotel was to the east. Julia’s only option was west, towards the dunes at the back of the beach.

A cautionary voice told her she shouldn’t be doing this. In her current condition just walking was a struggle, let alone running. But it had been an instinctive decision, made without any rational thought. Too late to change her mind now.

It got darker and colder as she climbed the dunes. The sand was loose and deep, and after just fifteen or twenty strides she was exhausted. Marram grass whipped at her bare feet. A discarded drink can sliced the skin on her little toe.

Risking a look behind her, Julia saw a vague black shape reach the path and pause, scanning the beach. She threw herself down, dropping the diary. Spotting a deeper hollow about ten feet away, she crawled towards it, grabbing at clumps of grass to help drag herself over the sand. She was acutely aware of how isolated she was, but knew that staying in the crowd wouldn’t have protected her if the killer was armed. At least this way she wasn’t putting other people in danger.

Reaching the hollow, she curled up, paddling with her feet and hands to dig herself into the sand. It was freezing cold, and she began to shiver. The pain in her lower back was spreading through her body like icy water, a sensation accompanied by a haunting image of internal bleeding. She fought off the idea that she might escape from the killer, only to fall unconscious and perish alone in the sand.

She lay on her side, her sight of the dunes now restricted to just a few yards. Sounds drifted across the beach as if from another world: sirens, doors slamming, the crackle and spit of the ravenous fire.

And then something closer. Much closer.

Heavy footsteps on the sand.

Julia pressed herself into the hollow, trying to merge with the land. A moment later she heard an angry exhalation, and a few grains of sand fell on her face.

He was directly above her, perhaps only a couple of feet away, but the shape of the dune meant he couldn’t see her.

He must have gone out on to the beach and circled round. That meant he’d guessed her route. Outmanoeuvred her. If he took one more step, Julia was dead.

She shut her eyes and waited, not even daring to breathe. There was another angry sigh. Another dusting of sand on her eyes and her lips.

Then something snarled, low and menacing and very close.

45

It was a dog. Julia could hear it panting. She thought she could smell it, too, a warm wet odour, with a tang of the sea.

The dog growled again. It was across to her right, a few feet away.

A man’s voice cried, ‘Billy! C’mere, now!’

But the dog held its ground. It went on snarling, and sounded like it meant business. She heard the rustle of movement from above, the killer reacting to this new threat. But was he moving away?

‘Billy! Here!’

The dog gave an answering yelp, but instead of running back to its owner, it took another couple of steps towards her. She could see it now, a lean black shape against the sand, lowering its head as if preparing to attack.

Craig had once prided himself on his fitness, but it had been a few years since he’d exercised on a serious basis. One of his knees started protesting within the first mile or so, but every time he felt his resolve weakening he glanced up and focused on the leaping flames. He had to know that Julia was okay.

He heard the sirens as the fire engines passed on the coast road. Thick smoke was pouring into the sky. He prayed that wherever it was, the building had been evacuated.

When he got to the beach he found running on the compacted sand a lot easier on his joints, and he was able to pick up his speed. He was a few hundred yards away when he saw beyond doubt that it was the hotel. Despite the valiant efforts of the firefighters, the building was being consumed by flames.

The sight of it brought him to a staggering halt. Julia’s fate had already been decided: either she had got out in time or she hadn’t.

He leaned over, breathing hard, and slowly became aware of a man’s voice, just ahead of him. Then he heard barking and saw a dog, up on the dunes. He was about to dismiss it and run on when he spotted something else: a dark shape just beyond the dog that moved slightly, revealing a flash of pale skin. A body, perhaps, curled up in the lee of a sand dune.

Quite abruptly the dog stopped barking and ran back towards the beach. Julia waited a few seconds, too scared to move, before cautiously raising her head.

Now she could see two figures on the beach. The dog was again growling, but its owner moved in and grabbed its collar. The other figure, instead of hanging back, seemed to be moving in her direction.

Her heart thudded with panic, but she was also confused. How could the killer have got back down to the beach so quickly, and without the dog reacting?

And there was something else: even in the darkness the man’s outline, and the way he moved, seemed familiar.

Not just familiar, she realised. Miraculous.

She called out, as best she could, and tried to sit up. By now she could see his face, dirty and dishevelled and full of worry. Somehow he didn’t look quite right, and Julia wondered if he was merely a hallucination – in which case she would probably just fall back and freeze to death in the sand.

Craig’s relief at seeing Julia was so great that at first he didn’t stop to wonder what she was doing here. As he reached her, he saw her eyes flutter, as if she was on the brink of passing out. He knelt down and felt for her pulse. Her skin was dangerously cold. He eased his hands beneath her, intending to lift her up, but she moaned and started to struggle.

‘Julia, it’s okay. You’re safe.’

She allowed him to help her up. They took a couple of steps, and then she cried out, ‘The diary!’

‘What?’

She twisted, pointing into the shadows. When he was sure she wouldn’t collapse, Craig quickly searched the dunes and found the diary she’d taken from her parents’ house.

Turning back, he saw that Julia’s whole body was trembling uncontrollably. Without a word he opened his arms and she fell into his embrace. He held her tight, her tears dampening his neck as she nuzzled into it.

‘He was here, Craig,’ she said. ‘He came to kill me.’

Slowly they made their way over to the road. The crowd of onlookers had grown. There were police cars and ambulances parked at the kerb. Most of the guests were wrapped in blankets and borrowed coats. The fire crews were spraying water from three different vantage points, but it looked like a lost cause.

Julia told Craig what she knew about the firebombing, how she’d spotted the killer and hid from him in the dunes. She thought he might doubt the story, but there wasn’t a trace of disbelief in his face.

‘He ran my car off the road. I think he’d overtaken me a minute earlier, which means he’d followed me from the hotel.’

‘So he knew where I was staying?’

‘I guess so. After dealing with me, he must have come back here and started the fire.’

‘That’s not all.’ She told him about Peggy Forester. ‘The news report was suggesting an accident, or maybe suicide.’

‘You think he was there this morning, the same time as us?’

She nodded. ‘Did you get a look at the car?’

‘Not closely. I think it might have been a Land Rover, maybe.’

‘There was one parked in Hurst Lane this afternoon. I think I saw it in Falcombe as well.’

The conversation was interrupted by Kate, who ran towards them, holding a blanket. For a moment her relief was tempered by a suspicious glance at Craig, but then she wrapped the blanket around Julia and embraced her. ‘What happened? I couldn’t find you anywhere.’

‘I went on to the beach, to get some fresh air.’ Staring over Kate’s shoulder, Julia saw Craig give a rueful nod: endorsing the lie.

They broke apart, and Kate said, ‘We need to get you checked over.’

Julia allowed the other woman to lead her to an ambulance. While Kate was relaying Julia’s recent medical history to a paramedic, there was a small commotion within the crowd. One of the hotel guests was bundled into a police car and driven off at high speed. It was the woman Julia had played cards with.

‘The police think she might have been the target,’ Kate confided. ‘She’s giving evidence at a trial for heroin smuggling.’

With Kate plunging back into the crowd to see who needed help, Julia was ushered into the ambulance for a thorough examination. The paramedic’s verdict was that she undergo further tests in hospital.

‘Your blood pressure is very low, which could indicate other issues.’ A glance at Craig, waiting by the rear doors. ‘You’d better come, too. That cut on your head needs attention.’

Before they left, the paramedic was called away to treat a firefighter for smoke inhalation. As soon as they were alone, Craig moved close to Julia and spoke quietly.

‘It looks like the police have jumped to the wrong conclusion. The question is whether we can risk putting them right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘First, we know they don’t believe in the idea of a second killer. Secondly, if we make a statement alleging we were followed here, then we probably have to admit to visiting Peggy Forester. And aside from the killer, I bet we were the last people to see her alive.’

‘But would they really suspect us?’

‘She’s Carl’s mother. Carl murdered my dad and tried to murder you. Frankly, I can’t think of a better motive for wanting her dead.’

Julia sighed, realising how credible that might seem, compared to their own allegations.

‘As for what happened here tonight, what can you really tell them? A man followed you along the path, and you ran away from him. Did you see him clearly? Can you describe him?’

She shook her head. ‘I didn’t imagine it,’ she said, her voice wavering.

‘I know that. I’m just saying, there isn’t a lot we can prove at the moment. All we risk doing is putting ourselves in the frame for Peggy’s death.’

Julia had to agree. ‘So we’re on our own?’

‘I’m afraid so. But at least tonight he’s come out into the open. We know he exists, and he’s shown us what he can do. We really only have one choice now, don’t we?’

Julia saw the cold anger in his eyes. She heard movement outside the ambulance, the paramedic returning, and quickly nodded.

‘We fight back.’

PART III

46

Vanessa was awake by 6 a.m. Most nights now she slept only fitfully, woken by poor circulation and delirious visions of death. Often there was a pressing need to urinate, and although she had accepted the humiliation of incontinence protection, there were many times when she could not bring herself to use it.

After struggling to the en suite bathroom, she decided against returning to bed. In small bird-like steps she moved to the window and drew the curtains back. The sky above the Downs was pale and clear, promising another unseasonably warm day. Vanessa watched birds circling overhead and heard the distant competing cries of gulls and crows.

It was only when he moved that she noticed George in the garden. He was at the far end of the lawn, sitting on one of two benches that flanked the great tiered fountain. The fountain’s centrepiece was a delicately carved figurine of an angel. As Vanessa watched, George leaned forward and almost toppled on to the path in front of it.

He remained on his knees, not moving. He wore the same trousers and sweater as the night before, and she wondered if he had slept at all.

Then, to her astonishment, she saw him clasp his hands together and dip his head in prayer. She had to say it to herself before she could believe it.

He’s praying to the stone angel.

It provoked a smile of a sort, though never one to soften her own stone heart. Putting her face to the glass, Vanessa whispered, ‘Your prayers won’t bring her back.’

Seven o’clock and Julia was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling of her flat in Lewes. After nearly four weeks away, the surroundings felt both comforting and strangely unfamiliar. When she’d finally got to bed she thought she might sleep for days, and yet just a few hours later she was wide awake and reflecting on what she had said to Craig.

We fight back.

Now, with the clarity that daylight brought, much of that confidence had evaporated. Instead she felt an irrational conviction that the killer was untouchable.

After a swift journey in the ambulance, she and Craig had spent the evening in the Conquest hospital in St Leonards. While Craig waited in A&E to have his cuts cleaned and dressed, Julia underwent a thorough range of tests, including a CT scan, and her heart rate and blood pressure were monitored over a couple of hours. Finally she was seen by a disarmingly handsome young doctor whose upbeat conclusion didn’t preclude him from delivering a severe rebuke.

‘You’ve had a remarkably lucky escape,’ he told her, ‘and not just from the fire. There’s a lot of messed-up tissue in there.’ He poked a long finger in the direction of her belly. ‘Unless you allow it to heal properly, there’s a chance the whole caboodle will rupture like a bag of rotten tomatoes.’ He grinned. ‘I resort to such disgusting imagery precisely because it’s more likely to lodge in your mind. Now, repeat after me: walking is good, but walk slowly. Don’t run.’

Swayed by his good humour, Julia duly repeated, ‘Walk slowly. Don’t run.’

‘No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.’

‘No jumping, climbing or heavy lifting.’

‘I will adopt a lifestyle appropriate to a sensible young woman recovering from a serious gunshot wound.’

‘No. Too condescending.’

The doctor laughed. ‘Yeah, I’m pushing it there. But at least you get the point.’

When finally allowed to leave, she was touched to find Craig waiting for her, and even more gratified when he insisted they take a taxi back to Lewes.

‘But it’ll cost a fortune,’ she said. ‘Surely there are still trains running?’

‘You’re not getting a train after what you’ve been through, and neither am I.’

After hushed negotiations at the taxi rank, they drove home in relative comfort. Sitting together on the back seat, sharing an exhausted, intimate silence, there was a moment when Julia was tempted to raise the one thorny issue that remained between them.

She was still debating how to broach the subject when she fell asleep, and she didn’t awake until they were almost in Lewes. She opened her eyes to find Craig watching her, a gentle smile on his face, and knew she couldn’t mention it now.

Her flat was in a double-fronted Edwardian villa in a narrow road behind the castle. When the taxi pulled up, Craig insisted on seeing her safely inside. Her main set of keys had been left in the hotel, but fortunately one of her neighbours kept a spare set. Even more fortunately, she didn’t resent being woken by Julia at well after midnight.

Craig followed her up the stairs. ‘You sure you’re going to be all right? You’re welcome to the spare room at my dad’s place.’

‘I have to get used to living on my own at some point. Might as well be tonight.’

Craig didn’t look happy, but finally relented. ‘I guess there’s no reason to assume the killer knows your address, but don’t answer the door to strangers. And call me if you need anything.’

His farewell was accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, and Julia was struck by the contrast with the last time they’d parted: how morose she had felt that their journey together might have ended.

She’d woken this morning with the feeling that she was entering a new phase of her life. The fire at the hotel had interrupted her recuperation, but also served as a warning that she had to take the whole process more seriously from now on.

She got up to make coffee – black, because there was no milk – and took it back to bed. After a few minutes she picked up the diary and carefully opened the cover. She was conscious of a reluctance to intrude on her father’s privacy, and at first could only skim the pages, as if merely skipping lightly through her parents’ lives rather than stomping all over them…

Until a name stopped her dead. Left her staring at the page in disbelief.

Carl Forester.

It appeared in the second week of August. Earlier entries had revealed her father was fretting over the height of the conifer trees in the back garden. The publican at the Green Man recommended Forester, described by her father as a local chap, from Falcombe, willing to do odd jobs.

Feeling a tightness in her chest, Julia turned to the following week and spotted the name again, in the entry for 17 August.

Carl Forester here this afternoon. Cut the conifers by eight or nine feet, so I’ll be able to handle them from now on. Charged £30 cash. Nice enough lad, but very quiet. Possibly not ‘all there’.

She read it half a dozen times before it sank in. Then she shut the diary, unable to face any more.

Carl Forester had known her parents. He had been in their house. Her mum had no doubt offered a supply of hot or cold drinks while he was working. Perhaps he’d eaten their biscuits or some homemade cake.

She had an image of him standing in their garden, that spiky blond hair wet with sweat. A glass of lemonade in one hand, perhaps a chainsaw in the other. Her father doing his best to make conversation, perhaps pointing out his beloved roses, or the shed he’d so proudly assembled.

Was the rage already building in this young man? Was he harbouring fantasies about unleashing death on the village?

Julia shut her eyes. A rush of images ran through her mind. The chase across the village green. The second killer striding towards Forester. Carl’s whoop of celebration as the two men exchanged a high five.

Then she remembered something that made her sit up with a jolt.

The whoop. The sound he’d made.

And she knew she had to go back to Chilton.

47

Three or four times a week DI Sullivan ate breakfast at a transport café on the A3, a few miles from his home in New Malden. It was his cardinal rule that calls and texts were ignored for the duration of the meal. On Thursday morning this proved hugely beneficial.

When he finally picked up his phone, there was a terse message from Craig Walker, wanting to arrange a meeting. The hint of a demand irked Sullivan, so he first rang George Matheson and gave him the inside track on the fire at Peggy Forester’s home. The body they’d recovered from the ruins was almost definitely hers.

‘What about the cause?’

‘Not much left for forensics to work with, but it’s about fifty-fifty between accident or foul play.’

‘Interesting. And have you identified any recent visitors to the house?’

Sullivan’s antenna twitched. ‘Sounds like you know something.’

‘Craig Walker was there yesterday morning. Along with Julia Trent.’

‘I’ll check, but I don’t think they’ve come forward.’ He whistled. ‘Do you think they killed her?’

‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ George quickly added. ‘Obviously I’m telling you this in an unofficial capacity.’

‘Of course. Do you want to make it official?’

‘I’m not sure if that’s altogether wise.’

‘Could be more useful to sit on it for now?’

Stiffly, George said, ‘Well, yes. That was my thinking.’

Sullivan barely ended the call before a cackle of laughter burst out. Talk about lucky: now he had some valuable leverage over Craig Walker, should it be needed.

The guy must have been getting his kids ready for school; Sullivan could hear a girl whingeing in the background. ‘You want a meeting?’ he said.

‘Yeah. To discuss my investigation.’

‘I gave you the report, plus the address of the hotel. That’s me done.’

‘Oh, I think you’ll want to hear this.’ Craig was difficult to make out above the whining girl; Sullivan wondered why he didn’t just give her a slap.

‘All right,’ he said, feigning a lack of interest. ‘I can spare you half an hour this afternoon.’

Julia had several misgivings about going out so soon, but justified it on the basis that she didn’t intend to do any running or jumping – and thankfully the doctor hadn’t forbidden her from driving.

She was half convinced her Mini wouldn’t cooperate. The handbrake was a bit sticky, but the car started on the third attempt. Apart from religiously checking her mirror for signs of someone following, it felt wonderful to regain some independence.

She was in Chilton by eight-fifteen, and parked outside the church. The good weather was holding, but aside from the unseasonable warmth, there were some disturbing similarities with the morning of the massacre. No one in sight, and little sound apart from the coarse cry of the rooks. Julia’s muscles kept flexing as she crossed the green, her body urging her to jump in the car and drive away.

A couple of For Sale boards had gone up in Arundel Crescent. At number two the trap window in the upstairs bedroom was open, just as it had been on 19 January. As she reached the front door Julia heard thumping inside, then a clamour of voices.

She rang the bell. After a few seconds an internal door banged shut, a chain rattled and the front door opened a few inches. A dark-haired man in his thirties peered out.

‘Gordon Jones?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘My name’s Julia Trent. I wonder if I could speak to your wife?’

He scrutinised her carefully. ‘You were here, on the 19th?’

‘Yes.’

Removing the safety chain, he opened the door and offered a smile, only to flinch at a loud crash from within the house. Turning, he shouted, ‘Stop fighting! You’ve got ten minutes!’

When he turned back, Julia said, ‘It’s probably not an ideal time, but could I talk to your wife?’

‘She doesn’t live here now.’ His voice was flat, as though all the emotion had been wrung from him long ago. ‘She had a… a nervous breakdown. I tried to help her. We all did. But she insisted on moving out.’

A piercing shriek was followed by raucous laughter. Gordon flinched again.

‘I’m sorry,’ Julia said. ‘How often does she see them?’

‘She doesn’t. It’s too upsetting.’ He scraped a hand through his hair. ‘That bastard ruined so many lives, sometimes I wish he hadn’t shot himself, and we could’ve…’ He trailed off, with a murderous gaze, before snapping back to the present. ‘I’ll get you the address.’

When he opened the living room door, Julia glimpsed two small boys wrestling on the floor. An older girl danced round them, chanting, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’

Gordon returned with a notepad and pen. ‘It’s a rented flat in Brighton,’ he said as he wrote it out.

‘You go to see her?’

‘Once or twice a week.’ Almost shamefully, he added, ‘She never answers the door.’

‘Why not? You didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘The day it happened, I was on a damn stag weekend. Pure chance, and yet I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for it. The husband and father, I’m supposed to protect my family.’

But nothing happened to them, Julia almost said. She knew that Alice’s response had no connection to what was logical or rational. Gordon probably knew it too. He tore the page from the notebook and held it out.

‘Tell her we miss her,’ he said. ‘Tell her to come home.’

The buzz of his intercom woke Toby at some ungodly hour. Swearing, he threw back the covers and got up to answer it. A familiar voice growled, ‘You have thirty seconds to make yourself decent.’

He was pulling on jogging pants and a T-shirt when James Vilner rapped on the door. Toby lived in a sixth-floor apartment in Chelsea Harbour, which cost a straight million five years ago but had already appreciated by nearly fifty per cent.

Vilner was alone, looking fresh and relaxed and dangerously cheerful. He wore jeans and a suede jacket over a white shirt. ‘Not a morning person, then?’ he said with a grin.

‘No. What do you want?’

‘Coffee would be good, for starters.’

Toby scowled, but didn’t argue. Vilner followed him into the living room and crossed to the balcony doors, where he could gaze out at the marina and the Thames beyond. Toby filled the kettle and dug out an old jar of instant coffee: he wasn’t brewing fresh for Vilner.

When he returned to the living room, the other man whistled in admiration. ‘So this is how you rich boys live? Bit bloody different from where I grew up.’

‘As it happens, I had a very modest start in life.’ Toby saw Vilner scanning the room, his gaze alighting on a little pile of paper on the floor. ‘My mother never had any money. My aunt and uncle offered help, but she didn’t always take it.’

‘Why’s that?’ Vilner was ambling towards the document. Shit.

‘They didn’t approve of her lifestyle, so there were always conditions attached. Conditions she wasn’t prepared to meet.’

‘And you lost out as a result?’ Vilner leaned over and examined the title page.

‘Not all that much,’ Toby said, but Vilner was no longer listening. He knelt, a little awkwardly, and picked up the report. The report that Toby had sworn not to show to anyone else.

‘Where’d you get this?’

‘George. Someone leaked it to him.’

Vilner wore a triumphant smile. ‘You won’t mind if I have a look?’

‘Go ahead.’ There was nothing he could have done, Toby told himself. He made the coffee and brought it out. Vilner was leafing through the report.

‘Craig Walker’s seen this,’ he said. ‘Him and Julia Trent were at your uncle’s yesterday.’

Before Toby could put on a poker face, it was too late. ‘Oh dear.’ Vilner tutted. ‘I don’t think little Toby’s in the loop any more.’

Toby sipped his coffee, and grimaced. The question he wanted to ask was, What were you doing there? But instead he said, ‘What did they want?’

‘A guarantee that there won’t be a second application.’

‘That’s ridiculous. My uncle’s agreed that I can get started on preliminary work for the development.’

Vilner exuded a vague sense of pity as he searched Toby’s face, as though looking for something he already knew was absent. Keen to break the silence, Toby said, ‘I know my uncle’s getting worked up about this, but I don’t see the problem myself. I think we’ll be fine.’

‘Well, that’s a comfort,’ said Vilner with a dry insincerity. Still holding the report, he set his coffee down and wandered out of the room as if this were his own apartment.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Having a look round.’

Toby felt a sense of dread as he followed Vilner into the second bedroom, which he used as an office. There was a large pinboard on the wall, covered in architectural drawings and site plans, along with an artist’s impression of the finished development. There was also a double-page spread from the Daily Express, showing a photograph of Carl Forester as a mischievous gap-toothed schoolboy beneath the headline: THE MAN WHO KILLED A VILLAGE.

Vilner examined the board, the blond stubble on his chin glittering under the recessed lights. He started shaking his head, but as Toby went to ask what was wrong, Vilner dropped the report and grabbed the front of Toby’s T-shirt. His other hand was now holding a pistol.

That’s why he couldn’t kneel properly.

Vilner slammed him against the wall and forced the gun into his mouth, drawing blood that mingled with the oily taste of the metal.

‘I’m getting sick of this,’ Vilner growled. ‘You. George. All these different fucking agendas, and I reckon at the top of every one it says “Screw Vilner”.’

Toby did his best to shake his head. ‘No!’

‘You owe me over a quarter of a million quid. You promised me a contract worth a million or more. But I’m starting to think I’m being taken for a mug.’

‘You’re not,’ Toby spluttered, when Vilner removed the gun. ‘I swear it. No one’s trying to rip you off.’

‘Then sell this place. Pay me what you owe.’

‘I can’t. It’s in George’s name.’

‘You useless fucking parasite.’

‘The development,’ Toby gasped, ‘it’ll be worth the wait. More money than you can imagine.’

‘Yeah? Then you’d better make sure it happens – otherwise I’ll find another way to get what I’m owed. The messy, painful way. Understand?’

Toby nodded. Vilner stepped back, swept up the report and marched out of the room. Toby waited until the front door slammed shut before sinking to the floor and covering his face with his hands.

48

As she crossed the green, Julia’s gaze was fixed on the grass ahead. She wasn’t aware of anyone nearby until someone said, ‘Miss Trent?’

She started, almost dropping the note, and found George Matheson beside her. Registering her alarm, he stepped back. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

Matheson’s face was creased with anxiety. While Julia regained her composure, he studied the floral tributes heaped around the tree. ‘Isn’t it peculiar how grief has to be paraded these days? I’ve always found it rather off-putting, but there’s no doubting the sincerity.’

Julia said coolly, ‘I suppose we each do what’s best for us.’

‘Absolutely.’ He nodded towards the crescent. ‘I take it that wasn’t a social visit?’

‘I wanted to see Alice Jones.’

‘Still determined to unearth a conspiracy?’

Stung by his derision, she said, ‘I have my own reason to speak to her.’

He waited for an explanation, but she was determined not to supply it. He changed the subject: ‘You’ve heard about Peggy Forester?’

‘The fire? Yes. Sounds dreadful.’

‘It does, indeed. And with you and Mr Walker having visited her yesterday, I assume you’ve made statements to the police?’

Matheson’s airy confidence demolished any hope that she could lie. Instead, Julia responded with a challenge. ‘Do you really think we killed her?’

While she waited for his reply, Julia decided to say nothing about the firebombing at the hotel. Better to see if he already knew.

Eventually, with a shrug, George said, ‘An unfortunate accident is the likeliest explanation, I’m sure.’

‘Unless someone got worried about the information she’d given us?’

‘What, that Carl once borrowed a motorbike from a friend? I doubt it very much.’ As if regretting his haughty tone, he nodded at the village green and said, ‘Julia, I do wonder… surely it’s possible that you were mistaken about a second killer. In such a traumatic situation, your state of mind can’t have been⁠—’

‘I know what I saw,’ Julia said firmly, holding his gaze until he dipped his head in apology.

‘Please don’t feel I’m being unsympathetic. I very much admire the way you’ve coped with your ordeal – and I know what it’s like to lose a loved one.’ He gestured in the direction of her parents’ cottage. ‘Will you keep the house, do you think?’

Thrown by the abruptness of the enquiry, Julia said, ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘If you wish to sell, I’m willing to pay the market value in cash. It’s an offer I’ve made to all the residents – and yes, I’m fully aware that some will attribute the murkiest of motives to it.’ A snort. ‘Craig Walker for one. But this has nothing to do with the development. I simply want to help in any way I can.’

Julia couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Matheson’s pitch was so smooth, so utterly shameless, that she found herself wondering if his intentions really might be genuine.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ she said at last. ‘I still have all their effects to clear out.’

‘A harrowing task, I’m afraid, but also sometimes quite illuminating. I remember when my mother died, sorting through her papers gave me an entirely new perspective on her life.’

This poignant observation sparked a desire to confide in him. ‘I’ve been reading my father’s diary,’ Julia said. ‘It turns out my parents knew Carl Forester. He cut down some trees for them last summer.’

George looked unperturbed. ‘I believe he did casual work for a lot of people round here. But I dare say you’re wondering how it didn’t seem obvious to them, what he was capable of?’

‘I suppose that’s it,’ Julia agreed.

With a heartfelt sigh, Matheson said, ‘It’s scant consolation, but I’ve done much the same thing myself.’

Craig had texted Nina from the hospital the previous night, saying he’d had to change his plans but would still be home in time for the school run. That had meant rising at five o’clock in Chilton to reach Crawley by seven-thirty, via two taxis and a train. He’d shaved, showered and was wearing clean clothes, but when Nina opened the door her first words were ‘What the hell’s happened to you? Why weren’t you here last night?’

His hand had risen to the wound on his head. There was a nasty lump, but it was mostly concealed by his hair. Maybe something showed in his eyes.

He gave her a brief update, making light of the accident. He didn’t mention the second killer, or the fact that he’d been drinking. Nina’s only comment about Peggy Forester was ‘Serves her right.’

She kissed Tom and Maddie, then picked up her travel case. ‘Where is it again?’ Craig asked.

‘Manchester. Mum and Dad will get them from school and have them tonight. I’ll be back by tomorrow lunchtime.’

He accompanied her to the front door, the unasked question forming on his lips: Is Bruce going with you? She left without saying goodbye.

DI Sullivan called as he was about to set off on the school run. The time they arranged to meet gave him several hours in which to notify a claim for the damaged Golf and sort out a replacement car.

He was walking back from school when Abby Clark rang. ‘Got that bio you wanted. And you were right. Vilner’s a decidedly shady character.’

‘What’s his connection to George Matheson?’

‘Seems to be a link with George’s nephew, Toby Harman. Gambling debts, from what I can make out. Among his other talents, Vilner does a lucrative line in money lending.’

‘George’s nephew owes money to Vilner?’

‘I think so. It seems Vilner and his crew were lined up to provide site security for the housing development.’

‘So he’s counting on the planning application going through?’

‘They all are,’ said Abby. ‘There’s another name I’ve picked up. A man called Kendrick. From Trinidad, apparently.’

‘Where does he fit into this?’

‘No idea yet – but I’m starting to get that delicious whiff of a big story. Remember that?’

He grunted. ‘Just about.’

‘I’ll go on digging, and let you know when I find something.’

Alice’s flat was in a purpose-built block on a hill to the west of London Road, not far from the Withdean sports stadium. As Julia got out of the car a train thundered past, concealed by a bank of trees, and she realised the flats backed on to the main railway line. That aside, it was a peaceful, pleasant spot.

There was a glazed front door with an intercom for visitors. Julia pressed the buzzer, imagining how wretched Gordon Jones must feel each time he stood here.

A minute passed with no response. Julia pressed the buzzer again, and a door opened at the end of the hall. A shadow appeared but came no further.

Julia crouched to the letterbox and pushed her hand through the flap. ‘Alice? Is that you? I’m Julia Trent. I don’t know if⁠—’

‘Are you alone?’ a voice hissed.

‘Yes.’

A pause, then the shadow moved closer. Although she’d only glimpsed her face in January, Julia thought she had a pretty good idea of what Alice looked like. Seeing her now, Julia’s first reaction was that the wrong tenant had answered. This woman looked about fifty, wrapped in a faded pink dressing gown, her face etched with worry lines, her hair more grey than brown.

‘Did Gordon send you?’

Julia nodded. ‘He gave me your address. You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I thought you’d come one day.’ Her tone was one of weary resignation. She led Julia along the hallway and into a functional but good-sized apartment that had clearly been furnished with short-term tenants in mind. There was little sign that Alice had tried to personalise the space: no ornaments or photographs; not even pictures of her children.

‘You know, I never thought you’d survive,’ Alice said, settling at one end of a worn fabric sofa.

Julia sat at the other end. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I watched them putting you into the helicopter. It was like they were holding a smashed china doll. Desperately trying to keep all the pieces so they could glue you back together.’

‘I hadn’t considered it like that,’ Julia admitted.

‘I almost wish you hadn’t,’ Alice continued, without a trace of rancour. ‘It wasn’t our destiny to survive. He should have killed you, and then me. He should have finished the job.’ The pitch of her voice rose and fell as she spoke. At times it was unnervingly high, but Alice didn’t seem to be aware of it.

‘I don’t agree,’ Julia said. ‘I think your destiny is what you make it. I’m proud I came through this. And you should be too.’

‘What do I have to be proud of? I was hiding in the corner like a timid little mouse.’

‘You kept your children safe. That was the right thing to do.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t want me to open the door and let you in?’

‘I honestly don’t know. Chances are, I’d never have made it anyway.’

Alice only mumbled something under her breath, as if unconvinced. Julia could see now why Gordon had been so worried about his wife.

‘You were at the window when Carl chased me out of the churchyard. According to the police report, you didn’t see anything after that.’

Alice turned and found Julia staring at her. She tried to look away but the intensity of Julia’s gaze seemed to hold her spellbound. ‘I didn’t,’ she said with a gulp.

‘I told them there was another man involved. He killed Carl and then shot me. But when Carl first greeted the other man, he made a noise. He whooped.’ Julia hesitated, before pressing on. ‘I remembered that your bedroom window was open. You must have heard him.’

She caught what seemed to be a fleeting look of relief, but didn’t stop to reflect on it. Leaning closer, she said, ‘Tell me what you heard. That’s all I’m asking of you.’

Alice swallowed. Her body was rigid, vibrating with tension.

‘I’m a terrible person,’ she said at last, and began to sob. ‘I lied to the police. I lied to everyone.’

49

Vanessa spent most of her day in the largest of the first-floor bedrooms. As well as the bed, it had a desk and two easy chairs. George had also thought to add a TV and a radio, a kettle and a small fridge. Vanessa’s reaction had been predictably scornful: ‘It’s like some ghastly motel room. Why not install a trouser press to complete the picture?’

Today, when he returned from the village, he found her asleep in an armchair, a folded Telegraph on the table alongside an untouched cup of tea, her laptop closed at her feet like a sleeping pet.

He made a fresh pot of tea and sat in the armchair opposite. There was a tiny clink as he set down his spoon, and he looked up to find her eyes wide open and staring at him. The shock caused him to jerk, slopping tea into his lap. Wincing, he plucked at his trousers.

‘Careful,’ Vanessa said, with a nod at his groin. ‘You might need it again one day.’

He grunted, thinking, No, I won’t, then ran through his conversation with Julia Trent. ‘I offered to buy her parents’ cottage.’

‘Unwise,’ Vanessa declared. ‘She’ll see it for what it is. Another tactic.’

George said nothing. In his wife’s final weeks he’d vowed not to rise to the bait.

‘What about Peggy Forester?’ Vanessa asked.

‘Julia was rather defensive about their visit. I’m not sure that they intend to tell the police about it.’

Vanessa’s eyes lit up. ‘Worth knowing.’

‘I don’t see it has any real value. Not unless I’m prepared to use it.’

‘Well, aren’t you?’

‘My gut tells me it may be counterproductive. Better for us all if the fire was purely an accident.’

‘Oh, George.’ Vanessa regarded him sadly. ‘I do believe you’re losing your nerve.’

‘It won’t do you any good,’ Alice said. ‘I can’t get involved.’

‘What do you mean?’ Julia asked.

‘You know why I’m here? Why I had to leave my children?’

‘Gordon said you had a breakdown.’

‘It was a bit more than that. Did you know our neighbours, the Grangers, actually slept through the whole damn thing?’

Julia nodded. She remembered reading it in the police report.

‘About a week later I saw Brian Granger in the crescent. He was in a foul mood because his car had been damaged on 19 January. He thought one of the emergency vehicles scraped it, but the insurance company was denying liability. He went on and on about it, as if that was the only important thing that happened.’

Julia winced as she guessed what was coming.

‘I suppose I just snapped. I had some shopping with me, including a bottle of wine. I ended up hurling it through his living-room window.’

Julia gasped. ‘Was anyone inside?’

‘Only his wife, and she was upstairs. I went indoors, opened another bottle of wine and drank most of it straight down, then I tried to overdose on paracetamol. It was only because the Grangers had called the police that they found me in time.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ Julia said. ‘Have you been offered any help or support?’

‘Oh, yes – a lot of fancy counselling. They think I have PTSD, but it’s bloody embarrassing. All I did was run and hide. I don’t deserve any help.’

She hunched over and wept, covering her face with her hands. After watching helplessly for a moment, Julia shifted closer and laid a hand on Alice’s back.

‘You don’t have to go on suffering like this.’

‘I do,’ Alice said. ‘Because it’s not PTSD that’s destroying me. It’s fear. It’s guilt.’

And now Julia understood. She knew why Alice had left her family. Why she had chosen to run and hide all over again.

‘You heard him, didn’t you? The second killer.’

A long silence. Then, in a whisper, Alice said, ‘I saw him.’

Julia couldn’t speak. She was aware of a heavy weight in her stomach. Eventually Alice straightened up and uncovered her face.

‘I heard something that didn’t make sense, and decided to have a look. You must have been in the tree by then. I saw a man in motorcycle leathers, standing over Carl. He was holding the gun.’

‘This was after he’d shot Carl?’

‘Yes. I didn’t know if it was good news or not, so I stayed hidden until the police arrived.’

‘Why didn’t you tell them?’

‘When they took my statement, nobody asked me about him. They were all talking as though Carl had shot himself. I already felt like a coward for not trying to help you. I thought… if I told them, they’d probably just laugh at me.’

Recalling the scepticism that had greeted her own statement, Julia couldn’t disagree. ‘And that’s why you’re here?’

Alice nodded. ‘I’m so scared he’ll track me down.’

Julia took her hand. ‘Hiding’s not the answer. I felt exactly the same, but it didn’t work.’ She paused, debating how much to disclose. ‘Last night, the hotel where I was staying was firebombed.’

Alice gasped. ‘Was it him?’

‘I can’t be sure, but I think so.’

‘And the police? Do they agree with you?’

A knowing look crept on to Alice’s face. Julia suspected she was pursuing a hopeless cause, but felt compelled to keep trying.

‘We should both go to the police. With two of us, there’s a better chance of convincing them.’

‘And what if the killer finds out? What if he targets my children?’

Julia sighed. In her heart she knew Alice was right to fear reprisals.

‘Your husband thinks it’s his fault,’ she said. ‘He misses you terribly.’

‘I can’t tell him,’ Alice said. ‘I have to carry this alone. They’re safer this way.’

‘What about when the killer’s caught?’

‘He won’t be. How can they catch him if they don’t even know he exists?’

‘But that’s why you have to come forward. Please.’

‘No.’ Alice wrenched her hand free of Julia’s. ‘You need to stop stirring up trouble. Forget it ever happened.’

‘I can’t do that. I won’t.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ Alice declared. ‘Because he’ll come after you again. And this time he’ll kill you.’

50

When the phone rang George was in his study, brooding on his wife’s advice. Placing Walker and Trent in the frame for Peggy Forester’s death might well neutralise the threat they posed to him, but George’s own fear was that it could backfire. For one thing, the media might choose to portray them as vigilante heroes, which would only increase the potential audience for their conspiracy theories.

His gloom deepened the instant he recognised Toby’s voice on the phone. ‘We have to pay Vilner off. Whatever it takes. Just get rid of him.’

George smiled at the use of the plural. ‘What’s brought this on?’

‘He’s a loose cannon. It was a mistake to offer him the security contract, I accept that now.’

‘You still haven’t told me what’s happened.’

‘He came here this morning. He was… aggressive. Unstable.’

Toby fell silent, but George waited, sensing there was more to come.

‘He took my copy of the report.’

George swore under his breath. ‘Did he say what he was going to do with it?’

‘Not specifically. But it’s leverage, isn’t it?’

Kendrick, thought George, nearly saying it aloud. He wasn’t ready to break the news to Toby just yet. He said, ‘What makes you think Vilner will be bought off?’

‘Everyone has their price.’

George snorted. And what makes you think I can afford it? But he didn’t say that either.

‘I’ll consider it, although I wouldn’t be terribly optimistic. Vilner’s no fool. Exploiting weakness is what he’s good at.’

It was a deliberate dig at Toby, and his nephew knew it. For once there was no protest, just a meek conciliatory ‘Thank you.’

George put the phone down, almost wishing Toby had lost his temper. In the heat of an altercation he might have found it easier to deliver the bad news about Kendrick. He also saw how discharging Toby’s debts could be regarded as a fair way to conclude their relationship. Severance pay.

As ever when his problems threatened to overwhelm him, George unlocked his desk and took out the photograph he kept hidden at the bottom of the drawer. He placed it on the desk and tenderly stroked his finger across the perfect, beautiful face.

One o’clock, and Sullivan was ensconced in a quiet corner of a comfortable boozer on the edge of Ashdown Forest, polishing off scampi and chips and leafing through the Daily Mail. He considered a third pint but decided to let Walker buy it for him.

Craig stalked into the pub a minute later. Sullivan lifted his empty glass and mouthed, ‘IPA.’

‘It’s your bloody round,’ Craig said when he returned with the beers.

‘Least you can do after dragging me out here.’ Sullivan took a long drink. ‘So what have you got that’s so interesting?’

‘Julia Trent told me about the second gunman. I don’t know why her allegations weren’t taken more seriously.’

‘Because there was no evidence found at the scene, and no one else saw him.’

‘The report basically implied she was a nutjob. I don’t think she is.’

‘She was given a rough ride, I’ll grant you that.’

‘So you accept she’s telling the truth?’

Sullivan merely shrugged, lifting his glass to help conceal his growing excitement.

Craig said, ‘We think the same man firebombed Julia’s hotel last night, and he ran my car off the road.’ He paused, waiting for a reaction, then added, ‘It’s also possible that he murdered Peggy Forester.’

‘Peggy?’ Sullivan repeated thoughtfully. ‘Why do you say that?’

Craig faltered. ‘Well… the fire at her house.’

‘Do you possess information suggesting it was started deliberately?’

The formal language clearly spooked him. Craig sat back, struggling to rein in his emotions. ‘This can’t just be coincidence, or paranoia. Surely you can see that?’

‘Oh, I’m open to the idea of another killer,’ Sullivan said. ‘Though I’m not sure how many of my colleagues would be.’

‘But you’d be willing to investigate?’

‘Who says I’m not already working on it?’

‘Are you? What do you mean?’

Sullivan drank, then exhaled cheerfully. ‘Let’s say there was another killer. He’s gotta have a strong motive, so you’d look at what seems like a serious grudge against the Caplans. And who did the Caplans work for?’

‘George Matheson.’

‘Yep. Plus it was Matheson’s gun they stole, and some of Matheson’s opponents were the victims. So maybe…’ He grinned, spotting a tiny light of comprehension in Craig’s eyes. ‘Maybe it was someone looking to throw doubt on George Matheson. Someone who wants the housing development stopped once and for all.’

He gulped another mouthful of beer. Craig was wide-eyed, the colour drained from his face.

‘Maybe someone who, for good measure, tried to coerce a serving police officer into revealing inside information, and then targeted a vulnerable witness.’

Craig finally found his voice. ‘That’s fucking ridiculous.’

‘Is it? How do I know you didn’t set this hotel on fire, then crash the car yourself? Any witnesses?’

‘It was on a quiet country road.’

Sullivan shrugged: point proven. For a moment Craig looked like he might lash out. Instead he gritted his teeth and said, ‘Carl Forester killed my father.’

‘Yeah. And according to you and Julia, this other gunman killed Carl.’

Craig threw up his hands, as though it was too absurd to merit a response.

Sullivan went on: ‘And now you’re saying he also killed Peggy Forester. Do you know where she lives?’

Craig’s gaze slid away. ‘Falcombe somewhere.’

‘Ever been there?’

‘If you’re going to accuse me, you’d better do it by the book. Arrest, caution, legal representation.’

‘Sounds like a guilty man talking.’ Sullivan laughed. ‘I’ll ask you again. Have you ever been inside Peggy Forester’s house?’

Craig jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t really believe I killed her?’ He raised his fists, and Sullivan tensed, clutching his beer glass in case he needed to ram it into Craig’s face. Purely in self-defence, of course.

But Craig must have seen the folly of his actions, and perhaps also sensed that Sullivan was itching to retaliate. He kicked his chair back and stormed out.

The Berkshire house came with a study, but it wasn’t big enough for Kendrick. He had converted one of the bedrooms instead, adding several desks and upgrading the internet to the highest bandwidth available.

He was doodling on a notepad while reading a document on screen when the call came through. He listened, grim-faced, before saying just three words.

‘Okay. Do it.’

He put the phone down and stared blankly at the display. He felt the faintest of tremors as he reflected on the order he’d just given. Not fear, exactly. More like uncertainty. But that was bad enough. This wasn’t a decision that could be reversed.

Glancing at the notepad, he saw he’d drawn a number of intersecting circles around a single word, written in capitals and given a shadow effect. He smiled. He hadn’t even been aware of writing it.

Decipio.

51

Craig was back in Chilton by three o’clock, feeling sick to his stomach. He almost expected to find the police at the Old Schoolhouse, waiting to arrest him. Their absence gave him no comfort. If Sullivan intended to keep this to himself, for his own amusement or gain, the implications were even worse.

But he had no one but himself to blame for the mess he was in. He wondered if Sullivan had been playing with him from the start. Perhaps he’d only supplied the report in order to lure him into a trap.

When Julia rang, he decided not to mention the meeting. He was already worried that she didn’t fully trust him: the last thing he wanted was to create more doubt.

Julia sounded about as dispirited as he did. ‘We’ve really screwed up by not going to the police. We forgot that George Matheson knew we’d visited Peggy Forester. When I saw him this morning⁠—’

‘You saw Matheson? I don’t suppose you asked where his friend Vilner was last night?’

‘I didn’t think of that. I just bumped into him in Chilton. He actually seemed quite upset. Oh, and he offered to buy Mum and Dad’s cottage.’

‘What? The cheeky bastard!’

Julia explained that an entry in her father’s diary had mentioned Carl Forester, and it prompted her decision to try and speak to Alice Jones. Craig tried to follow her account while also busy connecting disparate strands of thought. The meeting on Wednesday, and Julia’s hunch that George had access to the police report. Then today, the way Sullivan kept pressing him to confirm whether he’d visited Peggy Forester, as though he already knew the answer…

Craig let out an involuntary groan, causing Julia to break off. ‘What?’

‘Just had a thought about George’s mole in the police. I’ll tell you when I know for sure. Sorry – carry on.’

Julia described her visit to Alice’s flat. ‘She’s in a terrible state, torturing herself over what happened.’

‘But she hid upstairs with her kids. Nothing wrong with that.’

‘No, Craig. She saw the killer.’

‘What?’

‘Alice looked out and saw him, standing by Carl’s body.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Which at least means I didn’t imagine it!’

‘I’ve never thought that,’ Craig assured her. ‘Anyway, this is great news.’

‘It would be, except she point blank refuses to go to the police. She thinks it’s too dangerous.’

Disgusted, Craig said, ‘She doesn’t have a fraction of your courage.’

‘I don’t have three children to protect. I kind of agree with her – they have to come first.’

‘All right. Maybe we can find a way to change her mind. How about if we meet up and discuss the next steps?’

Julia agreed more readily than he expected. ‘I’ll be in Chilton tomorrow, to start clearing out the cottage. Say, ten o’clock at my parents’ place?’

‘That’s good with me. I’ll give you a hand.’

Ending the call, Craig felt a little rush of euphoria that lasted only as long as it took to remember that both George Matheson and DI Sullivan now had him over a barrel.

The killer spent a restless evening, thinking about what he had done and what was still to do. Already he was savouring the moment of Decipio’s unmasking, the moment when the tables would be turned. Just another day or two, he hoped.

In the meantime there had been a curt exchange of messages: Decipio warning him of a new threat.

When asked if he’d played a part in Peggy Forester’s death, his reply was carefully noncommittal. He had no intention of supplying any more of the rope that could hang him.

It was a severe disappointment that both Craig Walker and Julia Trent had survived on Wednesday night. Worse still, it didn’t seem to have scared them off. In his darker moments he was prey to a queasy conviction that his whole grand scheme was unravelling. That no matter what he did, no matter how bold or resourceful his actions, some tiny snagging detail always remained to catch him unawares.

Even something as trivial, as innocuous, as a fucking diary.

52

Julia woke on Friday feeling stronger and more refreshed than she had for weeks. Perhaps it was just the effect of a full night in her own bed, or perhaps evidence that she’d recovered from Wednesday night’s exertions; whatever the reason, it provided a welcome antidote to an otherwise bleak predicament.

Yesterday, after her frustrating visit to Alice Jones, she had occupied herself with housework, shopping, and also taking plenty of rest. Once or twice she’d picked up her father’s diary, but couldn’t quite bring herself to read on. In the evening she phoned her brother and some friends to let them know she was back home. It felt like a significant announcement: normal life was about to resume.

Nevertheless, she experienced some trepidation as she drove to Chilton. Without fully acknowledging it to herself, she timed her journey to arrive at ten o’clock so that Craig could accompany her into the house.

It was another mild day, this time with heavy skies and a fresh wind. Julia had to park in the village itself, and as she pulled up Craig emerged from the Old Schoolhouse. He was wearing a thin V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him without a jacket, and she couldn’t help noticing how broad his shoulders were.

Probably a good job, for it looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on them.

Their greeting was a little awkward; after a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her cheek. ‘Nobody followed you here?’

‘No. I kept checking.’

‘Good. I hate to say it, but we really should take some precautions until the killer is caught.’

Julia nodded, even as she recalled Alice’s bitter retort: How can they catch him if they don’t even know he exists?

‘So what about Matheson?’ Craig asked. ‘Do you think he’ll dump us in it over the visit to Peggy Forester?’

‘I’m not sure. He seemed to be on a bit of a charm offensive yesterday, but that might change. What was your theory about his police contact?’

Craig looked evasive. ‘Still working on it.’

‘Okay.’ They reached the row of cottages and Julia found the door key. ‘Did you get your claim sorted out?’

‘The Golf’s being recovered today. They won’t give me a courtesy car until they know if it’s repairable, so I’ve hired one.’

Distracted by their conversation, Julia put the key in the lock and then froze. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘Sounded like something inside.’

Not something, she realised. Someone.

Julia opened the door just as another, sharper noise rang out: urgent footsteps clattering through the kitchen. The back door banged open, and as Craig pushed past her, Julia glimpsed a dark figure fleeing towards the rear fence. The same dark figure who had hunted her in the dunes on Wednesday night.

The killer.

Craig ran through the house in pursuit. For a second Julia was transfixed by terror and confusion. Then she came jolting back to life. She couldn’t let Craig go it alone. This was her fight, too.

By the time she reached the door Craig was climbing the rear fence. It backed on to a field of dark soil, which rose in a gentle incline for about a hundred yards. The killer was already halfway up, anonymous in a baseball cap and black coat.

‘Wait here,’ Craig shouted.

‘No.’ Julia joined him at the fence, slightly breathless but otherwise okay. After seeing the determination in her face, he helped her climb over.

The killer crested the ridge and disappeared from sight. Craig set off after him, Julia lagging behind almost immediately. He was nearly at the top when Julia hit a loose clod of earth and felt her ankle give way. She cried out as she fell, causing Craig to hesitate. He turned and ran back to her.

‘Twisted my ankle. I’m all right.’

She reached out and let him help her up. Holding on to his arm, she hobbled the last few yards to the top of the ridge. From here the field dropped away towards a line of oaks next to a stream which marked the eastern perimeter of George Matheson’s land. The killer had vanished.

Craig swore softly. ‘Was that the same guy you saw in Camber?’

‘I think so.’ Now the immediate danger was past, Julia could feel her legs starting to tremble; a peculiar coldness spreading through her body.

‘He must have been lying in wait for you,’ Craig said.

Julia tried to respond but her throat had closed. She noticed the clouds had turned black and the sky white, like a photographic negative. She heard Alice’s voice, booming from the ether like some Biblical prophet: He’ll come after you again. And this time he’ll kill you.

‘What did you say?’ Craig asked, but Julia wasn’t aware that she’d spoken. Perhaps he had heard Alice too.

Then he leapt at her, and in her last moment of consciousness she understood that Craig must be the second killer. It had all been a terrible deception.

The killer ran, thinking of 19 January, thinking of the risks he had taken, but trying not to dwell on his failure. He had been in the cottage almost an hour, and with a bit of luck he might have completed his search without being disturbed. Instead, the bitch had turned up with Walker in tow.

He hadn’t found anything incriminating, but it was of little consolation. Yet again he’d risked capture, and gained nothing in return. At the back of his mind a shrill voice warned that the situation was slipping away from him.

Once he was deep in the trees, he rested a minute. Rather than dwell on another wasted effort, he pictured something more inspiring: the embryonic flames licking at Peggy Forester’s body. That was the true measure of his abilities.

He had considered setting the cottage alight, but rejected the idea. As far as he knew, the police hadn’t yet linked the fires at the hotel and Peggy Forester’s, but another one might attract suspicion.

His car was about half a mile away, parked in a beauty spot on the outskirts of Falcombe. When he reached it, he sat inside and considered his options. He could return home now or – while he was down in Sussex – he could force the issue.

Julia regained consciousness just as Craig staggered to a halt, pondering how to get her over the fence.

‘I’m okay,’ she said. ‘You can put me down.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes. Before you have a hernia.’

Craig gratefully lowered her to the ground. He kept a hand against her back, and she gripped his shoulder until she was sure she could stay upright.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘You fainted. Just keeled right over.’

That’s why you grabbed me, she thought, with a frisson of guilty relief. How could she have imagined that Craig was the killer? It was a crazy idea, though it persisted in a corner of her mind, a little warning light that wouldn’t be extinguished. Something about him that instinctively she didn’t trust…

They went back indoors, where he fetched a towel and soaked it in water. While Julia dabbed her face and neck, he went to check the rest of the house.

He was upstairs when she was gripped by a painful coughing fit that left her feeling hot and woozy. There was a nasty metallic taste in her mouth, and when she got up and spat into the sink, the sight of blood nearly made her pass out again. Hearing Craig’s footsteps on the stairs, she quickly ran the tap and rinsed it away.

‘The only room that looks disturbed is the back bedroom. Paperwork all over the floor.’

He went to inspect the front door; Julia followed him, and said, ‘Mum and Dad kept a spare key under the back step. Like most people round here.’

‘Not any more, I suspect.’ He faced her. ‘Do we call the police, or not?’

Julia shrugged. ‘If nothing was taken, we could spend hours giving statements, and what will it achieve? Even if we tell them everything, they won’t believe us.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

Julia thought again of Alice’s warning. ‘He can’t have been lying in wait. How would he have known I was coming here this morning?’

Looking at Craig, a thought popped into her head. It was mean, and unworthy, but she couldn’t stop it.

You knew.

‘No,’ Julia said, as if rebuking herself. ‘He must have been looking for something.’

‘But the house has been empty for weeks. Why now?’

‘Because of what we’re doing? Talking to Peggy Forester. Matheson. Alice Jones. Somehow there’s a connection to this house. To my—’ She broke off, letting out a tiny cry.

‘What?’ Craig asked.

‘The diaries,’ she exclaimed. ‘I told George Matheson about my father’s diaries.’

53

It was eleven o’clock when the buzzer sounded, announcing a visitor. George checked the monitor by the door, then pressed the button to open the gates. Since speaking to his nephew the day before, he’d given a lot of thought to what approach he should take with Vilner, or indeed whether to contact him at all. Now that decision was moot.

He opened the front door as the Range Rover drew up. Vilner got out and stood still for a moment, seemingly oblivious to George’s presence. Instead he gazed in the direction of the village, then turned and swaggered towards the house. The sheer intensity of the man was such that George considered slamming the door in Vilner’s face, and refusing him entry.

At the very least he ought to call up to Vanessa to alert her, but he couldn’t bear how feeble that would look.

‘I don’t recall arranging a meeting,’ he said.

‘You didn’t,’ Vilner retorted, nimbly climbing the steps and brushing past him. ‘It’s time we got a few things clear.’

In the back bedroom, Julia and Craig found that the wardrobe had been ransacked, the clothes ripped off the rail and piled in the corner. Nine or ten cardboard boxes had been tipped upside down, spilling out not just dozens of her father’s diaries but also decades’ worth of bills, receipts, warranties and instruction manuals.

A glossy brochure for a Philips music centre caught Julia’s eye. She remembered how as a child she’d accidentally broken the Perspex cover over the turntable. Her father had been set to explode until he saw she was inconsolable, whereupon he’d assured her that the turntable would function just as well without the lid. Julia had been perceptive enough to appreciate that he was bitterly upset, and aware that her brother wouldn’t have escaped punishment so easily.

Now she sniffed, and said, ‘Let’s get started.’

They spent a few minutes tidying up, scooping the various documents into piles. Some of the diaries had been opened and then discarded. Julia sat cross-legged on the floor and picked up a couple of volumes. Craig followed suit, and for a time they read in a companionable silence.

Perhaps understandably, Craig was the first to grow restless. ‘What did you say to George Matheson, exactly?’

‘Just that I’d read Dad’s diary, and discovered that Carl did some work in the garden last summer.’

‘And?’

‘That was it. We talked about Carl, and the fact that nobody could have predicted what he went on to do.’

‘Did he ask any questions? Anything about the diaries?’

‘No. He didn’t seem particularly interested in them.’

‘So maybe it’s just a coincidence?’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Not any more.’

‘No. Same here.’ He turned another page, then said, cheekily, ‘Riveting stuff, isn’t it?’

Julia could help smiling, as disloyal as it felt to agree. ‘At one stage he was talking about self-publishing a memoir. Mum said it would cost too much.’

Craig read on for a minute, then abruptly looked up. ‘Hold on. Where’s the one you had on Wednesday?’

‘Back at my flat.’

‘And it’s the one that mentions Carl?’

Julia nodded, but also groaned. ‘I’m so stupid…’

‘Not really. Was there anything else in it that could be significant?’

‘I only read as far as August.’

She was furious with herself, but Craig said, ‘We didn’t know it was important until half an hour ago.’ He got to his feet. ‘Come on. We’ll take these back with us.’

Vilner strode towards the drawing room, giving George little choice but to follow.

‘I saw Toby,’ Vilner said.

‘I know. He said you threatened him.’

Vilner chose a delicate Queen Anne chair that seemed overwhelmed by his muscular frame. Leaning back, legs splayed, his posture radiated power and dominance.

‘I warned him not to try and stitch me up. I’m giving you the same warning.’

‘And that’s why you’re here?’

‘It’s one reason.’ Vilner paused a beat. ‘That offer you made, to buy my silence? I talked to Kendrick, but I didn’t tell him everything. I wanted a bit more background before I mentioned Julia Trent. Then I read the police report⁠—’

‘You had no right to take that report.’

‘Neither did you.’ Vilner’s gaze hardened. ‘You weren’t going to tell me about it, were you? Which gets me to wondering what else you might be hiding.’

‘I don’t answer to you.’

‘No. But like it or not, I’m on the team, and so far I’ve had a raw deal. That’s gonna change.’

‘In what way?’

‘Two options,’ Vilner said. ‘If you’re keeping the business, I’m willing to wait for the contract, but in the meantime I want a sign of your appreciation. Two hundred grand in cash, right now.’

George’s cheeks bulged with indignation. ‘That’s almost as much as the original debt.’

‘When the risks increase, so do the rewards.’

‘I can’t lay my hands on that amount of money,’ George said. ‘My wealth is tied up in long-term investments.’

‘You’re talking about shares? Property, like Toby’s apartment?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘So turf him out and sell up.’ Vilner paused to let the suggestion take root. ‘Option two. If you sell the business to Kendrick, where does that leave me?’

‘I imagine Kendrick will retain your services. He seems quite content to employ you now.’

‘That’s only to spite you, George, as you well know.’

‘You think he’ll dump you when you’ve served your purpose?’

‘Who knows? But I want a cast-iron guarantee that I’ll benefit from any sale. That means a stake in the holding company.’

George spluttered again. ‘You want a share of what I’ve taken years to build up? A business I’ve sweated blood to make successful?’

‘I don’t care if you sweated your mother’s milk. You need my co-operation and my silence. For that, I want ten per cent.’

‘You must be mad!’ George exploded.

Vilner got to his feet, not quickly or angrily, but with a calm determination that made George go cold.

‘It’s a simple enough choice,’ Vilner said. ‘You give me ten per cent, or you lose everything.’

Julia wasn’t really expecting to find anything in the diary. She was half convinced there must be some other reason for this morning’s burglary, perhaps related to her presence there.

Back at her flat, Craig asked if she felt strong enough to read it, then indicated the kitchen. ‘How about if I make us an early lunch?’

‘A sandwich would be nice. There’s ham, cheese, tomatoes.’

She left him to it and fetched the diary. After skimming the entries up to the day when Carl Forester’s name first appeared, she read on more carefully, telling herself there was nothing to fear.

The remainder of August was uneventful, though Bernard did mention how he and Lisa had sat outside one warm evening. So much more light now the conifers are lower.

The next two months were in a similar vein. A spell of bad weather had him raging.

Forecast wrong as usual. Walked to Ditchling and got soaked. £10 for a taxi back – I ought to invoice the Met Office!

The entry for 25 November was much longer than most. There was a jagged look to the writing, and heavy indentations on the paper. Dad was angry when he wrote this, Julia could see at once. But that wasn’t the only reason it stood out.

Carl’s name seemed to leap off the page, but Julia was momentarily distracted by Craig, opening cupboards and drawers. ‘Got any pickle?’ he called.

‘Top right, next to the oven.’

She looked back at the diary. Took a deep breath and read the entry for 25 November.

Cool, overcast day. Had the usual walk this afternoon, but Lisa felt tired so we decided to cut back through the woods north of the farm. We heard a strange noise and thought it was kids mucking about. I left Lisa and went to investigate. In a clearing I found two men setting up targets on the trees. One had a shotgun – it turned out to be Carl Forester, the lad who cut our conifers. The other was a nasty bit of work, with an extremely threatening manner. He marched up and accused me of trespassing on private land. I argued that villagers have always been entitled to walk in these woods. Lisa heard the commotion and called me away. V unpleasant. I still wonder if I should have gone to the police, but talking to Lisa afterwards she’s not certain if Matheson still allows access to these woods. All in all it cast a dark shadow over the day.

Craig came in with the sandwiches, stopping in his tracks when he registered the change in her. ‘Oh, Christ. What is it?’

‘He saw them,’ Julia said. ‘Carl and the second killer. Dad saw them together.’

54

When Toby recognised the Range Rover outside Chilton Manor, his first impulse was to turn round and drive back home. After yesterday’s conversation, he hadn’t expected his uncle to speak to Vilner so quickly, if at all.

Torn with indecision, he parked around the far side of the house and let himself in via the old servants’ entrance. He had possessed keys to the house since his teens, when he had lived mostly with his aunt and uncle during the school holidays. Since then he’d been permitted – if not exactly welcome – to come and go as he pleased. His aunt in particular seemed to resent it when he turned up unannounced, and in the past year or so he had drastically curbed his visits.

There was a chance Vanessa was here now, but he thought it unlikely. She and George had lived separate lives for as long as Toby could remember, and she had always preferred the house in London. Even so, he kept his movements stealthy as he passed through the kitchen. Pausing in the hall, he could hear voices in the drawing room. He hurried upstairs to George’s office. Knocked gently, just in case, and opened the door.

His uncle’s desk struck him as suspiciously tidy. Toby conducted a quick search of the room, but both the desk drawers and filing cabinet were locked, with no keys in sight. Resisting the urge to smash something, he let himself out and realised he could hear music from a TV or radio from along the hall.

Toby stopped, listening intently, and heard the music give way to the drone of conversation, as if someone had changed channels.

He moved quietly along the hall. The sound was emanating from one of the many guest bedrooms. Was there a lodger he didn’t know about?

Feeling oddly indignant, he threw the door open and marched in, only to be greeted by a vision from a nightmare. A hideous spindly creature reared up in bed, eyes like dark buttons set deep in a raggedy skull, bony arms clawing the air in outrage. It turned those terrible eyes on him and spat with disgust.

‘Get out! Get out!’

Julia handed the diary to Craig, and he read the entry himself. It seemed to take an age before he turned to her.

‘Your dad saw them practising with the shotgun.’ He shook his head. ‘If he’d reported them to the police, the whole massacre might have been averted.’

Julia was stunned by his comment. ‘That’s not fair. Dad couldn’t have known what they were planning.’

Craig at least had the decency to look abashed. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

He studied the entry again, frowning as he did so. ‘Look at this. “He marched up and accused me of trespassing on private land.”’

‘It’s George Matheson’s land.’

‘Yeah. So maybe they had his permission?’

‘Maybe.’

‘“An extremely threatening manner”,’ Craig quoted. ‘Sounds like a pretty good description of Vilner.’

Julia nodded. In the gloomy silence that followed, Craig devoured his sandwich in several bites, his brow still creased in a troubled frown. Julia picked up the diary and, steeling herself, read on through November and into December.

Finally she reached the last entry, made the day before they died:

Weather atrocious again, and more rain on the way. Quiet day at home. Watched Countdown – managed two 6-letter words. Lisa coming down with flu, she thinks. Not feeling all that bright myself. Hope we both shake it off before Christmas.

And that was it. Her father’s last words. Julia closed the diary and set it down. She could feel tears itching to come, but something was holding them back. Something lurking in her mind: a thought, a question, darting in and out of the shadows.

She remembered what she had learned in the wake of the tragedy, how the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning could often be mistaken for a cold or flu. When Dad wrote this, the boiler was already playing up. And the bad weather meant they’d closed the windows, probably keeping internal doors shut, too. Intensifying the concentration of CO.

Another scurrying question, but this time she caught it.

What if the boiler hadn’t malfunctioned?

What if the boiler had been sabotaged?

Craig put his plate down, a sudden look of horror on his face. ‘If your dad saw them, you don’t think…?’

Craig couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud, but Julia could.

‘He killed them, didn’t he? He killed my parents.’

Toby recoiled in horror. The creature hissed: ‘Don’t look at me!’

The voice was familiar; he looked closer, realised he hadn’t seen her for months, and now he understood why she’d been lying low…

‘Vanessa?’

‘What are you doing here?’ She twisted away from him, dragging the blanket up to conceal her body. Her skin was thin and yellowed like parchment, but her eyes held the remnants of the woman he knew.

‘What’s happened to you?’

‘What do you think?’ she snarled.

You’re dying. It was a stunning revelation, and right then Toby couldn’t say how he felt about it. They had been on little more than civil terms for many years, but once, in the aftermath of his mother’s untimely death from a drug overdose, they had been considerably more than that.

Vanessa had been beautiful then, in her way. Toby’s head swam at the memory of the moment when her distant sympathy became something else. He recalled the sureness of her fingers, the press and pull of her soft, expert mouth.

‘Why didn’t I know about this?’ he demanded.

‘Because I didn’t want you to know.’

‘But why?’ Offended, he shut the door and moved to a chair at the foot of the bed. He sat patiently until Vanessa met his eye.

‘It’s private. Personal. Ghastly. But it’ll be over soon.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Toby wasn’t sure if that were true, but thought he should say it anyway.

His aunt looked irritated. She attempted to moisten her lips with her tongue, then reached for the water by her bed. Toby got it for her, and as he placed the glass in her hand her fingers brushed against his. Her skin was dry and scaly.

‘Vilner’s here,’ she said.

‘I know. I came upstairs to avoid him.’

After a sip of water, her voice was a little stronger. ‘Do you know why?’

‘I’m hoping it’s to negotiate a deal.’ He told her about his conversation with George. Her lips formed a caustic smile.

‘You won’t buy him off now,’ she said. ‘Vilner’s scented blood. My bet is that he’s playing off each side against the other.’

She wasn’t making much sense, and Toby wondered just how lucid she was. When she said nothing more, he prompted her gently: ‘Each side?’

She regarded him with what could only be described as pity. ‘Of course, you don’t know about Kendrick.’

Toby frowned. It wasn’t just the look in her eyes; it was the way she spoke. Sad and yet thrilled, as if she’d been gifted the opportunity to pronounce a terminal diagnosis on somebody else for a change.

‘Who-who’s Kendrick?’

‘Kendrick is… a vulture. He’s buying the business.’

At first Toby thought he had misheard. ‘What did you say?’

‘George is selling up,’ Vanessa said. ‘The whole damn thing. And you’re not part of the deal.’

55

Julia felt blank. Anaesthetised. It was like losing them all over again.

‘Do we go to the police?’ she asked Craig.

‘I doubt they’ll be able to find evidence of foul play.’

‘They might at least take the idea of a second killer seriously.’

Craig checked his watch. ‘We should have reported today’s break-in straight away. Then there’s the question of Peggy Forester. As soon as we admit to seeing her, they’re going to take a very close look at us.’

Julia was still smarting from Craig’s suggestion that her father could have prevented the massacre; now his slightly condescending tone only increased her irritation.

‘Don’t forget the hotel fire,’ she said acidly. ‘Not to mention your car accident.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Well, you weren’t straight with me about your past. I’m starting to wonder what else you’ve been holding back.’

‘The guy drove straight at me, and the car ended up in a ditch. When I found you on the beach, my clothes were soaked, remember? I had cuts on my hand and my head. I didn’t bloody invent it!’

‘I’m not saying it didn’t happen. But how am I to know if the killer caused it, or something else?’

Craig looked mystified. ‘Like what?’

‘You tell me. Maybe you weren’t concentrating.’ Julia met his eye, wanting to measure his reaction very carefully. ‘Maybe you’d been drinking.’

When she was alone again, Vanessa rested back on the bed and assessed the situation. She had never seen Toby so shocked, so furious, but to his credit he’d kept his temper in check. She’d cautioned that he would gain nothing from confronting George while he was angry – advice she’d expected him to disregard. But he had left quietly, without announcing his presence in the house.

Soon Vilner would leave too, and perhaps George would update her on their meeting. Then again, perhaps he wouldn’t.

While she waited, she reflected on how easy it was to light a touch paper, but how difficult to predict the consequences. Perhaps, when he came up to see her, she would tell George what she had done.

Then again, perhaps she wouldn’t.

The accusation seemed to deflate him. Craig’s shoulders dropped. His gaze turned inward, dark with self-loathing.

‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘I haven’t been honest with you.’

He got up and wandered over to the window, as if needing to put some physical distance between them. Julia waited, now slightly afraid of what he might reveal.

‘Years ago, I had quite a serious drink problem. It started when I was doing the investigative work. I was missing deadlines, picking fights with people, generally behaving like a twat. The turning point came when I had a run-in with the police.’

Julia thought of Kate’s warning about him. ‘What happened?’

‘I had a good lead about a bent copper. A senior detective in the Met, taking backhanders from some major villains. I was putting the story together when I got a visit from his sergeant. He was adamant that his boss was completely straight, that someone was trying to fit him up. He appealed to me to let it go. He was very plausible, very friendly, with only the merest hint of a threat. I told him I’d consider it.’

He turned away from her. ‘The next day I got pulled over and breathalysed. I was way over the limit, ended up with a year’s ban.’

‘You think it was down to this sergeant?’

‘I never knew for sure. But I took the coward’s way out and dropped the story. After that I had no stomach for my job. The kids were little, and Nina was threatening to kick me out. I managed to sort myself out. Didn’t touch a drop for years.’

He turned back to her. ‘Then Dad was killed, on the same day that I found out about Nina’s affair… and I hit the bottle again.’

Julia nodded. ‘I thought I could smell it in the car.’

‘I had a mouthful of Scotch when we stopped off at your parents’ cottage. Another when I dropped you at the hotel…’ He shrugged. ‘But, I promise, the accident happened just as I described it. Alcohol wasn’t a factor.’

‘It must have been on your mind when we discussed whether to go to the police?’

‘I suppose it was, though my main concern was how they’d view our visit to Peggy Forester.’

He sounded genuine enough, but Julia had reached the point where she was no longer sure of anything.

‘Did you ever find out what happened to the policeman?’

‘The senior one was definitely bent, but he retired early and skipped off to Spain. Never faced justice. His faithful sergeant is now a detective inspector, working here in Sussex.’ Craig laughed. ‘And if you think that sounds like a disaster, wait till you hear about the mess I’m in now.’

George felt drained by his encounter with Vilner. Again he thought of Toby’s suggestion on Tuesday. Jump on a plane to Antigua and leave it all behind: Vilner, Kendrick… Vanessa.

No. He couldn’t leave Vanessa. Not now.

When he looked in on her, she was sound asleep. That was good. He could spare her the details of his encounter with Vilner.

Ten per cent was an outrageous demand. Vilner didn’t have the evidence to justify it, but he knew, as George did, that the media wouldn’t give a damn about evidence or the lack of it. Neither would Craig Walker.

He wondered if that was part of Vilner’s game plan. Use Craig and Julia Trent as his mouthpiece, enabling him to stay in the background. It got him wondering if he should employ a similar tactic.

In admitting that he’d kept information back from Kendrick, Vilner had made a serious error. No doubt he assumed that George wouldn’t rat on him to Kendrick, for fear of weakening his own position. But George knew that when the problems were stacking up, you dealt with them one at a time. First defuse Vilner’s threat, then worry about where it left him with Kendrick.

But it was a big step, not to be taken lightly.

Sleep on it, he decided at last. Speak to Kendrick tomorrow.

Julia decided she needed coffee. Craig followed her to the kitchen and hovered tentatively in the doorway.

‘The detective inspector is called Sullivan,’ he said. ‘I spotted him in one of the news broadcasts. Figured he owed me a favour.’

‘That’s how you got the report?’

‘And the address of your hotel,’ he admitted glumly. ‘But it was a risky strategy from the start. I saw him yesterday, and told him what had happened this week. I thought it would convince him that there was a second killer. It turned out he didn’t need convincing.’

Julia, rinsing the cafetière under the tap, stopped what she was doing. ‘He agrees there was a second killer?’

‘Yes. But he thinks it’s me.’

Julia couldn’t quite mask her shock. She opened a drawer and took out a couple of mugs. Of course he wasn’t the killer: she’d already rejected that ludicrous idea, hadn’t she?

Unless there were several people involved…

Her train of thought must have been obvious. ‘It’s not me,’ Craig told her. ‘If you believe nothing else I’ve said, you must believe that.’

Julia didn’t feel ready to comment. ‘But you think Sullivan is George’s inside man?’

‘It would explain a lot. He’s exactly the kind of lowlife who’d end up on Matheson’s payroll.’

He said nothing more, just leaned against the doorframe and watched as she spooned coffee into the cafetière. His presence didn’t make her uneasy, and she realised her gut instinct was to believe him.

Then she thought of the other terrible insight she’d had about Craig, and decided that now was as good a time as any to confront him.

‘You resent me, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You wish Carl had killed me outside the village shop.’

Toby was steaming with rage on his way back to London, and that rage was reflected in his driving. He chopped in and out of lanes, tailgated the cars in front, and finally understood that he was perilously close to doing something he would regret.

In his defence, he didn’t think he’d ever had to contend with such devastating betrayal. He tried persuading himself that Vanessa was confused, that somehow she had misinterpreted the situation, but in his heart he didn’t believe it. He knew all too well how his uncle operated.

Time and again George had made deals and not said a word until the papers were signed – even when, as a director, Toby should have been entitled to prior knowledge.

So this latest revelation couldn’t be dismissed. George was intent on selling the business from under his nose. Giving away his birthright.

Somehow, Toby had to stop that happening.

56

‘It was DI Sullivan who planted the idea in my head,’ Craig admitted. ‘He told me Dad was shot twice, and that Carl had gone back to… finish the job.’ He swallowed. ‘Taunting me that my father only died because of you.’

‘What he did was incredibly brave. I owe him my life.’ Feeling the prickle of tears, Julia kept her back to him as she stood at the counter. The kettle boiled, and she poured hot water into the cafetière.

‘I feel really proud of him,’ Craig said. ‘Proud that he helped to save you. But I suppose there’s a part of me that does feel bitter about it. If you hadn’t gone running across the green, if you hadn’t needed saving, he might be alive today. I’ve found that hard to deal with.’

‘It’s not exactly easy for me,’ Julia reminded him. ‘You don’t have a monopoly on grief. Or regret.’

She poured the coffee and quickly set the cafetière down. Put a hand over her mouth as tears ran down her cheeks. Her shoulders twitched with each silent sob. She heard Craig take a step towards her.

‘It was never personal. And once I met you I realised what a stupid notion it was. My father did absolutely the right thing.’

She felt his hands gently grip her arms and turn her to face him. There were tears in his eyes and a sorrow on his face that matched hers. Dismissing the last of her doubts, she stepped into his embrace. The feel of his body, his strength and his warmth, made her heart beat faster.

They stood like this for a long time, then parted just enough to look into each other’s eyes. Julia felt her cheeks reddening, a slow bloom of heat that didn’t stop at her face but spread throughout her body. Craig reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulled her close and guided her mouth towards his, their eyes still locked together, solemn and scared and hungry.

The first touch of his lips against hers was like an explosion. After so much time on her own, after so many difficult weeks with no real intimacy or affection, it felt like breaking into sunshine after a year in a freezer. It made her feel complete when she hadn’t even known she was broken.

The moment was perfect: one of those all too rare occasions when he’d acted without any thought whatsoever. Craig simply did what he felt was right.

A perfect moment, but it ended with a phone call. His mobile, bleeping from inside his jacket.

They broke apart, both a little awed and embarrassed. Craig fumbled for the phone, read the display and felt his stomach contract. Even as he took a step backwards, Julia read his expression and busied herself with the coffee.

‘Nina?’ he said.

‘Craig. The police are here.’

Her words blasted the air from his lungs. Had the killer targeted his family?

‘What’s happened? The kids, are they⁠—?’

‘They’re fine. Craig, the police want to talk to you about Abby Clark. She’s gone missing.’

‘Missing? I spoke to her yesterday morning.’

‘That’s what Abby’s girlfriend told them. She seems to think Abby was working on something for you.’

Another shock. Craig saw Julia’s expression, reacting to the horror on his face. Then Nina said, ‘Where are you?’

‘Chilton.’ He answered too quickly, the lie automatic. Easier than explaining the truth.

‘You’re not at your dad’s – I tried his number first.’ A beat of silence. ‘You’re with her, aren’t you? Julia Trent?’

‘Nina, listen⁠—’

‘Well, that didn’t take you long, did it? After all the bullshit you gave me.’

‘It’s not like that.’ He looked at Julia again. ‘Tell the police I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘What is it?’ Julia was in such turmoil, she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that the kiss had been interrupted.

‘My friend Abby’s gone missing. The police want to interview me.’

‘There might be a perfectly innocent explanation.’

‘I hope so, but Abby’s a journalist – she’s never incommunicado.’ Craig looked sombre. ‘I’m so worried that this is because of me. Because of what I asked her to do.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Julia said, but he was in no mood to be placated.

‘If she thinks she’s on to a big story, she’ll take risks. When she rang yesterday she was really excited. Not just about Vilner. She mentioned someone else… Kendrick, I think it was.’

‘Who’s Kendrick?’

‘No idea. That’s what she was trying to find out.’

‘Does your wife think we’re having an affair?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’ He sighed. ‘Something else to straighten out.’

Julia wasn’t sure what to make of that remark. She accompanied him to the front door, where he gave her a quick, impersonal peck on the cheek.

‘Be extra careful, won’t you? There’s no telling what he’ll do next.’

She nodded. Watching him hurry away, Julia felt a sudden conviction that she would never see him again, and the fleeting vision of happiness she had experienced this afternoon crumbled like a castle built from dry, brittle sand.

57

It was a cold, clear night. She stood beneath a dazzling moon, the whole universe suspended above her. She was back on the beach at Camber, but there was no tree. No man in black. Kate’s hotel was dark, deserted.

She turned her back on the land, towards the shore. But there was no shore. For as far as she could see there was only sand, rocks, seaweed. And yet the beach was shifting, trembling beneath her. She looked up and saw a line of white froth gleaming in the darkness, the horizon rushing towards her.

It was a tsunami. Boiling and foaming, growing more immense with every second, pummelling the ground beneath her feet. She had to run. She had to run now.

But Julia couldn’t run. She couldn’t move at all.

She shut her eyes and waited for the wave.

Julia woke, heart hammering. Of all the bad dreams she’d had since the massacre, none had provoked a sensation of such absolute desolation.

It wasn’t too difficult to guess what had prompted it. Last night, after waiting hours to hear from Craig, she had sent him a text. He phoned a few minutes later, apologetic but also weary and distracted. He had told the police what little he knew about Abby’s enquiries. Vilner’s name seemed to be familiar to them, but Kendrick’s had drawn a blank.

He’d also mentioned his theories about the massacre, but the police had been openly sceptical. They were more interested in whether Craig had been having a relationship with Abby, a possibility suggested by her current partner.

‘Why did she think that?’ Julia asked.

‘No idea. We got on pretty well. Flirted a bit. But that was all.’

His breezy denial made Julia wonder how he would describe what had happened between them. It also struck her that she only had his version of his marital problems. Perhaps the reality was more complicated.

Even more unwelcome was the possibility that Abby’s fate was connected to their own enquiries. She pictured George Matheson, standing with her on the village green. His grief had seemed so genuine, his sympathy heartfelt, and yet all the time he must have been glorying in the deception. He’d participated in an act of mass murder and now he was covering his tracks with the same ruthless efficiency.

The landline phone rang, making her jump. She glanced at the bedside clock: just after eight on a Saturday morning. It must be Craig.

But it was a woman’s voice. ‘Julia? It’s Alice here. Alice Jones.’

‘Alice, hi. Everything okay?’

‘I thought I should warn you. It’s partly because of you that I’ve made this decision. I hope you’ll forgive me if it’s not quite what you suggested, but it’s really the only option left.’

‘Alice, slow down. I don’t understand⁠—’

‘Sorry, I haven’t got much time. I just want you to be careful.’

‘Has someone threatened you?’

Alice gave one of her strange, off-key little laughs. ‘That’s why I’m taking this option. To be free of those worries.’

‘Then what?’ Julia asked, so baffled that she wondered if she was still dreaming.

‘The media,’ Alice told her. ‘Just be ready, because it’s going to hit you like a tidal wave.’

The phrase made Julia go cold. She grabbed the mattress and squeezed it to make sure it existed. She really was here, at home. Safe.

‘I have to go now,’ Alice said. ‘I’m truly sorry. Goodbye.’

The line went dead. Julia immediately dialled 1471, but knew it would be hopeless. We do not have the caller’s number.

Craig was up first, at around eight o’clock. Since the massacre he’d found it difficult to sleep late, particularly on Saturdays. And after the grilling he’d got from the police the day before, he’d spent most of the night awake, trying to mediate between his many competing worries.

Creeping downstairs, he saw the envelope on the mat and knew immediately it brought bad news.

It was a plain brown A4 envelope, hand delivered and bearing only his name in a standard typeface. He took it into the kitchen, then quietly shut the door and made coffee.

Only the fear that Nina might soon walk in gave him the impetus to open it. With trembling hands he removed a single sheet of A4 paper. It had text on one side, a photograph on the other. The text was in the same neat font, in the very centre of the sheet. It said:

Don’t talk to the police. We will know.

The photograph was of Tom and Maddie, with Nina, hurrying along a busy road. There were parked cars in the foreground and a low building in the background with a chain link fence around it.

A picture from the school run. Taken recently. But what made him light-headed with terror was the way the picture had been pierced by a pin, not once but four times.

Four neat little holes, obliterating the eyes of his children.

A coughing fit sent Julia to the bathroom. Once again she spat blood into the basin, shockingly bright against the white ceramic. She knew she shouldn’t ignore it, but also felt unwilling to waste her day in a hospital waiting room. Perhaps if it hadn’t improved by tomorrow…

Rinsing her mouth, she remembered that Gordon Jones’s note had included a phone number along with the address. She rang and discovered the number belonged to the other ground-floor flat. The woman who answered said there was a problem getting Alice’s phone connected, and she had agreed to pass on messages.

‘Will you fetch her for me?’ Julia asked. ‘It’s urgent.’

‘Oh, she’s not here, love. She went yesterday. Doesn’t look like she’s coming back, neither.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘Not a word. I only know because the landlord was round here last night.’

Julia thanked her and put the phone down. She spent a restless half hour tidying up, making tea she hardly drank and toast she didn’t eat. All the time imagining Alice calmly preparing to end her life.

She thought about her warning: the media descending on her. Had Alice written some kind of note, confessing that she’d seen the second killer?

Julia’s heart twisted with fear and guilt. Those three boisterous children didn’t deserve to lose their mother. But what could she do?

Finally she overcame her reluctance to call Craig. She rang his father’s landline number, then his mobile, but there was no answer. She would have to try his home number.

It was Nina who answered, just as Julia knew it would be. She sounded harassed and short-tempered.

‘Is Craig there?’

‘He’s gone out. Who is this?’

‘Julia Trent.’

Nina made a noise, a mixture of disgust and contempt. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage with this ridiculous story about the massacre? Leave my husband alone, and keep your mad theories to yourself. You’re nothing but trouble!’

She slammed the phone down. Julia slumped back in her seat, feeling physically winded. The dream now seemed like a terrible premonition. She was completely alone.

Alone in the path of the wave.

58

George had barely slept all night. Vanessa woke in distress at four in the morning, bleeding heavily. The doctor came out and judged her too frail to be moved to hospital. When he emerged from her room, his face was grave.

‘It won’t be long now,’ he told George. ‘You need to prepare for the end.’

George had nodded. Much later it struck him that he was preparing for the end in more ways than the doctor could have imagined.

It soon got worse. After a meagre breakfast, George was sitting at Vanessa’s bedside when Terry Sullivan rang.

‘The shit’s hit the fan,’ the policeman told him. ‘You know there was a witness called Alice Jones, hiding up in her bedroom? Well, turns out she’s been telling us a load of porkies – either that or she’s totally flipped.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She now claims that Julia Trent was right. There was a second killer.’

‘She’s made a statement to that effect?’

A bark of laughter from Sullivan. ‘If only.’

George grimaced as he guessed it. ‘The media?’

‘Yep. Shacked up with the cheapest, nastiest tabloid of the lot. And you know why it was them rather than us? She says we can’t guarantee her safety. Part of the deal is that they’ve got her and her family in a secure location, and they’re going to keep them there for as long as it takes.’

‘As long as it takes?’ George repeated, buying himself time to think. Beside him, Vanessa stirred, opening her eyes.

‘Till the killer’s caught. Which the readers of this rag will say is only fair and reasonable. Meanwhile the other papers will compete for the privilege of ripping us to shreds.’

‘How did you find out? I assume the story hasn’t been printed yet?’

‘No. They like to give us a bit of advance warning. Often it’s thinly disguised blackmail. They’ll go easy if we agree to co-operate.’

‘And will you?’

‘That’s a decision for the top brass. Word is, they’re shitting bricks about it.’

‘So what will you do? Renew the investigation?’

‘I can’t see we’ve any choice.’

Vanessa gave him a questioning glance. George smiled and shook his head, as if to say, It’s nothing. She closed her eyes again.

‘Of course, she could have cooked this up just to line her pockets,’ Sullivan went on. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if her and that Trent woman are in it together.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ George agreed.

‘You realise it’s gonna bring a lot of heat down on you? Especially if they link it to Craig Walker’s allegations.’

An uneasy pause. Sullivan was clearly laying the groundwork for something. Or perhaps waiting for George to make the suggestion. He said, ‘We do still have the fact that they visited Peggy Forester.’

Sullivan cackled. ‘Yeah. Your trump card. I’ll have to work out the best strategy for using it.’ Another pause. This time George knew exactly what was coming. ‘We also need to talk about my remuneration. The stuff I’ve done up to now, that was a favour, but we’re moving into high-risk territory.’

George faked a laugh. ‘Absolutely. Why don’t you call in at the weekend and we’ll put some figures together?’

Vanessa had turned her head away from him. Her eyes were still shut, but whether she was conscious he couldn’t say. After ending the call, he took a moment to order his thoughts. It actually required no time at all to assess the situation. He could sum it up in three words.

It’s falling apart.

The moment she saw the house in Arundel Crescent, Julia knew it was a wasted journey. Every window was closed, and a dull reflected light shone from the glass. There was no hint of sound or movement inside.

Still she knocked and waited, while above her the crows circled like black rags. Their cries took her back to 19 January, and it struck her that each time she returned here she felt more affected, rather than less. As though the village wasn’t done with her yet.

Finally she wrote a note: Gordon, I’m worried about Alice. Please call me. She signed her name, added her contact numbers and slipped it through the letterbox.

It was just after ten in the morning, and much warmer than it had been in January. Back at the flat she’d heard a weather forecast that warned of an imminent change: storm-force winds and torrential rain. In a spot of banter, the news presenter had said, ‘Oh well, I suppose we can’t complain,’ and the forecaster had merrily agreed. ‘Our luck had to run out some time.’

That phrase came back to her now, as she returned to her car. It wasn’t particularly comforting, but at least it was an improvement on Nina Walker’s parting shot.

You’re nothing but trouble.

The doctor had recommended that Vanessa have a nurse on hand for most of the day. As soon as she arrived, George took the opportunity to retire to his office. He allowed himself a small sherry and contemplated what action to take.

Vilner was still the immediate concern. Prior to Sullivan’s call, George had virtually decided to go ahead and tell Kendrick that Vilner was cheating him. It was a risk, of course, but the news from Sullivan made it clear he was facing calamity on several fronts. To stand any chance of defeating his enemies, he needed to assess their strengths and weaknesses, test their alliances.

But first he rang Toby to tell him of yesterday’s encounter with Vilner. It was a brief, disingenuous conversation. George gave the impression that the meeting had been arranged as a direct consequence of Toby’s request. He said he’d opened negotiations with Vilner, but warned it was likely to be a long and difficult process. In the meantime he ordered Toby to keep his head down and his mouth shut. And he wanted no further work on the second application.

‘But you said I could do it!’ Toby protested.

‘And now I’m saying you cannot.’ He tried to outline the possible fallout from the Alice Jones story, but Toby went on protesting until George could no longer contain himself. ‘Just do as you’re told for once,’ he roared. ‘I’m in enough of a mess right now, without your childish bloody whingeing.’

He ended the call, the anger hot in his veins. Just what he needed to take on Kendrick.

A quick gulp of sherry, then he grabbed the phone up again.

Nine-thirty, and Sullivan found himself waiting like a jilted lover amid the teeming mass of humanity on the concourse at Victoria Station. He’d been loitering long enough to draw the attention of a couple of transport police. He let them get within a couple of yards before flashing his warrant card. ‘Fucking clothes hangers,’ he muttered as they turned away.

He’d been summoned to an urgent conference at Scotland Yard to debate the potential fallout from Alice Jones’s revelations. The thought of a Saturday wasted on hot air and management speak filled him with gloom, though it amused him to think that he was better informed of the situation than anyone else present.

Not that he had any intention of sharing this knowledge. First he had to decide how it could be used most profitably, and at the least risk to himself.

Fucking with Craig’s head had lost some of its appeal, especially now Alice Jones had given him an opportunity to secure a decent payday from George. But her allegations, combined with Craig’s, also made him uncomfortable. At the back of his mind lingered the fear that there was something a whole lot bigger going on here. Something he would be wise to avoid.

He looked at his watch again. When Craig rang this morning, asking for an urgent meeting, Sullivan half hoped to discourage him by stipulating Victoria Station, but Craig had immediately agreed. Sullivan spotted him now, threading his way through a party of tourists fresh off the Gatwick train.

Dispensing with a greeting, Sullivan barked, ‘You’ve got two minutes, max.’

‘That’s long enough.’ Craig handed him an envelope. ‘Have a look, but don’t flash it around.’

Slightly wary, Sullivan opened the envelope and took a peek at the contents. He frowned. ‘Your kids?’

‘Yeah. There’s a message on the other side.’

Sullivan read it, then silently thanked his maker that he’d agreed to this meeting. Being the good actor he was, he affected disdain.

‘All this proves is that someone doesn’t like you.’

Craig’s face darkened with fury. ‘Don’t try to deny you’re in Matheson’s pocket. Did you know this is the kind of thing he’ll stoop to? Are you part of it as well?’

‘I’m part of nothing. I dunno what you’re talking about. Where’s your proof that George sent it?’

The question was ignored. ‘A journalist friend of mine was investigating the massacre. Now she’s gone missing. I’ve come to London to find out what’s happened to her.’

Sullivan was mystified. This was something he knew nothing about. At the same time he realised that Craig wouldn’t yet know about Alice Jones.

‘Tell me her name. I’ll see what I can find out.’

Craig looked dubious, but supplied the details. Then he said, ‘That crap on Thursday about me being the second killer, this had better put an end to it.’

Handing the envelope back, Sullivan grinned. ‘Yeah, you never really struck me as a mass murderer.’

‘Good. And if it is Matheson who’s behind this, you can tell him he won’t get away with it. Nobody threatens my kids, do you hear me?’

‘Hey,’ Sullivan barked. ‘I am not part of this. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’

Craig stared at him for a long moment, then said, ‘In that case, God help us both.’

59

The phone call changed everything. The killer saw immediately how it could be exploited. This would fit perfectly into his plans.

The net was closing: no point denying it. But that was okay. He was still one step ahead, and now Alice Jones would put him further in front.

The existence of the second killer couldn’t be disputed for much longer. Even without physical evidence, the combination of witness accounts and media pressure would soon convince the police to take it seriously. And once the killer’s existence had been accepted, all that mattered then was his identity.

What he had to do was give them someone else. Someone plausible. Someone with a clear, undeniable motive.

Like greed, for instance.

Viewed like that, there could be only one possible candidate.

Julia drove back to Lewes with Alice’s fate weighing on her conscience. The desire to share her burden created an almost physical ache, but the only possible candidate was Craig. And he was out of bounds.

Back at the flat, she checked her phone. Someone had called twenty minutes before, but withheld the number. That only added to her despair.

She slumped on the sofa for an hour, trying to follow a TV cookery show. This is ridiculous, she thought at last. Sitting around all day would send her insane.

On impulse, she decided some gentle exercise would do her good. She found her gym bag, packed a towel and a swimsuit, and was almost out of the door when the phone rang.

George concluded his conversation with Kendrick, feeling like a starving man who’d crawled into a den of wolves in search of meat. But it was done now. Too late for regrets.

He returned to Vanessa’s room. The nurse raised a finger to her mouth: Don’t wake her. George gazed at his wife’s pygmy form beneath the sheets. Even though it was barely an hour since he’d left her, she seemed yet more diminished, as if her intention was to depart the world via a process of miniaturisation, becoming smaller and smaller until finally she vanished altogether.

If only it were that benign, he thought.

The nurse had unplugged the phone extension, so as not to disturb her. George didn’t realise until he felt the buzz of his mobile. He read the display and felt his heart tighten.

He listened, incredulously, to the first glimmer of positive news in what felt like a lifetime. ‘You’re sure?’ he said. ‘There’s no doubt at all. She is waking?’

Now the caller grew more cautious. Adopting the same tone, George said, ‘There’s a long way to go, of course. But it’s cause for hope, at least. Thank you so much.’

He cut the connection, and gave a start when Vanessa said, ‘What’s happened?’

Her eyes were open, her brow creased with confusion. It was only then that he registered the tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away with his fists.

‘Nothing,’ he lied. ‘It’s nothing.’

Let it be Alice, Julia thought, or failing that, Craig: apologising for Nina’s tirade.

But it was a male voice, educated and polite with just a touch of the Estuary wide boy. ‘Julia Trent? My name’s Guy Foster. I’m calling about Alice Jones.’

‘What’s happened? Is she all right?’

‘Good as gold. Why?’

‘She called me this morning. It sounded like…’ Now she felt ridiculous. ‘I got the impression she might harm herself.’

‘No, she’s safe and sound. Done herself a very nice deal with us.’

Julia felt a flood of relief – until it clicked. ‘You’re a journalist?’

‘Yep. Can’t divulge which paper. All top secret at the moment, otherwise our rivals might beat us to print.’

Now Alice’s garbled conversation made sense: It’s not quite what you suggested.

‘What has she told you?’ Julia asked.

‘The works. It’s explosive stuff – though I hardly need tell you that. Bloody scandalous, the police ignoring what you said about the other gunman. Thanks to their incompetence we’ve got a mass murderer still on the loose.’

Julia opened her mouth to explain that it wasn’t quite so simple, then stopped herself. That was precisely what he was angling for.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Alice is safe and sound with hubby and the kids, and we’re gonna keep them that way till this guy is locked up. But this isn’t just about Alice. You’re a big part of the story, Julia. A crucial part, to be honest. Which is where it gets a bit tricky.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This is a lot of money we’re shelling out. Part of the deal with Alice is that we talk to you, strictly off the record – unless you want to sign up as well?’

‘I’ll pass on that for now,’ Julia said. ‘Go on.’

‘All right, off the record it is. We just need to whizz through Alice’s statement, make sure what she’s given us is kosher. You’re the only one who can corroborate it.’

‘And if I say no?’

Foster sucked air between his teeth. ‘It could jeopardise the deal. I’m not saying it will. But it does make round-the-clock protection a bit harder to authorise.’

Bastard, she thought. Using Alice’s safety to coerce her into helping.

He added, ‘Alice assured us you’d be willing to help. She said you were a really decent person.’

Julia sighed. ‘What would I have to do?’

‘Just give me twenty minutes, maybe half an hour of your time. I’ll bring a disclaimer, forbidding us to quote directly from you. The only thing is, we’re on a tight timeframe. It really needs to be this evening.’

‘Very well,’ Julia said. And immediately thought: I don’t want you in my flat.

‘You’re in Lewes, yeah? Is the Hamsey Arms any good? Say, seven o’clock?’

She agreed, reluctantly, and asked, ‘How will I recognise you?’

‘Oh, easy. I’m drop-dead gorgeous.’ He laughed. ‘Nah, I’ll be the guy still working his butt off. You won’t miss me.’

Julia dropped the phone and swore. To think how worried she’d been about Alice, and the bloody woman had hawked her story to the gutter press.

She snatched up her bag and slammed the door behind her.

Heading south, Vilner felt faintly queasy. This was his third visit to Chilton in four days, and potentially the most important one. He’d weighed it up as best he could, and decided it was worth a punt.

He drove carefully, observing the speed limits. He couldn’t risk getting pulled over with some of the gear he had on him. When Kendrick phoned, he ignored it. Better to delay the conversation until this was done. By then he’d know exactly what he was facing.

The meeting might get unpleasant, so he had prepared carefully. For one thing, he was more than an hour early. He’d borrowed an anonymous two-year-old Volvo, which he parked in the village. He wore a dark grey suit and cashmere overcoat. The weather was turning, and there were only a handful of people around. Vilner attracted barely a glance as he took a briefcase from the boot and crossed the road into Hurst Lane.

As he walked, he tried not to dwell on what lay ahead. Instead he thought about the woman.

In the course of a dozen unhurried laps of the pool, Julia’s anger melted away and left her far more forgiving of Alice’s decision. Unlike the police, a newspaper would have few qualms about providing protection on the basis of what might be spurious allegations. For a woman torn by an agonising separation from her family, it must have seemed like the perfect answer.

And in a roundabout way it might even achieve what Julia wanted: a renewed police investigation. The only thing that rankled was the way that Alice had volunteered her assistance.

The pool was part of a leisure centre, with large windows along two of the outside walls. Each time she rested, she gazed up at a slice of sky above the cliffs that overlooked the town. Now she watched a finger of grey cloud slowly gliding across the blue, like a bruise spreading on clear skin.

She shivered. It was time to go.

She dried off and dressed in a cold, poky cubicle that brought to mind her school days: damp clothes and teasing and towel snaps. As she walked out through the lobby, the automatic doors opened and a gust of wind buffeted her. The woman at the desk gasped. ‘My goodness, it’s blowing out there.’

Julia nodded, glad she’d brought her car, but wishing she didn’t have to venture out again this evening.

It took only a couple of minutes to drive home. As she found a parking space, the sun was finally extinguished by cloud and a whole different season seemed to take hold. No rain yet, but there was a vicious edge to the wind.

Julia hurried along the pavement to her flat. She turned several times, convinced there was someone behind her, but it was only litter and dry leaves skittering in her wake.

60

Her name was Louise, and she’d recently started work at a pub in Crouch End part-owned by Vilner. She was twenty-five, petite and pretty, with large liquid eyes and an alluring gap between her front teeth. From what Vilner had gathered, she’d spent a few years travelling and working abroad, returning to the UK when a relationship ended.

Unlike most people, she didn’t seem to be intimidated by him. She always looked him in the eye, and if he tried out a bit of sarcasm she came right back at him. They’d had one date so far, concluded with no more than a prim goodnight kiss, but he’d sensed a real chemistry between them. Tonight he was taking her to a favourite restaurant of his, out in Amersham, and then, with any luck, back to his place for a nightcap.

That was later. First, there was this.

The house looked cold, empty, abandoned. Vilner waited in the lane, hidden by trees, and watched for five long minutes. The wind swirled over the roof, rattling the tiles and keening round the chimney pots. In one of the outbuildings a loose plank drummed against something metal. Lots of noise to distract and deter him, but at last he was satisfied.

He made a full circuit of the building, examining the windows and doors. He knew the place was unoccupied, but there were curtains and blinds drawn everywhere, so he couldn’t scope out the interior. The back door was just as solid as the front. It didn’t give a fraction when he tried the handle.

He returned to the front door. There were two locks: a straightforward cylinder at the top and a mortice deadlock below it. He opened the briefcase and took out an electric pick gun. In prison he’d learned the basics of lock picking, and over the years he’d developed his skills with a traditional set of hand tools, but once mastered the electric picks were much quicker and less obtrusive.

Today his luck was in: the mortice hadn’t been used. It took him less than a minute to overcome the cylinder, and the door sprang open. He lifted the briefcase over the threshold and shut the door behind him. A gust of wind boomed in the chimney breast. The roof timbers creaked like a ship in a storm.

Vilner could see the room to his left was empty, furrows in the carpet where furniture had once stood. He knelt to put the pick away, and take out his gun. Flipping the briefcase lid, he caught a flash of movement from the room to his right. Something coming in fast and heavy; all he could do was twist sideways and try to ride with the blow, but it wasn’t enough.

His last conscious thought: Not lucky at all.

There had been another recent call, number withheld. Nothing from Craig.

Julia fretted for more than an hour before finally deciding she had to warn him. She called his mobile and was invited to leave a message.

‘Craig, it’s Julia. Alice Jones has sold her story. The journalist wants me to corroborate it, so I’ve agreed to a meeting this evening. I’ll call you when I get back, probably around eight. If you get a chance, ring me and we can discuss how much I should reveal.’ She swallowed, thinking, But we’re not allowed to speak to each other.

Less than a minute after she put the phone down, it rang again. Either Craig was responding to her message, or Nina had somehow intercepted it and was about to scream at her.

But it was neither. A woman with a cultured but slightly abrasive Scottish accent said, ‘Am I speaking with Julia Trent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Julia, my name is Sheila Naughton. I believe you’re aware there’s a major new exclusive being prepared, and I wondered if you’d care to add your own comments⁠—’

‘I have nothing to say. Thank you.’

Julia put the receiver down and held it there, as if restraining a small animal. Within ten seconds it rang again. She lifted the receiver and cut the call. Another ten seconds and it rang again. She pulled the line plug from the socket.

Clearly Guy Foster had failed to keep the story under wraps.

The onslaught had begun.

Vilner was thirteen again, conning money from a nonce in a toilet near Sovereign Street. Too late he realised he’d been set up for an ambush. A second man stepped from a cubicle and shoved him off his feet. His head hit the grimy tiled floor and he passed out. When he came to he was lying face down in a puddle of stale piss, one of the men tugging on his jeans and breathlessly describing what they intended to do to him.

In a sudden frenzy Vilner kicked backwards and caught the first man in the face, then reared up and grabbed the other one by the balls, wrenching them as hard as he could. Slippery from the wet tiles, he wriggled through a flurry of blows and managed to get away. Bursting into the twilight of a winter afternoon, he sprinted towards the safety of the Christmas shopping crowds on Briggate, and the intoxicating blend of terror and elation felt just as vivid upon recollection a quarter of a century later as it had at the time…

Then he opened his eyes and saw he wasn’t in Leeds. He wasn’t thirteen any more. And he wasn’t about to fight his way to freedom.

This time the ache from his head wound was eclipsed by a pain in both arms so excruciating he could hardly breathe. He blinked furiously to clear his vision, but even when he’d stared at them for what seemed like an eternity, he still couldn’t make sense of what he saw.

His hands were missing.

Craig didn’t get to Julia’s message until he was on the train back to Sussex, at the end of a long and harrowing day. When the buffet trolley approached, it took all his willpower to order a coffee instead of a beer.

By the time he’d listened to the message it was gone six-thirty, and probably too late to call her. In any case, he was in no mood to discuss Alice Jones and her tabloid exclusive. Abby Clark was dead, and it was his fault.

After his meeting with Sullivan, he’d gone to see Abby’s partner, Marie. His visit had several purposes: to offer her some support, to find out if she knew anything else that could help find Abby, and to assure her that he and Abby had never had an affair. He’d been there an hour or so when the police arrived with the news Marie had been dreading: the body of a woman, believed to be Abby, had been recovered from the Thames.

With Marie virtually disintegrating in front of his eyes, Craig had offered to go with her to identify the body. In a private moment at the mortuary, he learned that the cause of death wasn’t yet confirmed. There was evidence of violent trauma, but it was unclear whether this had been inflicted by an assailant, or as a result from a collision with something in the water. The post mortem should tell them more.

Craig returned to Marie’s flat, and sat with her while she made a succession of calls to Abby’s family and friends. It wasn’t until he walked back to the tube station, emotionally drained and boiling with fury, that he allowed himself to say the words in his head: Abby had been murdered.

He was equally convinced the killer was either James Vilner or the other man, Kendrick. One or both of them had engineered the Chilton massacre, almost certainly on behalf of George Matheson. Abby had died because of the favour she had done for Craig. Because she’d come too close to the truth.

That in itself was almost impossible to bear. What made it even worse was that he couldn’t prove any of it.

Vilner stared. His vision blurred again and instinctively he tried lifting his arms, but they wouldn’t move. He blinked and stared, blinked and stared, but the result was always the same.

Both his hands were gone.

Then a voice said, ‘You’ve never taken me seriously, have you?’

Vilner forced his head up and made out a pair of workman’s overalls, splattered with what looked like red paint.

‘Best to demonstrate from the start that I don’t go in for half measures,’ the man went on. ‘Though what I did in Chilton should have made that clear.’

The man waited, perhaps expecting a response, but Vilner’s brain wouldn’t process the words; it was little more than static, flooding his brain. He couldn’t believe he’d been so thoroughly outplayed.

He looked back at himself. He was slumped in a half-sitting position on the floor of what had once been the farmhouse’s dining room. Instead of carpet below him, there was a thick layer of plastic sheeting that ran the entire width of the room. The ends were taped to the walls at a height of about two feet. The only other things in sight were a couple of large buckets, a roll of heavy-duty plastic bags and a DeWalt alligator saw with the same red paint along the blades.

Vilner opened his mouth to speak but vomited instead, an acidic gruel which dropped on to his chest and pooled in his lap. He stared at it for a moment, then back at his arms, which ended in stumps covered in crude white dressings. There were thick tourniquets around both wrists.

The man saw him studying them and said, ‘I applied those before the surgery. After all, it’s no fun if you bleed to death this early on.’

The torrent of pain must have let up slightly, for Vilner made sense of the phrase bleed to death. He was struck by a thought: How will I drive Louise tonight if I don’t have any hands?

His lips formed a smile of profound disbelief, and he began to cry.

61

The Hamsey Arms was a long, low building on the outskirts of Cooksbridge, just north of Lewes. To reach it, Julia had to drive along a dark, thickly wooded stretch of road. By now the wind had risen to gale force, an almost relentless howl audible over the sound of her engine. She could feel the tyres bumping over debris in the road. She’d already heard reports of blocked roads and railway lines, and the storm was forecast to get worse as the evening went on.

The pub’s well-lit interior looked cosy and welcoming as she turned into the car park. The fact she’d arrived in one piece filled her with relief, as did the sight of eight or ten other cars: she wasn’t the only one crazy enough to venture out on a night like this.

Just as she switched off the ignition, a single raindrop struck the windscreen, heralding a sudden deluge. When Julia opened the car door, the wind nearly tore it from her grasp. She got out and dashed for the entrance, pushing through the door on a rush of wind and rain.

A dozen or so faces turned to stare, then gradually looked away. The main group was a family gathering with a rather imperious elderly lady sitting at one end, wearing a paper crown.

Julia tidied her hair and wiped rain from her face. Then she looked round, scanning the bar, and just as she wondered if he’d been delayed by the storm, she spotted him.

The train was packed with Saturday shoppers and a fair number of football fans. Craig found himself squashed into a window seat beside a man who reeked of beer and body odour. Keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, Craig planted his face against the window, his reflection pale and anxious in the darkness.

He’d learned from Marie that Abby’s laptop was missing. When asked, the police officer wasn’t sure it had been recovered, but he thought it unlikely. So did Craig. Which meant no one knew exactly how far her enquiries had progressed.

Now he went back over their conversation on Thursday morning. She knew virtually nothing about Kendrick, other than that he was from Trinidad. What she’d learned about Vilner had confirmed Craig’s suspicions. Vilner had got on board the Matheson gravy train as a result of money he was owed. What had she said? Gambling debts run up by George’s nephew. Toby someone. Harman?

He flinched as a volley of raindrops rattled on the window. The man next to him shifted, pressing further into his space. Craig tried to ignore the discomfort. Something in the conversation was snagging right at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t nudge it into the light.

The train rumbled and shook, and he glimpsed leaves swirling past. It prompted an image of his father’s lawn, always kept so tidy, and then he thought of the creep who’d been taking photographs of the front door.

He thought about Julia, how they read her father’s diary and shared a maelstrom of emotions that led first to a passionate disagreement and then, quite unexpectedly, to a different kind of passion.

A loud snore from his fellow passenger jolted Craig from his reverie, leaving an infuriating conviction that this insight, whatever it was, had been tantalisingly close.

Personal space. Maybe something about personal space…

Guy Foster wasn’t quite what she’d expected. The voice on the phone had been assured, even cocky, but the man sitting alone at a corner table looked geeky and the very opposite of drop-dead gorgeous.

But there could be little doubt it was him. He was the only customer sitting alone, and the only one tapping away on a laptop. There was paper all over the table, and a briefcase standing upright on the seat next to him.

He looked fairly young, late twenties or early thirties, and wore a blue shirt under a black Armani bomber jacket. She could see the bulge of a serious beer belly pressing against the table. He had brown hair, slicked back with gel or mousse, and he wore glasses with square lenses that did him no favours.

Julia cleared her throat as she reached him. He didn’t acknowledge her, but went on typing as if he couldn’t possibly interrupt himself mid-flow. She decided she would count to five and then walk out.

On three he looked up, almost surprised to find her there, and his rubbery lips formed an ingratiating smile. ‘Miss Trent? I’m Guy Foster.’ He shut the laptop. ‘Thanks for coming on such a fearsome evening.’

She removed her coat before sitting down. As her back arched she saw his gaze dart towards her breasts; instinctively she folded her arms across her chest, but by now he was gathering his paperwork together.

She noticed a glass of what looked like Coke, and wondered if he’d offer to buy her a drink: it would be the polite thing to do, in the circumstances. But she had a feeling that politeness was just one of the social skills he lacked.

‘With you in a second,’ he muttered, lifting the briefcase on to the table. He put the laptop away and began hunting through the papers again.

A cheer went up across the room. Julia turned to see a waitress emerge from the kitchens, holding a cake ablaze with candles. The old woman smiled benevolently as the rest of the gathering started to sing ‘Happy Birthday’.

‘Isn’t that sweet?’ Foster said, with a sickly grin. He placed the papers in an upper pocket in the briefcase, then began to slide the case around. ‘Now, this is what you need to see.’

They both flinched as a ferocious gust of wind shook the building; the lights flickered and Julia, glancing at the window, saw her reflection strobing in the glass: heregoneheregone.

Then she turned back. Foster had shifted the briefcase so that the upper half was facing out towards the room. His right hand was resting inside it.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

He was holding a pistol.

Another gust of wind coincided with a loud crash from outside. The lights flickered again, but stayed on. There were ominous groans from the drinkers at the bar.

The man sitting opposite her ignored it all. He stared at her through his ridiculous glasses, and Julia understood that they were simply part of his disguise. He wasn’t a journalist, here to verify Alice Jones’s story.

He was the second killer.

He watched her closely. ‘I take it you’ve worked out who I am?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded oddly unfamiliar, and much calmer than she expected.

‘Good. This is where you have to be very sensible, Julia. Otherwise a lot of people will get hurt.’ He nodded towards the bar. ‘Take a look around.’

Julia did as she was told. The old woman had blown out her candles, and now the cake was being cut. The other customers were watching them, or talking to each other, or busy eating and drinking.

No one had noticed anything wrong. No one else knew there was an armed man in the pub.

‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he said. ‘But we need to go somewhere, and we need to do it quietly. If there’s any fuss, the first thing I’ll do is shoot you in the leg, so you can’t get away. Okay?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘The next thing I’ll do is shoot the bar staff, because they’re most likely to try and phone for help. Then I’ll shoot a few of the customers.’ He made a show of assessing the best contenders. ‘The old woman, probably. And at least one of the kids. In the ensuing panic, nobody will stop us from leaving. Am I getting my message across?’

‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘Great. We’re going to stand up and walk out without so much as a word. That old lady and her delightful family get to remember this occasion the way they should.’

Reluctantly, Julia nodded. The killer shut the briefcase and stood it upright on the table. No urgency. No fumbling. His voice had remained steady the whole time, she realised. No emotion when he talked about shooting a child.

‘The gun will be concealed by the case,’ he said quietly, ‘but I’m still holding it. Don’t start persuading yourself that you can be a hero.’

He ushered her towards the door. Julia felt as though she’d been hypnotised. Her body seemed to respond to his commands without any conscious input from her brain. Surely someone will notice, she thought. Surely someone will intervene.

But nobody did.

He led her across the car park, towards a silver Renault Laguna. ‘Round the back,’ he said, shouting to be heard above the storm.

Julia had a second to think about making a run for it, then she felt him bump against her and knew she’d never do it in time.

She still felt numb, disbelieving, but that worked in her favour. It held the worst of the fear at bay, allowing her mind to clear a little. If she couldn’t run, what could she do?

He’d let her put her coat back on, though the rain was pelting her hair and running down her neck. She wore her handbag over her shoulder. It wasn’t large, or particularly expensive, but right now it was the most precious thing she owned.

He directed her to stand behind the car while he slung the briefcase on to the back seat. Then he opened the boot and gestured at it.

‘Get in.’

Julia didn’t protest. Afterwards she wondered if she should have. Maybe that would have made him less suspicious.

Instead she complied, folding herself into the space by turning on her side and drawing up her knees, the handbag trapped awkwardly beneath her body, where he couldn’t see it.

‘Pleasant journey,’ he said, and shut the boot with a heavy whump.

As soon as it closed, Julia wriggled until she could reach her handbag and pull it clear of her body. She was in complete darkness. The boot smelled of chemical cleaner. The rain was drumming on the bodywork above her.

She returned to a foetal position and held the handbag in both hands. Felt for the strap and turned it upright before opening the zip. Then she put one hand inside and carefully probed the contents until her fingers closed around the beautiful smooth weight that was her mobile phone.

The killer was opening the driver’s door when he felt a vibration in his pocket. It was the phone he had taken from Vilner, and he was intrigued to see who would be calling. He pulled it out and settled into the driver’s seat. At the same time a little flashbulb seemed to go off in his head.

Phone.

She felt him climb into the car. Heard his door close, just as a comforting electronic glow lit up the boot compartment. A strong signal, and plenty of battery strength. Julia felt a flood of gratitude and promised never to curse this wonderful device ever again.

Then she felt the car rock on its suspension, and knew the killer had realised his mistake.

He opened the boot just in time to see her thumb pressing out a number. She tried to turn away from him, but he punched her in the head with savage force. The blow knocked her against the back seats and she passed out. He delved for the phone and read the display.

Calling… 999.

He disconnected the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. Grabbed her handbag and slammed the boot shut. That was close. Too fucking close.

Back in the car, he took off his fake glasses, removed the padding under his shirt and wiped his face. He picked up Vilner’s phone. 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.

62

Craig took a taxi home from the station, the driver regaling him with accounts of 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.

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 debilitating panic.

Then he heard footsteps on the stairs. Nina came down, wearing a bathrobe. Her toenails looked newly painted. 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. He could smell her 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.

‘Lots of reporters, wanting to speak to you. They wouldn’t tell me why. I took their numbers.’

He grunted. Probably seeking his reaction to the Alice Jones story. He decided he’d wait to hear from Julia before he went back to them.

Upstairs, he stood in the shower and considered how to navigate the evening ahead. If the timing hadn’t been so dreadful, he might have welcomed Nina’s 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 falling in love with Julia.

Craig sighed. He couldn’t pretend to be interested in reconciliation until he was clear in his mind that was what he wanted. He should have said something straight away, he realised, the moment Nina stepped into his personal space.

And then, in an instant, he had it: Dad’s garden. The intruder. Julia reading her father’s diary.

Not personal space.

Territory.

Vilner’s phone rang again. By now the killer was well away from the pub. 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. He answered the phone 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 me. Is that clear?’

A long silence followed. Whether it was shock, anger, incredulity, the killer had no idea.

He ended the call.

Craig ran into the bedroom, ignoring the fact that he was soaking wet. He grabbed his phone and called Julia’s mobile. It was switched off. He rang her home number. No answer.

He tried her mobile again, then replayed her message while he got dressed.

Craig, it’s Julia. Alice Jones has sold her story. The journalist wants me to corroborate it, so I’ve agreed to a meeting this evening. I’ll call you when I get back, probably around eight. If you get a chance, ring me and we can discuss how much I should reveal.

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. ‘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 returned to the kitchen. Craig 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. It produced a tingle of excitement. Under scrutiny, the idea didn’t fall apart.

But the accompanying current of fear was far stronger. Because the one person whose opinion he valued wasn’t answering her phone. And Craig had no idea where she was.

Kendrick put the phone down. He looked at Jacques, just back from a futile expedition to find James Vilner, and said, ‘If I’m not mistaken, that was a declaration of war.’

‘From Vilner?’

‘No. I suspect Vilner was the first casualty.’ Kendrick gazed at the floor, all kinds of scenarios running through his mind. ‘It was 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?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s time to find out.’

‘I just went past Chelsea,’ Jacques said wearily. ‘I could have checked the apartment.’

‘I don’t think he’ll be there, but send a couple of men. The rest of us will be paying a visit to “Uncle George”.’

Jacques gave a greedy smile. ‘I’ll fetch the guns.’

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.’

‘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. Why?’

‘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, 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 judgment. ‘I told her to stay out of our lives. Maybe she’s⁠—’

Craig cut her short. ‘You did what?’

‘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. ‘When? When did you tell her that?’

‘This morning. She rang after you’d gone out.’

Craig stared at her for a moment, then strode into the hall. Nina followed, and watched him putting on his coat. ‘You’re overreacting,’ she told him. ‘She’ll turn up somewhere.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. 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 slowly cleared. 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.

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, and the killer had been tipped off. It was perhaps no more than pure chance that he had reached her before the genuine journalist.

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. Julia tried to dredge up the courage she’d found on 19 January. Every second I stay alive is a tiny victory. Wasn’t that what she had told herself?

She said it again now, but somehow it was different this time. Deep down, she didn’t believe it.

She believed she was going to die.

63

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.

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 had been fished out of the Thames.

That was grim news, and not just for her. It was getting harder to dismiss what Craig had been telling him: something big and bad was going on, almost certainly connected to the massacre, and as he saw it, only one person could give him the answers he needed.

After such a long day, and given the shitty weather, Sullivan was sorely tempted to use the phone. But with the stakes so high, he knew that only face to face contact would suffice.

The other factor was that he might persuade George to cough up some cash while he was there. For if Sullivan had to summarise his game plan right now, it basically amounted to take the money and run.

It took the killer less than twenty minutes to reach the farm. Tough as it was to negotiate the narrow, storm-lashed roads, the far greater challenge was in 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 had provided the perfect opportunity to lure Julia into a trap.

Later he would return to the pub and dispose of her car. Before that, there were many other tasks to complete. He was determined to enjoy them all, especially the chance to make Julia suffer. Pay her back for 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, and the wind was screaming through the trees. He had a sense that he was poised on the brink of a supreme triumph, his destiny about to be fulfilled. It felt rather apt that a storm should be laid on in his honour.

When the car halted, Julia 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’d discarded the glasses, and now 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.

Julia managed to clamber out of the car and take stock of her surroundings. When she saw the old redbrick farmhouse and the ramshackle outbuildings, she had the first inkling of where they were.

The killer slammed the boot and marched her towards the house. ‘Is this the farm?’ she asked him. Without answering, he bundled her inside.

The internal doors were shut, and there was a horrible smell in the air: something that reminded her of Chilton’s church on 19 January. Then a far more powerful thought overwhelmed her.

‘You killed my parents.’

He looked at her with sly amusement. ‘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. ‘That’s what you were searching for yesterday morning. The diary.’

He snorted. ‘Quite the amateur detective, aren’t you?’

‘George Matheson must have told you about it. 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.

‘Who are you?’

But instead of answering, he 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. There was a bucket nearby, 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, Julia 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 in time, easing her into a sitting position by the wall. The plastic sheeting was cool and slippery. Blood had pooled and dried in its creases. Julia rested her head back and shut her eyes.

This will go away if I wish it hard enough. It has to 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.

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.’

‘You just have to admit it,’ the killer said. With Julia securely bound, he moved across to Vilner and used the nylon cord to pull him into a sitting position. Vilner gave a howl of agony.

‘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 mentioned 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 did. 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.’

‘I just hedged my bets. Nothing more.’

‘No? What about blackmailing my uncle? What about barging into my apartment and threatening me with a gun?’

He moved the blade closer. Julia screamed at him to stop, but her voice was drowned out by the sudden hideous whine of the electric saw.

James Vilner was going to die, but he felt no fear.

For several hours he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness. He’d had all kinds of visitors: his mother and father, holding hands like newlyweds. 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.

Watching Toby bring the electric saw down, he felt strangely calm. He knew there was pain, but it was like viewing an explosion from behind bombproof glass. It couldn’t reach him.

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. ‘Just confess, and this will be over. You’re Decipio, aren’t you? You sent Carl into the village.’

Vilner shook his head. It made the room spin, and he had to wait for it to settle back in place.

‘Tell me.’ Toby aimed his gun at Vilner’s chest. ‘Speak to me, you bastard.’

Vilner made a momentous effort, sucking up what little strength remained and forcing it out in three tiny words.

‘Let her go.’

‘Sorry, James.’ Toby shook his head. ‘Wrong answer.’

Vilner felt the muzzle against his chest. Ignoring Toby, he gazed instead at the woman. The way she met his eye somehow made him smile; 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.

64

Craig drove to Lewes first. It was a frustrating journey, all the more so when it proved fruitless. Julia didn’t answer the door, and a neighbour said he thought she’d gone out.

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 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 evening. 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 thought. Anyone with a scrap of sense was indoors. He jumped back in the car and drove along the High Street. Something came flying out of the darkness and splattered against the windscreen: a sodden bouquet of flowers. 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 in the midst of turmoil.

Hurst Lane was full of debris, but 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 at the intercom. ‘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.

George Matheson stood in the doorway. He was unshaven, greasy-haired, and 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 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. The suffering he’d experienced would be forever seared in Julia’s memory. 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. She felt his gaze on her skin, burning through her clothes, and knew she had to distract him.

‘Vilner was telling you the truth,’ she said. ‘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.

‘Maybe,’ he acknowledged, sounding as though it hardly mattered.

‘You’re Toby Harman? George’s nephew?’

He nodded, still staring at her body.

‘Why did you kill my parents?’

‘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.’

Julia shut her eyes. 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.

When she opened her eyes he had edged closer. He was curious, waiting to be entertained.

‘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.

‘Carl 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. Those people died because Carl went berserk, and you were just too cowardly, too weak to stop him.’

He moved with astonishing speed, hitting her in the face. She struck the back of her head on the wall and cried out. She could taste blood in her mouth.

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.’

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

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 in God’s name is Abby Clark?’

‘Don’t give me that.’

George fumed. ‘Let’s discuss this like adults, shall we?’

He headed for the sitting room, with Craig trailing behind. 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.

‘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.’ Craig paused. ‘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?’ George said. ‘The report was leaked to you as well. It doesn’t make either of us complicit in the massacre.’

Craig ignored the remark. ‘Did Sullivan tell you what Alice Jones was doing?’

‘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 believe 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… 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. 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 Clark, a journalist, 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, remember? 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?’

‘You might well ask.’ George sounded calmer, more reflective. ‘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.’

‘What does he want with you?’ Craig asked.

There was a strange sound, something between a cough and a laugh. 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.

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.’

Toby made Julia climb the stairs ahead of him, jabbing the gun in her back when she faltered. 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.

On the landing she stopped, taking in the worn carpet and faded wallpaper. There was something terribly sad about this house. Unloved.

‘You came here first,’ she murmured.

‘What?’

‘Both of you. It’s what happened here that mattered.’

Once again she’d hit home. Toby marched her into a small room, bare except for a single bed and a small table, and threw her face down on the mattress. For a second her head was enveloped by an old pillow, damp and mildewed. Julia thought of poor Megan, smothered while she slept, and in a panic she twisted her head to one side.

‘The murders here were different. Laura Caplan was sexually assaulted.’

‘That was Carl,’ Toby snapped. He sat astride her, facing towards her feet, and took out the roll of tape. The bed protested under their combined weight. When he leaned forward to tie her ankles, she could feel he was aroused.

‘But you wanted them dead,’ Julia said, not caring that she was antagonising him. It felt like she had nothing to lose.

He wrapped the tape around her ankles, air snorting from his nostrils as he worked. Staring at the floor, Julia noticed a discarded pair of men’s jeans and felt a tiny flare of hope.

‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘What was so important about the Caplans?’

He finished tying her feet, then knelt beside her. He put his face very close to hers, and gave her an answer she would never have expected.

‘Their daughter.’

65

They came in three Jeep Grand Cherokees, with Kendrick in the lead car. Halfway along Chilton Way he signalled them to a halt. Before he opened his door, a man in the back seat jumped out and put up an umbrella, only to have it torn from his grasp by the wind.

‘Forget it.’ Kendrick marched back to the third vehicle and motioned the passenger to open his window. He indicated the trees at the side of the road.

‘You two stay here. Cut down a tree and block the road. If anyone comes along, tell them you’ve called the fire brigade. It’ll buy us some time.’

There was a plan to follow. An excellent plan. So far it had worked like a dream. If Toby didn’t get control of himself, he might throw it away. But he couldn’t resist.

Julia looked appalled. ‘Megan Caplan? You killed them because of Megan?’

Toby nodded. He rolled Julia on to her back. If she had gathered what was on his mind, she did well to conceal it.

‘My uncle was having an affair with Laura Caplan. That’s why he reacted so badly when they caught Carl wanking over her underwear. My aunt is terminally ill. George was waiting for her to die, then Laura was going to divorce Keith and move in with her lover.’

As he spoke, he realised he was rubbing himself through his trousers. His hand sprung away, and then he remembered: he could do whatever he liked now.

‘Megan was going to be made his sole heir. Cutting me out.’

‘But Megan’s still alive.’

‘In a deep coma. I’ll deal with her when I have to.’

He fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. She let out a whimper, which only served to heighten his pleasure. He could have just ripped the shirt open, but it felt better to do it slowly. Erotically.

‘How do you know all this? Did you confront George?’

‘Of course not.’

He reached the last button and allowed his hand to brush over her breasts. She tried to shrink away but had nowhere to go.

‘Someone else told you?’

‘I received an email, warning me what George was planning. I was faced with losing everything. I had to find a way to stop him. It was bad enough that the first application had been turned down. I was in debt to Vilner. I was desperate. I needed to get rid of the Caplans. Then I thought of Carl.’

Breathless, he drew back her shirt. The sight made him light-headed. It wasn’t because her breasts were visible through the gauzy material of the bra. What thrilled him were her scars. The legacy of 19 January.

His legacy.

‘Carl was the perfect candidate,’ he said. ‘I pretended to bump into him one day in Falcombe. He remembered me from the summers I spent down here, when I was at uni. I got him pissed, then started coming down here regularly. We’d go to pubs where no one knew us, and I set about indoctrinating him.’

He reached out and traced his finger along the ridge of red skin that ran vertically from just below her sternum and disappeared into her jeans. ‘I kept talking about Laura Caplan, what a bitch she was. How she used to laugh at him, telling everyone how inadequate he was. I convinced him his whole life had been destroyed by that one incident in her kitchen, and pretty soon he was steaming for revenge.’

‘It was your idea to steal your uncle’s shotgun?’

Toby nodded. ‘We made it look like a break-in, but I’d deactivated the alarm the night before. George just assumed he’d forgotten to set it.’

‘And what about everyone else Carl killed?’

‘I don’t know why he did that. I was upstairs, dealing with Megan. I heard him go outside and followed him down the lane. I couldn’t call out in case someone heard me. Then I saw him pull the pistol and shoot the man in the pub garden. After that, I had no choice but to wait and see what happened.’

He stopped, unhappy with the direction they were taking. Her body had lost a little of its allure, which was probably a good thing.

‘You were in the lane when I found the postman?’

‘Yes. I watched Carl going round the village. I couldn’t risk showing myself, but I couldn’t let him be taken alive either. When he chased you on to the green I saw my chance.’ He laughed. ‘I finished him off, just as I’d intended to do back at the farmhouse. I thought I’d finished you off, too.’

‘And you’ve achieved nothing,’ Julia said.

‘I wouldn’t say that. A lot of the protesters are dead. The Caplans are out of the picture. So is Vilner, now.’

‘All these lives destroyed, and you’re not a penny richer.’

‘I will be, once George is dead.’

‘You’ll kill your uncle?’

Toby stood up, proud that his self-control hadn’t deserted him. Observing Julia’s pathetic show of defiance, he understood how she’d survived the fall from the tree. She never knew when she was beaten.

‘First he’s going to come here and shoot you, before tragically taking his own life.’ He grinned. ‘The mystery of the second killer will be laid to rest at last.’

He took a look around, satisfied himself she was secure here. This was the only room that could be locked with a key. He was at the door when she threw a last desperate question.

‘But what if Carl killed the others for someone else?’

He stopped, irritated. ‘What?’

‘This Decipio you mentioned?’

‘That was Vilner.’

‘No it wasn’t. You don’t know who it is.’

Julia’s words rang in his head as he strode out. He slammed the door and turned the key in the lock. Despite the roaring storm, he heard her shouting as he descended the stairs.

‘You don’t know who he is. But he knows you.’

Julia kept her eyes tightly shut while a long minute passed, listening for proof that he was leaving. Finally she heard the faint, muffled thud of the front door closing.

He had gone to Chilton Manor to get his uncle. That meant she had a little time. She had a chance.

Swinging her legs round, she used her stomach muscles to propel herself into a sitting position. She slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump. She waited, her heart pounding like a kettle drum. If Toby was bluffing, and hadn’t really gone out, he would be up here any moment.

More agonising seconds passed, but he didn’t appear. Julia shuffled on her bottom until she was sitting with her back to the crumpled pair of jeans. Her fingers stretched as far as the tape would allow, probing the cold denim until finally, with a small prayer of thanks to the late Keith Caplan, she made contact with the smooth leather belt.

She smiled. Every second I stay alive…

It seemed to take an age for Vanessa to enter the room. Both George and Craig offered help, but she waved them away. When George implored her to go back to her bed, she said, ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

The two men stared at each other. Craig cleared his throat and said, ‘I need to speak to your nephew. Julia Trent has gone missing.’

Vanessa made it to a high-backed chair and shuffled round, positioning herself above it. Craig had to fight the impulse to guide her down; the furious determination in her face told him it wouldn’t be welcome. Despite her frailty, or perhaps in part because of it, Vanessa carried an air of haughty command.

‘I don’t see the connection,’ she said.

‘Craig believes…’ George began, only to falter.

‘I think Toby was involved in the massacre,’ Craig told her.

‘Involved how?’

‘The other gunman that Julia described,’ George explained. ‘With Alice Jones coming forward, we probably have to accept⁠—’

‘You think that was Toby?’ Vanessa broke in.

Craig felt a flush of embarrassment. The mere presence of this elderly, dying woman made his accusations seem offensive, indecent, even implausible.

‘He believes I had something to do with it,’ George added.

Vanessa’s gaze snapped from her husband to Craig. ‘I rather think not,’ she said, as if humouring a child. Then back to George, her eyes like burning coals. ‘Didn’t you tell him?’

George twitched. ‘Tell him what?’

‘About Laura.’ Vanessa produced a crumpled photograph from the pocket of her gown. Tossing it on to the floor, she sneered, ‘About the woman you loved.’

Julia had worked out how she would free herself, but real life was stubbornly refusing to play along.

The belt had a thick buckle made of polished steel. The pin in the centre was about an inch and a half long and sharp enough – provided she could apply sufficient force – to puncture the tape that was binding her hands.

At first she tried spearing the tape by propping the pin upright and then forcing her wrists down on it. The problem was that the pin kept slipping sideways. Because she was working blind, she couldn’t tell if she had it positioned correctly before she pushed down. It was wasting a lot of time and energy, and soon had her weeping tears of frustration.

Then a brainwave: bring her hands round in front.

She fell on to her side and pulled her knees up to her chin, but even in that position it was a struggle to slide her arms over her buttocks. The pressure caused the tape to bite into the skin around her wrists. She felt a tearing sensation in her shoulders and gritted her teeth. Her life was at stake: for that she had to endure any amount of pain…

With a cry of jubilation, she wrenched her hands into the space behind her knees. Halfway there.

After resting a moment, she drew her legs in as tightly as she could, knees pressing against her chin, and stretched her arms to their limit, scraping her wrists down across her ankles. But it did no good. The way her feet were bound together, there simply wasn’t enough clearance. One foot at a time it would have been easy, but like this it was impossible.

‘Shitting shitting shit!’ she shouted. The seconds ticking away felt like a march of ants across her skin. She’d heard what Toby was planning to do when he returned. She had a very simple choice: escape or die.

66

Craig picked up the photograph. It looked to be a couple of years old, taken one summer during the harvest. A pretty girl with light brown hair was perched on a hay bale, beaming at the camera while George stood next to her, his arm suspended in mid-air as if he’d intended an embrace but had lost his nerve at the last moment.

‘George wouldn’t have harmed the Caplans,’ Vanessa told him. ‘Not Laura or that little brat, anyway.’

Craig thought back to the doubts Julia had expressed about George’s involvement. She’d witnessed what had appeared to be genuine grief, and now Matheson looked horrified, gesturing at his wife in agitation. ‘You’re wrong, Vanessa. Please, darling⁠—’

‘Don’t use that term on me. I meant nothing to you, all those years you were sneaking off to see her. Insulting me, humiliating me, screwing that common little tramp right under my nose.’

‘Vanessa, please. There’s so much to explain, but I can’t do it like this.’ Tears welled in his eyes, and for a moment Craig thought he would drop to his knees before his wife. It was starting to feel like a distraction.

‘Julia’s still missing,’ he reminded them. ‘Now, maybe I’ve got it all wrong, but it would put my mind at ease if could speak to Toby. Can you phone him for me?’

George cast another anxious glance at his wife, then nodded. As he picked up the phone, Craig was aware of Vanessa shuffling unhappily in her seat. He wished she had never joined them.

Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, he was beset by a sudden hopelessness. He still had no idea where to find Julia. No idea if he should go after Toby, or Vilner, or Kendrick…

He didn’t look up until he heard George, in a puzzled voice, say, ‘The phone’s dead. Must be the storm.’

Then Vanessa said, ‘Please leave us now, Craig. We can’t help you.’

Craig stood up, intending to comply. ‘Will you give me Toby’s number, and his address? If I have to, I’ll go and see⁠—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

The voice came from the doorway. Vanessa saw the newcomer first, followed by Craig. George was still grasping the phone when he turned, and exclaimed: ‘Toby!’

Clad in dark clothes, Toby’s hair was plastered to his head and his shoes were clotted with mud, but his eyes were alert and predatory. He exuded an odour of blood and death that stilled the air in the room and for a moment robbed Craig of all thought except one: Julia was dead.

‘Where is she?’ he shouted. It was a gut reaction, but it got the response Craig wanted. Toby’s eyes narrowed in acknowledgement, just as dazzling beams of light cut through the room.

Craig launched himself towards Toby. He heard Vanessa scream, ‘Run!’ and as he passed her he felt a slap on his thigh far more powerful than anything a desperately ill woman could muster. By now Toby was turning, acting on his aunt’s advice. Craig tried to follow but his right leg gave out beneath him and he stumbled, crashing into a small table.

He looked down and saw blood streaming from a slit in his trousers. In his periphery he registered Vanessa thrusting forward and just managed to dodge clear as the blade slashed down again.

George moved to restrain her but she was already collapsing back in her chair, a craft knife gripped in her trembling hand. Clutching his leg, Craig was dimly aware of a door slamming as Toby made his escape, followed almost immediately by a loud, urgent thudding on the front door.

Police, he thought. Thank Christ the police are here.

Desperation forced Julia to compromise. If she couldn’t bring her hands in front of her, she’d have to leave them where they were.

By rocking on her spine, she was able to build enough momentum to move into a sitting position. Now her hands were visible between her knees. From this position she could get enough leverage on the buckle to work at the tape holding her ankles. She lined up the pin against the centre of the tape and pushed down on it. The tape bulged but held.

She pushed harder. Felt the tape resist, resist… and then split. The pin burst through.

Now she could use the buckle like a gutting knife, dragging it upwards through the tape – and suddenly, just like that, her feet were free. Julia stared in amazement. She couldn’t quite believe she’d done it.

But there was no time to reflect on her achievement. She slipped first one and then the other foot through her arms. With her hands finally in front of her, she sat cross-legged and wedged the belt buckle between her feet, using her toes to prop the pin upright.

She worked so intently that the pain and fear receded; all her attention was on this one task, the one chance she had to stay alive.

It wasn’t the police.

While George went to the door, Craig stretched his leg out straight and examined the wound. The cut was about three inches long, but not too deep. He ripped his jeans open further and pressed down on the cut to stem the bleeding. Vanessa’s malevolent gaze prickled the hairs on his neck.

‘Why did you help him?’ Craig asked her.

‘Fuck off,’ she snarled.

George came back in, pressed between two large men in dark coats. Other men followed, filling the room with menace and testosterone. There were six of them in all, their leader distinguished not so much by his mixed-race complexion and slimmer frame, but by his unmistakable aura of power. Even Vanessa seemed to baulk at the sight of him.

‘What’s been happening here?’ he asked.

George babbled something about needing to treat the wound, but as he moved towards Craig strong hands pulled him back.

‘Sit down, George.’ The man peered at Craig’s leg. ‘It’s not critical.’

‘You’re Kendrick?’ Craig asked.

‘Well done.’ The man turned to Vanessa, noted the knife in her hand, and tutted. ‘You’d like to explain?’

Vanessa ignored the question. Kendrick took a step towards her and she spat at him. Nothing came out except air, but it made him recoil. Craig sensed a fearsome rage, barely held in check.

As if to protect her, George said, ‘Toby was here.’

Kendrick spun to face him. ‘Where will I find him?’

George considered for a moment. ‘The farmhouse, possibly. It’s just a few hundred yards from here.’

‘I know where it is.’ Kendrick directed a sharp look at Craig, who’d been about to mention Julia. Then he thought of Abby Clark’s fate and clamped his mouth shut.

Kendrick addressed a weaselly-looking man who had stepped into view from behind a couple of the heavies.

‘Jacques, go and check it out. Take Barrett. Let me know when you find him.’

The weasel disappeared, accompanied by one of the heavies. Kendrick took the chair that Craig had recently vacated, and beckoned for George to sit. Craig remained on the floor, holding his leg. The blood was starting to congeal, sticky on his hand.

Kendrick seemed in no hurry. He was wearing calfskin gloves, and didn’t trouble to remove them when he pressed his hands together, resting them against his mouth like a child saying his bedtime prayers. Only then did his gaze settle on Vanessa.

‘It’s time you explained yourself, woman.’

Vanessa met his eye with a cool contempt. Craig could sense the satisfaction she felt at becoming the centre of attention.

Her husband, on the other hand, was consumed with anxiety. ‘Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it,’ he pleaded.

‘She was going to take my place,’ Vanessa muttered. ‘Her and her little brat.’

‘Megan.’ The word emerged as a moan; George sounded utterly broken-hearted.

‘Toby’s not up to much. But he’s family.’ Vanessa’s dark eyes glittered with malice. Her voice scratched like dry straw dragged through a pipe. ‘He’s my family. And you were going to pass over him in favour of that bitch. It was my duty to warn him. I told him to find a way to stop it.’

She said something else, but no one heard her because of the noise George made as he fainted and slipped from his chair.

In the end Julia pushed so hard, the belt burst through the tape and jabbed her wrist. Blood sprang from the wound, but she hardly noticed it. She tore the tape apart and stood up, rubbing life back into her arms. Then she quickly buttoned her shirt before testing the door, indulging a faint hope that it had somehow failed to lock properly.

No such luck. She rattled the handle a couple of times, then examined the room for something to use as a ram. The only contender was the bedside table.

The door was composed of a solid frame with six rectangular panels. The panels felt relatively flimsy to the touch, and so it proved. Gripping a leg of the table in both hands, she swung it like a baseball bat at the middle section. Shards of wood flew from the panels, and a dent appeared in the central strut. A few more blows and there was a hole big enough to climb through.

Julia stumbled downstairs, and forced herself to enter the living room, where she snatched up her coat without looking too closely at Vilner’s mutilated corpse. Back in the hall she noticed a landline phone on a shelf by the door. She picked it up but it was dead.

Her next unwelcome discovery was that the front door wouldn’t open. Toby must have used the deadlock, which meant it couldn’t be opened without a key.

She didn’t know it at the time, but it saved her life. The door rattled and shook, and she realised it wasn’t from the wind. For a moment she stood transfixed, unable to comprehend that she had failed.

Then the door shuddered under a sudden heavy impact: someone was trying to break in. Jolted to her senses, Julia turned and dashed into the kitchen just as a second blow reverberated through the house and the front door burst open.

No one else went to George’s aid, so Craig did it, dragging his leg across the carpet. George was already coming round; Craig helped him sit up, feeling almost as stupefied as the older man.

Recovering enough to speak, George turned to his wife. ‘You planned the massacre?’

‘No. I sent Toby an anonymous message, suggesting he do something about the Caplans, to preserve his inheritance. It was his decision to use Carl.’

‘You didn’t help organise it?’

‘No.’ She snorted with disdain. ‘I rather wish I had.’

Craig shook his head, still unable to believe that this shadow of a woman had presided over the murders.

‘Bit of a shock, isn’t it?’ Kendrick’s tone was one of mock gravity. For him, Craig realised, this was merely entertainment.

‘What about the gun?’ George asked Vanessa. ‘The Walther with the silencer?’

Vanessa shook her head. ‘No idea. Ask Toby.’

‘We will,’ said Craig.

‘Or ask him,’ Vanessa said. ‘The half-caste.’

Kendrick chuckled. ‘Quite a mouth you have,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how you stayed married to her all this time, George. Not when you had young Laura Caplan waiting in the wings.’

George refused to acknowledge Kendrick. ‘We never set out to deceive you,’ he told his wife. ‘Please believe that.’

‘Be quiet, George,’ Vanessa said. ‘It’s far too late.’ Imperious as ever, she grasped her walking stick and tried to stand up. ‘I’d like you all to go now,’ she declared. ‘It’s my desire to die in peace.’

Kendrick rose and gave a little bow. ‘Let me help you.’

‘No,’ Vanessa said, as Kendrick blocked her path. She still held the knife but he grabbed her wrist, crushing it until she released the weapon. Now Craig understood why Kendrick hadn’t removed his gloves.

With his other hand, Kendrick clasped Vanessa’s throat. Craig automatically tried to move but felt a gun at his neck. One of the heavies stood over him. George, too, could only stare, an almost delirious look on his face, as though his hold on reality had already broken.

Vanessa couldn’t have weighed much more than seventy pounds. Kendrick lifted her, squeezing harder all the time, until she was fully upright. Then he lifted her higher. Her feet came off the floor. Her eyes bulged. She let out a low gurgling moan, swatting her arms, kicking her legs uselessly in mid-air, writhing and fighting until the moment when the light abruptly vanished from her eyes and she wilted, dangling from his grasp like an old rag doll, broken and loved by no one.

Kendrick went on holding her for another second or two, as though he had something to prove. Then he opened his hand and let her lifeless body collapse to the floor, now just a messy heap of skin and bones.

67

The arrival of the man he assumed was Kendrick meant that Toby couldn’t get back to his car. Instead he had to detour through the manor grounds and run back to the farm.

Beyond the imperative to survive, there was only one thing on his mind. Vanessa had helped him escape by attacking Craig. Despite all their differences over the years, she had sacrificed herself in order to save him.

Vanessa was Decipio.

In retrospect, it was obvious. Even the contemptuous tone of her emails was entirely in character, and yet he’d never once suspected her. Neither had George, judging by his reaction.

Toby couldn’t help marvelling at how expertly he’d been played. Vilner had gone to his death protesting he knew nothing about the massacre, and it turned out that he’d been telling the truth.

Vanessa had her own selfish reasons for wanting the Caplans destroyed, but she’d skilfully convinced Toby he was doing it for his own benefit. And thanks to George, in the weeks since the massacre she’d had an unwitting source of information. That was how ‘Decipio’ had known what Craig and Julia were up to.

If only she’d revealed her identity, he thought. They could have made a formidable team.

And how ironic for Vanessa to have saved him, when his plan tonight had been to kill her, before forcing George to write a suicide note in which he confessed to his part in the massacre. A brilliant plan, thwarted by the presence of Craig Walker – and then Kendrick and his thugs.

He shouldn’t have answered Vilner’s phone earlier, Toby thought. Goading Kendrick had been a serious error.

He reached the house and was about to go inside when his panic abruptly vanished. His tactical brain regained control, a small voice urging him to wait a second. Urging him to think.

Kendrick’s men would come after him. The farmhouse was the obvious hiding place. Instead he found shelter in one of the outbuildings – and within seconds the yard was flooded with light from a Jeep Cherokee. Two men got out, both carrying guns.

Toby watched them, delighted that his quick thinking had once again delivered him from peril. If he had a regret, it was that he would be denied the pleasure of taking Julia’s life.

On the other hand, at least it would save him a job.

Julia hid behind the kitchen door and frantically looked for a weapon. At the back of her mind a question surfaced: why had Toby broken the door down?

Then she heard voices in the hall. Two men. For a single brief moment she imagined they were here to rescue her, but an instinct for self-preservation stopped her from calling out. Instead she kept quiet, and listened.

When they found Vilner, a man with a strong Essex accent exclaimed, ‘Look at the state of him. Kendrick’s gonna do his nut.’

The other man, speaking with a Caribbean lilt, said, ‘I don’t think he’ll shed many tears over Vilner.’

‘So where the hell is this Toby feller?’

‘I don’t know. Check the house.’

Julia froze. The back door was fifteen feet away, bolted at the top and bottom. She’d never unlock it in time. Instead she shrank against the wall as heavy footsteps approached. A muscular form leaned into the room, scanned it and retreated. She heard the creak of the stairs, and the squawk of a two-way radio.

‘It’s Jacques,’ said the Caribbean voice. ‘We’re at the farmhouse. Vilner’s dead. No sign of Toby.’

A shout from upstairs interrupted him. Conscious that she wouldn’t get a better opportunity, Julia crept forward and waited for the second man to climb the stairs. She peered into the hall and saw the front door hanging drunkenly on a single hinge. Escaping that way meant moving fast – something she wasn’t supposed to do, or worse still might be incapable of doing.

But there was really no choice.

Julia took a deep breath and ran.

Kendrick stood at the window, staring into the night. The wind was raging harder than ever, and with each gust the lights flickered. Craig eyed the door, trying to assess the likelihood of escape should they be plunged into darkness.

No one restrained him when he eased himself up and sat on a chair. His leg had stopped bleeding but was starting to throb. He tried to help George, but the older man shrugged him off. His dull, uncomprehending gaze wouldn’t be diverted from his wife’s body.

‘She helped him,’ he moaned. ‘She helped him kill my Laura.’

Craig nodded grimly. Remembering what Vanessa had said, his mouth went dry at the thought of the question he had to ask Kendrick.

‘You knew what they were doing, didn’t you?’

Kendrick turned, studying him as one might study an exotic animal, slightly unsure of its ability to bite or sting.

‘I knew about Toby,’ he said. ‘Vanessa’s involvement was a surprise.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘Right at the start. We quickly identified Toby as a potential weakness. We searched his apartment and put a keylogger program in his computer. Vanessa contacted him using an anonymous email account, warning him of the threat to his inheritance.’ There was some grudging admiration in his voice. ‘We monitored their communications and learned that he planned to use Carl Forester.’

‘And you did nothing to stop him?’ Even as he spoke, Craig cursed the naivety of his question. ‘Of course you didn’t. You went one step further. You recruited Carl yourself.’

Kendrick’s smile acknowledged the truth. There was an electronic bleep from within his coat. Turning back to the window, he produced a heavy-duty walkie-talkie and said, ‘Yeah?’

Urgent chatter down the line, but the only words Craig heard clearly were ‘Vilner’s dead’. He didn’t know whether to feel shocked or relieved. Was Julia there as well? Was she safe?

Kendrick said, ‘Keep looking,’ and listened again. There was an exclamation, clear enough for Craig to recognise Jacques’s voice.

‘Someone here,’ he shouted. ‘A woman.’

Then all they heard was the blast of a gun.

Toby, crouching by the Jeep, was astonished to see Julia run from the house. Somehow she had freed herself and got away from them.

A moment later there were angry shouts, followed by gunfire. The front door splintered, and grit and stones flew up from the yard. Wild shots, fired as one of the men ran downstairs.

Toby watched Julia pass, her face creased with pain. There was an uneven rhythm to her movement that suggested she wouldn’t get far. Catching her would be easy, Toby decided. His plans might be in tatters, but it didn’t mean he was out of the game. And if nothing else, Julia could be useful as a bargaining chip.

‘Who is it?’ Kendrick demanded. When an answer wasn’t forthcoming, the man closest to Craig raised his gun and took the safety off.

Craig glanced at George, whose eyes were a silent plea: Tell him.

‘Julia Trent.’

Understanding dawned on Kendrick’s face. ‘Toby kidnapped her, along with Vilner?’

‘I think so.’ Craig couldn’t resist a smile. ‘Does that mean she’s escaped?’

Kendrick ignored the question, turning to his men. ‘Murray, you stay here. You two can help Jacques with the search. Find them both and bring them back here. If anyone gets in the way, kill them.’

The other two men trooped out, leaving just the one nearest Craig. Murray was over six foot, a vast slab of muscle and quite obviously no stranger to violence. Craig knew these were almost certainly the men who had followed and photographed his children. The men who had killed Abby and thrown her body in the Thames. If he was going to take them on, he would have to choose his moment carefully.

He thought about Julia. She was still alive. Still fighting. No matter what happened here, Craig would take comfort from that.

Jacques was first to the Jeep, and climbed into the passenger seat. Barrett made to follow, but hesitated as he opened the door.

‘Shouldn’t we go after her on foot?’

‘This is quicker.’

Barrett knew better than to question Jacques twice. He put his gun away and got in, the vehicle rocking as his bulk tipped it to one side.

‘Who the fuck is she?’ he said.

‘Don’t know. But we have to stop her reaching the village.’

Barrett turned the ignition and the engine fired up with a much rougher noise than usual. Before he could comment on it, he was aware of Jacques flinging himself against the dashboard in a spray of blood and brain matter. A dark figure rose in the rear footwell, no more than a shadow falling across Barrett’s face before he heard but barely felt the shot that killed him.

Julia was halfway along the lane when she was forced to slow down. She could ignore the twinges in her ankles and legs, but not the tearing pain in her abdomen. She thought of the doctor’s instructions on Wednesday night. Walk slowly. Don’t run. She almost laughed.

Don’t get kidnapped. Don’t end up fleeing for your life.

The village first appeared as a distant scattering of lights, warm and welcoming. A lull in the wind nearly pulled her off balance, and in the sudden eerie silence she heard the vibration of a heavy vehicle, moving fast over rough ground. She turned, saw the flash of headlights and threw herself towards the verge.

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 it, 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, but this was no time to be squeamish.

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 drew up between the church and the village green and saw something that made him smile. The BT box had been vandalised, just as it had been in January. Kendrick must have made sure the phones were cut off.

Toby imagined the mindset of Chilton’s surviving residents. In the midst of a ferocious storm, finding their phones were dead, was anyone likely to open their door to an unexpected caller? After everything they’d been through, would they really want to help a stranger in trouble?

‘No,’ he said aloud. No chance at all.

So where had Julia gone?

68

‘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 screwed up. So did Vilner. Now I have to deal with the mess they made.’

‘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.

‘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 find him.’

His face flushed with anger, Kendrick dropped on to a sofa. 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, Craig 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. 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, with his wife and his children. He probably hadn’t even realised Julia was missing.

Picking up a fragment of tile, she broke a pane of glass in the door, then 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 SUV went past.

A vivid spasm of pain shot through her stomach and made her curl up tight. When it finally subsided, she stood up but was overtaken by a wave of vertigo. She was desperate to lie down, desperate to close her eyes and blot out her predicament. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

Thankfully there was a phone on the worktop. 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. And at that thought, something in her gave way, just as it had done in January. The first thread of sanity, perhaps. Back then, Julia 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, no longer caring where she hid or if she could be found.

As far as Julia was concerned, she might as well be dead already.

Sullivan’s foreboding grew with every mile. After passing a dozen accidents and abandoned cars, he pulled in just beyond 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 enough to get past.

He got out of the car, the rain pelting his face, and 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. I’d turn round if I were you.’

But Sullivan was already moving towards the tree. Almost immediately he noticed that 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. The Jeep’s door was opening, 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.

‘Piss off out of here,’ the man growled.

‘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 turned away and strode towards the policeman’s car. Sullivan started after him, just as another man stepped into view from the far side of the Jeep. He was holding a gun.

Given his size and condition, Sullivan was remarkably quick to react. He bent low and threw himself towards the trees, but he still didn’t stand a chance. The bullet struck him in the back, just above his kidneys, and his momentum carried 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, and was happy to act as middleman on the deal.

Just as he expected, the other Jeep stopped as soon as the headlights picked out the vehicle he’d commandeered. Two men got out and warily assessed their surroundings.

Toby had parked badly on purpose, 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 and a hasty escape on foot. That was exactly how the two men responded to it.

Side by side they walked towards the Jeep, glancing round in a half-hearted way. One of the men peered through the rear window, while his partner made for the driver’s door. Toby took him out first, shooting from about fifteen 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.

Toby made sure both men were dead, then he stood very still and listened. He could hear trees crashing together, loose fence panels banging and what sounded like a metal bin trapped in an alley, clattering back and forth. And over it all the wind continued to howl and scream. The gunshots, by comparison, were insignificant. Toby was almost disappointed when no lights came on, no doors opened.

This was how Carl must have felt, he realised. The whole village at his mercy. House after house of unwitting victims…

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 gave a jubilant smile.

The Old Schoolhouse had been in darkness a moment ago. Now there was a light on upstairs.

69

A few more minutes ticked by. Craig tried to look relaxed, 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. From time to time Kendrick shot him a disgusted look.

The other man in the room, Murray, was standing just behind him, to Craig’s right. Still watchful. Still holding the gun loosely at his side.

The odds weren’t good, Craig thought. So he went on waiting, even though he knew it was a foolish strategy. Two against two offered a better chance than anything they’d get when the other men returned.

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.

Craig reflected on the questions he’d asked earlier. 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. He marched to the window and peered out, then produced the walkie-talkie and pressed the call button. ‘Lloyd? Are you there?’

No response. Craig noticed Murray shifting uneasily.

‘Lloyd?’ Kendrick shouted. ‘Answer me. What’s happening?’

There was an electronic burp, 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 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, to see George Matheson. 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 Murray. ‘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. The broken TV aerial dragged over the tiles like fingernails on a blackboard. She jerked upright, 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 General, 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.

Julia’s thoughts were cut short by a noise from downstairs. Broken glass crunching underfoot on the kitchen floor.

There was someone in the house.

Julia 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 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. 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 loose piece of glass slipping from the doorframe.

If it was 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.

That left only one option. The one she had so recklessly proposed to Craig as they waited in the ambulance on Wednesday night.

Fight back.

She kept low, crouching awkwardly as she descended, testing each tread as though negotiating a minefield. The hall was empty, all the way to the front door in one direction and the kitchen in the other. The doors in between led variously to a cloakroom, a dining room and a living room.

Just as in the farmhouse, the open door was the better bet. From here it seemed an impossible distance away, standing like a prize at the end of a tunnel filled with unimaginable danger.

But a minute or two had now passed, and there had been no other suspicious noise. Maybe it had just been the wind.

Then she heard him.

He breathed out.

He was in the living room. Very close. Perhaps hiding behind the door.

But he didn’t react. He didn’t spring out and attack her.

He couldn’t see her, she realised. He must be relying on sound alone, and she’d come downstairs too quietly to be heard. If she could walk along the hall without making any noise…

It was a tough challenge, tiptoeing slowly when every nerve in her body was screaming at her to run. Her resolve lasted only until she got to the kitchen, saw it was empty and knew she had at least a few seconds’ advantage while he got out from behind the door.

She sped across the kitchen, made it to the back door and was about to burst into the cold raging night when suddenly he stepped into her path.

She jerked to a halt. It should have been impossible, and yet he was standing right in front of her. He held the gun in one hand and in the other a two-way radio – a radio he had taken from Kendrick’s men. She guessed there must be another radio, set to the same channel, behind the living-room door.

His trick had worked perfectly. And now she would die.

He thought so too. ‘Give up,’ he said. Not a demand, or a request.

No. Julia wasn’t sure if she said the word aloud, or just thought it. Toby was aiming the gun at her, but some reckless intuition told her he wouldn’t shoot. He wasn’t done with her yet.

She turned fast, twisting on the balls of her feet, and at the same time hurled the letter opener like a spear. He flinched away but it caught him on the cheekbone. A line of blood materialised on his face.

She moved fast, but Toby was faster. As soon as he saw she wasn’t intimidated by the gun, his hand dropped and he jumped forward, knowing he couldn’t let her get the advantage. She was too unpredictable. Too fucking resourceful.

The cut on his face didn’t hurt, but it pissed him off. If it had been on target it might have blinded him.

He got to her while she was still on the threshold, still turning. He dropped the radio but kept hold of the gun. One free hand should be enough.

He wrapped his arms around her, jamming the gun into Julia’s stomach. His other arm reached over her shoulder, locking around her neck.

‘Give up,’ he said again. ‘Or Kendrick will kill Craig.’

For a bluff, it was pure genius. Totally instinctive. And it worked. He almost heard the whoosh as the fight drained out of her.

Thank Christ for that.

70

Too slow. Too stupid. Not thinking clearly.

Julia had run straight into his trap. She was aware of everything as if in slow motion: her mouth opening, drawing in a breath to scream. Adrenalin pumping furiously into her bloodstream, muscles primed for fight or flight. Some primordial imperative told her to run: create some distance and a chance to regroup…

A smarter section of her brain knew better. You can’t move forward. Even if Toby doesn’t shoot, he’ll tighten his grip and crush your windpipe.

‘Give up,’ she heard him say. ‘Or Kendrick will kill Craig.’

In that moment she wrestled control of her instinct and let herself go limp. She released a breath and with it some of the tension. She felt his body close in on her, but the hand around her neck relaxed. He thought she had surrendered.

Then she whipped her head back and connected with his face. Heard a loud crack as bone gave way to bone. Toby let out a guttural scream, his arms falling away as he stumbled backwards.

Julia heard a thud and didn’t register it, but Toby had dropped the gun. It made no difference. By then she was moving, running across the kitchen, towards the only weapon she could see.

Toby’s nose was broken. The pain was atrocious. It felt like she’d driven a burning hot spike into his sinuses. There was a flap of skin hanging loose on his cheek. Blood pouring down his face. Only his fury kept him moving.

You can still do this, he told himself. You’ve seen off four of Kendrick’s men. You can deal with this bitch.

Stupidly, she didn’t try to run upstairs. She stayed in the kitchen. That meant he could easily catch her.

She reached the worktop next to the fridge. No knife block, thank God. Another second and he’d slam into her from behind. Maybe trap her hand in a drawer and crush her fingers. He’d enjoy that.

He was two feet away. A foot. Close enough to smell her sweat and fear. She was turning, as if to beg him for mercy. Well, she could forget about that.

Toby had suffered enough at her hands. Now it was her turn.

Julia had no time to run. No space to fight. Toby would be on top of her in a second or two.

Craig might have been living in his father’s house, but he obviously wasn’t doing much cooking. There were no dirty dishes on the worktops, no cutlery within reach, no clutter. Just a brushed-steel toaster and a matching kettle.

The kettle was shaped like a tall jug, resting on a detachable base. It had a vertical strip of transparent plastic to show the water level. It was half full.

Julia grabbed it in desperation. Her stomach was protesting again, a terrible splitting sensation that could only mean something was seriously wrong.

As she lifted the kettle clear of the base she realised how heavy it was. A solid, expensive piece of kit. She could feel Toby closing on her. He was going to ram her, crush her against the units.

Julia didn’t even have time to turn properly; she just spun her upper body and brought the kettle round in front of her, swung it over and down like a tennis serve, aiming for the point where she hoped his head would be.

At the moment of contact she thought of the dream. She was on the beach at Camber Sands and the killer had fallen from the tree. She’d beaten him to death with a poker or a crowbar.

This wasn’t a poker, or a crowbar. It was an ordinary domestic kettle. And she didn’t beat him over and over. She hit him twice.

But the result was the same.

Toby’s own momentum contributed to the force of the blow, like a man running into a wall. The kettle landed on the top of his head and she saw his skull crack. The sound it made was unlike anything she’d ever heard. It entered her ears and seemed to trickle through her body like an infection, a chilling nausea.

Toby came to an abrupt stop. His eyes rolled up in his head and his legs gave way.

She hit him again as he dropped. She didn’t know why. Even as she did it, there was a voice telling her it was unnecessary. Sadistic, even.

Well, maybe I’m entitled, she thought. Maybe he owes me this one.

Toby lay at her feet, not moving. There was so much blood on his face, Julia couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. The back of his head was oozing dark, clotted blood.

She was pressed against the kitchen units. She couldn’t move without stepping over him. She stayed like that for a long time, still holding the kettle, until the shock subsided.

You have to move, she told herself. It’s not over yet.

She put the kettle down and readied herself. Then, holding the worktop for balance, she brought her right knee up and extended her foot over the body. Her nerves jangled like a fire alarm, fearing that Toby’s hand would whip out and grab her ankle.

Planting her right foot on the far side of his body, she repeated the move with her left leg: a big, exaggerated motion, like some absurd act of mime, and when she was finally standing clear Julia felt drained of energy.

She gave him one final glance before staggering through the hall and into the cloakroom. She grabbed the sink as she felt herself blacking out. Possibly she did, for her next memory was of climbing to her feet, running cold water over her wrists while she looked in the mirror and a killer stared implacably back at her.

For a moment her parents were standing behind her, just as they had stood on the terrace in her dream, regarding her with quiet shame.

‘I’m not her,’ Julia whispered. But she knew it was a lie.

Then Toby’s last words floated back to her: Kendrick will kill Craig.

Could she believe him? What would make Toby say that?

She knew Kendrick was here, in the village. It wasn’t impossible that Craig was here too. Perhaps…

Perhaps he had come looking for her? Perhaps he hadn’t given up.

Julia faced herself in the mirror and made a conscious decision. She would ignore the pain in her stomach until she knew that Craig was safe.

If he hadn’t given up, then neither could she.

Ten minutes, Kendrick had said. And then they would be dead.

Craig believed him. If he didn’t act now, he might never see his children again.

With two minutes to go, the lights went out again. This time they didn’t come back on.

Kendrick had just made another attempt to contact his men. The pair he’d sent after Toby weren’t responding. Now, when the room went dark, Craig saw him draw a gun and fire several times, wild panicky shots directed at the driveway outside. There was a loud crash as one of the big windows shattered.

The guard, Murray, gave a shout of alarm and moved towards his boss. In the confusion Craig dived forward and threw all his weight into a tackle, trying to bring the big man down while also wrestling the gun from his hand.

He failed on both points. Murray was simply too strong. For Craig it was like hurling himself at a brick wall. He grappled with the man’s wrist, but Murray jerked his elbow back and caught Craig in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. He was driven backwards by the blow, and in the darkness saw Murray turning, trying to aim the gun in his direction.

Then something flew past his head, and there was a loud thud. The big man groaned and fell back, and as he did the gun went off. Craig also dropped to the floor, expecting another shot, but none came. Instead he could hear Murray breathing in painful gasps and swearing quietly.

Then a controlled voice said, ‘Stay there, Craig. Move and you’re dead.’

It came from less than three feet away. Craig was lying awkwardly on the floor, one of his legs caught beneath a chair. He wasn’t in a position to get up quickly, even if he wanted to.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Craig risked moving his head slightly. George was on his knees, facing Craig. Kendrick stood behind him with a gun to George’s head. But far from looking defeated, Matheson’s eyes blazed with determination. Like Craig, he had been biding his time.

Kendrick said, ‘Murray, are you all right?’

‘Fucker threw something at me,’ Murray growled, his voice tight with pain. Craig turned, saw the dark gleam of blood on the big man’s forehead. There was a broken ashtray on the floor next to him, but Murray was more concerned about his leg, clutching his calf with both hands.

‘Gun went off as I fell,’ he said. ‘Caught my fucking leg.’

Kendrick sighed. ‘Can you walk?’

‘Dunno, boss.’

‘Well, you’re gonna have to. We’re getting out of here.’

Then another voice shouted, ‘Drop your gun.’

Kendrick turned towards the sound, his mouth forming an incredulous smile. From his position on the floor, Craig couldn’t see the person who had just entered the room. But he recognised the voice, and for a moment he thought he must be dreaming.

71

The power failure nearly killed her. Julia was approaching the grounds of Chilton Manor when a ferocious gust of wind was accompanied by a loud rending sound from the field to her right. Without consciously understanding what it was, Julia surged forward. The pylon toppled slowly, colliding with a tree and then landing in the field. At the same time she had the impression of a dark cable whipping through the air above her head.

Flinging herself down on the opposite verge, she saw a bright flash just yards away, followed by a harsh burning smell. It was the live wire, sparking as it hit the ground.

She lay on the wet grass, watching for another strike and trying to ignore the burrowing ache in her stomach. At the next lull in the wind she got up and dashed clear of the cable’s range. Clutching her belly as she ran, she reached the manor gates and found little more than two twisted heaps of metal. Kendrick must have rammed right through them.

Seconds later she spotted Craig’s car, destroying her last faint hope that Toby had been bluffing. On the approach to the house, she noticed one of the living-room windows was shattered. She could dimly make out shadows moving inside.

Praying she wasn’t too late, Julia struggled up the steps and found the front door was open. Crossing the hall, a spasm of pain almost caused her to black out. It felt like someone was pouring hot tar into her stomach. She blinked away tears and checked the gun in her hand. After taking it from Toby, she had gone into the garden and fired into the air. If the moment came to use it in anger, she wanted to know she could pull the trigger.

Now that moment was here.

She stepped into the doorway and took aim.

‘Drop your gun,’ she ordered.

Julia had a sense that the room’s occupants had heard her. Cautiously she crossed the threshold, wary of someone hiding in the dark.

The man with the gun, she recognised immediately. He regarded her with open astonishment, then seemed to make a quick professional assessment: she was a civilian, a woman. Would she really have the guts to shoot?

By way of an answer, Julia said, ‘Toby’s dead. I killed him.’

He gave the merest nod of his head, almost a congratulation. ‘And my men?’

‘Toby killed them.’

‘Well, well. Quite the mess to clear up.’

Keeping her eyes locked on him, she called out, ‘Craig? Are you all right?’

‘I’m okay,’ said a voice from the floor. ‘So is George. He’s kneeling in front of Kendrick.’

‘I can see him,’ Julia said. ‘Is there anyone else?’

‘One of Kendrick’s guys, on the floor near me. He’s wounded, but has a gun.’

‘And he’ll use it,’ said Kendrick. ‘He’ll shoot Craig, and I’ll shoot George, unless you put your gun down right now.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Craig said. ‘He was involved in the massacre. Toby’s only targets were the Caplans. It was Kendrick who persuaded Carl to murder the others.’

‘I know,’ said Julia. ‘And I know why.’

Kendrick was still radiating confidence. ‘You don’t know anything, duchess. Give me that gun and I just might allow you to live.’

‘He’s bluffing,’ George cried out. ‘Shoot him now. Don’t worry about me.’

Julia’s finger tightened on the trigger. She knew George was right. Her best chance of survival was to fire now, while Kendrick had his own weapon aimed at George. But in that scenario Matheson was also likely to die. Kendrick was banking on the assumption that she wasn’t capable of such ruthlessness.

‘I know your real name,’ Julia said. ‘And I know who your target was.’

Kendrick’s expression changed. There was a little more respect in his voice when he answered. ‘In that case, you’ll understand how easily I can walk away from this.’

‘Can you? Give up all your power and wealth?’

‘It’s easy enough to acquire, if you have the right qualities.’

‘What do you mean?’ Craig asked. ‘Is this man Kendrick or not?’

‘That’s what he calls himself,’ Julia said. ‘But his real name is Robert Meade, from the island of Montserrat.’

Craig wasn’t listening closely, but he very much wanted Julia to go on talking. With all the focus on her, it gave him a chance to carefully inch his way across the carpet.

Murray had leaned to one side, resting against an armchair. Once or twice he’d shut his eyes for a few seconds. He was still gripping his injured leg, which meant his gun must be lying on the floor nearby. Craig shuffled closer, his hands feeling for the gun while he looked from Kendrick to Julia and tried to make sense of the conversation.

So Kendrick wasn’t his real name? George appeared equally confused by this revelation. He was saying something when Julia’s last sentence finally penetrated.

Robert Meade, from the island of Montserrat.

Craig knew that name. He’d read it somewhere. He had heard it spoken.

‘Oh no,’ he gasped. ‘No.’

Julia said, ‘I’m sorry, Craig. You shouldn’t have to find out like this.’

‘My father?’ Craig said.

Julia wasn’t sure if the question was directed at her, or at Kendrick, who was now staring at Craig. Julia took a step closer, improving her line of fire.

‘But Kendrick’s from Trinidad,’ George said. ‘I researched him. He comes from a good family.’

Kendrick chuckled. ‘Stolen identity, George. I met the real Max Kendrick in prison, more than ten years ago. The guards thought it was hilarious that we looked so alike. We could have been twins. Kendrick had run off when he was a teenager. The day he told me his family hadn’t seen him for years, I came up with the idea of impersonating him, helping myself to some of their fortune. It was Jacques who convinced me to play a long game, and that way I got everything.’

George let out what might have been a sob. Kendrick sadistically prodded him with the gun. Craig saw Murray’s eyes were closed and shifted another couple of inches.

‘I left prison knowing everything about his life, all kinds of details that would convince his parents. He was released a couple of months later. Jacques got rid of him for me, and pretty soon I was living the high life in Trinidad, back in the bosom of my estranged family.’

‘They accepted you?’ Julia asked, remembering the malevolent gaze from the newspaper cutting.

‘I think they had their doubts, especially the mother. But they were so glad to have their wayward son back, they believed what they wanted to believe. It’s human nature, isn’t it, George?’ Again he jabbed him with the gun. ‘By that time the old man was dying. And I made sure “Mummy” followed soon after.’

‘And my father knew the truth?’ Craig said.

‘He would have done. He was the one who got me locked away in the first place.’ He chuckled. ‘When I came over here I hadn’t given him a thought in years. It wasn’t until we started due diligence that I found out about the campaign to stop the Chilton development. And who should be leading it but good old Philip Walker? Probably the only man in Britain who could look at me and know I wasn’t really Max Kendrick.’

Craig felt a surge of fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but at the same time his fingers touched cold metal. He eased back a little further.

‘There was no way I wanted to abandon the deal, so he had to be removed. Discovering that Toby was plotting to kill the Caplans gave me a perfect opportunity.’

‘But why so many deaths?’ Julia asked.

‘Carl wasn’t exactly stable. All we told him was to make sure it didn’t look like Walker was the only target. Even then he nearly bungled it. Luckily Walker came out, trying to be a hero again.’ Kendrick chuckled. ‘Of course, we had the protection of knowing that even if a conspiracy came to light, it would be Toby – and possibly the Mathesons – who took the fall.’

‘And you killed Abby Clark, didn’t you?’ Craig demanded.

‘I had word that she’d reached out to people in Trinidad, asking about me.’ Kendrick tutted. ‘That was a little too close for comfort.’

George suddenly jerked forward. For a second Julia thought he had been hit, but then he shouted, ‘Shoot him, for God’s sake. Shoot!’

The words emerged in a strange, elongated stream, but even though she knew it was the right thing to do, her body refused to obey. A black gauze was wrapping itself round her, pulling her down, and as she fell she heard gunfire, three shots from two different guns, and told herself that if this was dying, it really wasn’t so bad after all…

Craig had to angle his shot high to be sure of missing George. He aimed at Kendrick’s head just as Kendrick fired first at Julia, then in Craig’s direction. He was moving at the same time, and even as Craig shut his eyes and felt hot blood hit his face he knew his own shot had missed.

He opened his eyes, amazed to find himself still alive, just in time to see Kendrick leaping through the window. Murray was lying dead beside him, and George was on his hands and knees, vomiting on to the carpet. There was no sign of Julia.

Kicking a chair away, Craig got to his feet and was vaguely aware of his leg wound bleeding again. He blundered across the room and made out the shape of her body, face down on the floor. He screamed her name but Julia didn’t respond.

Dropping beside her, he gently lifted her arm. There was no blood visible on her, no obvious wound, but it wasn’t until he found a pulse that he let out a jagged breath and dared to believe it could be all right.

72

Julia woke to the patter of rain on the roof. Then the sun broke through and the birds began their raucous celebration of the coming day. Julia lay and listened to them, realising with a kind of awe that not only was she alive, but that for the first time in many days she had a genuine expectation of life, of recovery, of happiness.

Kendrick’s shot had been way off target, partly because by then Julia had already collapsed. She had Craig to thank for her survival: it was he who had prioritised her need for medical attention over chasing Kendrick.

Together with George, he had carried her to his car and driven like a maniac to the nearest A&E, in Haywards Heath. There she underwent an emergency operation to stem internal bleeding. She was also diagnosed with pneumonia, and spent the next two weeks in hospital.

As word of the events spread, the media attention became even more rabid than the first time around. Julia had to be kept under a strict guard: her only regular visitors were her brother and his wife, as well as Craig, who had needed over a dozen stitches to repair the knife wound in his thigh.

It was Craig who updated her on the police investigation. Nothing had been seen of Kendrick, although the two men with whom he was thought to have escaped were later found dead, their Jeep abandoned in an industrial estate in Folkestone. The police believed this was a ploy, designed to suggest he had left the country by this route. Craig’s police contact, DI Sullivan, was also found outside the village with a gunshot wound to the spine. It was doubtful as to whether he would walk again.

Kendrick’s ruthlessness was confirmed when the police told Craig they thought he’d deliberately killed Murray, so as not to leave a witness who could reveal his whereabouts. It was several days before they traced his rented house in Berkshire, by which time it had been gutted by fire. There was no saying how long Kendrick had stayed there, or what he might have taken with him when he fled.

After that, the trail went cold. Julia understood now what he’d meant when he said how easily he could walk away. For a man who’d spent more than a decade inhabiting a false identity, it wouldn’t trouble him to slip on a new one and resume his life somewhere else.

For Craig and Julia, that left one important question. Did he remain a threat to them?

The senior detective, when he was finally permitted to speak to Julia, took a fairly dismissive attitude. ‘He’s long gone, I’m sure of it. There’s really no need to spend your whole life looking over your shoulder.’

Julia couldn’t see quite as much reason to be confident, but in some ways it was irrelevant. There was no question of the police providing them with protection. She and Craig – and George Matheson as well, for that matter – would simply have to take their chances.

Julia was discharged from hospital on the understanding that she would spend a long period of convalescence at the Old Schoolhouse, under Craig’s care. This time she intended to follow her doctor’s recommendations to the letter.

First there was the media to contend with. Craig’s advice was not to hide from them. ‘They’re like hunters,’ he told her. ‘It’s the thrill of the chase that gets them going. Make yourself available and they’ll lose interest a lot sooner.’

And so it proved. She gave several print interviews, made one TV appearance, and then she was left alone. The world moved on to newer, fresher tragedies.

Returning to Chilton wasn’t nearly as traumatic as she expected. She arrived back on a nondescript morning in early March. An almost palpable air of exhaustion hung over the village, but unlike before there was no sense of menace, no feeling of unfinished business. Entering the house, she had insisted on going into the kitchen, seeing for herself the room where Toby had perished.

Where she had killed him.

She had stood a moment, waiting to see what ghosts might appear, but there was nothing. Just weariness, and a satisfaction that at last it was all over.

All over, but for one conversation.

It took place on her third day after leaving hospital. First she talked it over with Craig, and sensed a marked reluctance on his part. Craig was trying to focus remorselessly on the future, for her sake and his own. He’d also made it clear he wanted that future to include a relationship between the two of them, an idea which grew more appealing with each passing day.

Julia had assured him that it would be all right. Now, spotting Matheson from the window, she put on a jacket and left the house.

Following the second wave of forensic investigation, a clean-up had removed all the remaining flowers and wreaths, signalling an end to mourning and a slow return to normality. On the green, the great yew still dominated. George waited beneath it, gazing into the middle distance. He saw her and turned, offering an uncertain smile.

It seemed to take them both by surprise when they embraced. While still holding her, he said, ‘I’m very sorry for what they did.’

Julia nodded as they separated. ‘You don’t have to apologise. I know you had nothing to do with it.’

He seemed gratified, but still let out a heavy sigh. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever come to terms with the scale of Vanessa’s betrayal.’

‘I remember that morning when we met here,’ Julia said. ‘I told you about my parents and you seemed so sympathetic, so genuinely upset about the massacre. I couldn’t bear to think you were faking that grief.’

‘I imagine Craig has told you what happened at the house? You know what drove Vanessa to do it?’

Julia nodded. ‘Your affair with Laura Caplan.’

George gave a funny little laugh. He turned away from the tree and walked towards the pond. Julia fell into step beside him. The sight of a Royal Mail van driving up the High Street caused a momentary flutter of nerves, reminding her of how it had all begun.

‘How’s Megan?’ she asked.

George’s face immediately brightened. ‘Making progress. Not talking yet, but she responds to stimulation. She squeezes my hand. Sometimes she smiles.’

Julia faltered. Her mouth felt very dry. But something in George’s face made her feel the question was expected, and wouldn’t cause offence.

‘Is Megan your daughter?’

Sure enough, there was no shock, or surprise, or anger. But George shook his head just the same. ‘I’m afraid the truth is even more tragic,’ he said. ‘She’s my granddaughter.’

Julia felt too stunned to respond. She stopped by the edge of the pond, stared at the murky brown water and tried to make sense of this revelation.

‘When I employed Keith, I had no idea,’ George went on. ‘Laura didn’t say anything to me for years. Too frightened that I might reject her, she later explained. She was the result of a very brief relationship I had in my early twenties. I knew nothing at all about the pregnancy. Laura didn’t find out about me until her mother died. By then she was married to Keith. When they saw the farm job advertised, Laura thought it would be a perfect opportunity to… well, observe me from afar, I suppose.’

‘When did she tell you?’ Julia asked.

‘About two years ago. After the dreadful incident with Carl. Keith hadn’t been particularly sympathetic. We were discussing it one day when suddenly she blurted it out: “I’m your daughter!”’

He sniffed, turning away for a moment. ‘After that, we spent more and more time together, usually when Vanessa was in London. We were rather secretive, because Laura wasn’t sure how Keith would react to the news. Their marriage was already in trouble.’

‘Why not let Vanessa know the truth?’ As she spoke, Julia remembered something Craig had told her. ‘She couldn’t have children.’

‘I’m afraid that’s right. We’d tried everything that was possible at the time, to no avail. It made her feel terribly inadequate, and I think over the years it ate away at her. I had no inkling that she suspected an affair between Laura and myself – if I had I would have immediately come clean about the family connection.’ He swallowed. ‘I was still agonising over how to break the news to her when the cancer was diagnosed, and after that I thought… better to say nothing.’

Now he drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘It was an act of terrible cowardice. Once Vanessa had passed away, my plan was to give Laura the financial support to leave Keith, and I wanted to pay for Megan’s education.’

A sob escaped him. Julia stepped closer, taking his hand and pressing it between her own. Once he’d recovered, he said, ‘I made a truly appalling mistake, which ultimately cost so many lives. If it weren’t for Megan, I don’t think I’d have the will to go on.’

Julia said nothing. A noise behind her made her turn. Craig had emerged from the Old Schoolhouse and was hurrying towards them, looking concerned. She waved him away.

George looked at his watch and nodded to himself, as if he had said more than enough. But before they parted, Julia had one more question.

‘What about the village?’

He shrugged. ‘I can’t guarantee that Chilton won’t eventually fall to the developers, but it certainly isn’t happening while I draw breath.’

He kissed her on both cheeks, and wished her well. Julia watched him walk across the green and disappear into Hurst Lane. Then she turned and joined Craig by the yew tree. His sombre expression remained.

‘This just arrived,’ he said, handing her a postcard.

The picture was of a spectacular volcanic eruption on the island of Montserrat. Julia turned it over and read the back. It was addressed to her, care of the Old Schoolhouse. The handwriting was neat, square, unfamiliar; the message short and sweet:

One day our paths may cross again.

Until then… stay alive for me.

Be lucky.

Her laughter caught Craig unawares. He stared at her as if she’d lost her senses.

‘What are you going to do?’

Julia gave him the card back. She looked up at the broad, graceful branches of the tree that had sheltered her and saved her life. Far above, she could see aircraft trails criss-crossing a milky-blue sky. A whole world carrying on as normal.

‘I’m going to take his advice,’ she said.

MORE FROM TOM BALE

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For their help with researching police procedures, telecommunications and medical matters, I’d like to thank Supt Steve Voice, Tony Deakin, Simon Cude, Dawn Hayes, Natasha Butt and Mr S Waquar Yusuf. I must stress that certain liberties were taken for the sake of the story, so responsibility for any errors or inaccuracies lies firmly with the author.

For this new edition I’d like to thank the fabulous team at Boldwood Books for all their hard work and support.

A special thank you to Tim Booth, and of course huge gratitude to my family and friends who have been on this long and eventful journey with me – now twenty years and counting!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tom Bale was born in Brighton in 1966. After working a variety of jobs, including a career in the insurance industry and as a househusband, his publishing breakthrough came in 2006. Tom has now been a full-time writer for more than fifteen years.

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ALSO BY TOM BALE

Deadly Games

Sins of the Father

Skin and Bones

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Shadow Hunt

Blood Hunt

Silent Hunt

First published in 2008. This edition published in Great Britain in 2026 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

Copyright © Tom Bale, 2008

Cover Design by Tom Sanderson

Cover Images: Shutterstock

Lyrics from ‘Sound’ by James and Blue Mountain Music Ltd.

The moral right of Tom Bale to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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