Authors: Tom Bale
Craig moved out on Sunday afternoon, after a long and heated discussion.
Nina had assured him the affair with Bruce was over, but she
wouldn't countenance changing her job. That meant she would still
be working with him, sometimes closely, sometimes going 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?'
She 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
Granddad'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 said. She clung to him, pressing
so tightly against his chest that her next words were too muffled to hear.
Craig lifted her, bringing her face up to his. 'What is it, darling?'
'I'm scared, Daddy,' she said. 'What if you die there, too?'
* * *
Her question played on his mind as he drove to Chilton. He already
had misgivings about taking up residence, but he was facing an uncertain
future, and with his freelance career on hold he couldn't justify
booking into a hotel when the house was standing empty.
His foreboding intensified as he turned off the B2112. There was
a single police van parked on the corner of Chilton Way, the grass
around it trampled into wet mud. There were cars parked all along
the approach road, and at the foot of the High Street he was forced
to stop for a coach as it laboriously negotiated the corner. It was packed
with people, and the driver looked disgruntled. What the hell was
going on?
The answer was 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
looking at bouquets of flowers, left there by well wishers.
He drove on, forced down to walking pace by people who strolled
across his path as if he wasn't there. Everyone had cameras, and many
had video cameras as well. He saw a couple struggling to flatten out
the pages of a newspaper, trying to compare a photograph of the village
with the real thing.
Incredibly, there was another coach parked outside the church, and
more visitors wandering along Hurst Lane, as dumb and unresponsive
as cattle. His father's house was on the corner, with a garage
at the back, accessible from the lane. Before he could put the car
on the drive, he glimpsed movement behind the hedge to his left.
There was someone in the front garden.
He jammed on the brakes and jumped out of the car, attracting
some mild curiosity from people nearby. His father's garden gate was
open. There was a man on the path, short and thickset, taking photographs
of the front door with a neat little digital camera.
'What are you doing?' Craig said, with a calmness that surprised
him.
The man ignored him until he'd taken his photo, then he turned.
He was perhaps sixty, with lank grey hair and bad teeth. He didn't
look fazed by Craig's challenge.
'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 on the net.'
Craig nodded as if impressed. 'I'll bear that in mind. Maybe I'll
cut up the hall carpet and sell it in chunks.'
The man's eager expression was quickly 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 grabbed the camera and
wrenched it from his grasp. He strode across the road and hurled the
camera into the air. It sailed over the heads of the tourists by the tree
and landed in the pond.
'Hey, now that's not on—' the man began. Craig whirled round
and glared at him. The man took one look at his face and stomped
away, grumbling to himself.
Craig realised that most of the tourists on the green were now
staring at him, and his fury redoubled.
'What are you looking at?' he shouted. 'Is this not enough for you?
You want a floorshow as well, do you?'
There were a few tuts, a few shrugs. Most just stood and gaped,
blinking impassively. They reminded him of Nick Park's plasticine
animals in
Creature Comforts
.
'People died here,' he said, lowering his tone a little. 'This isn't a
fucking theme park. We're not selling tea towels and commemorative
plates. People
died
. And they deserve respect.'
More mumbling. A few people shifted their weight from foot to
foot, signalling their discomfort.
'You should be ashamed of yourselves,' Craig said. 'Get back on
your bus and leave us alone.'
There were a few muttered comments. Some of the tourists had
the good grace to turn and amble in the direction of the coach, but
even as they went they continued snapping away at the cottages, the
church, the green, the flowers.
And if they could, Craig had no doubt, they would photograph the
bodies, the blood, the pain, the loss.
The killer felt he'd justified what had happened at the hospital, but
Decipio clearly didn't agree.
Don't dress this is up 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 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. The message had ended with:
Remember: this is your neck on the line.
Not mine.
He stared at the screen until 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, of course, there was potentially
one other loose end.
Him.
He saw how easily he could be offered up, like a sacrificial lamb.
He was in a very precarious position. While he had his suspicions, he
still didn't know for certain who Decipio was. The name sounded like
something out of Shakespeare. 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.
Certainly it was time he stopped taking instructions. From now on
he would act as he saw best. Protect his own interests, and no one
else's. If that meant eliminating anyone who posed a threat, so be it.
February brought a spell of clear days with light winds and 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. And not just in the
past tense: she
was
incredibly lucky. 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 finding Lamb House, once home not just to James but to E
F Benson and Rumer Godden, and now owned by the National Trust,
she was disappointed to learn it was only open to the public from
March to October. After resting for a few minutes, she decided to
return to the High Street and find a café. It had been a slow, punishing
climb from the bus stop, and the descent, on wet cobblestones, would
be almost as taxing.
Thankfully she was past the stage where every movement had to
be carefully 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. Despite this, she refused to be defined by her physical
condition.
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 fabric baker's cap that offered both
warmth and protection. Although she still attracted plenty of glances,
because of her obvious frailty, she hadn't been recognised.
Yet.
It was as she walked along the High Street that 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. Not
only were the events of 19 January flooding back, but the thought of
being stalked evoked memories of a much older scare. 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 passerby. 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. She wasn't going fast by any means, but
a cold sweat broke out on her skin. Her ankle throbbed and in her
abdomen she felt an unnatural tightness. In her head she could hear
the smooth professional tones of her consultant, setting out the many
potential risks and complications of an inadequate recuperation. Two
words in particular had summoned a ghastly vision of a sudden, unforeseen
collapse: internal bleeding.
Several times she glanced back, and once thought she saw the man
duck out of sight. At the bottom she rested for a few seconds, panting
like a dog. An elderly woman touched her arm and asked if she was
all right.
'Fine,' Julia gasped. She managed a smile, but the woman looked
horrified.
'Oh, my dear,' she said. 'I thought you were—'
Julia didn't wait to hear what the woman thought. She rammed the
stick down and used it to propel herself forward, once again crossing
the road with little thought for the traffic. She suspected part of her
didn't care much if she was knocked down and killed.
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. The gruff
diesel engine seemed to vibrate at the same frequency as her nerves.
At last the doors closed with a whoosh and the bus pulled out. She
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. She asked herself: could he fit?
In her nightmares, she 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's what the
police had told her, and during the day she could almost believe it.
But at night, awake or asleep, he was always there, a menacing shadow
in the background. 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 police had first tried to speak to her. That disastrous
attempt had provoked a furious altercation between her consultant
and the detective. 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, whose mental state was judged to be extremely precarious.
Eventually it was Julia who insisted on consenting to an interview,
against her consultant's advice. Afterwards she wished she'd listened
to him.
Perhaps she was too tearful and inarticulate to be taken seriously.
Perhaps the detectives – a woman chief inspector and a young male
sergeant – had arrived with too many preconceptions. Or perhaps they
were exhausted and simply wanted 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, her 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 her 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.
After that, the questions took on a weary, half-hearted tone. On
the surface they remained polite but sceptical, creating a vicious
circle that she recognised but couldn't break. Their refusal to listen
made her increasingly upset, and the more distressed she became,
the more it reinforced their opinion that she was unstable. A basket
case, raving about a man in black leathers who killed Carl Forester
and then turned his gun on her.
At the end, the sergeant left the room first. The DCI was a kind,
matronly woman, but with a certain severe intelligence that warned
against taking her lightly. She reminded Julia of a head teacher she
had once worked with: steel wrapped in cotton wool.
'I know this has been dreadful for you,' she 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 nodded, as though these platitudes meant something. By now
all she wanted was to be left alone.
'I must offer you one bit of advice,' the DCI went on. 'However
much you're tempted, don't breathe a word of this to the newspapers.
Whether they believed you or not, they'd 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.