Authors: Tom Bale
Craig didn't look at his mobile until he was on the train back to
Sussex, at the end of a long and harrowing day. When the buffet
trolley approached, he thought he'd never in his life wanted a beer
as much as he did now. It took all his willpower to shake his head
and watch the trolley pass.
He listened to Julia's message and checked the time. It was gone
six-thirty, probably already 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, sharing tea and sympathy, when the police arrived
with the news they'd been dreading. The body of a woman, believed
to be Abby, had been recovered from the Thames.
Until that point, Marie had made a supreme effort to hold herself
together. Now she disintegrated in front of his eyes. When the police
officer asked if she was able to identify the body, Craig offered to
accompany her. 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 wasn't clear if this had been inflicted by an assailant,
or whether she had collided with something in the water. The post
mortem should tell them more.
He returned to Marie's flat, and sat with her while she made a
succession of difficult 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 no matter how many times he did it the result was always
the same. Both his hands were gone.
'You've never taken me seriously, have you?' said a voice. He realised
there was someone in the room with him. He 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. They reached him like someone shouting
through a waterfall; just static flooding his skull. He couldn't believe
he'd been so thoroughly outplayed. He thought he'd come here early
enough to anticipate a trap, but his opponent was earlier still.
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,
the type builders put down when laying foundations to prevent damp
penetration. The sheeting ran the entire width of the room and was
taped to the walls at a height of about two feet. The only other things
he could see 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.
He 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.
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.
Her headlights picked out trees writhing in the wind. 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 main bar faced out towards the road. The 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. There was a small garden at the
front, with picnic tables and planters made from beer barrels. A couple
of the tables had overturned, and it looked like the planters would
be next.
Just as she switched off the ignition, a single fat raindrop exploded
on the windscreen and ran down the glass. Then another. Then it
was as if someone had tipped an enormous tank of water upside down.
The sudden deluge pounded on the roof and made the sound of the
wind almost insignificant.
She turned up the collar of her coat, as if that would make a
difference, and prepared for a soaking. When she opened the door,
the wind nearly tore it from her grasp. She got out, slammed the
door and locked it, then hurried as fast as she dared towards the pub.
She entered the bar on a rush of wind and rain. Bottles and glasses
rattled in the draught, and there was nervous laughter. A dozen or so
faces turned to stare, then gradually looked away. The main group
was a family gathering, taking up several tables festooned with giftwrapping
and party novelties. A rather imperious elderly lady sat at
one end, wearing a paper crown. There were about fifteen people
with her, including several excited children.
Julia tidied her hair, wiped rain from her face, undid her coat. Then
she looked up, scanning the bar, and just as it occurred to her that
the weather might have caused him to delay or even cancel their
meeting, 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
an obscenely overweight man who reeked of beer and body odour.
Keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, he 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, along with
her treasured Blackberry. When asked, the police officer wasn't sure
if these items had been recovered, but he thought it extremely 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 see it. Couldn't force
it into the light.
The train rumbled and shook, and he glimpsed leaves swirling past.
He thought about his father's lawn, always kept so tidy, and idly
wondered at what age a man developed the patience to sweep his
garden after every storm. He thought about the creep he'd caught
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. Something about personal space.
Guy Fisher 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. It
made her wonder how often he'd impressed someone who heard his
voice, only for them to be disappointed when they met him in the
flesh.
On the other hand, there was little doubt it was him. He was virtually
the only customer sitting alone, and he was 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. Something about his almost wooden
focus on the laptop reminded her of that puppet from a 1960s TV
show. What was he called?
She 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 waited, deciding she would count to five and then walk
out.
On three he looked up, almost surprised, as if he hadn't really
expected her to show up. 'Miss Trent? I'm Guy Fisher. Take a seat.'
His rubbery lips formed an ingratiating smile, and she had to suppress
a giggle.
Joe 90
, she thought. That's who he looks like.
She took off her coat before sitting down. As her back arched she
saw his gaze dart towards her breasts, searching for the outline of her
nipples through the shirt. She folded her arms and looked him in the
eye.
'It's good of you to come,' he said, closing the laptop. He gathered
up the paperwork and shuffled it into some sort of order. She
noticed a glass by his side, containing an inch of what looked like
Coke, and wondered if he was going to buy her a drink. Not that
she really wanted one, but in the circumstances it was only polite
to offer. She had a feeling politeness was just one of the social skills
he lacked.
'With you in a second,' he said. He lifted the briefcase on to the
table, put the laptop away, then 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 birthday cake ablaze with candles.
When the old woman saw it she smiled benevolently. The adults
were applauding, while the children knelt on their seats and chanted,
'Gran-ny! Gran-ny!'
'Ahh. Isn't that sweet?' Fisher gave her a sickly grin. He placed the
papers in an upper pocket in the briefcase, then began to slide
the case around. 'This is what you need to see.'
A ferocious gust of wind shook the building and the lights in the
bar flickered on and off. Julia glanced at the window and saw her
reflection strobing in the glass: here
gone
here
gone
. Fisher turned the
briefcase so 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 black pistol.
Another gust of wind, and a loud crash from outside. One of the
children screamed and clutched her father. 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 she understood that they were simply part
of his disguise, along with the Estuary voice and the slicked-back hair
and the paunch. He wasn't a journalist, here to verify Alice Jones's
story.
He was the second killer.
He watched her closely. His smile was hideous, no warmth or light
in his eyes.
'I take it you've worked out who I am?'
'Yes.' The sound of her own voice surprised her. She hadn't
expected it to function. She certainly didn't expect it to sound so
calm.
'Good. Now this is where you have to be very sensible. Otherwise
a lot of people will get hurt.' He nodded towards the bar. 'Take a look
around.'
Julia did as she was told. The family party was singing 'Happy
Birthday'. The old woman sat through it, her face illuminated by the
candles, her smile a little forced, as if she would really rather be at
home with her feet up. 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
to create a panic.' He made a show of assessing the best contenders.
'The old woman, probably. And at least one of the kids. I'll aim for
their faces. It'll be messy, and it may not kill them straight away. While
they're screaming, everyone else will be too traumatised to react. They
certainly won't stop us leaving. Am I getting my message across?'
He smiled again. He could have been running through the itinerary
for a perfect evening out.
'Yes,' she said through gritted teeth.
'Great. We're going to stand up like a couple of good friends 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.' He smirked.
'All right?'
Julia said nothing. Reluctantly she met his eye and nodded.
'Well done.' He glanced around, then 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 in the face.
'The gun will be concealed by the case,' he said quietly, 'but I'm
still holding it. Remember that. Don't get it into your head that you're
going to play the hero.'
He stood up and ushered her towards the door. She felt as though
she'd been hypnotised. Her body seemed to respond to his commands
without any conscious input from her brain. She walked like a robot,
her movements stiff and unnatural. Surely someone will notice, she
thought. Surely someone will stop us.
But no one did.
He led her across the car park, towards a silver Renault Laguna. He
must have pressed a key fob, for the lights flashed and there was a
bleep as the car unlocked.
'Round the back,' he said, shouting to be heard above the storm.
In the corner of the car park a couple of fence panels had blown
down, and now the wind was lifting loose slats, trying to tear
them free. 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, allowed 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. A neat rectangle
of black leather, bought on holiday in Greece a couple of years ago
for thirty or forty euros. Neat, compact, unobtrusive.
Right now it was the most precious thing she owned.
He directed her to stand behind the car while he opened the door
and 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, quickly and meekly, climbing in without
assistance, 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.
'Have a 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 the phone out and
dropped into the driver's seat. At the same time a little firework seemed
to go off in his head, a spray of bright light that bloomed into the
letters of one simple word.
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 invention 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, shielding the phone with
her body. 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 and removed the padding
under his shirt. He wiped his face, then picked up Vilner's phone
again.
One missed call
, it said. He found the number and stared at
the name in the display.
Then he started the engine. It wasn't yet seven-thirty, on one of the
longest, most demanding days of his life, and there was still a lot to
do. But phase one was complete.
Mission accomplished.