Skin and Bones Part 1

SKIN AND BONES.

by TOM BALE.

PART ONE

Come, dip on in Leave your bones Leave your skin Leave your past Leave your craft Leave your suffering heartJames, 'Sound'

One.

A glance to her left was all it took. A simple glance as she pushed open the door to the village shop. If she 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 Sat.u.r.day of January, not quite 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 s.h.i.+mmer of frost lay over the gra.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day, she reasoned. It was January. It was 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. There was a Royal Mail van parked at the kerb up by the church, facing towards her. She vaguely noticed the rear doors were 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 air was deliciously warm, with an aroma that always prompted a smile: 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 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.'h.e.l.lo, 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. But then Chilton was the sort of place where people still returned from Brighton, outraged by beggars in the street and the brazen display of h.o.m.os.e.xual love.Julia browsed the newspapers for a minute, aware of Moira's sly scrutiny. Trying to spot a crack in the facade. A couple of weeks ago it would have bothered her, but she 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.Pus.h.i.+ng the thought aside, she picked up the Guardian Guardian, a carton of semi-skimmed milk and on impulse a packet of chocolate biscuits. She had a long and difficult day ahead: she deserved a treat.When she reached the counter Moira leaned over and grasped her hand. Even before she spoke, Julia knew she was going to use the gentle hushed tone that people reserve for the recently bereaved.'I just want to say, I'm dreadfully sorry for what happened. They were such a lovely couple.'Julia swallowed and nodded 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 five-pound note and prodding at the till.'He offered, but it seems ridiculous when he's up in Ches.h.i.+re.''I suppose so. What a shame you and Peter aren't still together,' said Moira, blithely unaware of her tactlessness. 'I know your mother always thought you were made for each other.''So did I,' said Julia. Another subject she was keen to avoid 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.'I'm not sure it's got much future, to be honest,' she said.Moira clicked her tongue. 'You've really been in the wars, haven't you?' There was a moment when Julia felt sure she was going to say something about bad news coming in threes, but perhaps thought better of it. Instead she puffed out a breath. 'I'd give you a hand myself, but Len'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. For the sake of conversation, she said, 'Quiet round here this morning.'Moira took a moment to consider. 'I suppose it is. I had a couple of folk in when I opened at seven, Mrs Collins and Tom 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 twenty 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. Because of what was to happen next, the words would be forever imprinted on her memory.This is OUR village!

Don't let them DESTROY IT!!She snorted. 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 a sneaking sympathy for them. If nothing else, her parents had been enthusiastic supporters of the cause.And then, unable to resist the nagging voice of her subconscious, she turned to look north once again. She had to know if she had imagined it.There was still no sign of activity in the village. The Royal Mail van remained in place. The rear doors were definitely open. And the body still lay behind the van, feet angled up on the pavement.Oh Christ.s.h.i.+elding her eyes against the low morning sun, she squinted and took a few paces forward. She could feel her mouth going dry, her heart speeding up. She pictured herself 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 He might have had a heart attack or a stroke. He might be epileptic 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.Her confidence wavered as she drew near the van. It looked as though he'd collapsed and rolled partly beneath the rear doors. A bundle of letters lay in the gutter, the breeze not quite strong enough to tease them free of the rubber band that restrained them.Maybe a hit-and-run, she wondered, steeling 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 a privileged enclave of Suss.e.x. The van was splattered with blood and brain and skull fragments.Julia gasped and dropped her milk. The carton split open and leaked across the pavement, mixing with the blood in the gutter.

Two.

Must have been a robbery, she thought. She peered into the back of the van, but it told her nothing. There were several grey sacks of mail, but plenty of s.p.a.ce where other sacks might have lain.The blood on the road was fresh, glistening like resin in the suns.h.i.+ne. That meant it had happened recently. She hadn't seen or heard any vehicles, so the killer must have escaped on foot.The implication of this wasn'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 pa.s.sed forming the eastern flank from the shop up to the st.u.r.dy Norman church of St Mary. Next to the church was the Rectory, and then the Green Man, a handsome Tudor inn. Then 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 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 Sat.u.r.day, someone should be out here, walking their dog, going shopping, ferrying the kids to football. Her brother and his wife were like a full-time taxi service for their children at the weekend. And surely someone would have heard gunshots and come out to investigate?Something's very wrong.Because she'd only intended to pop to the shop, she had left her handbag and mobile phone in the car, along with the cardboard boxes and plastic sacks for packing up her parents' belongings. Not that her mobile would have helped, she remembered. The village action group had fought off plans for a phone mast. She would have to find a landline.Or you could walk away, a tiny, shameful voice spoke up. The postman's dead. You can't help him. Just turn round and go back to your car. It doesn't have to be your problem.For a moment she might have succ.u.mbed. How wonderful to get in her Mini, start the engine and drive away. She'd been through enough trauma lately. Let someone else deal with this.Then she imagined how her parents would have regarded such cowardice. She didn't really believe in an afterlife, but since their deaths she'd often envisaged them watching over her, judging her or pa.s.sing 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 Doorbell not working. Please knock.So she did. Leaning close to the door, she could hear music playing inside: something melodic, with a Sixties tw.a.n.g.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. Had she sensed movement in Hurst Lane?She waited a few more seconds, debating whether to run back to the shop. She knew Moira was a nervy creature, and certainly not the coolest of heads in a crisis. Besides, the postman might be a friend of hers. Better to spare her that if she could.St Mary's was a safer bet. Someone was bound to be up and about by now. And if not, there might at least be a phone.The churchyard was enclosed by a waist-high wall of Suss.e.x flint. She pa.s.sed through the lych gate 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.Pus.h.i.+ng 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, but she refused to acknowledge it.A wave of dizziness swept over her. She grabbed the back of a pew and eased herself down. Leaning forward, she rested her head against the pew in front, her hair falling across her face like a fan. Slowly the other smell permeated her senses: something 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 it.A soft, scrabbling sound. Something moving on the ancient stone floor in front of the pews. Quiet, stealthy movement.She sat upright, eyes locked on the point near the altar where the noise had originated. Every muscle was rigid with terror. She couldn't even release her breath.If the killer was here, lying in wait, she would never outrun him. She would never get out in time.It was a simple, inescapable fact. If he was inside the church, then she was already dead.

Three.

She heard it again. A sc.r.a.ping noise, a heel scuffing over stone.Then a man's voice. Very weak, barely intelligible.He said: 'Please . . .'Then: 'Uhh.'It was such a distinct exhalation, Julia immediately understood what it meant. The man who made that noise had just lost his life, not twenty feet from where she was sitting, paralysed with fear. She had sat and heard a man die and done nothing.She began to shake. She felt she might be going mad, and for a few seconds it was almost a temptation. In shedding her sanity she could shrug off all responsibility along with it.Then the moment pa.s.sed, and she rose to her feet and approached the front of the church. She tried not to remember how the postman had looked. Tried not to think about what she would see this time.There were two bodies, lying several feet apart in the s.p.a.ce between the front pew and the chancel. The vicar was curled in a foetal position, one hand reaching for the altar as though in a plea for clemency. He'd been shot several times in the stomach. There was 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 You didn't help didn't help, he might have been saying. You heard me and you didn't You heard me and you didn't help help.A few feet beyond him was the body of a heavy grey-haired woman in sweat pants and a blue fleece. She'd been shot in the back of the head. The resulting debris lay around her like old porridge. A tin of Pledge rested at her side, a blood-speckled yellow duster still gripped in her hand.Julia backed away. Her imagination hardly dared to conclude what was happening here. Paradoxically, the words that leapt into her head made no sense, and yet they made perfect sense.This wasn't a robbery. It was a ma.s.sacre.Slowly she came back to the present, aware that a few minutes had pa.s.sed. She had no recollection of returning to one of the pews, but that was where she found herself. She was s.h.i.+vering, clutching herself to try and stop the trembling.Visions flooded her mind: a grisly panorama of the bodies she had seen, jumbled together with news footage of Hungerford, Port Arthur, Dunblane. The perpetrator invariably male, white, a troubled loner nursing real or imagined grievances in a cauldron of paranoia.She imagined him walking from house to house, knocking quietly. 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. Wiping out an entire community.Moira.It was the jolt Julia needed, the adrenalin rush like a blow to the stomach. She jumped up and quickly checked the vestry, then a small office next to it, but there was no phone. She knew she couldn't remain in the church, but leaving by the main entrance was too risky.Instead she made for the side door in the east chancel. It meant pa.s.sing the bodies of the vicar and the cleaner, but she forced herself to do it. She had to keep moving, had to stay focused.The heavy door creaked open, sounding horrifically loud. She stepped out, blinking in the bright suns.h.i.+ne, and followed the path diagonally across the churchyard. A gate in the wall 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 footb.a.l.l.s and a plastic cricket set. There was a soiled cat litter tray by the door.Julia could hear the radio playing in the kitchen, the mindless chatter of a DJ. She stepped inside and called, 'h.e.l.lo? I need to use the phone. Is anyone there?'No one answered, but the sound of s.h.i.+fting 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. Playmobil fire trucks and figures were scattered around them. There was blood everywhere. The woman had obviously tried to s.h.i.+eld her son, and then covered his eyes with her hand. She couldn't stop him dying, but at least she could make sure he didn't see it happen.Julia wobbled again. Felt she was breaking apart. No one would No one would blame me blame me, she thought.Turning away, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from its perch on the wall. There was no dialling tone. She stabbed the call b.u.t.ton. Listened. Stabbed it again. Nothing.The phone was dead. It couldn't be coincidence. It was part of the plan.Movement outside caught her attention. She took a cautious step towards the window. 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 stopped and slowly surveyed the scene. For a moment he seemed to be staring right at Julia. When he smiled, she thought her heart would stop beating.Then she realised he was looking at the postman's body. Admiring his handiwork.He strode away, disappearing behind the ma.s.sive 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 killer intended.She was on her own.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 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.She sprinted towards the shop, praying she would make it in time. The path was a mixture of gravel, earth and weeds, and the crunch of her pounding feet seemed to reverberate around the village.The shop backed on to a yard containing several wheelie bins, a stack of cardboard boxes and an old plastic crate. 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. Another bout of giddiness made her sway on her feet. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Her heart was thudding so loudly she thought it would explode from her chest.Then a voice: 'Who's there?'Julia forced herself upright. 'Moira, it's Julia Trent. Open the door.'She feared Moira might argue, or tell her to come round the front, but she heard the thud of a bolt being drawn back. The door opened and Moira peered out, reacting with alarm at the sight of Julia's face.'Oh my word. What's happened, love?'Julia tried to speak but was overcome by a flood of nausea. Her chest heaved and she turned away, clutching her stomach and spitting bile on to the dusty cement.'You poor dear,' Moira said. 'Come on, let's get you indoors.'Julia nodded, turned back and stepped into the stockroom. Moira stroked her arm. 'You've had a shock. I told you it could happen, didn't I?'Julia tried to put her right but could only stammer, 'No, I . . . I've g-got . . .'Moira shushed her. 'Don't try and tell me yet. Just rest a minute.' There was a clipboard lying on an old chair in the corner of the room. Moira picked it up and dragged the chair towards Julia, causing a bell to ring from somewhere. A eureka eureka! moment, Julia thought, and wondered if she had finally lost her mind.Moira said, 'Here, 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 panic overwhelmed her, short-circuiting her brain. She knew what she had to say and do, but her body wouldn't respond.Some sort of noise must have emerged from her throat, for Moira turned towards her in a strange 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. She saw he was young, no more than mid-twenties. He had very 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's why no one had heard gunshots.Moira was speaking again, making clucking noises of sympathy. She noticed Julia's terrified gaze and turned to see what had provoked it. There was a spitting noise and a spray of blood blew from her neck. Moira's eyes widened, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise as she toppled forward.Another phutt phutt and 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 killer. A third shot hit the shopkeeper as she fell, and by then Julia's survival instinct had kicked in. and 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 killer. A third shot hit the shopkeeper as she fell, and by then Julia's survival instinct had 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. It wasn't heavy enough to prevent him getting out, but it might 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. She was only yards from the main road, running too fast to stop. Her forward momentum sent her skidding on to the narrow pavement just as the killer 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. He'd struck it lucky. She hadn't.They stood a couple of feet apart, facing each other. There was no way she could escape. This was the end.She stuck out her jaw and tried to look defiant. She wasn't going to beg for her life. In any case, she didn't trust herself to speak.The killer made a dry snickering noise that brought to mind some half-remembered cartoon character. He examined her for a long second, his attention lingering on her body. Her jeans and jacket couldn't disguise the fact that she was tall, slim, shapely.Finally he met her gaze, and seemed to come to a decision. His pale eyes gleamed. His smile hinted at the pleasures of antic.i.p.ation, and she knew all too well what that meant. He liked what he saw. He wasn't going to kill her straight away.She understood this perhaps half a second before he spoke. A single word in a low, guttural whisper.'Run.'

Four.

She 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, back towards the church. It was a couple of seconds before she heard his feet on the gravel. He was deliberately giving her an advantage.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 killer, and could probably extend that to twenty. But it wouldn't be enough.The problem was the gate. The latch was heavy and c.u.mbersome. If she stopped to open it, he would be on her in seconds. Game over.She studied the gate, and the wall either side of it. Made some calculations. The wall was roughly three feet high, the gate an inch or two higher. She'd jumped taller obstacles in her life, but not since her schooldays. A good fifteen years or so.But 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 G.o.d 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 was over. But then her left foot dropped, just a fraction, and caught on a lump of flint.She pinwheeled, frantically trying to maintain her balance, but landed heavily on her right foot. A searing pain tore through her ankle. She fell sideways and rolled on the wet gra.s.s. Her knee sc.r.a.ped a gravestone, tearing her jeans, and there was a whoop of laughter from the path.Well, f.u.c.k you, she thought. A surge of fury gave her the strength to get up. She risked a look back. The killer 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. She took a few steps, hobbling at first, testing the ankle until she trusted it not to give way on her. Gritting her teeth against the pain.She ignored the church. As a place of shelter it hadn't offered much protection to the vicar or the cleaner. Instead she cut across the gra.s.s, towards the lych gate. She didn't give any real thought to where she would go: all that mattered was putting some distance between her and the killer.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.She took another glance over her shoulder. The killer was trotting in her wake, a little faster now, and scowling, possibly beginning to regret giving her a head start. It made her feel absurdly pleased. He'd underestimated her.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 lavishly at the dead man's face.Shuddering with revulsion, she 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 then she was gone. If not for the curtain swaying in her wake, Julia might have believed she'd imagined it.She 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.Julia was halfway across the green, still believing she could make it to safety, when the bullet brought her down.She didn't hear it coming. Didn't even feel anything 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. She landed awkwardly, one arm caught beneath her body, forcing the air from her lungs.b.a.s.t.a.r.d! she thought she thought. He's not playing fair.She twisted round and saw him, standing in front of the lych gate. He looked immensely satisfied, as if winging her had been precisely his intention. He was back in control. 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 moment at a time. She saw she was only fifteen or twenty feet from the yew tree, and instinct propelled her towards it, 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 killer 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 killer 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.Julia heard the killer grunt, 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 out of here. get out of here.In her peripheral vision she saw the killer turn and approach the Old Schoolhouse. It should have given her renewed hope, but instead there was an awful temptation to collapse on the gra.s.s, just shut 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. In any case, there was no guarantee the woman would let her in. 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 ma.s.sive 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 killer, who laughed in response. Julia heard the creak of the garden gate, then footsteps on Walker's path. She concentrated on pus.h.i.+ng herself into the centre of the tree, experiencing a burst of excitement as she realised she was now out of the killer's sight.Then she heard the peculiar spitting sound of the silenced gun. Peeked out in time to see Philip Walker, shot twice at point blank range, drop at his killer's feet.She ducked back, tears clouding her vision as it hit home that he'd sacrificed himself for her. She owed it to him not to waste this chance.But what could she do? The only option was to climb the tree. If she could gain some height, she might be able to use the thick branches for concealment. Denied a clear shot, the killer would have to climb up after her. She might be able to fight him off, perhaps kick him or stamp on his fingers.She grabbed the highest branch within reach, 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 killer. 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 killer 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 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. He would have to walk right up to the trunk to see her now. Another couple of feet and she could hide completely.Now she had a real chance of surviving. After all, she 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.

Five.

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, like some sort of costume. He wore a black motorcycle helmet with a full-face visor. He burst into view from Hurst Lane and marched towards the killer. He didn't appear to be armed, but he showed no fear. He moved fast, his body confident and determined. It was the most thrilling sight Julia had ever seen.He called out in a gruff voice. The killer heard it and spun round. His demeanour changed immediately. He seemed to shrink, bowing his head in deference to the man striding towards him.'What the h.e.l.l are you doing with that?' the man demanded. Julia's heart leapt with joy. Finally, someone with the moral and physical strength to confront the killer.The man in black shook his head, as if disgusted, and raised his arm in the air. It looked like he was preparing to punch the killer in the face, and Julia willed him on, praying that the murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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'd been about to shout a warning. She saw the killer adjust his body to what the other man was doing. He's going to dodge it, Julia thought. And then he'll shoot you. And suddenly she couldn't bear to see this man, this wonderful brave man, become yet another victim. Her best hope of rescue wrenched from her grasp.So she opened her mouth to scream a warning. Filled her lungs to fuel the words. Delayed half a second while she searched for the right phrase: Be careful! Be careful! Or Or Watch out! Watch out! Or Or He's got a gun! He's got a gun!And then the man in black slapped his hand against the killer's hand, and the killer grinned and whooped and nodded ferociously at something the stranger was saying. Talking in a low voice, their heads close together, the killer almost blus.h.i.+ng with pride as the man in black spoke to him.Congratulating him.Julia's whole body spasmed with fear and despair. She threw both arms around the tree and clung to it until the feeling pa.s.sed. 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 c.o.c.ked her head. She could hear something. Faint and far away, but it was there.A siren.The killer's words floated up to her: 'I shot this b.i.t.c.h, but she got away.' Julia peered through the leaves and saw him gesturing towards the tree. The man in black also turned to look. The faceless visor sent a bolt of terror through her. He's Darth Vader, she thought. A dark angel of death.'. . . hiding over there,' the killer was saying, his voice whiny and defensive.The man in black leaned close and murmured something Julia couldn't hear. To her astonishment, the killer meekly handed the pistol to his partner, then slipped the shotgun off his shoulder.Then both men froze. They could hear it too. Urgent pulses of sound, growing louder.The man in black took a step away from his partner and pointed across the green. The killer swivelled his shotgun in the same direction. Julia almost went to look herself, but then had a flash of insight: it's a bluff it's a bluff.She saw the gun coming up and instinctively shut her eyes. Remembered how the young mother had protected her son from the knowledge of his death.Heard the familiar phutt phutt.She opened her eyes. Saw the killer falling, shot in the temple at point-blank range. Blood everywhere, all over him, all over the gra.s.s. A spray of it on the motorcycle leathers. The man in black stepping back, nodding to himself.Julia made a noise, a little horrified yelp. She couldn't help it.Then the branch cracked.It didn't break. It didn't give way. It just dropped an inch or two and she 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 and faced the tree. At the same time Julia realised the siren was fully audible. Perhaps on Chilton Way by now, she thought. 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. Why look down?Her trainer offered the answer. Blood. He was following the blood trail. It confirmed the noise in the tree wasn't from a crow, or a pigeon, or even a frightened cat.Her bladder let go. Hot urine soaked through her jeans and ran down her legs. She barely noticed it.Calmly, even casually, the man in black walked back to the body of his partner, then turned 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 zing of displaced air. 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, taking a few smaller boughs with her, finally bouncing off the lowest branch and dropping cleanly the last four or five feet, landing face up on the gra.s.s with a dull thud.The man in black waited a couple of seconds, watching her body for movement. The siren was very loud now, battering against the vivid peace of the morning. He couldn't fail to be aware of it.With a last thoughtful look in Julia's direction, 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.

Six.

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-Suss.e.x 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.senger window was open, and he realised how quiet it was. Apart from the sound of their car, all he could hear was birdsong. There was no one 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s.'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. He had a direct line of sight along the garden path. There was an elderly man slumped by the front door.Twenty past eight on a Sat.u.r.day morning, in one of the smallest, sleepiest villages in the county. What the h.e.l.l was going on?He turned to Eade, who was standing by the postman. 'Dead?''Yep.''Hit the siren for a minute, will you?'Eade frowned, but wasn't in the mood to argue. He 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: that's enough. The silence returned so abruptly it made him s.h.i.+ver.He resumed a slow 360-degree scan of the village, using his hand to s.h.i.+eld his eyes from the sun.Ten seconds. Nothing.Twenty seconds. Nothing.After half a minute he was convinced there would be no reaction. But 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, face as white as snow, a slash of dark hair across her forehead.She made eye contact and seemed to sag, like a punctured balloon. Davies broke into a run, skirting a large yew tree, and almost collided with a body. This one was a young woman, face up on the gra.s.s, covered in leaves and blood.'Another victim here,' he yelled to his colleague, and hurried on. His priority was the living witness. He wanted to get to her before she fainted, or slammed the door on him.'It's all right,' he called. 'It's all under control.'She went on staring at him, her eyes haunted. She was going into shock.'Are you okay?' he asked. 'Are you hurt?'She managed the tiniest shake of her head.'I'm PC Davies,' he said. 'Just relax now. We're going to take care of this. It'll be fine, okay?'She laughed, and it made him flinch. It was the bitterest sound he'd ever heard.'It's never going to be fine,' she said.He glanced round, taking in the scene behind him. 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. He had to work hard to control his voice. '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, settled her gaze on his 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?' Although the adrenalin was pumping like crazy, he felt a wave of weariness at the thought of what lay ahead.'What's the call, then?' Eade said.'Got to be Major Incident,' said Davies. 'We'll have to seal the whole area. Search every house.' He sighed heavily. 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 Homebase with the missus, doze in front of the telly, out with some friends for a few pints and a curry in the evening; then a lie-in and hopefully a legover Sunday morning.All of it blasted away by some nutter.Christ, he thought, if this is another Hungerford we'll never hear the end of it.'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. He wondered if Eade had considered the firestorm of activity about to descend on them.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, no more than half an inch. Bubbles of blood appeared on her lips.Oh s.h.i.+tting h.e.l.l. 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 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 her 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. If he didn't know better, he'd say she had fallen out of a tree.He looked up in time to see Eade stumble out of the church. 'Two more in there,' he shouted. 'This is a f.u.c.king disaster.'No, it's a ma.s.sacre. 'This one's alive,' he shouted 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. It felt very cold. Her eyelids fluttered and he leaned close, urging her to focus on him.'Hang on, love,' he said. '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 RTA victim. He wouldn't have given her more than a ten per cent chance of surviving, but he prayed she would prove him wrong. If she died, he'd always ask himself whether he could have made a difference if he'd noticed her sooner.'Be strong,' he said again. Whether to her or to himself, he wasn't quite sure. 'Stay alive for me, love.'Stay alive.

Seven.

The killer ran along the narrow lane. His vision blurred. Despite the cold morning, it was hot inside the leathers. There was sweat rolling down his face, a stinging pain in his eyes. The helmet b.u.mped against his shoulders and the visor entombed him, made him feel like an exhibit under gla.s.s. But he couldn't risk lifting it, not even for a single gulp of air. He had risked too much already.The killer was scared. And he was angry. His meticulously planned operation had turned into an almighty f.u.c.k-up.He pushed himself harder, faster. He was running for his life. There were sirens blaring in his head. He had no way of knowing if they were real or imagined. His heart thumped inside his chest and his boots pounded on the tarmac. His breath roared in the helmet.No one saw me. He clung to that hope, repeated it to himself like a mantra. No one except the woman in the tree, of course. And she was dead. Almost certainly dead.He rounded a curve in the road and saw 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 stopped a killer. For half a second he saw himself in that role, paraded and garlanded and acclaimed by the nation. Pictured himself on TV and brought on stage at public events. Waving to the crowds like a Roman emperor.Then he thought of the discrepancies. What was he doing there? How had he disarmed the killer and overpowered him without a struggle? Why did he shoot him at such close range?It was a stupid idea, the product of a mind in panic. He wasn't thinking clearly. Besides, he had never craved the limelight. He belonged in the shadows.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 was especially glad of that caution now.He gripped the handlebars and pulled the bike upright. Then he turned his head slowly, scanning in every direction. There was no movement, no sign of anyone. No birds singing. No engines. Just a tremendous crus.h.i.+ng silence.Then suddenly the whoop of a siren, not close but carrying well in the still morning air. The sound chilled the sweat on his face and made him s.h.i.+ver. He looked down at the bike and realised how lucky he was. The siren had saved him from another f.u.c.k-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, jogging beside it. He took the turning towards the farm, bouncing the Kawasaki along the beaten dirt track. Ice gleamed like broken gla.s.s in shallow ruts. 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 farmhouse loomed into view beyond a line of beech trees. He shuddered. The farmhouse was where it had all gone wrong.He saw the front door was open slightly. He thought he'd shut it, but couldn't remember for sure. He kept an eye on it as he pa.s.sed, half expecting someone to spring out.Beyond the farmhouse the lane twisted to the right, between a barn and a large corrugated-steel shed. It should be safe to ride from here. The buildings and trees would m.u.f.fle the sound.Mounting the bike, he raised the visor and wiped his face. As he glanced back, he caught a flash of light in the sky. A helicopter, no more than a speck against the Downs. The perspective made it appear to be gliding along the top of the hills. It was heading for the village.For a second he was transfixed. The enormity of the event was starting to sink in. It wasn't just murder. It was f.u.c.king slaughter slaughter.He imagined alarms sounding across a vast network. Emergency services descending on an enormous scale, 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. Gradually he recognised it as pride. He'd faced terrible obstacles, and against the odds he had come out on top.The bike kick-started on the first attempt. He set off along the track, heading north of the farm. He looked back again, but couldn't see the helicopter. He forgot about it and accelerated, keeping a light grip on the handlebars as the bike juddered over the track.He'd planned the route carefully. After half a mile he turned off the main track and cut through a gap in the hedgerow, joining a bridle path that took him north-west. He raced past winter fields of dark churned mud, glistening with frost like icing sugar on melted chocolate. Another mile, then left across a meadow of wild flowers.He threaded through a knot of trees that marked the northern perimeter of the farm, then burst on to the road and sped away. And as he did, he allowed himself a brief scream of laughter. He had never in his life felt so vital, so extraordinary, so complete complete.He had found his vocation.

Eight.

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 a brief, unconfirmed report of a shooting in a small Suss.e.x village. News producers monitored the situation before deciding whether to break into regular programming.Craig didn't hear the first bulletin. He was watching Spongebob Spongebob Squarepants Squarepants and refereeing between his children. Usually goodnatured and co-operative, this morning they seemed to have picked up on his irritable mood and were determined to push him over the edge. and refereeing between his children. Usually goodnatured 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'd worked something like seven out of the past eight weekends. Usually Sat.u.r.day 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 More than your marriage?'No. And don't try emotional blackmail. Have I ever complained when work took you away for days or even weeks at a time?''That's why I went freelance, to have more control over my life.' But it was a valid point. 'Isn't it something you can do here?''I already work from home two days a week. I can hardly object to a few hours at the weekend.'She left the house at eight. Her office was in the centre of Crawley, a ten-minute drive away. She gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and promised to be back as soon as she could.'Give me a rough idea,' he said as she opened the front door. Clad only in jogging trousers and a t-s.h.i.+rt, the freezing cold air was a pleasurable shock.'I don't know. One o'clock. Two at the latest.''Two at the latest,' he repeated, as if her own words might bind her.She nodded, unlocked the car and got in. There was something unreadable on her face as she backed off the driveway. A look he 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,' said Maddie, thrusting her cup at him.'Can we turn over?' said Tom. He reached for the remote control, only to find his sister s.n.a.t.c.hing at it. In doing so she slopped the dregs of her orange juice over the sofa.'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!' Craig roared. Loud enough to make both children flinch. 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,' he said. Maddie hurried from the room, bottom lip trembling. Craig felt the familiar pang of guilt that his anger had upset them, and made sure he thanked her when she returned with a hand towel. Not what he'd asked for, but it would do.'Go and play upstairs,' he suggested. 'Better still, tidy your bedrooms.'Alone in the room, he did some idle channel-hopping. On News News 24 24 a grim-faced 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.' a grim-faced 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: Bush declares Bush declares real improvements in Iraq real improvements in Iraq. Then, beneath the banner of BREAKING NEWS: Reports of a serious shooting incident in a Suss.e.x village. Reports of a serious shooting incident in a Suss.e.x village. Emergency services are at the scene 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 committed suicide 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. Heard the rapid set of bleeps and then a moment's silence. Instead of a ringing sound, a recorded voice announced, 'Sorry, we have been unable to connect your call.'He got a dialling tone and tried again. Same result. He tried dialling the number from memory, in case the programmed number was wrong. Same result.It didn't mean anything, necessarily. Far too early to think the worst. But still he felt a s.h.i.+ver. A small but robust conviction that something was very, very wrong.The phone book wasn't in any of its usual locations. He grew frantic, running around the house. He found it in Nina's office, hidden in a stack of paperwork beneath her desk. He knelt on the carpet and riffled through the pages. Stupidly, the name of the pub deserted him. Was it the Green Man or the Long Man?It was the Green Man. He used the phone in Nina's office and rang the number. Got the same result: no connection possible.He found a number for the village store and tried that. Same result. He stared at the phone book, then swiped it shut. This was absurd. Probably just a technical fault. And the TV must have the wrong place.* * *By the time he got downstairs, the situation had escalated. It was now 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: SUSs.e.x SHOOTING: MAJOR INCIDENT DECLARED.There were two presenters, a middle-aged man and a much younger woman. The man looked grey and tired. The woman was perky and over-made-up.The man said, '. . . have now confirmed a serious shooting in the Suss.e.x 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 Suss.e.x has been initiated.' The words tumbled around inside Craig's head and finally made 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 watching High School Musical 2 High School Musical 2 on the little TV/DVD player. on the little TV/DVD player.'I'm hungry,' Maddie announced.'Get yourself some sweets.'She gave him a sharp look. Such instant capitulation was unheard of. It prompted a reminder from Tom: 'Mum says we're not allowed until after tea.''Is Mum here?' Craig said.Tom shrugged. Good enough for him.On TV the presenters were speaking to a retired chief constable. While they nudged him towards ever more newsworthy speculation, Craig listened to a phone ringing. And ringing.Then a slightly peeved 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. 'Cla.s.sified, my dear. I could tell you . . .''I'm watching News 24 News 24. 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 is a small market town in Berks.h.i.+re. In 1987 a man named Michael Ryan had gone on the rampage, killing . . . how many?Abby said, 'So what's your interest?'He went to speak, but his tongue sat like a dry sock in his mouth. It was almost a surprise when he heard himself say, 'My dad lives there.'Abby Clark was a journalist on The Times The Times. Fifteen years ago she and Craig had started out together on a local paper in Hamps.h.i.+re. 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. He never did with Abby. She 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 sought to rea.s.sure him. 'I'm sure it's not on the scale of Hungerford at all. You know what the initial stage is like. All kinds of rumours buzzing around. Terrorism, accidents, organised crime.' If that was supposed to allay his fears, it didn't succeed. 'I've tried phoning but the whole village seems to be cut off.''The police have probably taken the lines down. Or commandeered them for their own use.''Maybe,' he said. 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 said. 'I'll call you the moment I hear anything. Okay?'Despite everything, he smiled. Her concern was quite sincere, but this was also work. She couldn't afford to have her mobile tied up for too long on a personal call.He tried his father's number again. No connection. On TV there was a link to a local correspondent in Lewes, standing outside police headquarters. The correspondent had been told unofficially that casualty numbers were believed to be 'significant'. The interview concluded and the presenter gave a brief, unnecessary recap, emphasising the words significant significant and and casualties casualties with particular relish. with particular relish.'Quiet news day, was it?' Craig muttered. He could well imagine the excitement filtering through news agencies and TV stations across the country, perhaps even the world. Tragedy meant a story. It wasn't personal, and Craig knew that as well as anyone. He couldn't really blame them for sounding thrilled by what might transpire to be the death of his father.It was the first