many victims in total?' he asked.
'Fourteen confirmed dead at the scene. Another four wounded,
three of them seriously.'
Craig let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. 'So the
death toll might rise?'
She nodded. 'A girl from the farmhouse is in a coma. And there
was the woman who fell out of a tree.'
'What?'
'I got that little nugget by chatting up one of the search team.' She
winked; some of her natural exuberance leaking out at last. He couldn't
reproach her for it. This was the type of event that could make a journalist's
career.
'They think she was chased by the killer,' Abby went on. 'She must
have tried to hide in the tree, but he shot her and she fell.'
'Will she live?'
'Anyone's guess at the moment,' Abby said. 'After going through
that, I hope so.'
Another sigh from Craig. He cradled his mug in both hands and
held it close, although it was virtually empty. 'What do you know
about the killer?'
'Young. Male. Possibly local. That's all we've got.'
'Nothing on the grapevine?'
Abby shook her head, then grew pensive. 'Craig, I don't know how
you'll feel about this, but I'd like to mention your dad in my article.
He was obviously a high-profile figure in the village.'
Craig gave her a sidelong glance. 'So this wasn't just a social visit?'
She looked suitably abashed, but before she responded he said, 'Don't
worry. I don't blame you.'
'I've been looking at some of the local issues, and it's clear that
Matheson's plan stirred up a lot of controversy. I thought it would
make for an interesting background story. Your dad was leading the
fight.'
'For all the good it did him.'
'But the proposal was rejected. Surely that's a victory?'
'They won the first skirmish, that's all. A man like George Matheson
doesn't give up easily.' As he said it he was aware of an uneasy feeling
that this wasn't the time to unburden himself of such thoughts.
Abby said, 'I can't see him trying anything now.'
'Who knows? Maybe it will help him.'
She was staring at him, desperately trying to conceal her excitement.
Craig saw it, knew he should change the subject. But he couldn't
resist.
'Maybe this just clears the path for him,' he said viciously. 'After
all, who's left to fight him now?'
Eighteen
The killer powered up his laptop and opened Internet Explorer for
the second time that evening. It was almost midnight. On TV a panel
of worthies was debating the possible repercussions of what had already
been dubbed 'The Chilton Massacre'.
He'd first logged on an hour or so before. He signed into Hotmail,
using the email address and password he'd been sent four months ago,
from someone he knew only as Decipio.
There was a new entry waiting for him in the Drafts folder. His
finger poised over the mousepad for a few seconds. He took a deep
breath and clicked it open.
Was I supposed to be impressed by that? If
anything, you've made the situation worse.
You failed in your main objective.
She's still alive.
He had stared at the message for a long time, feeling sick and
furious and most of all despairing. He felt like a marathon runner
who turns what he thinks is the last corner and instead sees a vast
unforgiving road stretching to the horizon.
Then he deleted the message and composed a reply.
I don't know why he ignored my orders. He
knew exactly what he was supposed to do,
but he went berserk. I stopped him as soon
as I could, at great risk to me.
Are you sure about the survivor? I dealt
with her myself.
He saved the draft, then logged off. Decipio had instructed him to
keep the language vague, but this was really an unnecessary precaution.
By sharing the log-on and using only the draft function, they
ensured the messages were never transmitted, and thus couldn't be
eavesdropped. It was the same method by which some of the 7 July
London bombers had communicated.
Then he'd gone back to the TV, and listened to a rentaquote MP
assert that further restrictions on firearms might be necessary. A senior
churchman wanted greater
'Fourteen confirmed dead at the scene. Another four wounded,
three of them seriously.'
Craig let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding. 'So the
death toll might rise?'
She nodded. 'A girl from the farmhouse is in a coma. And there
was the woman who fell out of a tree.'
'What?'
'I got that little nugget by chatting up one of the search team.' She
winked; some of her natural exuberance leaking out at last. He couldn't
reproach her for it. This was the type of event that could make a journalist's
career.
'They think she was chased by the killer,' Abby went on. 'She must
have tried to hide in the tree, but he shot her and she fell.'
'Will she live?'
'Anyone's guess at the moment,' Abby said. 'After going through
that, I hope so.'
Another sigh from Craig. He cradled his mug in both hands and
held it close, although it was virtually empty. 'What do you know
about the killer?'
'Young. Male. Possibly local. That's all we've got.'
'Nothing on the grapevine?'
Abby shook her head, then grew pensive. 'Craig, I don't know how
you'll feel about this, but I'd like to mention your dad in my article.
He was obviously a high-profile figure in the village.'
Craig gave her a sidelong glance. 'So this wasn't just a social visit?'
She looked suitably abashed, but before she responded he said, 'Don't
worry. I don't blame you.'
'I've been looking at some of the local issues, and it's clear that
Matheson's plan stirred up a lot of controversy. I thought it would
make for an interesting background story. Your dad was leading the
fight.'
'For all the good it did him.'
'But the proposal was rejected. Surely that's a victory?'
'They won the first skirmish, that's all. A man like George Matheson
doesn't give up easily.' As he said it he was aware of an uneasy feeling
that this wasn't the time to unburden himself of such thoughts.
Abby said, 'I can't see him trying anything now.'
'Who knows? Maybe it will help him.'
She was staring at him, desperately trying to conceal her excitement.
Craig saw it, knew he should change the subject. But he couldn't
resist.
'Maybe this just clears the path for him,' he said viciously. 'After
all, who's left to fight him now?'
Eighteen
The killer powered up his laptop and opened Internet Explorer for
the second time that evening. It was almost midnight. On TV a panel
of worthies was debating the possible repercussions of what had already
been dubbed 'The Chilton Massacre'.
He'd first logged on an hour or so before. He signed into Hotmail,
using the email address and password he'd been sent four months ago,
from someone he knew only as Decipio.
There was a new entry waiting for him in the Drafts folder. His
finger poised over the mousepad for a few seconds. He took a deep
breath and clicked it open.
Was I supposed to be impressed by that? If
anything, you've made the situation worse.
You failed in your main objective.
She's still alive.
He had stared at the message for a long time, feeling sick and
furious and most of all despairing. He felt like a marathon runner
who turns what he thinks is the last corner and instead sees a vast
unforgiving road stretching to the horizon.
Then he deleted the message and composed a reply.
I don't know why he ignored my orders. He
knew exactly what he was supposed to do,
but he went berserk. I stopped him as soon
as I could, at great risk to me.
Are you sure about the survivor? I dealt
with her myself.
He saved the draft, then logged off. Decipio had instructed him to
keep the language vague, but this was really an unnecessary precaution.
By sharing the log-on and using only the draft function, they
ensured the messages were never transmitted, and thus couldn't be
eavesdropped. It was the same method by which some of the 7 July
London bombers had communicated.
Then he'd gone back to the TV, and listened to a rentaquote MP
assert that further restrictions on firearms might be necessary. A senior
churchman wanted greater
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