Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  Guffaws and giggles confirm they’re listening.

  “Most people would opt for perhaps the heart or the mind as logical locations. Your guess is as good as mine. Scientists have mapped every part of the human body using X-rays, ultrasounds, MRIs and CAT scans. People have been sliced, diced, weighed, dissected, prodded and probed for four hundred years and, as yet, nobody has discovered a secret compartment or mysterious black spot or magical inner force or brilliant light shining within us. They have found no genie in a bottle, no ghost in the machine, no tiny little person madly pedaling a bicycle.

  “So what are we to draw from this? Are we simply flesh and blood, neurons and nerves, a brilliant machine? Or is there a spirit within us that we cannot see or understand?”

  A hand is raised. A question! It’s Nancy Ewers—the reporter from the student newspaper.

  “What about our sense of self?” she asks. “Surely that makes us more than machines.”

  “Perhaps. Do you think we’re born with this sense of self, our sense of ego, our unique personalities?”

  “Yes.”

  “You may be right. I want you to consider another possibility. What if our consciousness, our sense of self, stems from our experiences—our thoughts, feelings and memories? Rather than being born with a blueprint, we are a product of our lives and a reflection of how other people see us. We are lit from without, rather than within.”

  Nancy pouts and sinks back into her seat. People are scribbling furiously around her. I have no idea why. It won’t be in the exam.

  Bruno Kaufman intercepts me as I leave the tutorial.

  “Listen, old boy, thought I could interest you in lunch.”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Is she beautiful?”

  I picture Ruiz and tell him no. Bruno falls into step beside me. “Terrible business on the bridge last week, absolutely dreadful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Such a nice woman.”

  “You knew her?”

  “My ex-wife went to school with Christine.”

  “I didn’t know you’d been married.”

  “Yes. Maureen has taken it quite hard, poor old thing. Shock to her system.”

  “I’m sorry. When did she last see Christine?”

  “I could ask her, I suppose.” He hesitates.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It would mean calling her.”

  “You don’t communicate?”

  “Story of our marriage, old boy. It was like a Pinter play: full of profound silences.”

  We descend the covered stairs and cross the square.

  “Of course all that’s changed now,” says Bruno. “She’s been calling me every day, wanting to talk.”

  “She’s upset.”

  “I suppose so,” he ponders. “Oddly enough, I quite enjoy her calls. I divorced the woman eight years ago, yet find myself living and dying by her opinion of me. What do you make of that?”

  “Sounds like love.”

  “Oh, heavens no! Friendship maybe.”

  “So you’re saying you’d rather snuggle up to a post-grad student half your age?”

  “That’s romance. I try not to confuse the two.”

  I leave Bruno at the bottom of the stairs, outside the psychology department. Ruiz is waiting at his car, reading a newspaper.

  “What’s happening in the world?” I ask.

  “Usual death and destruction. Some kid in America just shot up a high school. That’s what happens when you sell automatic weapons at the school canteen.”

  Ruiz hands me a takeaway coffee from a tray resting on the seat.

  “How was your room at the Fox & Badger?”

  “Too close to the bar.”

  “Noisy, huh?”

  “Too tempting. I got to meet some of the locals. You have a dwarf.”

  “Nigel.”

  “I thought he was taking the piss when he said his name was Nigel. He wanted to take me outside and fight me.”

  “He does that all the time.”

  “Does anyone ever hit him?”

  “He’s a dwarf!”

  “He’s still an annoying little fuck.”

  I have an appointment to see Veronica Cray at Trinity Road Police Station in Bristol.

  “Are you sure you want me to come?” asks Ruiz.

  “Why not?”

  “Job’s done. You got what you wanted.”

  “You can’t go back to London—not yet. You’ve only just arrived. You haven’t even seen Bath. You can’t come to the West Country and not see Bath. It’s like going to LA and not sleeping with Paris Hilton.”

  “I can pass on both of those.”

  “What about Julianne? She’s coming home this afternoon. She’ll want to see you.”

  “That’s more tempting. How is she?”

  “Good.”

  “How long has she been away?”

  “Since Monday. It seems like longer.”

  “It always does.”

  Trinity Road Police Station is an inward-looking building without any windows on the lower floors. Like a bunker built for a siege, it is the perfect expression of modern law enforcement with CCTV cameras on every corner and spikes on the walls. Someone has daubed graffiti on the brickwork: STOP KILLER COPS: END STATE TERRORISM.

  Opposite the station, the Holy Trinity Church is boarded up and deserted. An old woman shelters beneath the portico, dressed in black and bent like a burnt matchstick.

  We wait downstairs for someone to arrive. A metal security door opens. A tall black man has to almost duck his head to get through. My first assumption is the wrong one. He’s not being released from custody. He belongs here.

  “I’m Detective Constable Abbott,” he says, “but you can call me Monk. Every other bastard does.”

  His hands are the size of boxing gloves. I feel ten years old again.

  “Does everyone have a nickname around here?” asks Ruiz.

  “Most of us do.”

  “What about the DI?”

  “We call her boss.”

  “Is that it?”

  “We like our jobs.”

  Veronica Cray’s office is a box within this box, furnished with a simple pine desk and a few filing cabinets. The walls are covered with photographs of unsolved cases and uncaught suspects. While other people fill drawers and diaries with their unfinished business, the DI turns it into wallpaper.

  She is dressed in black, with breakfast in progress. A sweet bun and a cup of tea rest upon the paperwork.

  She takes a final mouthful and gathers her notes.

  “I got a briefing. You can listen.”

  The incident room is clean, modern and open plan, broken only by movable partitions and whiteboards. A photograph has been taped to the top of one of them. Christine Wheeler’s name appears alongside.

  The assembled detectives are mostly men who stand as DI Cray enters. A dozen officers have been assigned to the investigation, which hasn’t yet been classified as a murder inquiry. Unless the task force can produce a motive or a suspect within five days, the powers that be are going to toss this one to the coroner to decide.

  DI Cray licks sugar from her fingers and begins.

  “At 5:07 p.m. last Friday afternoon, this woman jumped to her death from Clifton Suspension Bridge. Our first priority is to piece together the final hours of her life. I want to know where she went, who she spoke to and what she saw.

  “I also want interviews with her neighbors, friends and business associates. She was a wedding planner. The business was in financial trouble. Talk to the usual suspects—loan sharks and money lenders—see if they knew her.”

  She outlines the time line of events, beginning on Friday morning. Christine Wheeler spent two hours in her office at Blissful and then went home. At 11:54 she received a call on her landline that came from a public phone box in Clifton at the corner of Westfield Place and Sion Lane, overlooking the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

  “This call las
ted thirty-four minutes. It may have been someone she knew. Perhaps she arranged to meet them.

  “The landline call ended just after her mobile phone began ringing. One call may have produced the other.”

  DI Cray signals an officer working an overhead projector. A map covering Bristol and Bath is beamed onto the whiteboard behind her. “Telecommunications engineers are triangulating signals from Christine Wheeler’s mobile and plotting the likely route she took on Friday when she drove from her house to Leigh Woods.

  “We have the two positive eyewitness sightings. Those witnesses have to be reinterviewed. I also want the names of everyone else who was in Leigh Woods on Friday afternoon.

  I want their reasons for being there and their home addresses.”

  “It was raining, ma’am,” offers one of the detectives.

  “This is Bristol—it’s always bloody raining. And don’t call me ma’am.”

  She focuses on the only woman among the detectives. “Alfie.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I want you to go through the Sex Offenders’ Register. Get me a list of every known pervert living within five miles of Leigh Woods. I want them graded by the seriousness of the offense and when they were last charged or released from prison.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  The DI shifts her gaze. “Jones and McAvoy, I want you to go through the CCTV footage. There are four cameras on the bridge.”

  “What time period?” one of them asks.

  “From midday until six p.m. Six hours, four cameras, do the maths.”

  “What exactly are we looking for, boss?”

  “Take down every vehicle number. Run them through the Automatic Number Plate Recognition software. See if any of them come up as stolen and cross-check the names with Alfie. We may get lucky.”

  “You’re talking about more than a thousand cars.”

  “Then you’d better get started.” She turns to another detective who is dressed in a short-sleeved jacket and jeans. She calls him “Safari Roy”—another nickname. It suits him.

  “Check out the business partner, Sylvia Furness. The company accounts. Find out who the major creditors are and if any of them were getting heavy.”

  She mentions the food poisoning incident. The father of a bride wants compensation and is threatening to sue. Safari Roy makes a note to check it out.

  DI Cray throws a file into the lap of another detective.

  “That’s a list of every sexual assault or complaint of indecent behavior on Leigh Woods over the past two years, including nude sunbathing and flashing. I want you to find every one of them. Ask them what they were doing on Friday afternoon. Take D.J. and Curly with you.”

  “You think it’s sexual, boss?” asks Curly.

  “The woman was naked with ‘slut’ written on her torso.”

  “What about her mobile?” asks Alfie.

  “Still missing. Monk will be handling the search of Leigh Woods. Those of you who haven’t got assignments will be going with him. You’re going to knock on doors and talk to the locals. I want to know if anyone has been acting strangely or if anything unusual happened in the past few weeks. Did a sparrow fart? Did a bear shit in the wood? You get the picture.”

  A new face appears at the briefing, a senior officer in uniform with polished buttons and a cap tucked beneath his left arm.

  The detectives find their feet quickly.

  “Carry on, carry on,” he says in a pretend-I’m-not-here sort of way. DI Cray makes the introductions. Assistant Chief Constable Fowler is short and broad-shouldered with a bulletproof handshake and the air of a battlefield general trying to gee up his troops. He focuses his attention on me.

  “A professor of what?” he asks.

  “Psychology, sir.”

  “You’re a psychologist.” He makes it sound like a disease. “Where are you from?”

  “I was born in Wales. My mother is Welsh.”

  “Ever heard the definition of a Welsh rarebit, Professor?”

  “No, sir.”

  “A Cardiff virgin.”

  He looks around the room, waiting for the laughter. In due course, it arrives. Satisfied, he takes a seat and places his hat on a desk with his leather gloves inside.

  DI Cray continues with the briefing, but is immediately interrupted.

  “Why isn’t this a suicide?” asks Fowler.

  She turns to him. “We are looking at it again, sir. The victim wrote a sign asking for help.”

  “I thought most suicides were a cry for help.”

  The DI hesitates. “We believe whoever was speaking to Mrs. Wheeler on the phone told her to jump.”

  “Somebody told her to jump and she did—just like that?”

  “We believe she may have been threatened or intimidated.”

  Fowler nods and smiles but something about the mannerism is vaguely patronizing. He turns to me. “This is your opinion, is it, Professor? How exactly was this woman threatened or intimidated into committing suicide?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  I can feel my jaw tightening and my face becoming fixed. Bullies have this effect on me. I become a different person around them.

  “So you think there’s a psycho out there telling women to jump off bridges?”

  “No, not a psycho; I have seen no evidence of mental illness.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t find it helpful when people use labels such as psycho or nutcase. It can allow a perpetrator to excuse his actions or construct a defense of insanity or diminished responsibility.”

  Fowler’s face is stiffer than shirt cardboard. His eyes are fixed on mine.

  “We have certain protocols around here, Professor O’Loughlin, and one of them requires that senior officers be addressed as ‘sir’ or by their correct title. It is a matter of respect. I think I’ve earned it.”

  “Yes, sir, my mistake.”

  For a brief moment his self-control threatens to break but now it’s restored. He stands, taking his hat and gloves, and leaves the incident room. Nobody has moved.

  I look at Veronica Cray, who lowers her head. I’ve disappointed her.

  The briefing is over. Detectives disperse.

  On our way to the stairs, I apologize to the DI.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I hope I haven’t made an enemy.”

  “The man swallows a bullshit pill every morning.”

  “He’s a former military man,” I say.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He carries his hat under his left arm, so his right arm is free to salute.”

  The DI shakes her head. “How do you know shit like that?”

  “Because he’s a freak,” answers Ruiz.

  I follow him outside. An unmarked police car is idling in the loading zone. The driver, a female constable, opens the passenger doors. Veronica Cray and Monk are both heading off to Leigh Woods.

  I wish them luck.

  “Do you believe in luck, Professor?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Neither do I.”

  19

  Julianne is on the 15:40 Great Western service from Paddington. It’s an easy drive to the station at this time of day, with most of the traffic coming the other way.

  Emma is strapped in her booster seat and Darcy is sitting beside me, with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She takes up so little space when she concertinas her body like that.

  “What’s your wife like?” she asks.

  “She’s wonderful.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “What sort of question is that?”

  “It’s just a question.”

  “Well, the answer is yes.”

  “You have to say that, I suppose,” she says, sounding very world-weary. “How long have you been married?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “Have you ever had an affair?”

  “I don’t think th
at’s any of your business.”

  She shrugs and stares out the window. “I don’t think it’s normal being faithful to one person for a whole lifetime. Who’s to say you won’t stop loving someone or meet someone you love more?”

  “You sound very wise. Have you ever been in love?”

  She tosses her head dismissively. “I’m not going to fall in love. I’ve seen how it turns out.”

  “Sometimes we don’t have a choice.”

  “We always have a choice.”

  She rests her chin on her knees and I notice the purple polish on her fingernails.

  “What does your wife do?”

  “Call her Julianne. She’s an interpreter.”

  “Is she away a lot?”

  “More so lately.”

  “And you stay home?”

  “I work part-time at the university.”

  “Is that because of the shaking business?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “You don’t look sick—if that makes you feel better—apart from the shaking, I mean. You look OK.”

  I laugh at her. “Well, thank you very much.”

  Julianne steps off the train and her eyes magically widen when she sees the flowers.

  “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “I’m making up for what happened last time.”

  “You had a reason.”

  I kiss her. She goes for a swift peck. My lips linger. She hooks her arm through mine. I pull her suitcase behind us.

  “How are the girls?” she asks.

  “Great.”

  “Now what’s this about the nanny? You were very coy on the phone. Did you find someone?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I started the interviews.”

  “And?”

  “Something came up.”

  She stops now. Turns. Concerned.

  “Where’s Emma?”

  “In the car.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  “Darcy.”

  I try to keep moving and talking at the same time. Her suitcase wheels rattle over the cobblestones. Having rehearsed the story in my head, it should sound perfectly natural, but as it comes out of my mouth the logic grows more and more tenuous.

  “Have you gone completely mad?” she says.