Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “Fuck off.”

  “Offensive language—that’s another charge.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “The film.”

  “I don’t have any film. It’s digital.”

  “Then give me the bloody memory card.”

  “People have got a right to see these pictures,” says Cooper. “It’s in the public interest.”

  “Yeah, sure, woman hanging from a tree; big public interest story.”

  I leave the two of them arguing. Monk is going to prevail. He’s six-foot four. Nature wins again.

  I climb a gate and follow the road to where police cars have blocked off the lane. DI Cray is standing beside a mobile canteen, stirring sugar into tea. She stares at my trousers.

  “I fell down.”

  She shakes her head and pauses to watch the white body bag being carried past us on a stretcher and loaded into a waiting Home Office van.

  “What makes someone like Sylvia Furness take off her clothes, walk out of her flat and come here?”

  “I think he used the daughter.”

  “But she was at a riding school.”

  “Remember what Fuller said? When he met Christine Wheeler on the path last Friday, she asked about her daughter.”

  “Darcy was at school.”

  “Exactly. But what if Christine didn’t know that? What if he convinced her otherwise?”

  DI Cray draws breath and runs her hand across her scalp. Her short hair flattens and springs back again. I catch her staring at me as though I’m a strange artifact that she has stumbled across and can’t name.

  Off to my right I hear the sounds of a commotion, several people shouting at once. Reporters and news crews have crossed the police tape and are charging up the farm track. At least a dozen uniforms and plainclothes converge on them, forming a barricade.

  One reporter pivots and ducks under the line. A detective tackles him from behind and they both finish up in the mud.

  Veronica Cray utters a knowing sigh and tips out her tea.

  “It’s feeding time.”

  Moments later she disappears into the throng. I can barely see the top of her head. She orders them to step back… further still. I can see her now. The TV lights have bleached her face whiter than a full moon.

  “My name is Detective Inspector Veronica Cray. At 7:55 this morning the body of a woman was found at this location. Early indications suggest the death is suspicious. We will not be releasing her name until her next of kin have been informed.”

  Each time she pauses, a dozen flashguns fire and the questions come almost as quickly.

  “Who found the body?”

  “Is it true she was naked?”

  “Was she sexually assaulted?”

  Some of them are answered, others parried. The DI looks directly at the cameras and maintains a calm, businesslike demeanor, keeping her answers short and to the point.

  There are angry objections when she ends the impromptu press conference. Already pushing through their shoulders, she reaches my side and pulls me towards a waiting car.

  “I have no illusions about my work, Professor. My job is pretty straightforward most of the time. Your average murderer is drunk, angry and stupid. He’s white, in his late twenties, with a low IQ and a history of violence. And gets into a pub brawl or gets sick of his wife’s nagging and puts a claw hammer in the back of her head. I can understand that sort of homicide.”

  By inference she’s saying this case is different.

  “I’ve heard stories about you. They say you can tell things about people; understand them; read them like tea leaves in a cup.”

  “I make clinical judgments.”

  “Whatever you want to call it, you seem to be good at this sort of thing. Details are important to you. You like finding patterns to them. I want you to find a pattern for me. I want to know who did this. I want to know why he did it and how he did it. And I want to stop the sick fuck from doing it again.”

  25

  The house is quiet. Strains of classical music drift along the hall. The dining table has been pushed back against the wall. A lone chair remains in the center of the room.

  Darcy is dressed in trackies rolled low onto her hips and a green midriff top which shows the paleness of her shoulders and stomach. Her chestnut hair is pinned tightly into a bun.

  She balances one leg on the back of a chair with her toes pointed and leans forward until her forehead touches her knee. The outlines of her shoulder blades are like stunted wings beneath her skin.

  She holds the pose for a minute and rises again, drawing her arm above her head as if painting the air. Every movement has an economy of effort, the dip of a shoulder or extension of a hand. Nothing is forced or wasted. She is barely a woman, yet she moves with such grace and confidence.

  Sitting on the floor, she stretches her legs wide apart and leans forward until her chin touches the floor. Her teenage body, extremely stretched and open, looks athletic and beautiful rather than vulgar.

  Her eyes open.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “How often do you practice?”

  “I should do it twice a day.”

  “You’re very good.”

  She laughs. “Do you know anything about ballet?”

  “No.”

  “They say I have a dancer’s body,” she says. “Long legs and a short torso.” She stands and turns side-on. “Even when my legs are straight the knee is bent slightly backwards, you see that? It creates a better line when I’m on pointe.” She rises onto her toes. “I can also flex my feet forward to be vertical from knee to toe. Can you see?”

  “Yes. You’re very graceful.”

  She laughs. “I’m bow-legged and duck-footed.”

  “I used to have a patient who was a ballerina.”

  “Why were you seeing her?”

  “She was anorexic.”

  Darcy nods sadly. “Some girls have to starve themselves. I didn’t have a period until I was fifteen. I also have curvature of the spine, partially dislocated vertebrae and stress fractures in my neck.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  She shakes her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  She turns her toes outward.

  “This is a pas de chat. I leap off my left leg starting from a plié and raise my right leg into a retiré. In midair I raise my left leg into a retiré as well so that my legs form a diamond shape in the air. You see? That’s what the four cygnets do when they dance in Swan Lake. Their arms are interlaced and they do sixteen pas de chat.”

  An abiding sense of lightness makes her float through each jump.

  “Can you help me practice my pas de deux?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come here. I’ll show you.”

  She takes my hands and puts them on her waist. I feel as though my fingertips could reach right around her and touch in the small of her back.

  “A little lower,” she says. “That’s it.”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Nobody watches the man in a pas de deux. They’re too busy watching the ballerina.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Hold me as I jump.”

  Effortlessly, she takes off. If anything it feels as though I’m holding her down rather than up. Her bare skin slides beneath my fingers.

  She does it half a dozen times. “You can let go of me now,” she says, giving me a teasing smile.

  “Perhaps you don’t like ballet. I can do other dances.” Reaching up, she unpins her hair and lets it tumble over her eyes. Then she grinds her hips in a long slow circle, squatting with her knees apart, running her hands along her thighs and over her crotch.

  It is shamelessly provocative. I force myself to look away.

  “You shouldn’t dance like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not something you should do in front of a stranger.”

&nb
sp; “But you’re not a stranger.”

  She’s making fun of me now. Adolescent girls are the most complicated life forms in the known universe. It astonishes me how they manage to be so discomfiting. With little more than a glance or a flash of skin or a dismissive smirk, they can make a man feel ancient, meddlesome and vaguely lecherous.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Your mother.”

  “I thought you’d asked me everything already.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Can I keep stretching?”

  “Of course.”

  She sits on the floor again, pushing her legs wide apart.

  “Did you talk to anyone about your mother—in the past month? Was there someone who asked questions about her or about you?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t think so. I can’t remember. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “There’s been another death. The police are going to want to interview you again.”

  Darcy stops stretching and her eyes meet mine. They’re no longer bright with energy or amusement.

  “Who?”

  “Sylvia Furness. I’m sorry.”

  A slight noise catches in Darcy’s throat. She holds her hands to her mouth as if trying to stop the sound from escaping.

  “Did you ever meet Alice?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  She shakes her head.

  I don’t have enough information to explain to Darcy what happened today or ten days ago. Her mother and Sylvia Furness were in business together but what else did they share? The man who killed them knew things about them. He chose them for a reason.

  This is a search that must go backwards rather than forwards. Address books. Diaries. Wallets. E-mails. Letters. Telephone messages. The movements of both victims have to be traced—where they went, who they spoke to, what shops they visited, where they had their hair done. What friends do they have in common? Were they members of the same gym? Did they share a doctor or a dry cleaner or a palm reader? And this is important: where did they buy their shoes?

  A key rattles in the lock. Julianne, Charlie and Emma come bustling into the hallway with polished paper shopping bags and red cheeks from the cold. Charlie is in her school uniform. Emma is wearing new boots that look too big for her but she’ll grow into them before winter is over.

  Julianne looks at Darcy. “Are you dressed for dancing or double pneumonia?”

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  She turns to me. “And what have you been doing?”

  “He’s been helping me,” says Darcy.

  Julianne gives me one of her impenetrable looks; the same look that makes our children confess immediately to wrongdoing and sends unwelcome Seventh-day Adventists jostling for the front gate.

  I sit Emma on the table and unzip her boots.

  “Where did you go this morning?” asks Julianne.

  “I had a call from the police.”

  There is something in my tone that makes her turn and fix her gaze on mine. No words are spoken, but she knows there has been another death. Darcy tickles Emma under the arms. Julianne glances at her and then back to me. Again, no words are exchanged.

  Perhaps this is what happens when two people have been married for sixteen years: it gets so that they know what the other is thinking. It’s also what happens when you’re married to someone as intuitive and perceptive as Julianne. I have made a career out of studying human behavior but like most in my profession I’m lousy at psychoanalyzing myself. I have a wife for that. She’s good. Better than any therapist. Scarier.

  “Can you take me into town?” Darcy asks me. “I need a few things.”

  “You should have asked me to get them,” answers Julianne.

  “I didn’t think.”

  A sudden tight smile covers Julianne’s annoyance. Darcy goes upstairs to change.

  Julianne begins unpacking groceries. “She can’t stay here indefinitely, Joe.”

  “I called her aunt in Spain today and left a message for her. I’m also talking to her headmistress.”

  Julianne nods, only partially satisfied. “Well, tomorrow I’m interviewing more nannies. If I find someone we’ll need the spare room. Darcy has to go.”

  She opens the fridge door and arranges eggs in a tray.

  “Tell me what happened this morning.”

  “Another woman is dead.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Christine Wheeler’s business partner.”

  Julianne is speechless. Stunned. She stares at the grapefruit in her hand, trying to decide if she was putting it in the fridge or taking it out. She doesn’t want to hear any more. Details matter to me but not to her. She closes the fridge and steps around me, taking her silent verdict upstairs.

  I wish I could make her understand that I didn’t choose to get involved in this. I didn’t choose to watch Christine Wheeler jump to her death or have her daughter turn up on my doorstep. Julianne used to love my sense of fairness and compassion and my hatred of hypocrisy. Now she treats me like I have no other role to play except to raise my children, perform a handful of lectures and wait for Mr. Parkinson to steal what he hasn’t already taken.

  Even when Ruiz came to dinner last night she took a long while to relax.

  “I’m surprised at you, Vincent,” she told him. “I thought you would have talked Joe out of this.”

  “Out of what?”

  “This nonsense.” She looked at him over her wineglass. “I thought you retired. Why aren’t you playing golf?”

  “I have actually hired a hit man to bump me off if I ever leave the house wearing tartan trousers.”

  “Not a golfer.”

  “No.”

  “What about bowling, or driving a caravan around the country?”

  Ruiz laughed nervously and looked at me as though he no longer envied my life.

  “I hope you never retire, Professor.”

  From upstairs there are raised voices. Julianne is shouting at Darcy.

  “What are you doing? Get away from my things.”

  “Ow! You’re hurting me.”

  I take the stairs two at a time and find them in our bedroom.

  Julianne is gripping Darcy’s forearm, squeezing it hard to stop her getting away. The teenager is bent over, cupping something against her stomach as if hiding it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I caught her going through my things,” says Julianne. I look at the dresser. The drawers are open.

  “No, I wasn’t,” says Darcy.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It doesn’t look like nothing,” I say. “What were you looking for?”

  She blushes. I haven’t seen her blush before.

  She straightens and moves her arms. A small dark crimson stain is visible in the crotch of her track pants.

  “My period started. I looked in the bathroom, but I couldn’t find any pads.”

  Julianne looks mortified. She lets go of Darcy and tries to apologize.

  “I am so sorry. You should have said something. You could have asked me.”

  Ignoring my inertia, she takes Darcy by the hand and leads her to the en suite. As the door closes, Julianne’s eyes connect with mine. Normally so poised and unflappable, she has become a different person around Darcy and she blames me.

  26

  I was thirty-one years old when I understood what it was like to watch someone die. A Pashtun taxi driver, with psoriasis on his joints, expired as I watched. We had made him stand for five days until his feet swelled to the size of footballs and the shackles cut into his ankles. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat.

  This is an approved “stress and duress position.” It’s in the manual. Look it up. SK 46/34.

  His name was Hamad Mowhoush and he’d been arrested at a checkpoint in southern Afghanistan after a roadside bomb killed two Royal Marines and wounded three o
thers, including a mate of mine.

  We put a sleeping bag over Hamad’s head and bound it with wire. Then we rolled him back and forth and sat on his chest. That’s when his heart gave out.

  Some folks claim torture isn’t an effective way to get reliable information because the strong defy pain and the weak will say anything to make it stop. They’re right. Most of the time, it’s pointless, but if you act quickly and combine the shock of capture with the fear of torture, it’s amazing how often the mind unlocks and all sorts of secrets tumble out.

  We weren’t allowed to call the detainees POWs. They were PUCs (persons under control). The military loves acronyms. Another one is HCI (Highly Coercive Interrogation). That’s what I was trained to do.

  When I first saw Hamad someone had sandbagged and zip-tied him. Fellini gave him to me. “Fuck a PUC,” he said, grinning. “We can smoke him later.”

  To “fuck a PUC” meant to beat him up. To “smoke” them meant using a stress position. Fellini used to make them stand in the sun in hundred-degree heat with their arms outstretched, holding up five-gallon jerry cans.

  We added some of our own touches. Sometimes we doused them in water, rolled them in dirt and beat them with chem lights until they glowed in the dark.

  We buried Hamad’s body in lime. I couldn’t sleep for days afterwards. I kept imagining his body slowly bloating and the gas escaping from his chest, making it seem like he was still breathing. I still think about him sometimes. I wake at night, with a weight on my chest and imagine lying in the ground with the lime burning my skin.

  I’m not scared of dying. I know there’s something worse than lying underground, worse than being smoked, or fucked over with chem lights. It happened to me on Thursday May 17, just after midnight. That’s when I last saw Chloe. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a car, still in her pajamas, being stolen from me.

  That was twenty-one Sundays ago.

  Ten things I remember about my daughter:

  1) The paleness of her skin.

  2) Yellow shorts.

  3) A homemade Father’s Day card with two stick figures, one large and one small, holding hands.

  4) Telling her about Jack and the Beanstalk, but leaving out the bit about the giant wanting to grind Jack’s bones to make his bread.