Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  5) The time she tripped over and opened up a cut above her eye that needed two and a half stitches. (Is there such a thing as a half-stitch? Perhaps I made this up to impress her.)

  6) Watching her play an Indian squaw in a primary school production of Peter Pan.

  7) Taking her to see a European cup tie in Munich, even though I missed the only goal while retrieving the Maltesers she dropped beneath her seat.

  8) Walking along the seafront at St. Mawes on our last holiday together.

  9) Teaching her to ride a bicycle without training wheels.

  10) Putting down her pet duck when a fox broke into the pen and ripped off its wing

  The phone is ringing. I open my eyes. Heavy curtains and blackout blinds make the room almost totally dark. I reach for the telephone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that Gideon Tyler?” The accent is pure Belfast.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Royal Mail.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “It was inside a package.”

  “What package?”

  “You posted a package to a Chloe Tyler seven weeks ago. We were unable to deliver it. The address you provided appears to be out of date or incorrect.”

  “Who are you?”

  “This is the National Return Letter Center. We handle undeliverable mail.”

  “Can you try another address?”

  “What address, sir?”

  “You must have records… on computer. Type in the name Chloe Tyler, see what comes up. Or you could try Chloe Chambers.”

  “We don’t have such a capability, sir. Where should we return the parcel?”

  “I don’t want it returned. I want it delivered.”

  “That has not been possible, sir. What action would you like us to take?”

  “I paid the fucking postage. You deliver it.”

  “Please don’t swear, sir. We have permission to hang up on customers who use abusive language.”

  “Fuck off!”

  I slam the handset down. It bounces on the cradle and settles again. The phone rings again. At least I didn’t break it.

  My father is calling. He wants to know when I’m coming to see him.

  “I’ll come tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Afternoon.”

  “What time in the afternoon?”

  “What does it matter—you never go anywhere.”

  “I might go to bingo.”

  “Then I’ll come in the morning.”

  27

  Alice Furness has three aunts, two uncles, two grandparents and a great-grandfather who all seem to be competing to show the most compassion. Alice can’t take a step without one of them jumping to her side and asking her how she feels, if she’s hungry, or what they can get for her?

  Ruiz and I are made to wait in the living room. The large semi-detached house on the outskirts of Bristol belongs to Sylvia’s sister, Gloria, who seems to be holding the clan together. She’s in the kitchen, discussing with other family members whether we should be allowed to interview Alice.

  The great-grandfather isn’t taking part. He’s sitting in an armchair, staring at us. His name is Henry and he’s older than Methuselah (one of my mother’s sayings).

  “Gloria,” Henry bellows, frowning towards the kitchen.

  His daughter appears. “What is it, Dad?”

  “These fellas want to interview our Alice.”

  “We know that, Dad, that’s what we’re discussing.”

  “Well, hurry up then. Don’t keep them waiting.”

  Gloria smiles apologetically and goes back to the kitchen.

  Sylvia Furness must have been the youngest sister. Her older siblings have entered that long, uncertain period of middle age where years are not a faithful measure of life. Their husbands are less vocal or interested—I can see them through the French doors in the back garden, smoking and discussing men’s business.

  The debate in the kitchen is getting heated. I can hear servings of pop psychology and clichés. They’re protective of Alice, which I understand, but she’s already talked to the detectives.

  Agreement is reached. One aunt will sit with Alice during the interview—a thin woman in a dark skirt and cardigan. Her name is Denise and like a magician she produces a never-ending supply of tissues from the sleeve of her cardigan.

  Alice has to be coaxed from a computer screen. She is a sullen-faced preteen, with a down-turned mouth and apple cheeks that owe more to her diet than her bone structure. Dressed in jeans and a rugby jumper, she has her arms folded around a bundle of white fur—a rabbit with long pink-fringed ears that lie flat along its body.

  “Hello, Alice.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead she asks for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Denise obeys without hesitation.

  “When is your father due to arrive?” I ask.

  She shrugs.

  “You must miss him. Does he go away often?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a drug dealer.”

  Denise draws a sharp breath. “That’s not very nice, dear.”

  Alice corrects herself. “He works for a drug company.” She sniffs at her aunt. “It’s just a joke, you know.”

  “Very funny,” says Ruiz.

  Alice narrows her eyes, unsure of whether to trust him.

  “Tell me about Monday afternoon,” I say.

  “I came home and Mum wasn’t here. She didn’t leave a note. I waited for a while, but then I got hungry.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I called Auntie Gloria.”

  “Who had a key to the flat?”

  “Mum and me.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  Ruiz is fidgeting. “Did your mother ever invite men home?”

  She giggles. “You mean boyfriends?”

  “I mean male friends.”

  “Well, she liked Mr. Pelicos, my English teacher. We call him ‘the Pelican’ because he has a big nose. And Eddie from the video shop comes round after work sometimes. He brings DVDs. I’m not allowed to watch them. He and Mum use the TV in her bedroom.”

  Denise tries to shush her. “My sister was happily married. I don’t think you should be asking Alice questions like that.”

  She produces another tissue from her sleeve.

  The rabbit has crawled up Alice’s front and tries to burrow beneath her chin. She giggles. The smile transforms her.

  “Does he have a name?” I ask.

  “Not yet.”

  “He must be new.”

  “Yes. I found him.”

  “Where?”

  “In a box outside our flat.”

  “When was that?”

  “On Monday.”

  “When you came home from your riding lesson?”

  She nods.

  “Tell me exactly what you found.”

  She sighs. “The door was unlocked. There was a box on the mat. Mum wasn’t home.”

  “Was there a note with the box?”

  “Just my name written on the side.”

  “Do you know who left it for you?”

  Alice shakes her head.

  “Did you ever talk to anyone about wanting a rabbit?”

  “No. I thought it was from my dad. He always talks about white rabbits and Alice in Wonderland.”

  “But it wasn’t from your dad.”

  A shake of the head—her ponytail sways.

  “Who else might send you a rabbit?”

  She shrugs.

  “It’s really important, Alice. Have you talked to anyone about your mum or about rabbits or Alice in Wonderland? It could be someone your mum knew or a stranger. Someone who found a reason to talk to you.”

  She grows defensive. “How am I supposed to remember? I talk to people all the time.”

  “This is someone you will remember. Think hard.”

  Her tea is getti
ng cold. She strokes the rabbit’s ears, trying to make them stand upright.

  “Maybe there was somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “A man. He said he was incognito. I didn’t know what that meant.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “I was out with Mum.”

  Alice talks about going to a party with Sylvia to celebrate one of her mother’s friends getting married. She was standing next to the jukebox when a man came up to her. He was wearing sunglasses. They talked about music and horses and he offered to buy her another lemonade. He quoted from Alice in Wonderland.

  “How did he know your name?”

  “I told him.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No.”

  “Did he know your mother’s name?”

  “I don’t know. He knew where we lived.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t tell him, he just knew.”

  Taking her over the story again and again, I build up layers of detail, putting sinew and flesh on the bones. I don’t want her paraphrasing or skipping sections. I need her to remember his exact words.

  He was my height with thin fair hair, older than her mother, younger than me. Alice can’t remember what he was wearing and didn’t notice any tattoos or rings or distinguishing features apart from his sunglasses.

  She yawns. The conversation has begun to bore her.

  “Did he talk to your mother?” asks Ruiz.

  “No. That was the other one.”

  “The other one?”

  “The man who drove us home.”

  Ruiz elicits another description, this one of a younger man, early thirties, curly hair and an earring. He was dancing with her mother and offered to take them home.

  Her aunt interrupts again. “Is this really necessary? Poor Alice has told the police everything.”

  Alice suddenly holds her rabbit at arm’s length. There’s a wet patch on her jeans.

  “Oooh, he peed on me! How gross!”

  “You squeezed him too hard,” says her aunt.

  “No I didn’t.”

  “You shouldn’t handle him so much.”

  “He’s my rabbit.”

  The animal is dumped on the kitchen table. Alice wants to change her clothes. I’ve failed to instill any sense of urgency into her and she’s sick of talking. Staring at me reproachfully, she gives the impression that it’s somehow my fault—her mother’s death, the stain on her jeans, the general upheaval in her life.

  Everyone deals with grief differently and Alice is hurting in places I can’t even imagine. I have spent more than twenty years studying human behavior, treating patients and listening to their doubts and fears, but no amount of experience or knowledge of psychology will ever allow me to feel what someone else feels. I can witness the same tragedy or survive the same disaster, but my feelings, like hers, will be unique and forever private.

  It’s cold but not painfully so. Bare trees, savagely pruned around the power lines, are etched against a lavender sky. Ruiz shoves his hands deep in his pockets and walks away from the house. He rocks slightly on his right leg, which has never fully recovered from an old gunshot wound.

  I fall into step alongside him, struggling to keep up. Somebody sent ballet shoes to Darcy after her mother died—with no note or return address. The same person is likely to have left the rabbit for Alice. Are they calling cards or condolence gifts?

  “You got a fix on this guy yet?” asks Ruiz.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll bet you twenty quid it’s an ex-boyfriend or a lover.”

  “Of both women?”

  “Maybe he blames one of them for breaking up the relationship with the other.”

  “And you base this theory upon?”

  “My gut.”

  “Are you sure it’s not wind?”

  “We could make a wager.”

  “I’m not a betting man.”

  We’ve reached the car. Ruiz leans on the door. “Let’s say you’re right and he targets the daughters—how does he do it? Darcy was at school. Alice was riding her horse. They weren’t in any danger.”

  I don’t have an easy explanation. It requires a leap of the imagination: a tumble into darkness.

  “How does he prove a lie like that?” asks Ruiz.

  “He has to know things about the daughters—not just their names and ages, but intimate details. He could have been in their houses, found reasons to meet them, watched them.”

  “Surely a mother would phone the school or the riding center. You don’t just believe someone who claims to have your daughter.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You never hang up. Yes, you want to check. You want to phone the police. You want to scream for help. But what you never, ever do is hang up the phone. You can’t take the risk that he’s right. You don’t want to take that risk.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “You keep talking. You do exactly what he says. You stay on the phone and you keep asking for proof and you pray, over and over, that you’re wrong.”

  Ruiz rocks back on his heels and looks at me with a kind of repulsive wonderment.

  Passersby are stepping round us on the footpath, glancing with disapproval and curiosity.

  “And this is your theory?”

  “It fits the details.”

  I expected him to argue with me. I thought it would be too great a leap to contemplate someone stepping off a bridge or chaining herself to a tree on the basis of any sort of belief or rational fear.

  Instead he clears his throat.

  “I once knew a man in Northern Ireland who drove a truck full of explosives into an army barracks because the IRA was holding his wife and two children hostage. They killed his youngest by slitting her throat in front of him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Twelve soldiers died in the blast… so did the husband.”

  “And what about his family?”

  “The IRA let them go.”

  Both of us fall silent. Some conversations don’t need a final word.

  28

  Charlie is in the front garden, kicking a football against the fence. She’s wearing her football boots and her old strip from the Camden Tigers.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  The ball cannons harder off the wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.

  “You practicing for the big trial?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  She catches the ball in two hands and looks at me now, giving me her mother’s stare.

  “Because the trial was today and you were supposed to take me, so I’ve missed it. Thanks a lot, Dad. Special effort.”

  She drops the ball and volleys it so hard it almost takes off my head as it ricochets past me.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” I say, trying to apologize. “I’ll talk to the coach. They’ll give you another trial.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want any favors,” she says. Could she be any more like her mother?

  Julianne is in the kitchen. A towel is wrapped like a turban over her freshly washed hair. It makes her walk with rolling hips like an African woman carrying a clay pot on her head.

  “I’ve upset Charlie.”

  “Yes.”

  “You should have called.”

  “I tried. Your phone was turned off.”

  “Why couldn’t you take her?”

  She snaps: “Because I had to interview nannies—because you didn’t find one.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to me.” She glances out the window to Charlie. “And by the way—I don’t think it’s just about the football trial.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She chooses her words carefully. “You and Charlie are always doing things together, running errands, going for walks, but ever since Darcy arrived you’ve been too busy. I think she may be a little jealous.”


  “Of Darcy?”

  “She thinks you’ve forgotten her.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  “She’s also having a few problems at school. There’s a boy who keeps picking on her.”

  “She’s being bullied?”

  “I don’t know if it’s that serious.”

  “We should talk to the school.”

  “She wants to try to sort it out herself.”

  “How?”

  “In her own way.”

  I can still hear the football being kicked against the wall. I hate the idea that Charlie feels neglected. And I hate even more that Julianne has learned these things while I missed them. I’m at home all the time. I’m the go-to parent, the primary carer, and I haven’t been paying attention.

  Julianne unwraps the towel, letting wet curls tumble over her face. She pats them dry between her palms and the soft weave of the fabric.

  “I had a phone call from Darcy’s aunt,” she says. “She’s flying from Spain for the funeral.”

  “That’s good.”

  “She wants to take Darcy back to Spain with her.”

  “What does Darcy say?”

  “She doesn’t know. Her aunt wants to tell her face-to-face.”

  “She won’t be happy.”

  Julianne arches an eyebrow tellingly. “That’s not our responsibility.”

  “You treat Darcy like she’s done something wrong,” I say.

  “And you treat her like she’s your daughter.”

  “That’s unfair.”

  “Explain fairness to Charlie.”

  “You can be a real bitch sometimes.”

  The statement is laden with more anger and import than either of us expect. A hurt helplessness floods Julianne’s eyes but she refuses to let me witness her unhappiness. She takes her towel and her tenderness, carrying both upstairs. I listen to her footsteps on the stairs and tell myself she’s being unreasonable. She’ll understand eventually.

  Raising a knuckle, I tap gently on the door of the guest room.

  After what seems an age the door opens. Darcy is barefoot in three-quarter-length leggings and a T-shirt. Her hair is out and over her shoulders.

  Without looking at me, she goes back to the bed and sits on the rumpled sheets with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. The curtains are closed and shadows gather in the corners of the room.