Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “The victims might not have seen him.”

  “But Sylvia Furness was handcuffed to a tree.”

  “She could have done that to herself.”

  “What about the hood?”

  “She could have done that too.”

  I explain the evidence. The field was muddy. Only one set of footprints was found beneath the tree. There was no evidence of sexual assault or defense wounds. No other tire tracks led to the field.

  “I’m not saying that he didn’t visit the scene in advance—he chose it very carefully. I also think he was nearby—the mobile signals indicate as much—but I don’t think she saw him. I don’t think he touched her—not physically.”

  “He fucked with her mind,” says Safari Roy.

  I nod.

  There are whistling sighs and grunts of skepticism. This is beyond their comprehension.

  “Why? What’s the motive?” asks the DI.

  “Revenge. Anger. Sexual gratification.”

  “What—we take our pick?”

  “It’s all of them. This man is a sexual sadist. It’s not about killing women. It’s more personal than that. He humiliates them. He destroys them psychologically because he hates what they represent. He may have had issues with his own mother or an ex-wife or a former girlfriend. You might even find that his first victim sparked his resentment.”

  “You mean Christine Wheeler?” says Monk.

  “No. She wasn’t the first.”

  Silence. Disbelief.

  “There are more?” asks the DI.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “When? Where?”

  “Answer that question and you’ll find him. The man who did this has been working towards this moment—rehearsing and refining his techniques. He’s an expert.”

  Veronica Cray looks away, gazing silently out the window, staring so hard I wonder if she wants to escape outside and disappear into someone else’s life. I knew this would be the most difficult point to get across. Even experienced police officers and mental health workers struggle with the reality that someone could experience intense pleasure and exhilaration from torturing and killing another human being.

  Suddenly, everyone is talking at once. I’m bombarded with questions, opinions and arguments. Some of the detectives appear almost eager, excited by the hunt. Perhaps I have the wrong mindset but nothing about murder exhilarates or energizes me.

  Solving crime is a vocation for these men and women. It is a longing to restore moral order to a fractured world: a means of exploring questions of innocence and guilt, justice and punishment. For me the only truly important person is the victim who triggers everything. Without him or her none of us would be here.

  The briefing is over. DI Cray escorts me downstairs.

  “If you’re right about this man, he’s going to kill again, isn’t he?”

  “At some point.”

  “Can we slow him down?”

  “You might be able to communicate with him.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He’s not looking to engage the police in some sort of cat and mouse game but he will be reading the newspapers, listening to radio and watching TV. He’s plugged in, which means you can send him a message.”

  “What would we say?”

  “Say you want to understand him. The media are putting labels on him that are less than flattering. Let him correct the misunderstandings. Don’t demean. Don’t antagonize. He wants respect.”

  “And where does that get us?”

  “If you can get him to call, it means that you have dictated an outcome. It’s one small step. The first.”

  “Who delivers the message?”

  “It has to be one face. It can’t be a woman. It must be a man.”

  The DI raises her chin slightly as if something on the horizon has caught her attention.

  “What about you?”

  “Not me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not a detective.”

  “Makes no difference. You know this man. You know how he thinks.”

  I’m standing in the foyer as she lists all the arguments without giving me a chance to rebut. A police car accelerates out of the rear gates, the bleat-bleeping siren drowning out my protests.

  “So that’s decided then. You script a statement. I’ll set up a press conference.”

  The electronic doors unlock. I step outside. The sound of the siren has faded and left behind a feeling of change and of loss. Putting down my head, I swing my arms and legs, aware that she’s still watching me.

  32

  There are flowers everywhere—propped against the railing fence and the trunks of trees. A photograph of Christine Wheeler is wedged in a clear plastic sleeve at the center of the largest wreath.

  Darcy is wearing one of Julianne’s dresses and a black winter coat that almost touches the ground as she walks. She stands in a circle on the opposite side of the grave, beside her aunt—who arrived this morning from Spain—and her grandfather who sits in a wheelchair with a tartan blanket over his knees.

  Her aunt is a tall woman who stands squarely as though addressing a golf ball instead of a person. The breeze is playing havoc with her hair, flattening it on one side of her head.

  I’ve been to funerals before but this one is wrong. The mourners are too young. They’re Christine’s old school friends and mates from university. Some had nothing appropriate to wear in their wardrobe and have chosen muted grays rather than black. They don’t know what to say so they stand in clusters, whispering and glancing sorrowfully at Darcy.

  Alice Furness peeks out from beside her aunt Gloria. Her father, home from Geneva, is dressed in a black suit and talking on a mobile. His eyes meet mine and then his gaze drifts to the right and he reaches out and puts a hand on Alice’s shoulder. He has to bury his wife next. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose Julianne. I don’t want to imagine it.

  On the opposite side of the cemetery, gathered on a ridge, TV crews and photographers have taken up positions behind a barricade of traffic cones and police tape. Uniformed officers are keeping them away from mourners.

  Safari Roy and Monk stand shoulder to shoulder, looking like pallbearers. DI Cray is standing separately. She has brought a wreath of flowers, which she rests on the mound of dark brown earth that is covered by a carpet of artificial grass.

  A hearse murmurs through the gates. The curved road is lower than the surrounding grass and I can’t see the tires turning. It gives the impression that the vehicle is floating towards us.

  Julianne’s shoulder brushes mine and her right hand takes my left hand—the one that trembles. She holds it still, as though keeping my secret.

  Ruiz joins us. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.

  “Where you been?”

  “An errand.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  He glances across at Darcy. “I’ve been looking for her father.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she ask you?”

  “Nope.”

  “She’s never met him!”

  “Never met mine either,” he shrugs. “Still thought he might like to know. If he turns out to be an ax-murderer I won’t give Darcy his address.”

  The coffin has been placed in a cradle over the grave. Flowers are piled high on the polished wood. Darcy is crying openly. Her aunt doesn’t seem interested. Another woman wraps an arm around Darcy’s shoulder. Wretched and red-eyed, she’s wearing a black coat over a long gray skirt.

  Suddenly, I recognize the man next to her—Bruno Kaufman. It must be his ex-wife, Maureen. Bruno mentioned that she went to school with Christine, which means she also went to school with Sylvia. My God, she’s lost two friends in just over a week. No wonder she looks so desolate.

  Bruno raises a finger towards me in a casual salute.

  The vicar is ready to start. His voice, thick with cold, is too clogged to carry far. I find my mind drifting furth
er, over the gravestones and lawns, beyond the trees and the machinery shed to where a gravedigger sits watching. He peels an egg, dropping the pieces of shell into a brown paper bag.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… if God don’t get you, the devil must. Have you ever noticed how cemeteries smell like compost heaps? They’ve sprinkled blood and bone on the roses. It gets right up my nose.

  The mourners are in black like crows around road kill. I can feel their sadness, but it doesn’t feel sad enough. I know true sadness. It’s the sound of a child opening birthday presents without me; wearing clothes that I paid for. That is sadness.

  The shrink is here; he’s like one of those B-grade celebrities who would turn up for the opening of an envelope. This time he’s brought along his wife who is far too hot for the likes of him. Perhaps his shake makes foreplay interesting.

  Who else is here? The dyke detective and her keystone cops. Darcy, the ballet dancer, is being stoic and brave. We passed briefly at the gates and she gave me the briefest look of recognition, as though she couldn’t remember if she knew me. Then she noticed the wheelbarrow and my overalls and discounted the possibility.

  The minister is telling the mourners that death is just the beginning of a journey. It’s a fairy tale echoed down the ages. Chests are shaking. Tears are falling. The ground is soggy enough. Why does death come as such a shock to people? Surely it’s the most fundamental truth. We live. We die. You take this egg. If it had been fertilized and kept warm it might have been a baby chick. Instead it was dropped in boiling water and became a snack.

  Heads are lowered in silent prayer. Coats flap against knees as a breeze picks up. The branches groan above my head like the stomachs of dead souls.

  I have to go now. I have places to be… locks to pick… minds to open.

  The service is over. We walk across the lawn and find the path. A warm wet smell rises from the flower beds and overhead, etched against a pearl-gray sky, migratory birds fly in formation, heading south.

  Bruno Kaufman takes my arm. I introduce him to Julianne. He bows theatrically.

  “Where has Joseph been hiding you?” he asks.

  “Nowhere in particular,” she replies, happy to let Bruno flirt with her.

  Mourners are stepping round us. Darcy is with some of her mother’s friends, who seem to want to squeeze her hand and stroke her hair. Her aunt is wheeling her grandfather along the path, complaining about the slope.

  “The police are everywhere, old boy,” says Bruno, glancing at Monk and Safari Roy. “They stand out like purple cows.”

  “I’ve never seen a purple cow.”

  “Madison, Wisconsin, has lots of colorful cows,” he says. “Not real ones. Statues. They’re a tourist attraction.”

  He begins telling a story about his tenure at the University of Wisconsin. A wind lifts his fringe and makes it hover, defying gravity. Bruno is directing the story to Julianne. I glance past him and notice Maureen.

  “We haven’t met,” I tell her. “I’m very sorry about Christine and Sylvia. I know they were friends of yours.”

  “Old friends and good ones,” she says, her breath condensing as she exhales.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” She blows her nose on a tissue. “I’m scared.”

  “What are you scared of ?”

  “My two best friends are dead. That scares me. The police have come to my house, interviewed me; that scares me. I jump at loud noises, I deadlock the doors, I look in the rear mirror when I’m driving… that scares me, too.”

  The soggy tissue is slipped into the pocket of her coat. A new one is retrieved from a small plastic packet. Her hands are shaking.

  “When did you see them last?”

  “A fortnight ago. We had a reunion.”

  “What sort of reunion?”

  “It was just the four of us—the old gang from Oldfield. We were at school together.”

  “Bruno mentioned it.”

  “We arranged to meet at our favorite pub. Helen organized it.”

  “Helen?”

  “Another friend: Helen Chambers.” She casts her eye around the cemetery. “I thought she would be here. It’s odd. Helen organized the reunion; she was the reason we were getting together. None of us had seen her in years, but she didn’t show up.”

  “Why?”

  “I still don’t know. She didn’t call or e-mail.”

  “You haven’t heard from her at all?”

  She shakes her head and sniffles. “It’s pretty typical of Helen. She is famous for being late and for getting lost in her own back yard.” She glances past me. “I mean it seriously. They had to send out search parties.”

  “Where did she live?”

  “Her father has a country house with a big back yard, so perhaps I shouldn’t tease her.”

  “You haven’t seen her in how long?”

  “Seven years. Nearly eight.”

  “Where has she been?”

  “She married and moved to Northern Ireland and then to Germany. Chris and Sylvie were her bridesmaids. I was supposed to be the maid of honor but Bruno and I were living in America and couldn’t get back for the wedding. I videoed a good luck message.”

  Maureen’s eyes seem to shimmer. “We all promised to stay in touch, but Helen just seemed to drift away. I sent her cards every birthday and Christmas. The odd letter came back out of the blue but didn’t say much. Weeks turned to months and then to years. We lost touch. It was sad.”

  “And then she contacted you?”

  “Six months ago she sent us all an e-mail—Christine, Sylvie and me—saying that she’d left her husband. She was going on a holiday with her daughter—‘to clear her head’—and then she was coming home.

  “Then about a month ago she sent another e-mail saying she was back and we should get together. She chose the place: the Garrick’s Head in Bath. Do you know it?”

  I nod.

  “We used to go there all the time—before we all married and had kids. We’d have a few drinks and a laugh; and sometimes kick on to a nightclub. Sylvie loved to dance.”

  Maureen’s hands have stopped shaking, but the calm never comes. She talks as though some rejected life has come back to claim her. A lost friend. A voice from the past.

  “When I heard about Christine committing suicide I didn’t believe it, not for a minute. She’d never kill herself like that. Never leave Darcy.”

  “Tell me about Sylvia?”

  Maureen gives me a sad smile. “She was a wild one, but not in a bad way. She worried me sometimes. She was a crash or crash-through sort of girl, who took so many risks. Thankfully, she married someone like Richard who was very forgiving.”

  Her eyes are liquid, but her mascara is still in place.

  “You know what I loved most about Sylvie?”

  I shake my head.

  “Her voice. I miss hearing her laugh.” She glances across the cemetery. The sun shines on a glitter of green grass. “I miss both of them. I miss knowing I’ll see them again. I keep thinking they’re going to phone or text me or turn up for a coffee…”

  Another silence, longer this time. She lifts her head, frowning. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bruno says you’re helping the police.”

  “As much as I can.”

  She looks towards Bruno, who is explaining to Julianne that the first fossil records of the rose date back 35 million years and Sappho wrote “Ode to a Rose” in 600 BC calling it the queen of flowers.

  “How does he know stuff like that?” I ask.

  “He says the same about you.”

  She looks at him fondly. “I used to love him, then I hated him, and now I’m caught between the two. He’s not a bad man, you know.”

  “I know.”

  33

  Cars are parked in the driveway and on the footpath outside the Wheeler house. Darcy is welcoming the mourners, taking coats and handbags. She looks at me as i
f I’m coming to rescue her.

  “When can we leave?” she whispers.

  “You’re doing great.”

  “I don’t think I can handle much more of this.” More guests are arriving. The sitting room and dining rooms are crowded. Julianne takes hold of my left hand as we skirt the clusters of mourners, weaving between outstretched cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.

  Ruiz has found a beer.

  “So you want to hear about Darcy’s father?” he asks.

  “Have you found him?”

  “Getting closer. His name wasn’t on her birth certificate, but I got confirmation of the marriage. Parish records. Wonderful things.”

  Julianne gives him a hug. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “You mean like pensions,” Ruiz says playfully, “or maybe mergers and acquisitions.”

  “Very funny.”

  Ruiz takes another swig of beer, enjoying himself. I leave them talking and go looking for Darcy’s aunt. She’s directing traffic in the kitchen, waving plates of sandwiches through one door and collecting empty dishes through another. The benches are covered with food and the air is thick with the smell of cakes and tea.

  Kerry Wheeler is a big woman with a Spanish suntan and heavy jewelry. The expanse of skin below her neck is mottled and lipstick has smeared in the corners of her mouth.

  “Call me Kerry,” she says, pouring boiling water into a teapot. The steam has flattened her perm and she tries to make it bounce again by flicking it with her fingers.

  “Can we talk?” I ask.

  “Sure. I’m dying for a fag.”

  She pulls a packet of cigarettes from her handbag and a large glass of white wine from a hiding place behind the biscuit jars. She takes them outside, down three steps, to the garden.

  “You want one?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  She lights up.

  “I hear you’re famous.”

  “No.”

  She exhales and watches the smoke dissipate. I notice the purple veins on the back of her ankles and raw skin where her high heels have been rubbing.

  “Couldn’t wait for that funeral to end,” she says. “Felt cold enough to snow. Crazy weather. I’m not used to it anymore. Too long in the sun.”