Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “About Darcy.”

  “Yeah. I meant to say, thanks for looking after her. It won’t be necessary anymore.”

  “You’re going back to Spain.”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “Have you told Darcy?”

  “Going to.”

  “When?”

  “I just buried my sister. That was my first priority.”

  She pulls her jacket closer around her chest; sucks on the cigarette. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.”

  “Ask for what?”

  “Darcy.” The wineglass clinks against her teeth. “Kids are difficult. Selfish. That’s why I don’t have any.” She looks at me. “You got children?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know what I mean.”

  “Not really.” I speak softly. “Darcy wants to go to ballet school in London.”

  “And who’s going to pay for that?”

  “I think she plans to sell this place.”

  “This place!” The big woman laughs. Her teeth are yellow and dotted with fillings. “Bank owns ‘this place.’ Just like the bank owns the car. Bank owns the furniture. Bank owns the friggin’ lot.”

  She belches into her fist and flicks the cigarette butt into the garden where it bounces and sparks. “My sister—the big shot businesswoman—writes a will when there’s nothing to bloody give away. And even if there is something left when I sell this place, young missy is too young to inherit. I’m her legal guardian. Says so in the will.”

  “I think you should talk to Darcy about Spain. She won’t want to go.”

  “Not her decision.”

  She rubs her heels as if trying to restore blood flow to her feet.

  “I still think you should talk to her.”

  A raveled silence and a sigh. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. O’Loughlin.”

  “Call me Joe.”

  “Well, Joe, we all have to make compromises. Darcy needs someone to look after her. I’m the only family she’s got.”

  I can feel myself getting annoyed. Angry. I shake my head and press my hands tighter into my jacket pockets.

  “You think I’m wrong,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s another advantage of being my age—I don’t have to give a shit.”

  As soon as I enter the house Julianne senses something is wrong. She looks at me questioningly. My left arm is trembling.

  “You ready to go?” she asks.

  “Let me talk to Darcy first.”

  “To say good-bye.”

  It’s a statement, not a question.

  I look in the lounge and the dining room, the front hallway and then upstairs. Darcy is in her bedroom, sitting at the window, staring at the garden.

  “You hiding?”

  “Yep,” she says.

  The room is full of music posters and stuffed toys. It’s a time capsule from Darcy’s childhood, which seems incredibly distant. I notice scraps of torn paper on the floor and a pile of condolence cards stacked haphazardly on the bed. Someone has opened them quickly, without care.

  “You’ve been reading cards.”

  “No. I found them like this.”

  “When?”

  “Just now—when I got home.”

  “Who opened them?”

  She shrugs but senses the edge in my voice. I ask if the house was locked, who had keys, where did she find the cards and envelopes…

  “They were on the bed.”

  “Are any of them missing?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  I glance out the window at a line of poplar saplings that ends on the corner. I see a silver van moving slowly along the street, searching for a house number.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Not this time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to stay here with your aunt.”

  “But she’s going back to Spain.”

  “She wants you to go with her.”

  “No! No!” Darcy looks at me accusingly. “I can’t. I won’t. What about my ballet scholarship? I won a place.”

  “Spain can be like a holiday.”

  “A holiday! I can’t suddenly stop dancing and take it up again. I’ve never been to Spain. I don’t know anyone there.”

  “You have your aunt.”

  “Who hates me.”

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “Talk to her.”

  “I have.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Of course not.”

  Her bottom lip is trembling. Suddenly, she throws herself against me, wrapping her arms around my chest.

  “Let me come home with you.”

  “I can’t do that, Darcy.”

  “Please. Please.”

  “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

  What happens next is not so much unplanned as unimagined. Some leaps can only be made in the space between the head and the heart. Darcy raises her face and presses her lips to mine. Her breath. Her tongue. Inexperienced, exploring, she tastes of potato chips and cola. I try to pull back. Her hand grips my hair. She pushes her hips against mine, offering her body.

  My head is filled with seven visions of crazy. Taking hold of her hands, I gently ease her away and hold her there. She blinks at me desperately.

  Her coat is unbuttoned. One side of her blouse has fallen off her shoulder, exposing a bra strap.

  “I love you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “But I do. I love you more than she does.”

  She steps away, freeing her hands, letting her coat fall from her shoulders, pulling her top down, exposing her bra.

  “Don’t you want me? I’m not a child!” Her voice sounds different.

  “Please, Darcy.”

  “Let me stay with you.”

  “I can’t.”

  She shakes her head, bites her lip, trying not to cry. She understands everything. The stakes have changed completely. I can never take her into my home—not now—not after what she has offered me. Her tears are not meant to blackmail me emotionally or to make me change my mind. They’re just tears.

  “Please leave,” she says. “I want to be alone.”

  I close the door, lean against it. I can still taste her in my mouth and feel her trembling. The sensation is one of fear: fear of discovery, fear of what she did and how much I am to blame. My area of supposed expertise is in human behavior but sometimes I am astonished by how profoundly ignorant I am. How can someone be a psychologist yet know so little about the subject? The mind is too complex, too unpredictable, an ocean of uncertainty. And I have no option but to tread water or to swim for a distant shore.

  Julianne is at the bottom of the stairs. “Is everything OK?” she asks. Can she see something in my eyes?

  “There’s been a break-in. I have to call the police.”

  “Now?”

  “You go home. I should stay.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “Ruiz is still here.”

  She stands on tiptoes and gently kisses my lips. Then she leans back and looks into my eyes.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “I’m fine.”

  An hour later and police have replaced mourners. The cards and envelopes have been bagged and taken to the lab. The doors and windows checked for any signs of forced entry. Nothing has been taken.

  There is no reason for me to be here and every reason for me to leave. I keep thinking of Darcy’s kiss and her awkwardness. It embarrassed us both but she is of an age where rejection can crush. I live with discomfit every day, in the tremble of a hand or a sudden frozen fall.

  I keep thinking about what Maureen said about the reunion and losing two of her best friends. Perhaps the murders had nothing to do with a business failing or Christine Wheeler owing money to loan sharks. It was more personal than that. Why would someone open condolence cards? What were they looking for?

  Darcy is still upstairs. Her a
unt is talking to police in the kitchen. Outside I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Ruiz is waiting in his car. The heater blasts warm air onto the windscreen.

  “I need another favor.”

  “You got any of those left?”

  “One.”

  “I must have lost count.”

  “I need you to look for someone. Her name is Helen Chambers.”

  “Haven’t you got enough women in your life?”

  “She went to school with Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. They were supposed to meet up a fortnight ago. She didn’t show.”

  “Last known address?”

  “Her folks live somewhere near Frome. A big country house.”

  “Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  The car swings from the parking space and the glare of approaching headlights stings my eyes. Ruiz turns up the music. Sinatra is crooning about a lady who never flirts with strangers or blows on another guy’s dice.

  It is after midnight when I get home. The cottage is dark. Above and behind it, a church steeple is black against a purple sky. I close the door gently and take my shoes off. Climb the stairs.

  Emma is spread-eagled on top of her duvet. I fold her legs beneath it and tuck it beneath her chin. She doesn’t stir. Charlie’s door is open a few inches. Her lava lamp casts a pink glow over the room. I can see her lying on her side with her hand close to her mouth.

  Julianne is asleep. I undress in the bathroom and brush my teeth before sliding alongside her. She turns and wraps her arms and legs around me, pressing her breasts against my back.

  “It’s late,” she whispers.

  “Sorry.”

  “How is Darcy?”

  “She’s with her aunt.”

  Her hand seeks me out, with resolute determination; making a ring with her thumb and finger. She bends and takes me in her mouth. And when I’m ready she rolls on top, straddling my waist, trapping me beneath her.

  Her thighs are open. She slides backwards, taking me inside her, inhaling sharply. She guides my hands to her breasts. Her nipples are hard. I don’t have to move. I watch her rise and descend, inch by inch, accepting my surrender, seeking her own release and summoning mine.

  It doesn’t feel like makeup sex or new-beginning sex. It’s like a quiet sigh drawing color from the embers. Afterwards Julianne rests her head on my chest and I listen to her fall asleep.

  An hour passes. I slide her head onto her pillow and slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the study. Closing the door before turning on the light, I look for the hotel receipt from Rome. Taking it from between the pages of a notebook, I rip it into small pieces that flutter into the wastepaper bin.

  34

  I can understand why a man might lavish affection on a machine instead of a human being. Machines are more reliable. Turn the key, flick a switch, step on the gas and they do the business when it counts.

  I have never owned a sports car—never desired one—but I have one now. It belongs to a futures trader who lives in one of the luxury apartments overlooking Queen Square. You can’t steal a Ferrari F430 Spider off the street—not without disabling the alarm, ripping the guts out of the steering lock and circumventing the engine immobilizer. It’s far easier to steal the keys of the rich bastard who owns it. He left them on the radiator cover, just inside his front door, next to the secure parking key and his leather driving gloves.

  The one thing I can’t get around is the “vehicle tracking system.” Once he reports the car missing I’ll have to say good-bye to my wet dream on wheels.

  Steering the Spider through the streets on a Monday morning, I watch the reactions it produces, the looks of admiration, awe and envy. It doesn’t even have to be moving to draw the eye.

  A lot of guys I knew in the army were obsessed with cars. The poor bastards spent their careers rumbling along at sixty k’s an hour in an armored personnel carrier or a Challenger, with six forward gears and two reverse. So on their own time they went for something with more finesse and speed. Sports cars. Some of them were in hock up their eyeballs but they didn’t care. It was all about living the dream.

  I park the Spider in a quiet street. The dew-slimed footpath is beginning to dry and sunlight filters through the branches of plane trees. I take a map and spread it out on the bonnet. The engine is ticking as it cools.

  I wait. He’ll be along soon. Here he comes now, shuffling through the leaves, dressed in a blazer and dark gray trousers.

  He’s seen the Ferrari. He pauses and studies the lines. His hand is drawn towards it, wanting to touch the gleaming paintwork and run a finger over its curves.

  “Nice wheels,” he says.

  “Oughta be.”

  “Yours?”

  “I’m holding the keys.”

  He does a slow circuit of the Spider. His schoolbag hangs off one shoulder.

  “How fast?” he asks.

  I fold the map in half. “Let’s just say I could be a quarter of a mile from here in twelve seconds.”

  “That’s if you weren’t lost.” He grins.

  “Yeah, wise-arse, maybe you could help me with that.”

  He crouches and peers inside the tinted driver’s window.

  “Where you going?”

  “Beacon Hill. Seymour Road.”

  “Beacon Hill isn’t far. I’m heading that way.”

  “Walking?”

  “Catching the bus.”

  I show him the map. He points to his school and shows me the route. I can smell toothpaste on his breath and glimpse a younger version of myself, ripe with potential, ready to take on the world.

  “Can I take a look inside?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He opens the door.

  “Get behind the wheel.”

  Dropping his schoolbag in the gutter, he slides into the seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and settling himself. Any minute he’s going to start making revving noises.

  “This is awesome.”

  “You could say that.”

  “What’s her top speed?”

  “A hundred and ninety-three miles an hour. She has a 4.3 liter V8 483 horsepower engine with 343 pounds of torque.”

  “What’s the most you’ve had her up to?”

  “You’re not a copper, are you?”

  “No.” He laughs.

  “Hundred and eighty.”

  “No shit.”

  “She was purring like a kitten. But the real rush is the acceleration. She does nought to sixty in 4.1 seconds. Like shit off a shovel.”

  I’ve hooked him now. It’s more than curiosity. It’s red-blooded male longing. It’s like the sex dream a boy has before he’s tasted a woman. It’s speed. It’s an engine. It’s love at first sight.

  “How much did it cost?” he whispers.

  “Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s rude to ask a question like that?”

  “Yeah, but she drives a Ford Astra.”

  I smile. “Not really a car person, huh?”

  “No.”

  “When do you get your license?”

  “Nine months.”

  “You going to get a car?”

  “I don’t think Mum can afford one. Maybe my dad could help.”

  His fingers close around the gearstick. With one hand still on the wheel, he peers through the windscreen and imagines taking the corners.

  “What time’s your bus?” I ask.

  He looks at his watch. “Shit!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Really?”

  35

  It’s after nine. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Downstairs I hear footsteps, laughter and the sound of nursery rhymes. It’s like tuning into my favorite radio soap and listening to another installment of life in the O’Loughlin household.

  I lumber downstairs, teeth brushed, face washed and body medicated. There’s laughter from the sitting room. I listen at the door. Julianne is interviewing nannies. Emma seems to be asking most of the que
stions.

  Ruiz is in the kitchen, eating toast and reading my morning paper.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Morning.”

  “Don’t they feed you at the pub?”

  “It doesn’t have the ambience of this place.”

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat opposite him.

  “I found Helen Chambers’s family. They live on the Daubeney Estate, outside Westbury. It’s about thirty miles from here. I tried to call and got an answering machine. Helen Chambers isn’t listed on the voter rolls or telephone directories.”

  He senses I’m only half-listening.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  He goes back to reading the paper. I take a sip of coffee.

  “Do you ever have nightmares?” I ask. “I mean, you dealt with some pretty terrible things—murders, rapes, missing children—don’t they ever come back to you, the memories?”

  “No.”

  “What about Catherine McBride?” She was a former patient of mine. That’s how I first met Ruiz, he was investigating her murder.

  “What about her?”

  “I still see her in my dreams sometimes. Now I’m seeing Christine Wheeler.”

  Ruiz folds the newspaper in half and half again. “Does she talk to you?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “But you’re seeing dead people?”

  “You make it sound crazy.”

  He slaps me hard across the side of my head with the newspaper.

  “What was that for?”

  “It’s a wake-up call.”

  “Why?”

  “You once told me that a doctor is no good to a patient if he dies of the disease. Don’t go soft in the head. You’re supposed to be the sane one.”

  The Daubeney Estate is two miles north of Westbury on the borders of Somerset and Wiltshire. The rolling countryside is dotted with small farms and swollen lakes and dams from the recent rain.

  Ruiz is driving his Merc. The suspension is so soft it’s like a waterbed on wheels.

  “What do we know about the family?” I ask.

  “Bryan and Claudia Chambers. He owns a construction company that does a lot of big money contracts in the Gulf. The Daubeney Estate used to be one of the biggest landholdings in the country until it was broken up and sold in the 1980s. The Chambers own the manor house and eleven acres.”