Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “What about Helen?”

  “She’s an only child. She left Oldfield Girls School in Bath in 1988—same years as Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. She went to Bristol University; studied economics and married eight years ago. Since then she’s lived abroad.”

  He raises his forefinger from the steering wheel. “This is the place.”

  We pull into an opening guarded by a ten-foot-high iron gate hinged on stone pillars. On either side, a perimeter wall stretches through the trees. It is topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete like jagged flowers.

  The gate has an intercom box. I press a button and wait. A voice answers.

  “Who is it?”

  “Is that Mr. Chambers?”

  “No.”

  “Is he at home?”

  “He’s not available.”

  “Is Helen Chambers at home?”

  “You trying to be funny, pal?” He has a Welsh accent.

  I glance at Ruiz who shrugs.

  “I’m Joseph O’Loughlin. It’s important that I speak to a member of the family.”

  “I’ll need more information than that.”

  “It’s a police matter. It concerns their daughter.”

  There is a pause. Maybe he’s seeking instructions.

  The voice comes back: “Who are you with?”

  I dip my head and look through the windscreen. A CCTV camera is perched on a metal pole twenty feet above the gate. He’s watching us.

  Ruiz leans across me. “I’m a retired detective inspector. I formerly worked for the London Metropolitan Police.”

  “Retired?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I’m sorry. Mr. and Mrs. Chambers are both unavailable.”

  “When is the best time to speak to them?” I ask.

  “Write a letter.”

  “I’d prefer to leave a note.”

  The gate stays firmly closed. Ruiz walks around the Merc and stretches. The camera pivots and follows every move. He hoists himself onto a fallen tree, peering over the wall.

  “Can you see the house?” I ask.

  “No.” He looks left and right. “Now there’s an interesting thing.”

  “What?”

  “Motion sensors, and more cameras. I know the rich get nervous—come the revolution and all that—but this is complete overkill. What does this guy have to hide?”

  Boots sound on gravel. A man appears on the far side of the gate, walking towards us. Dressed like a gardener in jeans, a checked shirt and oilskin coat, he has a dog with him; a massive German shepherd with a black and tan coat.

  “Get away from the wall,” he demands.

  Ruiz swings himself down and makes eye contact with me.

  “Great day,” I say.

  “Yes, it is,” says the man with the dog. We both know we’re lying.

  Ruiz has moved to my side of the car. He drops his hand behind his back and holds down the intercom button, leaving it there.

  The German shepherd is watching me as if deciding which leg to eat first. His handler is more concerned with Ruiz and what sort of physical threat he might pose.

  Ruiz takes his finger off the intercom.

  A woman’s voice answers: “Yes, who is it?”

  “Mrs. Chambers?” Ruiz replies.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, but your gardener said you weren’t home. He was obviously mistaken. My name is Vincent Ruiz. I’m a former detective inspector with the London Metropolitan Police. Is it possible to have a few moments of your time?”

  “What is this about?”

  “It concerns two of your daughter’s friends—Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. Do you remember them?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Have you seen the newspapers?”

  “No. Why? What’s happened?”

  Ruiz glances at me. She doesn’t know.

  “I’m afraid they’re dead, Mrs. Chambers.”

  Silence. Static.

  “You should really talk to Skipper,” she says, her voice straining.

  Is she talking about the gardener or the dog?

  “I’m talking to Skipper right now,” says Ruiz. “He’s come down to the gate to meet us. He’s a very charming chap. Must be a dab hand with the roses.”

  She is knocked off guard. “He doesn’t know daffodils from dogwood.”

  “Me neither,” says Ruiz. “Can we come in? It’s important.”

  The gate lets out a hollow click and swings inwards. Skipper has to step back. He’s not happy.

  Ruiz slides behind the wheel and drives past him, raising his hand in a half salute before spinning wheels in the gravel.

  “He doesn’t look much like a gardener,” I say.

  “He’s ex-military,” says Ruiz. “See how he stands. He doesn’t advertise his strengths. He keeps them under wraps until he needs them.”

  The gables and roofline appear through the trees. Ruiz slows over a grated gate and pulls up in front of the main house. The large double door must be four inches thick. One side opens. Claudia Chambers peers from within. A slender, still pretty woman in her late fifties, she’s dressed in a cashmere cardigan and khaki slacks.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” I say, making the introductions.

  She doesn’t offer her hand. Instead she leads us through a marble foyer to a large sitting room full of oriental rugs and matching Chesterfield sofas. Bookshelves fill the alcoves on either side of a large fireplace that is set but not burning. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and side tables showing a child’s passage through life from birth to toddler to girlhood. A first lost tooth, first day at school, first snowman, first bicycle—a lifetime of firsts.

  “Your daughter?” I ask.

  “Our granddaughter,” she replies.

  She motions to the sofa, wanting us to sit down.

  “Can I get you something? Tea perhaps.”

  “Thank you,” says Ruiz, answering for both of us.

  As if by magic, a plump woman in uniform appears at the door. There must be a hidden bell at Claudia’s feet, beneath the rug or tucked down the side of the sofa.

  Claudia issues instructions and the maid disappears. She turns back to us and takes a seat on the sofa opposite, tucking her hands in her lap. Everything about her demeanor is closed off and defensive.

  “Poor Christine and Sylvia. Was it some sort of accident?”

  “No, we don’t believe so.”

  “What happened?”

  “They were murdered.”

  She blinks. Grief is like a moist sheen over her pupils. It’s as much emotion as she’s going to show.

  “Christine jumped off the Clifton Suspension Bridge,” I say. “We believe she was coerced.”

  “Coerced?”

  “She was forced to jump,” explains Ruiz.

  Claudia shakes her head fiercely, as if trying to clear the information from her ears.

  “Sylvia died of exposure. She was found handcuffed to a tree.”

  “Who would do such a thing?” asks Claudia, a little less sure of the world.

  “You haven’t seen the TV or the newspapers?”

  “I don’t follow the news. It depresses me.”

  “When did you last see Christine and Sylvia?”

  “Not since Helen’s wedding; they were bridesmaids.” She counts on her fingertips. “Eight years. Goodness, has it really been that long.”

  “Did your daughter keep in touch with them?”

  “I don’t know. Helen went overseas with her husband. She didn’t get home very often.”

  The maid has returned with a tray. The teapot and china cups seem too delicate to hold boiling water. Claudia pours, almost willing her hands to be steady.

  “Do you have milk or sugar?”

  “Milk.”

  “Straight from the pot,” says Ruiz.

  She stirs without letting the teaspoon touch the edges of her cup. Her thoughts seem to drift away for a moment before re
turning to the room.

  A car sounds outside—tires on gravel. Moments later the front door slams opens and hurried footsteps cross the foyer. Bryan Chambers makes the sort of entrance that befits a man his size, bursting into the room, hell-bent on hitting someone.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he bellows. “What are you doing in my house?”

  He’s balding, with big hands and a thick neck, and his head is shaped like a hard hat and glistens with sweat.

  Ruiz is on his feet. I take longer to find mine.

  “It’s all right, dear,” says Claudia. “Something awful has happened to Christine and Sylvia.”

  Bryan Chambers isn’t satisfied. “Who sent you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who sent you here? These women have nothing to do with us.”

  It’s obvious he knows about Christine and Sylvia. Why didn’t he tell his wife?

  “Calm down, dear,” Claudia says.

  “Just be quiet,” he barks. “Leave this to me.”

  Skipper has followed him into the room, moving behind our backs. There is something in his right hand, which is tucked inside his jacket.

  Ruiz turns to face him. “We don’t want to upset anyone. We just want to know about Helen.”

  Bryan Chambers scoffs. “Don’t play games with me! He sent you, didn’t he?”

  I look at Ruiz. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re helping the police investigate two murders. Both victims were friends of your daughter.”

  Chambers switches his attention to Ruiz. “You a police officer?”

  “Used to be.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’m retired.”

  “So you’re a private detective?”

  “No.”

  “So none of this is fucking official.”

  “We just want to speak to your daughter, Helen.”

  He claps his hands together and laughs indignantly. “Well, that just takes the biscuit!”

  Ruiz is growing annoyed. “Maybe you should do like your wife suggests and calm down, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Are you trying to intimidate me?”

  “No, sir, we’re just trying to get some answers.”

  “What’s my Helen got to do with it?”

  “Four weeks ago she sent e-mails to Christine Wheeler, Sylvia Furness and another school friend, Maureen Bracken. She arranged to meet them at a pub in Bath on the 21st of September, a Friday night. The others turned up but Helen didn’t. They didn’t hear from her. We were hoping to find out why.”

  Bryan Chambers gapes at me incredulously. The manic glimmer in his gaze has been replaced by a fever of uncertainty.

  “What you are suggesting is impossible,” he says. “My daughter couldn’t have sent any e-mails.”

  “Why?”

  “She died three months ago; she and my granddaughter drowned in Greece.”

  Suddenly the room isn’t big enough to hide the awkwardness of the moment. The air has become cloying and harsh. Ruiz looks at me, unable to respond.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell them. I don’t know what else to say. “We had no idea.”

  Bryan Chambers isn’t interested in apologies or explanations.

  “They died in a ferry accident,” says Mrs. Chambers, still sitting upright on the edge of the sofa. “It sank in a storm.”

  I remember the story. It was late in the summer, a freak storm in the Aegean. Ships were damaged and yachts destroyed. Some of the holiday resorts had to be evacuated and a passenger ferry sank off one of the islands. Dozens of tourists were rescued. Passengers died.

  I glance around the room, looking at the photographs. The Chambers have created a shrine to their dead granddaughter.

  “Please leave now,” says Bryan Chambers.

  Skipper emphasizes the demand, by holding open the door. I’m still looking at the images of a blond-haired, clear-skinned granddaughter, missing a front tooth, holding a balloon, blowing out birthday candles…

  “We’re very sorry to have troubled you,” I say. “And for your loss.”

  Ruiz dips his head. “Thank you for the tea, ma’am.”

  Neither Bryan nor Claudia respond.

  Skipper escorts us outside and stands sentry at the door, still with his right hand inside his oilskin jacket. Bryan Chambers appears beside him.

  Ruiz has started the Merc. My door is open. I turn back.

  “Mr. Chambers, who did you think sent us?”

  “Good-bye,” he says.

  “Is someone threatening you?”

  “Drive carefully.”

  36

  We emerge out of the wooded drive and swing right, taking the back road as far as Trowbridge. The Merc floats over the dips. Sinatra has been turned down.

  “That’s one fucking crazy family,” mutters Ruiz. “The wheels are spinning but the hamster’s dead. Did you see Chambers’s face? I thought he was having a heart attack.”

  “He’s frightened of something.”

  “What? World War III?”

  Ruiz begins listing the security measures—the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Skipper could have come straight from SAS central casting.

  “A guy like that earns five grand a week as a bodyguard in Baghdad—what’s he doing here?”

  “Wiltshire is safer.”

  “Maybe Chambers has been doing business with the wrong sort of people. That’s the problem with those big corporations—it’s like Friday night at the movies. Someone is always trying to get a handful of tit or a finger in the pie.”

  “Colorful analogy.”

  “Think so?”

  “My daughters are never going to the cinema.”

  “Just you wait.”

  We take the A363 through Bradford-on-Avon and skirt the top of Bathampton Down. We crest a hill. Bath Spa is there before us, nestled sedately in a valley. A billboard announces: Your Dream Retirement Lies Just Ahead. Ruiz thinks it sums up Bath, which has that sulfurous reek of old age and money.

  I can’t get a single question out of my head: how did a dead woman send e-mails organizing a night out with friends? Someone sent the messages. Whoever sent the messages must have had access to Helen Chambers’s computer or her log-in details. Either that or they stole her identity and set up a new account. If so, why? It makes no sense. What possible interest would someone have in getting four old friends together?

  It could have been the killer. He may have drawn them together and then followed them home. It certainly would explain how he scoped his victims—learning where they lived and worked, discovering the rhythm of their lives. It still doesn’t explain how Helen Chambers is linked to this.

  “We have to talk to Maureen Bracken,” I say. “She’s the only person who turned up at that reunion who’s still alive.”

  Ruiz doesn’t say a word but I know he’s thinking the same thing. Someone has to warn her.

  Oldfield School is set among trees and muddy sporting fields, overlooking the Avon Valley. A sign in the car park tells all visitors to report to the office.

  A lone student is sitting in reception, swinging her legs beneath a plastic chair. She is dressed in a blue skirt, white blouse and dark blue jumper with a swan motif. She glances up briefly and resumes her wait.

  A school secretary appears behind a sliding glass window. Behind her a color-coded timetable covers the wall; a feat of logic and organization that encompasses 850 students, thirty-four classrooms and fifteen subjects. Running a school is like being an air traffic controller without a radar screen.

  The secretary runs her finger down the timetable, tapping the board twice. “Mrs. Bracken is teaching English in the annex. Room 2b.” She glances at the clock. “It’s almost lunchtime. You can wait for her in the corridor or in the staff room. It’s up the stairs—to the right. Jacquie will show you.”

  The schoolgirl raises her head and looks relieved. Judgment for whatever she’s done has been postponed.

  “This way,” she says, pushin
g through the doors and quickly climbing the stairs, pausing at the landing for us to catch up. A notice board advertises a design competition, photography class and Oldfield’s antibullying policy.

  “So what did you do?” asks Ruiz.

  Jacquie glances at him sheepishly. “Got kicked out of class.”

  “What for?”

  “You’re not one of the governors, are you?”

  “Do I look like a school governor?”

  “No,” she admits. “I accused my drama teacher of raging mediocrity.”

  Ruiz laughs. “Not just any mediocrity then?”

  “No.”

  A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors, flooding around us. There are peals of laughter and cries of, “Don’t run! Don’t run!”

  Jacquie has reached the classroom. She knocks on the door. “Visitors to see you, miss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Maureen Bracken is wearing a knee-length dark green dress with a brown leather belt and court shoes that show off her solid calves. Her hair is pinned back and minimal makeup colors her lips and eyelids.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks immediately. Her fingers are spotted with black marker pen.

  “It might be nothing,” I say, trying to reassure her.

  Ruiz has picked up a toy from her desk—a fluffy animal stuck on the end of a pen.

  “Confiscated,” she explains. “You should see my collection.”

  She straightens a stack of essays and tucks them inside a folder. I look around. “You’re teaching at your old school.”

  “Who would have thought?” she says. “I was a complete tearaway at school. Not as bad as Sylvie, mind you. That’s why they were always trying to separate us.”

  She’s nervous. It makes her want to talk. I let her carry on, knowing she’ll run out of steam.

  “My careers adviser told me I’d become an out-of-work actress who waited tables. I did have one teacher, Mr. Halliday—he taught me English—who said I should consider teaching. My parents are still laughing.”

  She glances at Ruiz and back to me, growing more anxious.

  “You mentioned that Helen Chambers sent you an e-mail organizing the reunion.”

  She nods.

  “It must have come from someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “Helen died three months ago.”

  The folder slides from Maureen’s fingers and essay papers spill across the floor. She curses and bends, trying to gather them together. Her hands are shaking.