Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “How?” she whispers.

  “She drowned. It was a ferry accident in Greece. Her daughter was with her. We spoke to her parents this morning.”

  “Oh, those poor, poor people… poor Helen.”

  I’m on the floor beside her, collecting the scattered papers, bundling them haphazardly back into the folder. Something has changed in Maureen, a hollowness that echoes in her heartbeat. She’s suddenly in a dark place, listening to a dull repeated rhythm in her head.

  “But if Helen died three months ago—how did she… I mean… she…”

  “Someone else must have sent the e-mail.”

  “Who?”

  “We were hoping you might know.” She shakes her head, sticky-eyed and wavering, as if suddenly unable to recognize her surroundings or to remember where she’s supposed to be next.

  “It’s lunchtime,” I tell her.

  “Oh, right.”

  “Can I see the e-mail?”

  She nods. “Come to the staff room. There’s a computer.”

  We follow her along the corridor and up another set of stairs. Chatter and laughter flood through the windows from outside, filling even the quietest corners.

  Two students are waiting outside the staff room. They want an extension on an assignment. Maureen is too preoccupied to listen to their excuses. She gives them until Monday and sends them away.

  The staff room is almost completely deserted except for a fossil of a man, motionless in his chair with his eyes closed. I think he’s sleeping until I notice the ear jacks. He doesn’t stir as Maureen sits at a computer and logs on to her e-mail account and searches the dates.

  The message from Helen Chambers is headed: Guess who’s back in town? It was sent on September 16 and copied to Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness.

  Hi gang,

  It’s me. I’m back in the country and looking forward to seeing you all. How about we get together this Friday at the Garrick’s Head? Champagne and chips all round—just like the old days. I can’t believe it’s been eight years. I hope you’re all fatter and frumpier than I am (that means you too, Sylvie). I might even get my legs waxed for the occasion. Be there or be square. The Garrick’s Head. 7:30 p.m. Friday.

  I can’t wait.

  Love,

  Helen

  “Does it sound like her?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything strange about it?”

  Maureen shakes her head. “We used to go to the Garrick’s Head all the time. In our last year at Oldfield Helen was the only one of us who had a car. She used to drive us all home.”

  The message came through a web-based server. It’s easy to create an account and get a password and user name. “You mentioned that she e-mailed you earlier,” I say.

  Again she searches for Helen’s name. The previous message arrived on May 29. Dear Mo, it begins. It must be Maureen’s nickname.

  Long time no see… or hear. Sorry I’m such a slack correspondent, but I have my reasons. Things have been tough these last few years—with lots of changes and challenges. The big news is that I’ve left my husband. It’s a long sad story, which I won’t go into now, suffice to say that things didn’t work out for us. For a long while I’ve been terribly lost but now I’m almost out of the woods.

  For the next few months I’m taking a holiday with my beautiful daughter Chloe. We’re going to clear our heads and have some adventures, which are long overdue.

  Stay tuned. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. We’ll get together at the Garrick’s Head and have a night out with the old gang. Do they still do champagne and chips?

  I miss you and Sylvie and Christine. I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me in so long. I’ll explain it all later.

  Lots of love to all,

  Helen

  I read both messages again. The language and neat construction are similar, along with the casual tone and use of short sentences. Nothing stands out as being forced or fabricated, yet Helen Chambers wasn’t alive to write the second e-mail.

  She wrote of being “out of the woods,” referring, I assume, to her marriage.

  “Was there anything else?” I ask. “Letters, postcards, phone calls…”

  Maureen shakes her head.

  “What was Helen like?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Adorable.”

  “I need a little more than that.”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” Color is returning to her cheeks. She glances at her colleague, who still hasn’t stirred in his chair.

  “Helen was the sensible one. She was the last one of us to have a boyfriend. Sylvie spent years trying to hook her up with different guys, but Helen didn’t feel any pressure. Sometimes I felt sorry for her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She always said her father wanted a son and she could never quite match up to his expectations. She did have a brother, but he died when Helen was young. Some sort of accident with a tractor.”

  Maureen turns in a worn swivel chair and crosses her legs. I ask her again how she and Helen lost touch. Her lips tighten and jerk at the corners.

  “It just seemed to happen. I don’t think her husband liked us very much. Sylvia thought he was jealous of how close we all were.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Gideon.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Once. Helen and Gideon came back from Northern Ireland for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. People were invited for the whole weekend, but Helen and Gideon left on Saturday at lunchtime. Something happened. I don’t know what.

  “Gideon was quite strange. Very secretive. Apparently he only invited one person to their wedding—his father—who got hideously drunk and embarrassed him.”

  “What does this Gideon do?”

  “He’s something or other in the military, but none of us ever saw him in uniform. We used to joke that he was some sort of spy, like in Spooks, you know, the TV program? Helen sent this one letter to Christine that had red ink stamped across the flap saying it had been scanned and opened for security reasons.”

  “Where was the letter posted?”

  “Germany. After Helen married they were stationed in Northern Ireland and later they went to Germany.”

  Another teacher has turned up at the staff room. She nods to us, curious about our presence, and collects a mobile phone from a desk drawer, taking it outside to make a call.

  Maureen gives her head a clearing shake. “Poor Mr. and Mrs. Chambers.”

  “Did you know them well?”

  “Not really. Mr. Chambers was big and loud. I remember this one particular day when he tried to squeeze into a pair of breeches and boots to go hunting. God, he looked a sight. I felt more sorry for the horse than I did for the fox.” She smiles. “How are they?”

  “Sad.”

  “They also seem frightened,” adds Ruiz, who is gazing out the window at the playground. “Can you think of a reason?”

  Maureen shakes her head and her brown eyes gaze hard into mine. Another question is hovering on her lips.

  “Do you know why? I mean, whoever did this to Chris and Sylvie, what did he want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will he stop now, do you think?”

  Ruiz turns away from the window. “Do you have any children, Maureen?”

  “A son.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen. Why?”

  She knows the answer but anxiety makes her ask the question anyway. “Is there anywhere you could stay for a few days?” I ask. Fear catches alight in her eyes. “I could ask Bruno if he could put us up.”

  “That might be a good idea.”

  My mobile is vibrating in my pocket. It’s Veronica Cray. “I tried you at home, Professor. Your wife didn’t know where you were.”

  “How can I help you, DI?”

  “I’m looking for Darcy Wheeler.”

  “She’s with her aunt.”

  “Not anymore—she r
an away last night. Packed a bag and took some of her mother’s jewelry. I thought she might try to reach you? She seems to like you.”

  Saliva turns to dust in my mouth.

  “I don’t think she’ll do that.”

  Veronica Cray doesn’t ask why. I’m not going to tell her.

  “You talked to her yesterday after the funeral. How did she seem?”

  “She was upset. Her aunt wants her to live in Spain.”

  “Worse things in life.”

  “Not to Darcy.”

  “So she didn’t say anything… confide?”

  “No.” Guilt seems to thicken the word until I can barely spit it out.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “Figured I might leave it a day or two. See what happens.”

  “She’s only sixteen.”

  “Old enough to find her way home.” I’m about to argue. She’s not about to listen. For DI Cray this is an added complication, one that she doesn’t need. Darcy hasn’t been kidnapped and she’s not a threat to herself or a danger to the public. Missing Persons won’t break any records looking for a teenage runaway. In the meantime, there’s a press briefing organized for three o’clock this afternoon. I’m supposed to make a statement and appeal directly to the killer.

  The call ends and I relay the news to Ruiz, who is driving.

  “She’ll turn up,” he says, sounding like he’s seen it a dozen times before. Maybe he has. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I call Darcy’s mobile and get a recorded message:

  “Hi, this is me. I’m unavailable. Leave me a message after the beep. Make it short and sweet—just like me…”

  It beeps.

  “Hey, it’s Joe. Call me…” What else am I going to say? “I just want to know if you’re OK. People are worried. I’m worried. So call me, OK? Please.”

  Ruiz is listening.

  I punch another number. Julianne answers.

  “The police are trying to find you,” she says.

  “I know. Darcy has run away.”

  The silence is meant to be neutral but she’s caught between concern and exasperation.

  “Do they know where she’s gone?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Darcy may call or come to the house. Keep your eye out for her.”

  “I’ll ask around the village.”

  “Good idea.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “Soon. I have to go to a press briefing.”

  “Will it be over then?”

  “Soon.”

  Julianne wants me to say yes. “I found a nanny. She’s Australian.”

  “Well, I won’t hold that against her.”

  “She starts tomorrow.”

  “That’s good.”

  She hangs on, expecting me to say something more. The silence says otherwise.

  “Have you taken your pills?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to go.”

  “OK.”

  She hangs up.

  37

  The conference room at Trinity Road police station is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and strip lighting. Every seat is taken and most of the side walls are supporting shoulders.

  The national newspapers have rolled out their gun reporters rather than rely on West Country stringers. I recognize some of them—Luckett from the Telegraph, Montgomery from The Times and Pearson from the Daily Mail. Some of them know me.

  I watch from a side door. Monk is directing the camera crews, trying to stop any arguments. He gives me a nod. DI Cray goes first, wearing a charcoal jacket and white shirt. I follow her onto a slightly raised platform where a long table faces the media. Microphones and recording equipment have been taped to the front edge, showing station bandwidths and logos.

  The TV lights are turned on and flashguns fire. The DI pours a glass of water for herself, giving the reporters time to settle.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” she says, addressing the audience rather than the cameras. “This is a briefing, not a press conference. I will be reading a statement of the facts and then handing over to Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. There will be a limited opportunity to ask questions at the end of the briefing.

  “As you’re aware, a task force has been set up to investigate the murder of Sylvia Furness. A second suspicious death has been added to this investigation—that of Christine Wheeler, who jumped from the Clifton Suspension Bridge a week ago last Friday.”

  An image of Christine Wheeler is projected onto a screen behind the DI’s head. It’s a holiday snap, taken at a water park. Christine’s hair is wet and she’s posing in a sarong and T-shirt.

  There are murmurs of astonishment from the ranks. Many in the room saw Christine Wheeler die. How did such an obvious suicide suddenly become a murder victim?

  Meanwhile, the facts are being presented—age, height, hair color, single status and her career as a wedding planner. Soon the details shift to the day of her death. Christine’s last journey is outlined, the phone calls and her walk through Leigh Woods wearing only a raincoat and high-heeled shoes. CCTV images from the bridge are flashed onto the screen.

  The reporters are growing restless. They want an explanation but DI Cray won’t be rushed. She is listing details of the phone calls. Certain facts are withheld. There is no mention of the ballet shoes that were delivered to Darcy’s school or the pet rabbit left on Alice Furness’s doorstep. These are things that only the killer could know which means they can be used to filter out genuine callers from the hoaxers.

  DI Cray has finished. She introduces me. I flip through my notes and clear my throat.

  “Sometimes in my work I come across individuals who fascinate me and appall me in equal measure. The man who committed these crimes fascinates and appalls me. He is intelligent, articulate, manipulative, sadistic, cruel and pitiless. He didn’t lash out with his fists. He destroyed these women by preying on their worst fears. I want to understand why. I want to understand his motives and why he chose these women.

  “If he’s listening now or if he watches on TV or if he reads about it in the newspapers, I’d really like him to get in contact with me. I want him to help me understand.”

  There is a hubbub at the back of the room. I pause. Veronica Cray stiffens in alarm. I follow her gaze. Assistant Chief Constable Fowler is pushing his way through the crowded doorway. Heads turn. His arrival has become an event.

  There are no spare chairs in the room except at the main table. For a fleeting moment the Assistant Chief Constable considers his options and then continues along the central aisle until he reaches the front of the room. Placing his hat on the table, leather gloves tucked inside, he takes a seat.

  “Carry on,” he says gruffly.

  I hesitate… look at Cray… back at my notes.

  Someone calls out a question. Two more follow. I try to ignore them. Montgomery, the man from The Times, is on his feet.

  “You said he preyed on their worst fears. Exactly what do you mean? I saw footage of Christine Wheeler on the Clifton Suspension Bridge. She jumped. Nobody pushed her.”

  “She was threatened.”

  “How was she threatened?”

  “Let me finish, then I’ll take questions.”

  More reporters are standing, unwilling to wait. DI Cray tries to intervene, but Fowler beats her to the microphone, calling for quiet.

  “This is a formal briefing, not a free-for-all,” he booms. “You’ll ask your questions one at a time or you’ll get nothing at all.”

  The reporters resume their seats. “That’s better,” says Fowler, who peers at the assembly like a disappointed schoolmaster, itching to use the cane.

  A hand is raised. It belongs to Montgomery. “How did he threaten her, sir?”

  The question is directed at Fowler, who pulls the nearest microphone even closer.

  “We are investigating the possibility that this man intimi
dates and manipulates women by targeting their daughters. There has been speculation that he threatens the daughters to make the mothers cooperate.”

  This drops a depth charge in the room and thirty hands shoot skyward. Fowler points to another reporter. The briefing has turned into a question-and-answer session.

  “Are the daughters harmed?”

  “No, the daughters aren’t touched, but these women were made to believe otherwise.”

  “How?”

  “We don’t know at this stage.”

  DI Cray is furious. The tension at the table is obvious. Pearson from the Daily Mail senses an opportunity.

  “Assistant Chief Constable, we’ve heard Professor O’Loughlin say that he wants to ‘understand’ the killer. Is that your desire?”

  Fowler leans forward. “No.” He leans back.

  “Do you agree with the Professor’s assessment?”

  He leans forward. “No.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Professor O’Loughlin’s services are not materially important to this investigation.”

  “So you can see no benefit in his offender profile?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Well, why is he here?”

  “That’s not a question I’m going to answer.”

  Raised hands are slowly being lowered. The reporters are happy to let Pearson prod the Assistant Chief Constable, looking for a raw nerve. Veronica Cray tries to interrupt but Fowler won’t surrender the microphone.

  Pearson doesn’t let up. “Professor O’Loughlin has said that he’s fascinated by the killer—are you also fascinated, Assistant Chief Constable?”

  “No.”

  “He said he wants the killer to call him, don’t you think that’s important?”

  Fowler snaps. “I don’t give a toss what the Professor wants. You people, the media watch too much TV. You think murders are solved by shrinks and scientists and psychics. Bollocks! Murders are solved by good, solid, old-fashioned detective work—by knocking on doors, by interviewing witnesses and by taking statements.”

  Ropes of spit are landing on the microphones as Fowler stabs his finger at Pearson, punctuating each of his points.