Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  “What the police don’t need in this investigation is some university professor who has never made an arrest or ridden in a police car or confronted a violent criminal telling us how to do our job. And it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know we’re dealing with a pervert and a coward, who targets the weak and the vulnerable because he can’t get a woman, or hold on to one, or because he wasn’t breast-fed as a baby…

  “The profile Professor O’Loughlin has drawn up doesn’t pass the so-what test in my opinion. Yes, we’re looking for a local man, aged thirty to fifty, who works shifts and hates women. Fairly bloody obvious, I would have thought. No science in that.

  “The Professor wants us to show this man respect. He wants to reach out to him with the hand of compassion and understanding. Not on my watch. This perpetrator is a scumbag and he’ll get all the respect he wants in prison because that’s where he’s going.”

  Every set of eyes in the room is focused on me. I’m under attack but what can I do? DI Cray takes hold of my forearm. She doesn’t want me responding.

  Questions are still being shouted:

  “How does he threaten the daughters?”

  “Were the women raped?”

  “Is it true that he tortured them?”

  “How were they tortured?”

  Fowler ignores them. Donning his hat, he straightens it, sliding a palm across the brim. Then he slaps his gloves from one palm to the other and marches down the central aisle as if leaving the parade ground.

  Flashguns are firing. Questions continue:

  “Will he kill again?”

  “Why did he choose these women?”

  “Do you think he knew them?”

  Veronica Cray cups her hand over the microphone and whispers in my ear. I nod and stand to leave, angry and embarrassed. There are howls of protest. It’s become a blood sport, not a briefing.

  DI Cray turns slowly and fixes the room with a fierce stare. It’s a statement in itself. The press briefing is over.

  38

  Veronica Cray rocks along the corridor like a ship’s captain leaving the bridge of her sinking vessel, retiring to her quarters while others lower the lifeboats.

  “That was a complete fucking disaster.”

  “It could have been worse,” I murmur, still stunned by the vitriol of Fowler’s attack.

  “How exactly could it have been any worse?”

  “At least we warned people to be careful.”

  Phones are ringing in the incident room. I have no idea what sorts of calls are being generated or what filters are in place to weed out genuine information.

  Many of the detectives are trying hard not to look at me. News of my public humiliation has reached them already. Most have adopted homebound expressions, biding their time before they can put on their coats and leave.

  DI Cray shuts her office door. I sit before her. Ignoring the NO SMOKING sign, she lights up and opens the window a crack. Aiming a remote control, she turns on a small TV tucked in one corner on a filing cabinet. She finds a news channel and mutes the sound.

  I know what she’s going to do. She’s going to punish herself by watching the press briefing being broadcast.

  “Want a drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  She reaches inside an umbrella stand and takes out a bottle of scotch. A coffee mug doubles as a glass. I watch her pour and then return the bottle to its hiding place.

  “I have an ethical question, Professor,” she says, swilling the scotch like mouthwash. “A tabloid reporter and an assistant chief constable are trapped in a burning car and you can only save one. Who do you save?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s only one true dilemma—whether you go to lunch or to a movie.”

  She doesn’t laugh. She’s being serious.

  A file is sitting on her desk decorated with a yellow Post-it note. It contains printouts from the Police National Computer. The database has been trawled for similar crimes. She hands me the cover sheet.

  In Bristol two drug dealers tortured a prostitute who they accused of being a police informant. They nailed her to a tree and sexually assaulted her with a bottle.

  A stevedore in Felixstowe came home to find his wife in bed with their next-door neighbor. He tied the neighbor to a chair and tortured him with his wife’s curling irons.

  Two German business partners fell out over the division of profits and one of them fled to Manchester. He was found dead in a hotel room with his arms stretched across the top of a table and his fingers severed.

  “That’s it,” she says, lighting one cigarette off another. “No mobile phones, no daughters, no threats. We got sweet FA.”

  For the first time I notice the shadows beneath her eyes and creases in the contours of her face. How much sleep has she had in the past ten days?

  “You’re looking for the obvious answer,” I say.

  “What does that mean?”

  “If you see a man in the street, dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope around his neck, straightaway you think he’s a doctor. And then you extrapolate. He probably has a nice car, a nice house, a trophy wife; he likes to holiday in France, she prefers Italy. They ski every year.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What are the odds that you’re wrong about him—one in twenty, one in fifty? He might not be a doctor. He could be a food inspector or a lab technician, who happened to pick up a stethoscope that someone dropped. He might be on his way to a fancy dress party. We make assumptions and normally they’re right, but sometimes they’re wrong. That’s when we have to think laterally, outside the square. The obvious solution, the easiest solution, is normally the best one—but not always. Not this time.”

  Veronica Cray looks at me steadily with a formless smile, waiting.

  “I don’t think the murders have anything to do with the wedding planning business,” I say. “I think you should look at another angle.”

  I tell her about the reunion of old school friends at the Garrick’s Head a week before Christine Wheeler died. Sylvia Furness was also there. It was organized by e-mail, but the person who supposedly sent the invitations drowned three months ago in a ferry tragedy in Greece. Whoever sent the e-mail set up an account in her name or had access to her password and user name.

  “So we’re looking at family, friends, her husband…”

  “I’d look at her husband first. They were separated. His name is Gideon Tyler. He might be stationed with British Forces in Germany.”

  The DI wants to know more. I describe our visit to the Daubeney Estate, where Bryan and Claudia Chambers were living like prisoners behind security cameras, motion sensors and jagged glass.

  “Gideon Tyler knew both victims. They were bridesmaids at Helen Chambers’s wedding.”

  “What do you know about this ferry accident?”

  “Only what I read at the time.”

  The detective blinks at me slowly as if she’s stared too long at a single object.

  “OK, so we’re dealing with one offender. He was either invited inside their houses or he broke in. He knew things about their wardrobes, their makeup, Sylvia’s handcuffs. He knew their telephone numbers and what cars they drove. He orchestrated to meet their daughters earlier to obtain information. Are we agreed on this?”

  “So far.”

  “And the same man broke into the Wheelers’ house and opened the condolence cards.”

  “A reasonable assumption.”

  “He was looking for something.”

  “Or searching for someone.”

  “His next victim?”

  “I wouldn’t automatically jump to that conclusion, but it’s certainly a possibility.”

  The detective’s face betrays nothing. Emotion would be out of place like a birthmark or a nervous tic.

  “This Maureen Bracken, is she at risk?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Well, I can’t put her under guard unless there’s a speci
fic threat against her or hard evidence that she’s a high probability target.”

  I don’t have any hard evidence. It’s only supposition. A theory.

  The DI glances at her TV and aims the remote. A news bulletin is beginning. Images from the press briefing flash across the screen. I’m not going to watch it. Being there was embarrassing enough.

  Outside the day has disappeared. Everything about my clothes and my thoughts has a soiled wrapper feel to it. I’m tired. Tired of talking. Tired of people. Tired of wishing things made sense.

  Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness grew tired. It was as if their killer pressed a fast forward button and stole years from their lives, decades of experiences both good and bad. He used up their energy, their fight, their will to live; then he watched them die.

  Julianne was right. The dead remain dead, no matter what happens. I understand that intellectually but not in the hollow space that echoes in my chest. The heart has reasons that reason cannot understand.

  39

  The school yearbook is open beneath my fingers, displaying her class photograph. Friends are behind her and beside her. Some of them haven’t changed at all since 1988. Others have grown fat and dyed their hair. And just one or two have blossomed like late-flowering roses amid the weeds.

  Surprisingly, many have stayed in the area. Married. Had children. Divorced. Separated. One died of breast cancer. One lives in New Zealand. Two live with each other.

  The TV is on. I flick through the channels but there’s nothing to watch. A rolling banner catches my attention. It says something about a manhunt for a double killer.

  A pretty, plastic woman is reading the news with her eyes focused slightly to the left where an autocue must be rolling. She crosses to a reporter who talks to camera, nodding sagely with all the sincerity of a doctor holding a needle behind his back.

  Then the scene changes to a conference room. The dyke detective and the shrink are side by side like Laurel and Hardy. Laverne and Shirley. Torvill and Dean. One of the great show-business partnerships is born.

  They’re talking to reporters. Most of the questions are being answered by a senior policeman who has a bug up his arse about something. I turn up the sound.

  “… we’re dealing with a pervert and a coward, who targets the weak and vulnerable because he can’t get a woman or hold on to one, or because he wasn’t breast-fed as a baby.

  “The profile Professor O’Loughlin has drawn up doesn’t pass the so-what test in my opinion. Yes, we’re looking for a local man, aged thirty to fifty who works shifts and hates women. Fairly bloody obvious, I would have thought. No science in that.

  “The Professor wants us to show this man respect. He wants to reach out to him with the hand of compassion and understanding. Not on my watch. This perpetrator is a scumbag and he’ll get all the respect he wants in prison because that’s where he’s going…”

  The media circus ends in uproar. The plastic woman moves on to another story.

  Who are these people? They have no idea of who they’re dealing with and what I’m capable of. They think it’s a game. They think I’m a fucking amateur.

  I can walk through walls.

  I can unlock people’s minds.

  I can listen to the pins fall into place and the tumblers turn.

  Click… click… click…

  40

  I wake in the folds of a duvet holding a pillow. I missed seeing Julianne wake and get dressed. I like seeing her slip out of bed in the half light and the cold, lifting her nightdress over her head. My eyes are drawn to her small brown nipples and the dimple in the small of her back, just above the elastic of her knickers.

  This morning she is already downstairs, making breakfast for the girls. Other sounds drift from outside—a tractor in the lane, a dog barking, Mrs. Nutall calling to her cats. Opening the curtains, I assess the day. Blue sky. Distant clouds.

  A man is standing in the churchyard, looking at the gravestones. I can just make him out through the branches, wiping his eyes and holding a small vase of flowers. Perhaps he lost a wife or a mother or a father. It could be an anniversary or a birthday. He bends and digs a small hollow, resting the vase inside and pressing earth around it.

  Sometimes I wonder if I should take the girls to a church service. I’m not particularly religious but I’d like them to have a sense of the unknown. I don’t want them to be too obsessed with truth and certainty.

  I get changed and make my way downstairs. Charlie is in the kitchen wearing her school uniform. Soft strands of her hair have pulled out of her ponytail, framing her face.

  “Is this bacon for me?” I ask, picking up a rasher.

  “It’s not mine. I don’t eat bacon,” says Charlie.

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever.”

  Forever seems to have been redefined since I was at school.

  “Why?”

  “I’m a vegetarian. My friend Ashley says we shouldn’t be killing defenseless animals to satisfy our lust for leather shoes and bacon sandwiches.”

  “How old is Ashley?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And what does her father do?”

  “He’s a capitalist.”

  “Do you know what that is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “If you don’t eat meat, how will you get iron?”

  “Spinach.”

  “You hate spinach.”

  “Broccoli.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Four of the five food groups will be enough.”

  “There are five?”

  “Don’t be so sarcastic, Dad.”

  Julianne has taken Emma to get the morning papers. I make myself a coffee and put slices of bread in the toaster. The phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  There’s no answer. I hear the soft whoosh of traffic; brakes are applied, vehicles slow and stop. There must be an intersection nearby or a set of traffic lights.

  “Hello? Can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “Is that you, Darcy?”

  There’s still no answer. I imagine I can hear her breathing. The traffic lights have changed again. Vehicles move off.

  “Just talk to me, Darcy, tell me you’re OK.”

  The line goes dead. I press my finger to the receiver button and let it go. I dial Darcy’s mobile. I get the same recorded message as before.

  I wait for the beep.

  “Darcy. Next time talk to me.”

  I hang up. Charlie has been listening.

  “Why did she run away?”

  “Who told you she ran away?”

  “Mum.”

  “Darcy doesn’t want to live in Spain with her aunt.”

  “Where else will she live?”

  I don’t answer. I’m making myself a bacon sandwich.

  “She could live with us,” says Charlie.

  “I thought you didn’t like her.”

  She shrugs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. “She was OK, I guess. She had some great clothes.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, no, not the only thing. I sort of feel sorry for her—about what happened to her mum.”

  Julianne appears through the back door with Emma. “Who do you feel sorry for?”

  “Darcy.”

  Julianne looks at me. “Have you heard from her?”

  I shake my head.

  Wearing a simple dress and cardigan she looks happier, younger, more relaxed. Emma ducks in and out between her legs. Julianne holds down the hem as a modesty precaution.

  “Can you drop Charlie at school? She’s missed the bus.”

  “Sure.”

  “The new nanny will be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “The Australian.”

  “You make her sound like a convict.”

  “I have nothing against Australians but if she mentions the cricket she’ll have to leave.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I was thinking that maybe—now that I
mogen has arrived—we could go for dinner tonight. It could be an ‘us date.’ ”

  “An ‘us date.’ Mmmmm.” I grab Emma and haul her onto my lap. “Well, I might be available. I will have to check my busy schedule. But if I do say yes, I don’t want you getting any funny ideas.”

  “Me? Never. Although I may wear my black lingerie.”

  Charlie covers her ears. “I know what you guys are talking about and it’s sooooo gross.”

  “What’s gross?” asks Emma.

  “Never mind,” we chorus.

  Julianne and I used to have regular “us dates”—nights set aside with a babysitter booked. The first time I arranged one I made a point of bringing flowers and knocking on the front door. Julianne thought it was so sweet she wanted to take me straight up to the bedroom and skip dinner.

  The phone rings again. I’m surprised at how quickly I pick it up. Everyone is staring at me.

  “Hello?”

  Again there is no answer.

  “Is that you, Darcy?”

  A male voice answers. “Is Julianne there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Dirk.”

  Disappointment morphs into irritation. “Did you call earlier?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you call about ten minutes ago?”

  He doesn’t answer the question. “Is Julianne there or not?”

  She pulls the phone from my hand and takes it upstairs to the study. I watch her through the stair rails as she closes the door.

  The nanny arrives. She is everything I imagined: freckled, photogenic and blighted by a singsong Australian accent that makes her sound like she’s asking a question all the time. Her name is Imogen and she is rather large across the beam. I know that’s an incredibly sexist description but I’m not just talking about 24-ounce porterhouse big, I’m talking huge.

  According to Julianne, Imogen was definitely the most qualified candidate for the job. She has loads of experience, interviewed well and will do extra babysitting if required. None of these factors are the main reason Julianne hired her. Imogen isn’t competition. She’s not the least bit threatening unless she accidentally sits on somebody.

  I carry her two suitcases upstairs. She says the room is awesome. The house is also awesome, so is the TV and my aging Escort. Collectively, everything is “absolutely awesome.”