Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  Julianne is still on the phone. There must be some sort of problem at work. Either that or she and Dirk are having phone sex.

  I’ve never met Dirk. I can’t even remember his surname—yet I dislike him with an irrational zeal. I hate the sound of his voice. I hate that he buys my wife gifts; that he travels with her, that he calls her at home on a day off. Mostly, I hate the way she laughs so easily for him.

  When Julianne was pregnant with Charlie and going through the tired, tearful, “I feel fat” stage, I tried to find ways of cheering her up. I booked us a holiday in Jamaica. She vomited the entire flight. A minibus picked us up from the airport and drove us to the resort, which was lovely and tropical, teeming with bougainvillea and hibiscus. We changed and headed for the beach. A naked black man walked past us. Butt-naked. Dangling. Next came a nude woman, textile-free, wearing a blossom in her hair. Julianne looked at me strangely, her pregnancy bursting from her sarong.

  Finally, a smiling young Jamaican man in staff whites pointed to my trunks.

  “Clothes off, mon.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This is a nekkid beach.”

  “Uhhhhh?”

  Suddenly the slogan from the brochure came back to me: “Be Wicked for a Week.” And the penny dropped. I had booked my heavily pregnant wife on a weeklong package holiday at a nudist resort where “sex on the beach” wasn’t just the name of a cocktail.

  Julianne should have killed me. Instead she laughed. She laughed so hard I thought her waters might break and our first child would be delivered by a Jamaican called “Tripod” wearing nothing but sunblock. She hasn’t laughed like that for a long while.

  After dropping Charlie at school, I detour to Bath Library. It’s on the first floor of the Podium Center in Northgate Street, up an escalator and through twin glass doors. The librarians are boxed behind a counter on the right.

  “During the summer there was a ferry disaster in Greece,” I say to one of them. She’s been changing an ink cartridge in a printer and two of her fingertips are stained black.

  “I remember,” she says. “I was on holiday in Turkey. There were storms. Our campsite was flooded.”

  She starts telling me the story, which features wet sleeping bags, near-pneumonia, and spending two nights in a laundry block. Not surprisingly, she remembers the date. It was the last week in July.

  I ask to see the newspaper files, choosing the Guardian and a local paper, the Western Daily Press. She’ll bring them out to me, she says.

  I take a desk in a quiet corner and wait for the bound volumes to be delivered. She has to push them on a trolley. I help her lift the first one onto the desk.

  “What are you after?” she asks, smiling absently.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  I turn the pages delicately, scanning the headlines. It doesn’t take long to find what I’m looking for.

  FOURTEEN DEAD IN GREEK FERRY DISASTER

  A rescue operation is under way in the Aegean Sea for survivors from a Greek ferry that sank in gale force winds off the island of Patmos.

  The Greek Coast Guard says fourteen people have been confirmed dead and eight people are missing after the Argo Hellas sank eleven miles northeast of Patmos Harbor. More than forty passengers—most of them foreign holidaymakers—were plucked from the water by local fishing boats and pleasure craft. Survivors were taken to a health center on Patmos, many suffering from cuts, bruises and the effects of hypothermia. Eight seriously injured passengers have been airlifted to hospitals in Athens.

  An English hotelier helping in the rescue, Nick Barton, said those on board the ferry included UK citizens, Germans, Italians, Australians and local Greeks.

  The eighteen-year-old ferry sank just after 2130 (1830 GMT) only fifteen minutes after leaving the port of Patmos. According to survivors it was swamped by the huge seas and sank so quickly that many had no time to don life jackets before they jumped from the side.

  The heavy seas and high winds have hampered the search for more survivors. Throughout the night Greek aircraft dropped flares in the sea and a helicopter from the Royal Navy’s HMS Invincible assisted with the search.

  Turning the pages, I follow the story as it unfolds. The ferry sank on July 24 during a storm that caused widespread destruction across the Aegean. A container ship ran aground on the island of Skiros and further south a Maltese tanker broke in two and sank in the Sea of Crete.

  Survivors of the ferry tragedy told their stories to reporters. In the final moments before the Argo Hellas sank, passengers were hanging from the railings and jumping overboard. Some were trapped inside as the ferry went down.

  Forty-one people survived the tragedy and seventeen were confirmed dead. After two days a change in the weather allowed Greek naval divers to recover three more bodies from the wreck but six people were still missing including an American, an elderly French woman, two Greeks and a British mother and daughter. This must have been Helen and Chloe, but their names aren’t mentioned for several more days.

  A follow-up story in the Western Daily Press reported that Bryan Chambers was flying to Greece to look for his daughter and granddaughter. Describing him as a Wiltshire businessman, it said he was “praying for a miracle” and preparing to mount his own search, if the official one failed to find Helen and Chloe.

  A further story on Tuesday July 31 said that Mr. Chambers had hired a light plane and was combing the beaches and rocky coves of the islands and Turkish coast. The story included a photograph of mother and daughter, who were traveling under Helen’s married name. The holiday snap shows them sitting on a rock wall with fishing boats in the background. Helen is wearing a sarong and Jackie O sunglasses while Chloe is dressed in white shorts, sandals and a pink top with shoestring straps.

  A week after the sinking, the search for survivors was officially called off and Helen and Chloe were labeled as missing presumed dead. The newspapers took increasingly less interest in the story. The only other reference to mother and daughter concerned a prayer vigil held at a NATO base in Germany where they’d been living. The maritime investigation took evidence from survivors, but the findings could be years away.

  My mobile is vibrating silently. No phones are allowed in the library. I step outside the main doors. Press green.

  Bruno Kaufman booms in my ear: “Listen, old boy, I know you’re happily married and chief cheerleader for the institution but did you really have to tell my ex-wife she should move in with me?”

  “It’s just for a few days, Bruno.”

  “Yes, but it will seem like much longer.”

  “Maureen is lovely. Why did you let her go?”

  “She drove me away. Well, to be more precise she drove at me. I had to jump out of the way. She was behind the wheel of a Range Rover.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “She caught me with one of my researchers.”

  “A student?”

  “A postgrad student,” he corrects me, as if resenting the suggestion that he would cheat on his wife with anything less.

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “Yes. Jackson. His mother spoils him. I bribe him. We’re your average dysfunctional family. Do you really think Maureen is in danger?”

  “It’s a precaution.”

  “I’ve never seen her this scared.”

  “Look after her.”

  “Don’t worry, old boy. She’ll be safe with me.”

  The call ends. The mobile vibrates again. This time it’s Ruiz. He has something he wants to show me. We arrange to meet at the Fox & Badger. I’m to buy him lunch because it’s my turn. I don’t know when it became “my turn” but I’m pleased he’s here.

  Dropping the car at home, I walk up the hill to the pub. Ruiz has taken a table in the corner, where the ceiling seems to sag. Horse tackle is festooned from the exposed beams.

  “It’s your shout,” he says, handing me an empty pint glass.

  I go to
the bar, where half a dozen flushed and lumpy regulars fill the stools, including Nigel the dwarf, whose feet swing back and forth two feet above the floor.

  I nod. They nod back. This passes as a long conversation in this part of Somerset.

  Hector the publican pulls a pint of Guinness, letting it rest while he gets me a lemon squash. I set down the fresh pint in front of Ruiz. He watches the bubbles rise, perhaps saying a small prayer to the God of fermentation.

  “Here’s to drinkin’ with bow-legged women.” He raises his glass and half a pint disappears.

  “You ever considered the possibility that you might be an alcoholic?”

  “Nope. Alcoholics go to meetings,” he replies. “I don’t go to meetings.” He sets down his glass and looks at my squash. “You’re just jealous because you have to drink that lolly water.”

  He opens his notebook. It’s the same battered marbled collection of curling pages that he always carries, held together with a rubber band.

  “I decided to do a little research into Bryan Chambers. Mate in the DTI—Department of Trade and Industry—ran his name through the computer. Chambers came up clean: no fines, no lawsuits, no dodgy contracts: the man’s clean…”

  He sounds disappointed.

  “So I decided to run his name through the Police National Computer through a friend of a friend…”

  “Who shall remain nameless?”

  “Exactly. He’s called Nameless. Well, Nameless came back to me this morning. Six months ago Chambers took out a protection order against Gideon Tyler.”

  “His son-in-law?”

  “Yep. Tyler isn’t allowed to go within half a mile of the house or Chambers’s office. He can’t phone, e-mail, text or drive past the front gate.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the next thing.” He pulls out a fresh page. “I ran a check on Gideon Tyler. I mean, we know nothing about this guy except his name—which must have got him kicked from one end of the schoolyard to the other, by the way.”

  “We know he’s military.”

  “Right. So I called the MOD—Ministry of Defense. I talked to the personnel department but as soon as I mentioned Gideon Tyler’s name they clammed up tighter than a virgin on a prison visit.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Either they’re protecting him or embarrassed by him.”

  “Or both.”

  Ruiz leans back in his chair and arches his back, stretching his arms behind his head. I can hear his vertebrae separating.

  “Then I had Nameless run a check on Gideon Tyler.” He has a manila folder on the chair next to him. He opens it and produces several pages. I recognize the top one as a police incident report. It’s dated May 22, 2007. Attached is a summary of facts.

  I scan the details. Gideon Tyler was named in a complaint, accused of harassment and of making threatening phone calls to Bryan and Claudia Chambers. Among the list of allegations is a claim that Tyler broke into Stonebridge Manor and searched the house while they slept. He rifled filing cabinets, bureaus and took copies of telephone records, bank statements and e-mails. It was also alleged that he somehow unlocked a reinforced gun-safe and took a shotgun. Mr. and Mrs. Chambers woke the next morning and found the loaded weapon lying on the bed between them.

  I turn the page, looking for an outcome. There isn’t one.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tyler was never charged. Insufficient evidence.”

  “What about fingerprints, fibers, anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “This says he made threatening phone calls.”

  “Untraceable.”

  No wonder the Chambers were so paranoid when we visited.

  I look at the date of the police report. Helen Tyler and Chloe were still alive when Tyler allegedly harassed her family. He must have been looking for them.

  “What do we know about the separation?” asks Ruiz.

  “Nothing except for the e-mail that Helen sent to her friends. She must have run away from Tyler… and he wasn’t happy about it.”

  “You think he’s good for this.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would he want to kill his wife’s friends?”

  “To punish her.”

  “But she’s dead!”

  “It might not matter. He’s angry. He feels cheated. Helen took away his daughter. She hid from him. Now he wants to lash out and punish anyone close to her.”

  I look again at the police report. Detectives interviewed Gideon Tyler. He must have had an alibi. According to Maureen, he was stationed in Germany. When did he come back to Britain?

  “Is there an address for him?” I ask.

  “I got a last known and the name of his solicitor. You want to pay him a visit?”

  I shake my head. “The police should handle this one. I’ll talk to Veronica Cray.”

  41

  The window has four panes, dividing the bedroom into quarters. She is naked, fresh from the shower, with her hair wrapped in a pink turban and cheeks flushed.

  Nice legs, nice tits, nice body—the full package with all the accessories. Man could have a lot of fun playing with a woman like that.

  Unwrapping the towel, she bends forward, letting her dark hair drape over her face and her breasts swing. She dries the damp locks and tosses her head back.

  Next she raises each foot in turn, drying between her toes. Then comes moisturizer, massaged into her skin, starting at her ankles and moving up. This is better than porn. Come on, baby, a little higher… show me what you got…

  Something makes her turn towards the window. Her eyes are staring directly into mine, but she cannot see me. Instead she studies her reflection, turning one way and then the other, running her hands over her stomach, her buttocks and her thighs, looking for stretch marks or signs of age.

  Sitting at a mirrored vanity with her back to me, she uses a hair dryer and some contraption to straighten her hair. I can see her reflection. She pulls faces and studies every line and crease on her face, stretching, plucking and poking. More creams and serums are applied.

  Watching a woman dress is far sexier than seeing her undress. It’s a dance without the music; a bedroom ballet, with every movement so practiced and easy. This isn’t some poxy whore stripping in a seedy bar or sex club. She’s a real woman with a real figure. A pair of knickers slides up her legs, over her thighs. White. Maybe they’ve got a blue trim. I can’t tell from here. Her arms slide into the straps of a matching bra, lifting and separating her breasts. She adjusts the underwire, making it comfortable.

  What will she wear? She holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. It’s decided. She sits on the bed and rolls tights over her right foot and ankle and up her leg. She leans back on the bed and pulls the opaque black fabric over her thighs and buttocks.

  Standing again, she shimmies into the dress, letting the fabric fall to just below her knees. She’s almost ready. A turn to the left, checking out her reflection in the window, then a turn to the right.

  Her watch is sitting on the windowsill. She picks it up and slips it onto her wrist, checking the time. Then she glances out the window at the fading light. The first star is out. Make a wish, my angel. Don’t tell anyone what you wish for.

  42

  The restaurant is on the river. There is a view across the water to factories and warehouses, reclaimed and renovated into apartments. Julianne has ordered wine.

  “Do you want to taste?” she asks, knowing I miss it. I take a sip from her glass. The sauvignon detonates sweetly on my palate, cold and sharp, making me yearn for more. I slide the glass back towards her, touching her fingers, and think of the last person to share a bottle of wine with her. Was it Dirk? I wonder if he loved the sound of her voice, which is capable of rendering so many languages beautiful.

  Julianne raises her eyes sideways a moment to look at me.

  “Would you marry me again
if you had your time over?”

  “Of course I would, I love you.”

  She looks away, towards the river, which is painted the colors of navigation lights. I can see her face reflected in the glass.

  “Where did that question come from?”

  “Nowhere really,” she replies. “I just wondered if you regretted not waiting a little longer. You were only twenty-five.”

  “And you were twenty-two. It made no difference.”

  She takes another sip of wine and becomes aware of my concern. Smiling, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Don’t look so worried. I’m just feeling old, that’s all. Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish I was younger. Then I feel guilty because I have so much more to be thankful for.”

  “You’re not old. You’re beautiful.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s true.”

  She shakes her head helplessly. “I know I shouldn’t be so vain and self-obsessed. You’re the one who has every right to be self-conscious and feel resentful.”

  “I don’t resent anything. I have you. I have the girls. That’s enough.”

  She looks at me knowingly. “If it’s enough, why did you throw yourself into this murder investigation?”

  “I was asked.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “I saw a chance to help.”

  “Oh, come on, Joe, you wanted a challenge. You were bored. You didn’t like being at home with Emma. At least be honest about it.”

  I reach for my glass of water. My hand trembles.

  Julianne’s voice softens. “I know what you’re like, Joe. You’re trying to save Darcy’s mother all over again but that’s not possible. She’s gone.”

  “I can stop it happening to someone else.”

  “Maybe you can. You’re a good man. You care about people. You care about Darcy. I love that about you. But you have to understand why I’m frightened. I don’t want you involved—not after last time. You’ve done your bit. You’ve given your time. Let someone else help the police from now on.”