Shatter

by Michael Robotham

  That’s the thing about lies. They’re easy to tell but difficult to hide. Some people can perform them brilliantly but most of us struggle because our minds don’t control our bodies completely. There are thousands of automatic human responses from a beating heart to a prickling skin that have nothing to do with free will, things that we can’t control, that give us away.

  Bryan Chambers has turned away. He pours himself a scotch from a crystal decanter. I wait for glass to touch glass. His hand is almost too steady.

  “Where are they?” I ask.

  “Get out of my house!”

  “Gideon found out. That’s why he’s been harassing you, stalking you, tormenting you. What does he know?”

  Rocking on his heels, he squeezes the tumbler in his fist. “Are you calling me a liar? Gideon Tyler has made our lives a misery. The police have done nothing. Nothing.”

  “What does Gideon know?”

  Chambers looks ready to erupt. “My daughter and granddaughter are dead,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

  Claudia stands alongside him, her eyes a cold shade of blue. She loves her husband. She loves her family. She’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

  “I’m sorry about your daughter,” she whispers. “But we’ve already given enough to Gideon Tyler.”

  They’re lying—they’re both lying—but all I can do is shuffle and clear my throat with a sort of helpless croaking sound.

  “We can stop him,” argues Ruiz. “We can make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

  “You can’t even find him,” scoffs Bryan Chambers. “Nobody can. He melts through walls.”

  I look around the room, trying to summon a reason, an argument, a threat, anything that might change the outcome. The images of Chloe are everywhere, on the mantelpiece, the side tables, framed and hung on the walls.

  “Why did you give the Greek authorities the photograph of someone other than Helen?” I ask.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Bryan Chambers.

  I take the faxed photograph from my pocket and unfold it on the table.

  “It’s a criminal offense to provide false information to a police investigation,” says Ruiz. “And that includes an investigation in a foreign country.”

  Bryan Chambers’s face turns three shades darker, blood up. Ruiz doesn’t back down. I don’t think he understands the concept of giving ground, not when it comes to missing children. There have been too many in his career; children he couldn’t save.

  “You sent them the wrong photograph because your daughter is still alive. You faked her death.”

  Bryan Chambers sways backwards to throw the first punch. It’s a giveaway. Ruiz dodges it and slaps him on the back of the head like cuffing a naughty schoolboy.

  This just fires him up. With a bellow and a loping charge, the bigger man drives his head into Ruiz’s stomach and wraps his arms around him, running him backwards into the wall. The collision seems to shake the entire house. Photographs topple over in their frames, falling like dominoes.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” screams Darcy. She is standing near the door, fists bunched, eyes shining.

  Everything slows down. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock sounds like a slow-dripping tap. Bryan Chambers is holding his head. He has a cut above his left eye. It’s not deep but it’s bleeding heavily. Ruiz is nursing his ribs.

  I lean down and begin picking up the photographs. The glass has broken in one of the frames. It’s a snapshot of a birthday party. Candles spark in Chloe’s eyes as she leans over a cake with her cheeks puffed out like a trombone player. I wonder what she wished for.

  The photograph is not unusual, yet something jars as being wrong. Ruiz has a memory like a metal trap that seems to lock up facts and hold them. I’m not talking about useless ephemera like pop songs or Grand National winners or right-backs who’ve played for Manchester United since the war. Important details. Dates. Addresses. Descriptions.

  “When was Chloe born?” I ask him.

  “August 8, 2000.”

  Bryan Chambers is now violently sober. Claudia has gone to Darcy, trying to console her.

  “Explain this to me,” I say, pointing to the photograph. “How can your granddaughter be blowing out seven candles on a birthday cake if she died two weeks before her seventh birthday?”

  The button beneath the floor has summoned Skipper. He’s carrying a shotgun but this time it’s not resting in the crook of his arm. He points the barrel at chest height, moving it in an arc.

  “Get them out of my house,” bellows Bryan Chambers, still holding his forehead. Blood has leaked over his eyebrow and the side of his cheek.

  “How many more people are going to get hurt unless we stop this now?” I plead.

  It makes no difference. Skipper waves the rifle. Darcy steps in front of him. I don’t know where she gets the courage.

  “It’s all right,” I tell her. “We’ll go.”

  “But what about Charlie?”

  “This isn’t helping.”

  Nothing is going to change. The wrongness of the situation, the imminent catastrophe, is lost on the Chamberses, who seem to be caught in a permanent twilight of fear and denial.

  I’m being escorted out of this house for a second time. Ruiz goes first, followed by Darcy. As I cross the foyer, in the very periphery of my vision, I catch sight of something white, pressed against the railings of the stairs. It’s a barefoot child in a white nightdress peering through the turned wooden railings. Ethereal and almost otherworldly, she’s holding a rag doll and watching us leave.

  I stop and stare. The others turn.

  “You should be asleep,” says Claudia.

  “I woke up. I heard a bang.”

  “It was nothing. Go back to bed.”

  She rubs her eyes. “Will you tuck me in?”

  I can feel the rhythm of my blood beneath my skin. Bryan Chambers steps in front of me. The stock of the rifle is tucked against Skipper’s shoulder. There are footsteps on the stairs. A woman appears, looking agitated, scooping up the child.

  “Helen?”

  She doesn’t react.

  “I know who you are.”

  She turns to me, lifting a hand to brush a fringe from across her eyes. Her head is drawn down between her shoulders and her thin arms are tightly folded around Chloe.

  “He has my daughter.”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead she turns to climb the stairs.

  “You’ve come this far. Help me.”

  She’s gone, back to her room, unseen, unheard, unconvinced.

  60

  Crossing a carpet of dead leaves on the paving stones, I let myself through the French doors into the dining room. The furniture is covered in old sheets that turn armchairs and sofas into shapeless lumps.

  A cast-iron coal grate, forever black, sits in the small fireplace beneath an old mantelpiece that is dotted with pinholes left by dozens of Christmas stockings, none of them owned by the Arab.

  I climb the stairs. The girl is lying quietly. She hasn’t tried to take tape from her head. How obedient she’s become. How compliant.

  The wind outside is blowing branches against the walls, scratching at the paintwork. Occasionally, she lifts her head, wondering if the sound is something more. She lifts her head again. Perhaps she can hear me breathing.

  Sitting up, she lowers her chained feet cautiously to the floor. Then she leans forward until her hands touch the radiator. Feeling her way, she hops sideways until she reaches the toilet. She stops and listens, then pulls down her jeans. I hear the telltale tinkle.

  Pulling up her jeans, she manages to find the sink. There are two taps, hot and cold. Left and right. She turns on the cold tap and puts her fingers beneath the stream. Lowering her head, she tries to position the hose in her mouth into the stream of water. It’s like watching an awkward bird take a drink. She has to hold her breath and suck at the water. It goes down the wrong way, triggering a coughing fit that leaves her sob
bing on the floor.

  I touch her hand. She screams and tries to scramble away, banging her head against the plumbing.

  “It’s only me.”

  She cannot answer.

  “You’ve been a very good girl. Now I want you to hold still.”

  She flinches as I touch her. Leading her to the bed, I make her sit. Using a pair of dressmaker’s scissors, I hook the lower blade beneath the tape at the nape of her neck and begin snipping upward, a little at a time.

  Her sweat and body heat have glued her hair to the tape. I have to cut it away. I slice through her locks, pulling at the balls of tape and hair. It must hurt. She doesn’t show it until I wrench it away from her face, trying to do it quickly to spare her pain. She screams into the hose and spits it out.

  I put the scissors down. The “mask” is off, lying on the floor like the skin of a gutted animal. Tears and snot and melted glue cover her face. There are worse things.

  I hold a bottle of water to her lips. She drinks greedily. Droplets fall onto her cardigan. She wipes her chin with her shoulder.

  “I’ve brought you food. The hamburger is cold, but it should taste OK.”

  She takes a mouthful. No more.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “I know.”

  I pull up a chair and sit across from her. It’s the first time she has seen me. She doesn’t know whether to look.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “Yes. You were on the bus. Your leg is better.”

  “It was never broken. Are you cold?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  I take a quilt from one of the chairs and drape it around her shoulder. She shrinks from my touch.

  “Want some more water?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you’d prefer a soft drink. Some Coke?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’re too young to understand. Eat your burger.”

  She sniffles and takes another small bite. The silence seems too big for the room.

  “I have a daughter. She’s younger than you.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Chloe.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

  The girl takes another bite of the burger. “I had a friend called Chloe when we lived in London. I haven’t seen her since we moved.”

  “Why did you leave London?”

  “My dad is sick.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s got Parkinson’s. It makes him shake and he has to take pills.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Do you get on OK with your dad?”

  “Sure.”

  “What sort of stuff do you do with him?”

  “We kick a ball around and go hiking… just stuff.”

  “He read to you?”

  “I’m a bit old for that.”

  “But he used to.”

  “Yeah, I guess. He reads to Emma.”

  “Your sister.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I look at my watch. “I have to go out again in a little while. I’m going to tie you up but I won’t tape your head like before.”

  “Please don’t go.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.” Tears shine in her eyes. Isn’t it strange: she’s more frightened of being alone than she is of me.

  “I’ll leave the radio on. You can listen to music.”

  She sniffles and curls up on the bed, still holding the half-eaten burger.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asks.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “You told my mum that you were going to cut me open… that you were going to do things to me.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear a grown up say.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What it says.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “That depends upon your mother.”

  “What does she have to do?”

  “Take your place.”

  She shudders. “Is that true?”

  “It’s true. Be quiet now or I’ll put the tape back on your mouth.”

  She pulls the quilt over her and turns her back to me, shrinking into the shadows. I move away, putting on my shoes and my coat.

  “Please, don’t leave me,” she whispers.

  “Shhh. Go to sleep.”

  61

  The Merc floats through dark streets, which are empty except for the occasional figure scurrying for a late bus or going home from the pub. These strangers don’t know me. They don’t know Charlie. And their lives will never touch mine. The only people who can help me are unwilling to listen or to risk exposing themselves to Gideon Tyler. Helen and Chloe are alive. One mystery is solved.

  Even before I reach the cottage, I notice different cars parked in the street. I know what my neighbors drive. These belong to others.

  The Merc pulls up. A dozen car doors open in unison. Reporters, cameramen and photographers close around the Merc, leaning over the bonnet and shooting through the windscreen. Reporters are yelling questions.

  Ruiz looks at me. “What do you want to do?”

  “Get inside.”

  I force open the door and try to push through the bodies. Someone grabs my jacket to slow me down. A girl bars my way. A tape recorder is thrust towards me.

  “Do you think your daughter is still alive, Professor?”

  What sort of question is that?

  I don’t answer.

  “Has he been in contact? Has he threatened her?”

  “Please let me go.”

  I feel like a cornered beast being circled by a pride of lions waiting to finish me off. Someone else yells, “Stop and give us a quote, Professor. We’re only trying to help.”

  Ruiz takes hold of me. His other arm is around Darcy. Head down, he forces his way through like a rugby prop in a rolling maul. The questions continue.

  “Has there been a ransom demand?”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  Monk opens the front door and closes it again. TV spotlights are still bathing the cottage in brightness, shining through cracks in the curtains and blinds.

  “They arrived an hour ago,” says Monk. “I should have warned you.”

  Publicity is a good thing, I tell myself. Maybe someone will spot Charlie or Tyler and tip off the police.

  “Any news?” I ask Monk.

  He shakes his head. I look past him and see a stranger standing in my kitchen. Dressed in a dark suit and a crisp white shirt, he doesn’t look like a policeman or a reporter. His hair is the color of polished cedar and silver cufflinks catch the light as he brushes his fingers through his fringe.

  The stranger seems to stand to attention as I draw near, hands behind his back. It is a posture perfected on parade grounds. He introduces himself as Lieutenant William Greene and waits until my hand is offered for a handshake before he proffers his own.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “It’s more a matter of what I can do for you, sir,” he says in a clipped public school accent. “My understanding is that you have been in contact with a Major Gideon Tyler. He is a person of interest.”

  “Of interest to whom?”

  “To the Ministry of Defense, sir.”

  “Join the queue,” laughs Ruiz.

  The lieutenant ignores him. “The army is cooperating with the police. We wish to locate Major Tyler and facilitate your daughter’s safe return.”

  Ruiz mocks his language. “Facilitate? You bastards have done nothing so far except put obstacles in our way.”

  Lieutenant Greene isn’t fazed. “There are certain issues that have prevented full disclosure.”

  “Tyler worked for military intelligence?”

  “Yes,
sir.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “I’m afraid that information is classified.”

  “He was an interrogator.”

  “An intelligence gatherer.”

  “Why did he leave the military?”

  “He didn’t. He went AWOL after his wife left him. He faces a court-martial.”

  The lieutenant is no longer standing to attention. His feet are a dozen inches apart, polished shoes turned slightly outwards, and hands at his sides.

  “Why is Tyler’s service record classified?” I ask.

  “The nature of his work was sensitive.”

  “That’s a bullshit answer,” says Ruiz. “What did the guy do?”

  “He interrogated detainees,” I say, second-guessing the lieutenant. “He tortured them.”

  “The British government doesn’t condone the use of torture. We abide by the rules set out by the Geneva Convention…”

  “You trained the bastard,” interrupts Ruiz.

  The lieutenant doesn’t respond.

  “We believe Major Tyler has suffered some form of breakdown. He is still a serving British officer and my job is to liaise with the Avon and Somerset Police Service to facilitate his prompt arrest.”

  “In return for what?”

  “When Major Tyler is detained he will be handed over to the military.”

  “He murdered two women,” says Ruiz incredulously.

  “He will be examined by army psychologists to see if he is fit to stand trial.”

  “This is bollocks,” says Ruiz.

  Right now, I’m past caring. The MOD can have Gideon Tyler as long as I get Charlie back.

  The lieutenant addresses me directly. “The military can bring certain resources and technology to a civilian investigation like this one. If I have your cooperation, I am authorized to provide this help.”

  “How am I meant to cooperate?”

  “Major Tyler had certain special duties. Did he talk to you about them?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention any names?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention any locations?”

  “No. He was a very quiet soldier.”

  Lieutenant Greene pauses a moment, choosing his words carefully.