Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘You don’t know?’

She laughs. ‘Maybe that’s a discussion for another day.’

Sylvia stands and goes to the bedroom. ‘Do you mind if I get changed?’

‘Not at all.’

She leaves the door open and shucks off her T-shirt and bra. There are muscles on her back like flat stones beneath her skin.

Her black spandex shorts slide down her legs, but I can’t see what replaces them; the bed and the angle defeat me.

Dressed in cream slacks and a cashmere sweater, she returns to the lounge, tossing her tiny shorts and bra on her gym bag.

‘What were we talking about?’

‘Marriage. You said Christine was a believer.’

‘Head cheerleader. She cried at every wedding we planned. Complete strangers were tying the knot and her pockets were full of soggy tissues.’

‘Is that why she set up Blissful?’

‘It was her baby.’

‘How was business?’

Sylvia smiles wryly.

‘Like I said, Chris was a soft touch. People asked for dream weddings- with all the bells and whistles- then they refused to pay or delayed sending the cheque. Christine wasn’t tough enough.’

‘There were money problems?’

She stretches her arms above her head. ‘Rain. Cancellations. Legal action. It wasn’t a good season. We have to turn over fifty thousand pounds a month to break even. The average cost of a wedding is fifteen thousand. The big ones are few and far between.’

‘How much were you losing?’

‘Chris took out a second mortgage when we set up. Now we have an overdraft of twenty thousand and debts of more than two hundred thousand.’

Sylvia rattles off the numbers without emotion.

‘You mentioned legal action.’

‘A wedding in the spring was a disaster. Dodgy mayonnaise on the seafood buffet. Food poisoning. The father of the bride is a lawyer and a complete wanker. Christine offered to tear up the bill but he wants us to pay compensation.’

‘You must have insurance.’

‘The insurance underwriter is trying to find a loophole. We may have to go to court.’

She takes a plastic bottle of water from her gym bag and drinks, wiping her lips with her thumb and forefinger.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very concerned.’

Lowering the bottle, her eyes lock on mine.

‘Chris put up most of the money. My exposure was minimal and my husband is very understanding.’

‘Indulgent.’

‘You could say that.’

The money problems and legal action could explain what happened on Friday. Perhaps the person on the phone to Christine Wheeler was owed money. Either that or she lost hope and couldn’t see a way out.

‘Was Christine the sort of person who would commit suicide?’ I ask.

Sylvia shrugs. ‘You know how they say the ones who talk about committing suicide are less likely to do it- well, Chris never talked about it. She was the most positive, up-beat, optimistic person I’ve ever met. I mean that. And she loved Darcy like there was no tomorrow. So the answer is no- I have no idea why she did it. I guess she cracked.’

‘What’s going to happen to the business now?’

Again she glances at her watch. ‘As of an hour ago it belongs to the receivers.’

‘You’re wrapping it up.’

‘What else can I do?’

She tucks her legs to the side in that casual effortless way all women can. I see no signs of regret or disappointment. Hard-bodied Sylvia Furness is as tough on the inside as she is on the outside.

Darcy and Emma meet me downstairs. I lift Emma onto my hip. ‘Where are we going?’ asks Darcy.

‘To see the police.’

‘You believe me.’

‘I believe you.’

Detective Inspector Veronica Cray emerges from a barn wearing baggy jeans tucked into Wellingtons and a man’s shirt with button-up pockets that sit almost horizontally upon her breasts.

‘You caught me shovelling shit,’ she says, leaning into the heavy door, which swings inwards on rusty hinges. She drops a plank into the bracket. I hear horses shifting in their stalls. Smell them.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘So you wanted that drink after all,’ she says, wiping her hands on her hips. ‘Perfect day for it. My day off.’

She spies Darcy in the passenger seat of my car and Emma playing with the steering wheel.

‘You brought the family.’

‘The little girl is mine.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Is Christine Wheeler’s daughter.’

The DI has spun to face me.

‘You went looking for the daughter?’

‘She found me.’

Suspicion has replaced some of her warmth and affability.

‘What in glory’s name are you doing, Professor?’

‘Christine Wheeler didn’t commit suicide.’

‘With all due respect, I think we both should leave that to the coroner.’

‘You saw her- she was terrified.’

‘Of dying?’

‘Of falling.’

‘She was perched on the edge of a bridge, for God’s sake.’

‘No, you don’t understand.’

I glance at Darcy who looks tired and apprehensive. She should be back at school or being looked after by her family. Does she have any family?

The detective sucks in a breath. Her entire chest expands and then she sighs. She strides towards the car and crouches next to the open driver’s door, addressing Emma.

‘Are you a fairy?’

Emma shakes her head.

‘A princess?’

Another shake.

‘Then you must be an angel. I’m pleased to meet you. I don’t meet many angels in my line of work.’

‘Are you a man or a woman?’ asks Emma.

The DI laughs.

‘I’m all woman, honey. One hundred per cent.’

She glances at Darcy. ‘I’m very sorry about your mother. Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘Believe me,’ she says softly.

‘Normally, I’m a true believer in most things but maybe you got to convince me of this. Let’s get you somewhere warmer.’

I have to duck my head as I go through the door. DI Cray kicks off her Wellingtons. Rectangles of mud fall from between the treads.

She turns away from me and begins making her way along the hall.

‘I’m going to take a shower, Professor. You put these girls in front of the fire. I got six different sorts of hot chocolate and I’m in the mood to share.’

Darcy and Emma haven’t said a word since leaving the car. Veronica Cray can render someone speechless. She’s unavoidable. Immovable. Like a rocky outcrop in a force ten gale.

I can hear the shower running. I put a kettle on the Aga stove and search through the pantry. Darcy has found a cartoon for Emma to watch on TV. I haven’t fed her anything since breakfast except for biscuits and a banana.

I notice a calendar pinned to a corkboard. It is dotted with scribbled reminders of feed suppliers, farriers and horse sales. There are bills to be paid and reminder notes. Wandering into the dining room, I look for signs of a partner. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and more on the fridge of a young dark-haired man, a son perhaps.

I don’t normally, knowingly search so openly for clues about a person but Veronica Cray fascinates me. It’s as though she’s fought a lifelong battle to be accepted for who she is. And now she’s comfortable with her body, her sexuality and her life.

The bathroom door opens and she emerges, wrapped in a huge towel knotted between her breasts. She has to step around me. We both move the same way and back again. I apologise and flatten myself against the wall.

‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’m inflatable. Normally I’m size ten.’

She laughs. I’m the only person embarrassed.

The bedroom door closes. Ten minutes later she emerges in the kitchen wearing a pressed shirt and trousers. Her spiky hair is beaded with water.