Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘If Darcy doesn’t want to talk about it, she’ll tell you.’

Charlie nods in agreement. ‘Will there be a funeral or something like that?’

‘In a few days.’

‘So where is her mum now?’

‘At the morgue- it’s a place where they…’

‘I know,’ she answers, sounding very grown up. There’s another long pause. ‘Did you see Darcy’s trainers?’

‘What about them?’

‘I want a pair just like them.’

‘OK. Anything else?’

‘Nope.’

Charlie tosses her ponytail over one shoulder and exits with a kick of her heels.

I am left alone. A pile of household bills and invoices has to be sorted, paid or filed. Julianne has separated her work receipts and bundled them in an envelope.

As I close the drawer I notice a partially crumpled receipt on the floor. I pick it up and flatten it on the blotter. The name of the hotel is written in elaborate script across the top. It is a room service bill for breakfast, including champagne, bacon, eggs, fruit and pastries. Julianne really went to town. She normally has just muesli or fruit salad.

I screw the bill into a ball and motion to throw it away. I don’t know what stops me- a question mark: a tinge of disquiet. The sensation scrambles and disappears. It’s too quiet outside. I don’t want to hear myself think.

To pick a lock requires a supreme sense of touch and sound. First I picture the inner mechanism in my mind and project my senses within. All the senses are important- not just sound and touch. Sight to identify the make and model. Smell to tell if the lock has been lubricated recently. Taste to identify the lubricant.

Each lock has a personality. Time and weather will change its characteristics. Temperature. Humidity. Condensation. Once the pick is inside, I close my eyes. Listen. Feel. As the pick bounces up and down over the pins, I must apply a fixed amount of pressure, measuring their resistance. This requires sensitivity, dexterity, concentration and analytical thinking. It is fluid- but there are rules.

This one is a 437-rated high security lock. It has six pins, some of which are mushroom-shaped. The keyhole is paracentric, like a misshapen lightning bolt. Insurance underwriters consider it a twenty-minute pick job because of its degree of difficulty. I can open it in twenty-three seconds. It takes practise. Hours. Days. Weeks.

I can remember the first time I entered a house. It was in Osnabruck, Germany, fifty miles north of Dortmund. The house belonged to an army chaplain who was counselling my wife, visiting her while I was away. I left his dog in the freezer and the bath and the washing machine.

The second place I entered was the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, a few steps from the rear door of Harrods. The building had no nameplate on the door. It is a private club for current and former members of the intelligence services and the SAS. I, however, cannot become a member because I am so elite nobody has ever heard of me. I am untouchable. Unnameable.

I can walk through walls. Locks crumble in my hands. The pins are like musical keys with a different tone and timbre as the pick passes over them. Listen. That’s the final note. The door opens.

I step into the flat, placing my feet carefully on the polished floorboards. My tools are wrapped and put away. A torch is now needed.

The bitch has taste, which doesn’t always come with money. None of her furniture came out of a flat pack or was put together with keys. The coffee table is hammered copper and ceramic bowls are hand-painted.

I look for the phone connections. There is a cordless console in the kitchen and a cradle in the living room and another in the main bedroom.

I work my way through the rooms, opening cupboards and drawers, sketching the layout in my mind. There are letters to read, bills to peruse, phone numbers and photographs to study. Propped near the telephone is a birthday invitation.

What else can I find? Here is a bright envelope with polished paper- you are cordially invited to a hen night. A note has been scrawled across the bottom. Bring your dancing shoes.

There are three bedrooms in the flat. The smallest belongs to a child. She has a Coldplay poster on the wall alongside a Harry Potter calendar. There are photographs of horses and pony club rosettes. Her pyjamas are beneath her pillow. A crystal hangs from a hook on the windowsill. Stuffed animals spill from a box in the corner.

The main bedroom has an en suite. The vanity drawers are full of lipsticks, body scrubs, nail polish and sample packs from a dozen hotel stays and airline flights. Tucked away in the lowest drawer is a faux fur make-up bag containing a small pink vibrator and a set of handcuffs.

A change in air pressure rattles a window. The main door has opened downstairs, creating a slight vacuum in the stairwell. There are footsteps. I stand for a moment in the bedroom with an ear cocked. Keys jangle. One of them slides into the barrel of the lock. Turns.

The door opens and closes. I feel the tiny tremor under my feet and hear their voices. Coats are shrugged off and hung on hooks. A kettle is filled. There is soft laughter and the smell of foodtakeaway- something Asian with coriander and coconut milk. I listen to the sound of food being spooned onto plates and eaten in front of a

Afterwards the dishes are cleared away. Somebody is coming. I draw back sharply into the shadows, stepping into a wardrobe, pulling clothes around me. I breathe in the bitch’s scent, her stale perfume and sweat.

As a child I used to love playing hide and seek with my brother; the ball-tightening, bladder-clenching sense of excitement, the fear of discovery. Sometimes I’d curl up and try not to breathe, but my brother always found me. He said he could hear me because I was trying too hard not to make a sound.

A shadow passes the door. I see the bitch’s reflection in the tilted mirror. She goes to the toilet. Her skirt is pulled up, her tights rolled down. Her thighs are pale as candle wax. She stands and flushes, turning to face the mirror, pivoting forward over the sink to examine her face, pulling at the skin around her eyes. She talks to herself. I can’t hear what she says. Her tights are tossed aside. She raises her arms and a nightdress slides over her shoulders and the hem drops to her knees.

Her daughter has gone to her room. I hear her schoolbag tossed in a corner and the sound of the shower. Later she comes to say goodnight. Air kisses. Tousled hair. Sweet dreams.

I’m alone with the bitch. There is no man of the house. He has been evicted, cast out, passed over, disenfranchised; the king is dead, long live the queen!

She has turned on the TV and watches from her bed, flicking through the channels, a bright square in her eyes. She isn’t really watching. She picks up a book instead. Does she feel me here? Is there a shiver of apprehension or a sense of disquiet, like a ghost leaving footprints on her grave?

I am the voice she’s going to hear when she dies. My words. I am going to ask her if she’s frightened. I am going to unlock her mind. I am going to stop her heart. I am going to beat her to floor and feed on her bloody mouth.

When?

Soon.

My legs don’t want to move this morning. It takes harsh words and willpower to swing them from the bed. I stand and pull on a dressing gown. It’s after seven. Charlie should have woken me by now. She’s going to be late for school. I yell out for her. Nobody answers.

The bedrooms are empty. I make my way downstairs. Two bowls of soggy cereal sit on the kitchen table. The milk has been left out of the fridge.

The phone rings. It’s Julianne.

‘Hello.’