Michael Robotham - Shatter

A murderer isn’t always uniform in his actions. Circumstances and events will alter what he says and does. So will the victim. How did she react under pressure? What did she say?

Christine Wheeler doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman who was sexually provocative or likely to draw attention to herself through her appearance and mannerisms. She wore conservative clothes, rarely went out and tended to be self-effacing. Different women present different levels of vulnerability and risk. I need to know these things. By knowing Christine, I am a step closer to knowing whoever killed her.

DI Cray is beside me now, staring into the grease pit.

‘Tell me, Professor, do you always talk your way into police lockups and contaminate important evidence?’

‘No, DI.’

She blows smoke and sniffs twice, glancing across the forecourt to where Ruiz is dozing.

‘Who’s your dance partner?’

‘Vincent Ruiz.’

She blinks at me. ‘You’re shitting me.’

‘I shit you not.’

‘How in glory’s name do you know Vincent Ruiz?’

‘He once arrested me.’

‘I can see how that might be tempting.’

She hasn’t taken her eyes off Ruiz.

‘You couldn’t leave this alone.’

‘It wasn’t suicide.’

‘We both saw her jump.’

‘She didn’t do it willingly.’

‘I didn’t see anyone holding a gun to her head. I didn’t see a hand reach out and push her.’

‘A woman like Christine Wheeler doesn’t suddenly decide to take off her clothes and walk out the door holding a sign that says, “HELP ME”.’

The DI stifles a belch as though something I’ve said has disagreed with her. ‘OK. Let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. If Mrs Wheeler was being threatened, why didn’t she phone somebody or drive to the nearest police station?’

‘Perhaps she couldn’t.’

‘You think he was in the car with her?’

‘Not if she held up a sign.’

‘So he must have been listening.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I suppose he talked her to her death?’

I don’t answer. Ruiz has climbed out of the Merc and is stretching, rolling his shoulders in lazy circles. He wanders over. The two of them size each other up like roosters in a henhouse.

‘DI Cray, this is Vincent Ruiz.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ she says, shaking his hand.

‘Don’t believe half of it.’

‘I don’t.’

He glances at her feet. ‘Are they men’s shoes?’

‘Yep. You got a problem with that?’

‘Not at all. What size you take?’

‘Why?’

‘I might be your size.’

‘You’re not big enough.’

‘Are we talking shoes or something else?’

She smiles. ‘Aren’t you just as cute as French knickers.’

Then she turns to me. ‘I want you in my office first thing in the morning.’

‘I’ve already given a statement.’

‘That’s just the beginning. You’re going to help me understand this because right now it’s beyond my fucking comprehension.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘I knelt down in the mud.’

‘Oh.’

Darcy is in the doorway, regarding me with a brief, disarming concern. I take off my shoes and leave them on the back step. Sugar and cinnamon scent the air. Emma is standing on a chair in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand and a chocolate goatee.

‘Don’t play in the mud, Daddy. You’ll get dirty,’ she says seriously, before announcing, ‘I’m making biscuits.’

‘I can see that.’

She’s wearing an oversized apron that reaches her ankles. A pyramid of unwashed dishes sits in the sink.

Darcy brushes past me and joins Emma. There is a bond between them. I almost feel like I’m intruding.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘Upstairs doing her homework.’

‘I’m sorry I took so long. Have you all eaten?’

‘I cooked spaghetti.’

Emma nods, pronouncing it ‘pagetti’.

‘You had a few phone calls,’ says Darcy. ‘I took messages. Mr Hamilton the kitchen fitter said he could come next Tuesday. And they’re going to deliver your firewood on Monday.’

I sit down at the kitchen table and, with great ceremony, sample one of Emma’s biscuits, which are proclaimed to be the best ever baked. The cottage should be a mess but it’s not. Apart from the kitchen, the place is spotless. Darcy has cleaned up. She even straightened the office and replaced a light bulb in the utilities room that hasn’t worked since we moved in.

I ask her to sit down.

‘The police are going to investigate your mother’s death.’

Her eyes cloud momentarily.

‘They believe me.’

‘Yes. I need to ask you some more questions about your mother. What sort of person was she? What were her routines? Was she open and trusting, or careful and reserved? If someone threatened her would she react aggressively or be shocked into silence?’

‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘When I know her, I know more about him.’

‘Him?’

‘The last person to speak to her.’

‘The person who killed her.’

Her own statement seems to shrink her. A tiny speck of flour clings to her brow above her right eyebrow.

‘You mentioned an argument with your mother: what was it about?’

Darcy shrugs. ‘I wanted to go to the National Ballet School. I wasn’t supposed to audition but I forged Mum’s signature on the application and caught a train to London by myself. I thought that if I could win a place she’d change her mind.’

‘What happened?’

‘Only twenty-five dancers are chosen every year. Hundreds apply. When the letter came confirming my place, Mum read it and threw it in the bin. She went to her bedroom and locked the door.’

‘Why?’

‘The fees are twelve thousand pounds a year. We couldn’t afford them.’

‘But she was already paying school fees…’

‘I’m on an academic scholarship. If I leave the school, I lose the money.’ Darcy picks at her fingernails, scratching flour from the cuticles. ‘Mum’s business wasn’t doing so well. She borrowed a lot of money and couldn’t pay it back. I wasn’t supposed to know but I heard her arguing with Sylvia. That’s why I wanted to leave school, to get a job and save money. I thought I could go to ballet school next year.’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘That’s what we argued about. When Mum sent me the pointe shoes, I thought she must have changed her mind.’

‘The pointe shoes? I don’t understand.’

‘They’re for ballet.’

‘I know what they are.’

‘Someone sent me a pair. A package came. The caretaker found it at the school gates on Saturday morning. It was addressed to me. Inside were pointe shoes- Gaynor Mindens. They’re really expensive.’

‘How expensive?’

‘Eighty quid a pair.’

Her hands are bunched in the pocket of the apron. ‘I thought Mum had sent them. I tried to call her, but couldn’t get through.’

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

‘I wish she were here.’

‘I know.’

‘I hate her for it.’

‘Don’t do that.’

She turns her face away and brushes past me as she stands. I can hear her on the stairs. Closing the bedroom door. Falling on the bed. The rest is imagined.

The supermarket aisles are deserted. She shops at night because her days are too busy and weekends are for long lie-ins and trips to the gym rather than household chores. She is buying a leg of lamb. Brussels sprouts. Potatoes. Sour cream. For a dinner party perhaps, or a romantic dinner.

I glance past the cash registers to the newsstand. Alice is reading a music magazine and sucking on a lollipop. She’s wearing her school uniform: a blue skirt, white blouse and dark blue jumper.