Michael Robotham - Shatter

The detectives find their feet quickly.

‘Carry on, carry on,’ he says in a pretend-I’m-not-here sort of way. DI Cray makes the introductions. Assistant Chief Constable Fowler is short and broad-shouldered with a bulletproof handshake and the air of a battlefield general trying to gee up his troops. He focuses his attention on me.

‘A professor of what?’ he asks.

‘Psychology, sir.’

‘You’re a psychologist.’ He makes it sound like a disease. ‘Where are you from?’

‘I was born in Wales. My mother is Welsh.’

‘Ever heard the definition of a Welsh rarebit, Professor?’

‘No, sir.’

‘A Cardiff virgin.’

He looks around the room, waiting for the laughter. In due course, it arrives. Satisfied, he takes a seat and places his hat on a desk with his leather gloves inside.

DI Cray continues with the briefing, but is immediately interrupted.

‘Why isn’t this a suicide?’ asks Fowler.

She turns to him. ‘We are looking at it again, sir. The victim wrote a sign asking for help.’

‘I thought most suicides were a cry for help.’

The DI hesitates. ‘We believe whoever was speaking to Mrs Wheeler on the phone told her to jump.’

‘Somebody told her to jump and she did- just like that?’

‘We believe she may have been threatened or intimidated.’

Fowler nods and smiles but something about the mannerism is vaguely patronising. He turns to me. ‘This is your opinion is it, Professor? How exactly was this woman threatened or intimidated into committing suicide?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

I can feel my jaw tightening and my face becoming fixed. Bullies have this effect on me. I become a different person around them.

‘So you think there’s a psycho out there telling women to jump off bridges?’

‘No, not a psycho; I have seen no evidence of mental illness.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I don’t find it helpful when people use labels such as psycho or nutcase. It can allow a perpetrator to excuse his actions or construct a defence of insanity or diminished responsibility.’

Fowler’s face is stiffer than shirt cardboard. His eyes are fixed on mine.

‘We have certain protocols around here, Professor O’Loughlin, and one of them requires that senior officers be addressed as “sir” or by their correct title. It is a matter of respect. I think I’ve earned it.’

‘Yes, sir, my mistake.’

For a brief moment his self-control threatens to break but now it’s restored. He stands, taking his hat and gloves, and leaves the incident room. Nobody has moved.

I look at Veronica Cray, who lowers her head. I’ve disappointed her.

The briefing is over. Detectives disperse.

On our way to the stairs, I apologise to the DI.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I hope I haven’t made an enemy.’

‘The man swallows a bullshit pill every morning.’

‘He’s a former military man,’ I say.

‘How do you know that?’

‘He carries his hat under his left arm, so his right arm is free to salute.’

The DI shakes her head. ‘How do you know shit like that?’

‘Because he’s a freak,’ answers Ruiz.

I follow him outside. An unmarked police car is idling in the loading zone. The driver, a female constable, opens the passenger doors. Veronica Cray and Monk are both heading off to Leigh Woods.

I wish them luck.

‘Do you believe in luck, Professor?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Neither do I.’

Julianne is on the 15.40 Great Western service from Paddington. It’s an easy drive at this time of day, with most of the traffic coming the other way.

Emma is strapped in her booster seat and Darcy is sitting beside me, with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She takes up so little space when she concertinas her body like that.

‘What’s your wife like?’ she asks.

‘She’s wonderful.’

‘Do you love her?’

‘What sort of question is that?’

‘It’s just a question.’

‘Well, the answer is yes.’

‘You have to say that, I suppose,’ she says, sounding very world-weary. ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Sixteen years.’

‘Have you ever had an affair?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

She shrugs and stares out the window. ‘I don’t think it’s normal being faithful to one person for a whole lifetime. Who’s to say you won’t stop loving someone or meet someone you love more?’

‘You sound very wise. Have you ever been in love?’

She tosses her head dismissively. ‘I’m not going to fall in love. I’ve seen how it turns out.’

‘Sometimes we don’t have a choice.’

‘We always have a choice.’

She rests her chin on her knees and I notice the purple polish on her fingernails.

‘What does your wife do?’

‘Call her Julianne. She’s an interpreter.’

‘Is she away a lot?’

‘More so lately.’

‘And you stay home?’

‘I work part-time at the university.’

‘Is that because of the shaking business.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘You don’t look sick- if that makes you feel better- apart from the shaking, I mean. You look OK.’

I laugh at her. ‘Well, thank you very much.’

Julianne steps off the train and her eyes magically widen when she sees the flowers.

‘Who’s the lucky girl?’

‘I’m making up for what happened last time.’

‘You had a reason.’

I kiss her. She goes for a swift peck. My lips linger. She hooks her arm through mine. I pull her suitcase behind us.

‘How are the girls?’ she asks.

‘Great.’

‘Now what’s this about the nanny? You were very coy on the phone. Did you find someone?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I started the interviews.’

‘And?’

‘Something came up.’

She stops now. Turns. Concerned.

‘Where’s Emma?’

‘In the car.’

‘Who’s with her?’

‘Darcy.’

I try to keep moving and talking at the same time. Her suitcase wheels rattle over the cobblestones. Having rehearsed the story in my head, it should sound perfectly natural, but as it comes out of my mouth the logic grows more and more tenuous.

‘Have you gone completely mad?’ she says.

‘Shush.’

‘Don’t shush me, Joe.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Yes, I think I do. What you’re telling me is that our baby is being looked after by a teenager whose mother was murdered.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘And she’s living in our house.’

‘She’s a good kid. She’s great with Emma.’

‘I don’t care. She has no training, no references. She should be at school.’

‘Shush.’

‘I said don’t shush me.’

‘She’s here.’

Her eyes snap up. Darcy is standing beside the car, rhythmically chewing gum. Emma is balancing on the bumper bar, perched between her arms.

‘Darcy, this is Julianne. Julianne, this is Darcy.’

Julianne gives her a fixed larger-than-life smile. ‘Hello.’

Darcy raises her hand a few inches in a nervous wave. ‘Did you have a nice trip?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Julianne takes Emma from her. ‘I’m sorry about your mother, Darcy. It’s an awful thing.’

‘What happened?’ asks Emma.

‘Nothing to concern you, sweetheart.’

We drive in silence. The only person talking is Emma, who asks and fields all the questions. Darcy has withdrawn into a bubble of silence and uncertainty. I don’t know what’s wrong with Julianne. It’s not like her to be so unwelcoming and intractable.