Michael Robotham - Shatter

The mourners are in black like crows around road kill. I can feel their sadness, but it doesn’t feel sad enough. I know true sadness. It’s the sound of a child opening birthday presents without me; wearing clothes that I paid for. That is sadness.

The shrink is here; he’s like one of those B-grade celebrities who would turn up for the opening of an envelope. This time he’s brought along his wife who is far too hot for the likes of him. Perhaps his shake makes foreplay interesting.

Who else is here? The dyke detective and her keystone cops. Darcy, the ballet dancer, is being stoic and brave. We passed briefly at the gates and she gave me the briefest look of recognition, as though she couldn’t remember if she knew me. Then she noticed the wheelbarrow and my overalls and discounted the possibility.

The minister is telling the mourners that death is just the beginning of a journey. It’s a fairytale echoed down the ages. Chests are shaking. Tears are falling. The ground is soggy enough. Why does death come as such a shock to people? Surely it’s the most fundamental truth. We live. We die. You take this egg. If it had been fertilised and kept warm it might have been a baby chick. Instead it was dropped in boiling water and became a snack.

Heads are lowered in silent prayer. Coats flap against knees as a breeze picks up. The branches groan above my head like the stomachs of dead souls.

I have to go now. I have places to be… locks to pick… minds to open.

The service is over. We walk across the lawn and find the path. A warm wet smell rises from the flowerbeds and overhead, etched against a pearl grey sky, migratory birds fly in formation, heading south.

Bruno Kaufman takes my arm. I introduce him to Julianne. He bows theatrically.

‘Where has Joseph been hiding you?’ he asks.

‘Nowhere in particular,’ she replies, happy to let Bruno flirt with her.

Mourners are stepping round us. Darcy is with some of her mother’s friends, who seem to want to squeeze her hand and stroke her hair. Her aunt is wheeling her grandfather along the path, complaining about the slope.

‘The police are everywhere, old boy,’ says Bruno, glancing at Monk and Safari Roy. ‘They stand out like purple cows.’

‘I’ve never seen a purple cow.’

‘Madison, Wisconsin, has lots of colourful cows,’ he says. ‘Not real ones. Statues. They’re a tourist attraction.’

He begins telling a story about his tenure at the University of Wisconsin. A wind lifts his fringe and makes it hover, defying gravity. Bruno is directing the story to Julianne. I glance past him and notice Maureen.

‘We haven’t met,’ I tell her. ‘I’m very sorry about Christine and Sylvia. I know they were friends of yours.’

‘Old friends and good ones,’ she says, her breath condensing as she exhales.

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine.’ She blows her nose on a tissue. ‘I’m scared.’

‘What are you scared of?’

‘My two best friends are dead. That scares me. The police have come to my house, interviewed me; that scares me. I jump at loud noises, I deadlock the doors, I look in the rear mirror when I’m driving… that scares me, too.’

The soggy tissue is slipped into the pocket of her coat. A new one is retrieved from a small plastic packet. Her hands are shaking.

‘When did you see them last?’

‘A fortnight ago. We had a reunion.’

‘What sort of reunion?’

‘It was just the four of us- the old gang from Oldfield. We were at school together.’

‘Bruno mentioned it.’

‘We arranged to meet at our favourite pub. Helen organised it.’

‘Helen?’

‘Another friend: Helen Chambers.’ She casts her eye around the cemetery. ‘I thought she would be here. It’s odd. Helen organised the reunion; she was the reason we were getting together. None of us had seen her in years, but she didn’t show up.’

‘Why?’

‘I still don’t know. She didn’t call or email.’

‘You haven’t heard from her at all?’

She shakes her head and sniffles. ‘It’s pretty typical of Helen. She is famous for being late and for getting lost in her own back-yard.’ She glances past me. ‘I mean it seriously. They had to send out search parties.’

‘Where did she live?’

‘Her father has a country house with a big back yard, so perhaps I shouldn’t tease her.’

‘You haven’t seen her in how long?’

‘Seven years. Nearly eight.’

‘Where has she been?’

‘She married and moved to Northern Ireland and then to Germany. Chris and Sylvie were her bridesmaids. I was supposed to be the maid of honour but Bruno and I were living in America and couldn’t get back for the wedding. I videoed a good luck message.’

Maureen’s eyes seem to shimmer. ‘We all promised to stay in touch, but Helen just seemed to drift away. I sent her cards every birthday and Christmas. The odd letter came back out of the blue but didn’t say much. Weeks turned to months and then to years. We lost touch. It was sad.’

‘And then she contacted you?’

‘Six months ago she sent us all an email- Christine, Sylvie and me- saying that she’d left her husband. She was going on a holiday with her daughter- “to clear her head”- and then she was coming home.

‘Then about a month ago she sent another email saying she was back and we should get together. She chose the place: the Garrick’s Head in Bath. Do you know it?’

I nod.

‘We used to go there all the time- before we all married and had kids. We’d have a few drinks and a laugh; and sometimes kick on to a nightclub. Sylvie loved to dance.’

Maureen’s hands have stopped shaking, but the calm never comes. She talks as though some rejected life has come back to claim her. A lost friend. A voice from the past.

‘When I heard about Christine committing suicide I didn’t believe it, not for a minute. She’d never kill herself like that. Never leave Darcy.’

‘Tell me about Sylvia?’

Maureen gives me a sad smile. ‘She was a wild one, but not in a bad way. She worried me sometimes. She was a crash or crash-through sort of girl, who took so many risks. Thankfully, she married someone like Richard who was very forgiving.’

Her eyes are liquid, but her mascara is still in place.

‘You know what I loved most about Sylvie?’

I shake my head.

‘Her voice. I miss hearing her laugh.’ She glances across the cemetery. The sun shines on a glitter of green grass. ‘I miss both of them. I miss knowing I’ll see them again. I keep thinking they’re going to phone or text me or turn up for a coffee…’

Another silence, longer this time. She lifts her head, frowning. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bruno says you’re helping the police.’

‘As much as I can.’

She looks towards Bruno, who is explaining to Julianne that the first fossil records of the rose date back 35 million years and Sapho wrote ‘Ode to a Rose’ in 600 B.C. calling it the queen of flowers.

‘How does he know stuff like that?’ I ask.

‘He says the same about you.’

She looks at him fondly. ‘I used to love him, then I hated him, and now I’m caught between the two. He’s not a bad man, you know.’

‘I know.’

Cars are parked in the driveway and on the footpath outside the Wheeler house. Darcy is welcoming the mourners, taking coats and handbags. She looks at me as if I’m coming to rescue her.

‘When can we leave?’ she whispers.

‘You’re doing great.’

‘I don’t think I can handle much more of this.’ More guests are arriving. The sitting room and dining rooms are crowded. Julianne takes hold of my left hand as we skirt the clusters of mourners, weaving between outstretched cups of tea and plates of sandwiches and cakes.