Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘He’s frightened of something.’

‘What? World War III?’

Ruiz begins listing the security measures- the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Skipper could have come straight from SAS central casting.

‘A guy like that earns five grand a week as a bodyguard in Baghdad- what’s he doing here?’

‘Wiltshire is safer.’

‘Maybe Chambers has been doing business with the wrong sort of people. That’s the problem with those big corporations- it’s like Friday night at the movies. Someone is always trying to get a handful of tit or a finger in the pie.’

‘Colourful analogy.’

‘Think so?’

‘My daughters are never going to the cinema.’

‘Just you wait.’

We take the A363 through Bradford-on-Avon and skirt the top of Bathampton Down. We crest a hill. Bath Spa is there before us, nestled sedately in a valley. A billboard announces: Your Dream Retirement Lies Just Ahead. Ruiz thinks it sums up Bath, which has that sulphurous reek of old age and money.

I can’t get a single question out of my head: how did a dead woman send emails organising a night out with friends? Someone sent the messages. Whoever sent the messages must have had access to Helen Chambers’ computer or her login details. Either that or they stole her identity and set up a new account. If so, why? It makes no sense. What possible interest would someone have in getting four old friends together?

It could have been the killer. He may have drawn them together and then followed them home. It certainly would explain how he scoped his victims- learning where they lived and worked, discovering the rhythm of their lives. It still doesn’t explain how Helen Chambers is linked to this.

‘We have to talk Maureen Bracken,’ I say. ‘She’s the only person who turned up at that reunion who’s still alive.’

Ruiz doesn’t say a word but I know he’s thinking the same thing. Someone has to warn her.

Oldfield School is set amid trees and muddy sporting fields, overlooking the Avon Valley. A sign in the car park tells all visitors to report to the office.

A lone student is sitting in reception, swinging her legs beneath a plastic chair. She is dressed in a blue skirt, white blouse and dark blue jumper with a swan motif. She glances up briefly and resumes her wait.

A school secretary appears behind a sliding glass window. Behind her a colour-coded timetable covers the wall; a feat of logic and organisation that encompasses 850 students, thirty-four classrooms and fifteen subjects. Running a school is like being an air traffic controller without a radar screen.

The secretary runs her finger down the timetable, tapping the board twice. ‘Mrs Bracken is teaching English in the annex. Room 2b.’ She glances at the clock. ‘It’s almost lunchtime. You can wait for her in the corridor or in the staffroom. It’s up the stairs- to the right. Jacquie will show you.’

The schoolgirl raises her head and looks relieved. Judgement for whatever she’s done has been postponed.

‘This way,’ she says, pushing through the doors and quickly climbing the stairs, pausing at the landing for us to catch up. A notice board advertises a design competition, photography class and Oldfield’s anti-bullying policy.

‘So what did you do?’ asks Ruiz.

Jacquie glances at him sheepishly. ‘Got kicked out of class.’

‘What for?’

‘You’re not one of the governors, are you?’

‘Do I look like a school governor?’

‘No,’ she admits. ‘I accused my drama teacher of raging mediocrity.’

Ruiz laughs. ‘Not just any mediocrity then?’

‘No.’

A bell rings. Bodies fill the corridors, flooding around us. There are peals of laughter and cries of, ‘Don’t run! Don’t run!’

Jacquie has reached the classroom. She knocks on the door. ‘Visitors to see you, miss.’

‘Thank you.’

Maureen Bracken is wearing a knee-length dark green dress with a brown leather belt and court shoes that show off her solid calves. Her hair is pinned back and minimal make-up colours her lips and eyelids.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks immediately. Her fingers are spotted with black marker pen.

‘It might be nothing,’ I say, trying to reassure her.

Ruiz has picked up a toy from her desk- a fluffy animal stuck on the end of a pen.

‘Confiscated,’ she explains. ‘You should see my collection.’

She straightens a stack of essays and tucks them inside a folder. I look around. ‘You’re teaching at your old school.’

‘Who would have thought?’ she says. ‘I was a complete tear-away at school. Not as bad as Sylvie, mind you. That’s why they were always trying to separate us.’

She’s nervous. It makes her want to talk. I let her carry on, knowing she’ll run out of steam.

‘My careers advisor told me I’d become an out-of-work actress who waited tables. I did have one teacher, Mr Halliday- he taught me English- who said I should consider teaching. My parents are still laughing.’

She glances at Ruiz and back to me, growing more anxious.

‘You mentioned that Helen Chambers sent you an email organising the reunion.’

She nods.

‘It must have come from someone else.’

‘Why?’

‘Helen died three months ago.’

The folder slides from Maureen’s fingers and essay papers spill across the floor. She curses and bends, trying to gather them together. Her hands are shaking.

‘How?’ she whispers.

‘She drowned. It was a ferry accident in Greece. Her daughter was with her. We spoke to her parents this morning.’

‘Oh, those poor, poor people… poor Helen.’

I’m on the floor beside her, collecting the scattered papers, bundling them haphazardly back into the folder. Something has changed in Maureen, a hollowness that echoes in her heartbeat. She’s suddenly in a dark place, listening to a dull repeated rhythm in her head.

‘But if Helen died three months ago- how did she… I mean… she…’

‘Someone else must have sent the email.’

‘Who?’

‘We were hoping you might know.’

She shakes her head, sticky-eyed and wavering, as if suddenly unable to recognise her surroundings or to remember where she’s supposed to be next.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, right.’

‘Can I see the email?’

She nods. ‘Come to the staff room. There’s a computer.’

We follow her along the corridor and up another set of stairs. Chatter and laughter flood through the windows from outside, filling even the quietest corners.

Two students are waiting outside the staffroom. They want an extension on an English assignment. Maureen is too preoccupied to listen to their excuses. She gives them until Monday and sends them on their way.

The staffroom is almost completely deserted except for a fossil of a man, motionless in his chair with his eyes closed. I think he’s sleeping until I notice the ear jacks. He doesn’t stir as Maureen sits at a computer and logs on with her username and password. She opens her email messages and searches backward through the dates.

The message from Helen Chambers is headed: Guess who’s back in town? It was sent on September 16 and copied to Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness.

Hi gang,

It’s me. I’m back in the country and looking forward to seeing you all. How about we get together this Friday at the Garrick’s Head? Champagne and chips all round- just like the old days.

I can’t believe it’s been eight years. I hope you’re all fatter and frumpier than I am- (that means you too, Sylvie.) I might even get my legs waxed for the occasion.

Be there or be square. The Garrick’s Head. 7.30 p.m. Friday. I can’t wait.

Love Helen

‘Does it sound like her?’ I ask.