Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘Yes.’

‘Anything strange about it?’

Maureen shakes her head. ‘We used to go to the Garrick’s Head all the time. In our last year at Oakfield Helen was the only one of us who had a car. She used to drive us all home.’

The message came through a web-based server. It’s easy to create an account and get a password and username.

‘You mentioned that she emailed you earlier.’

Again she searches for Helen’s name. The previous message arrived on May 29.

Dear Mo, it begins. It must be Maureen’s nickname.

Long time no see… or hear. Sorry I’m such a slack correspondent, but I have my reasons. Things have been tough these last few yearswith lots of changes and challenges. The big news is that I’ve left my husband. It’s a long sad story, which I won’t go into now, suffice to say that things didn’t work out for us. For a long while I’ve been terribly lost but now I’m almost out of the woods.

For the next few months I’m taking a holiday with my beautiful daughter Chloe. We’re going to clear our heads and have some adventures, which are long overdue.

Stay tuned. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. We’ll get together at the Garrick’s Head and have a night out with the old gang. Do they still do champagne and chips?

I miss you and Sylvie and Christine. I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me in so long. I’ll explain it all later.

Lots of love to all,

Helen.

I read both messages again. The language and neat construction are similar, along with casual tone and use of short sentences. Nothing stands out as being forced or fabricated yet Helen Chambers wasn’t alive to write the second email.

She wrote of being ‘out of the woods’ referring I assume to her marriage.

‘Was there anything else?’ I ask. ‘Letters, postcards, phone calls…’

Maureen shakes her head.

‘What was Helen like?’ I ask.

She smiles. ‘Adorable.’

‘I need a little more than that.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Colour is returned to her cheeks. She glances at her colleague, who still hasn’t stirred in his chair.

‘Helen was the sensible one. She was the last one of us to have a boyfriend. Sylvie spent years trying to hook her up with different guys, but Helen didn’t feel any pressure. Sometimes I felt sorry for her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘She always said her father wanted a son and she could never quite match up to his expectations. She did have a brother, but he died when Helen was young. Some sort of accident with a tractor.’

Maureen turns in a worn swivel chair and crosses her legs. I ask her again how she and Helen lost touch. Her lips tighten and jerk at the corners.

‘It just seemed to happen. I don’t think her husband liked us very much. Sylvia thought he was jealous of how close we all were.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Gideon.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘Once. Helen and Gideon came back from Northern Ireland for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. People were invited for the whole weekend, but Helen and Gideon left on Saturday at lunchtime. Something happened. I don’t know what.

‘Gideon was quite strange. Very secretive. Apparently he only invited one person to their wedding- his father- who got hideously drunk and embarrassed him.’

‘What does this Gideon do?’

‘He’s something or other in the military, but none of us ever saw him in uniform. We used to joke that he was some sort of spy, like in Spooks, you know the TV programme? Helen sent this one letter to Christine that had red ink stamped across the flap saying it had been scanned and opened for security reasons.’

‘Where was the letter posted?’

‘Germany. After Helen married they were stationed in Northern Ireland and later they went to Germany.’

Another teacher has turned up at the staffroom. She nods to us, curious about our presence, and collects a mobile phone from a desk drawer, taking it outside to make a call.

Maureen gives her head a clearing shake. ‘Poor Mr and Mrs Chambers.’

‘Did you know them well?’

‘Not really. Mr Chambers was big and loud. I remember this one particular day when he tried to squeeze into a pair of breeches and boots to go hunting. God, he looked a sight. I felt more sorry for the horse than I did for the fox.’ She smiles. ‘How are they?’

‘Sad.’

‘They also seem frightened,’ adds Ruiz, who is gazing out the window at the playground. ‘Can you think of a reason?’

Maureen shakes her head and her brown eyes gaze hard into mine. Another question is hovering on her lips.

‘Do you know why? I mean, whoever did this to Chris and Sylvie, what did he want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will he stop now, do you think?’

Ruiz turns away from the window. ‘Do you have any children, Maureen?’

‘A son.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Sixteen. Why?’

She knows the answer but anxiety makes her ask the question anyway.

‘Is there anywhere you could stay for a few days?’ I ask.

Fear catches alight in her eyes. ‘I could ask Bruno if he could put us up.’

‘That might be a good idea.’

My mobile is vibrating in my pocket. It’s Veronica Cray.

‘I tried you at home, Professor. Your wife didn’t know where you were.’

‘How can I help you, DI?’

‘I’m looking for Darcy Wheeler.’

‘She’s with her aunt.’

‘Not any more- she ran away last night. Packed a bag and took some of her mother’s jewellery. I thought she might try to reach you? She seems to like you.’

Saliva turns to dust in my mouth.

‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’

Veronica Cray doesn’t ask why. I’m not going to tell her.

‘You talked to her yesterday after the funeral. How did she seem?’

‘She was upset. Her aunt wants her to live in Spain.’

‘Worse things in life.’

‘Not to Darcy.’

‘So she didn’t say anything… confide?’

‘No.’ Guilt seems to thicken the word until I can barely spit it out. ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

‘Figured I might leave it a day or two. See what happens.’

‘She’s only sixteen.’

‘Old enough to find her way home.’

I’m about to argue. She’s not about to listen. For DI Cray this is an added complication, one that she doesn’t need. Darcy hasn’t been kidnapped and she’s not a threat to herself or a danger to the public. Missing Persons won’t break any records looking for a teenage runaway. In the meantime, there’s a press briefing organised for three o’clock this afternoon. I’m supposed to make a statement and appeal directly to the killer.

The call ends and I relay the news to Ruiz, who is driving. ‘She’ll turn up,’ he says, sounding like he’s seen it a dozen times before. Maybe he has. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I call Darcy’s mobile and get a recorded message:

‘Hi, this is me. I’m unavailable. Leave me a message after the beep. Make it short and sweet- just like me…’

It beeps.

‘Hey, it’s Joe. Call me…’ What else am I going to say? ‘I just want to know if you’re OK. People are worried. I’m worried. So call me, OK? Please.’

Ruiz is listening.

I punch another number. Julianne answers.

‘The police are trying to find you,’ she says.

‘I know. Darcy has run away.’

The silence is meant to be neutral but she’s caught between concern and exasperation.

‘Do they know where she’s gone?’

‘No.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Darcy may call or come to the house. Keep your eye out for her.’

‘I’ll ask around the village.’

‘Good idea.’