Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘When are you coming home?’

‘Soon. I have to go to a press briefing.’

‘Will it be over then?’

‘Soon.’

Julianne wants me to say yes. ‘I found a nanny. She’s Australian.’

‘Well, I won’t hold that against her.’

‘She starts tomorrow.’

‘That’s good.’

She hangs on, expecting me to say something more. The silence says otherwise.

‘Have you taken your pills?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to go.’

‘OK.’

She hangs up.

The conference room at Trinity Road police station is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and strip lighting. Every seat is taken and most of the side walls are supporting shoulders.

The national newspapers have rolled out their gun reporters rather than rely on West-Country stringers. I recognise some of them- Luckett from the Telegraph, Montgomery from The Times and Pearson from the Daily Mail. Some of them know me.

I watch from a side door. Monk is directing the camera crews, trying to stop any arguments. He gives me a nod. DI Cray goes first, wearing a charcoal jacket and white shirt. I follow her onto a slightly raised platform where a long table faces the media. Microphones and recording equipment have been taped to the front edge, showing station bandwidths and logos.

The TV lights are turned on and flashguns fire. The DI pours a glass of water for herself, giving the reporters time to settle.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ she says, addressing the audience rather than the cameras. ‘This is a briefing, not a press conference. I will be reading a statement of the facts and then handing over to Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. There will be a limited opportunity to ask questions at the end of the briefing.

‘As you’re aware, a task force has been set up to investigate the murder of Sylvia Furness. A second suspicious death has been added to this investigation- that of Christine Wheeler, who jumped from the Clifton Suspension Bridge a week ago last Friday.’

An image of Christine Wheeler is projected onto a screen behind the DI’s head. It’s a holiday snap, taken at a water park. Christine’s hair is wet and she’s posing in a sarong and T-shirt.

There are murmurs of astonishment from the ranks. Many in the room saw Christine Wheeler die. How did such an obvious suicide suddenly become a murder victim?

Meanwhile, the facts are being presented- age, height, hair colour, single status and her career as a wedding planner. Soon the details shift to the day of her death. Christine’s last journey is outlined, the phone calls and her walk through Leigh Woods wearing only a raincoat and high-heel shoes. CCTV images from the bridge are flashed onto the screen.

The reporters are growing restless. They want an explanation but DI Cray won’t be rushed. She is listing details of the phone calls. Certain facts are withheld. There is no mention of the ballet shoes that were delivered to Darcy’s school or the pet rabbit left on Alice Furness’s doorstep. These are things that only the killer could know which means they can be used to filter out genuine callers from the hoaxers.

DI Cray has finished. She introduces me. I flip through my notes and clear my throat.

‘Sometimes in my work I come across individuals who fascinate me and appal me in equal measure. The man who committed these crimes fascinates and appals me. He is intelligent, articulate, manipulative, sadistic, cruel and pitiless. He didn’t lash out with his fists. He destroyed these women by preying on their worst fears. I want to understand why. I want to understand his motives and why he chose these women.

‘If he’s listening now or if he watches on TV or if he reads about it in the newspapers, I’d really like him to get in contact with me. I want him to help me understand.’

There is a hubbub at the back of the room. I pause. Veronica Cray stiffens in alarm. I follow her gaze. Assistant Chief Constable Fowler is pushing his way through the crowded doorway. Heads turn. His arrival has become an event.

There are no spare chairs in the room except at the main table. For a fleeting moment the Assistant Chief Constable considers his options and then continues along the central aisle until he reaches the front of the room. Placing his hat on the table, leather gloves tucked inside, he takes a seat.

‘Carry on,’ he says gruffly.

I hesitate… look at Cray… back at my notes.

Someone calls out a question. Two more follow. I try to ignore them. Montgomery, the man from The Times, is on his feet.

‘You said he preyed on their worst fears. Exactly what do you mean? I saw footage of Christine Wheeler on the Clifton Suspension Bridge. She jumped. Nobody pushed her.’

‘She was threatened.’

‘How was she threatened?’

‘Let me finish, then I’ll take questions.’

More reporters are standing, unwilling to wait. DI Cray tries to intervene, but Fowler beats her to the microphone, calling for quiet.

‘This is a formal briefing, not a free-for-all,’ he booms. ‘You’ll ask your questions one at a time or you’ll get nothing at all.’

The reporters resume their seats. ‘That’s better,’ says Fowler, who peers at the assembly like a disappointed schoolmaster, itching to use the cane.

A hand is raised. It belongs to Montgomery. ‘How did he threaten her, sir?’

The question is directed at Fowler, who pulls the nearest microphone even closer.

‘We are investigating the possibility that this man intimidates and manipulates women by targeting their daughters. There has been speculation that he threatens the daughters to make the mother co-operate.’

This drops a depth charge in the room and thirty hands shoot skyward. Fowler points to another reporter. The briefing has turned into a question and answer session.

‘Are the daughters harmed?’

‘No, the daughters aren’t touched, but these women were made to believe otherwise.’

‘How?’

‘We don’t know at this stage.’

DI Cray is furious. The tension at the table is obvious. Pearson from the Daily Mail senses an opportunity.

‘Assistant Chief Constable, we’ve heard Professor O’Loughlin say that he wants to “understand” the killer. Is that your desire?’

Fowler leans forward. ‘No.’ He leans back.

‘Do you agree with the Professor’s assessment?’

He leans forward. ‘No.’

‘Why’s that, sir?’

‘Professor O’Loughlin’s services are not materially important to this investigation.’

‘So you can see no benefit in his offender profile?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Well, why is he here?’

‘That’s not a question I’m going to answer.’

Raised hands are slowly being lowered. The reporters are happy to let Pearson prod the Assistant Chief Constable, looking for a raw nerve. Veronica Cray tries to interrupt but Fowler won’t surrender the microphone.

Pearson doesn’t let up. ‘Professor O’Loughlin has said that he’s fascinated by the killer- are you also fascinated, Assistant Chief Constable?’

‘No.’

‘He said he wants the killer to call him, don’t you think that’s important?’

Fowler snaps. ‘I don’t give a toss what the Professor wants. You people, the media watch too much TV. You think murders are solved by shrinks and scientists and psychics. Bollocks! Murders are solved by good, solid, old-fashioned detective work- by knocking on doors, by interviewing witnesses and by taking statements.’

Ropes of spit are landing on the microphones as Fowler stabs his finger at Pearson, punctuating each of his points.

‘What the police don’t need in this investigation is some university professor who has never made an arrest or ridden in a police car or confronted a violent criminal telling us how to do our job. And it doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know we’re dealing with a pervert and a coward, who targets the weak and the vulnerable because he can’t get a woman, or hold on to one, or because he wasn’t breastfed as a baby…