Michael Robotham - Shatter

Outside the day has disappeared. Everything about my clothes and my thoughts has a soiled wrapper feel to it. I’m tired. Tired of talking. Tired of people. Tired of wishing things made sense.

Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness grew tired. It was as if their killer pressed a fast forward button and stole years from their lives, decades of experiences both good and bad. He used up their energy, their fight, their will to live; then he watched them die.

Julianne was right. The dead remain dead, no matter what happens. I understand that intellectually but not in the hollow space that echoes in my chest. The heart has reasons that reason cannot understand.

The school yearbook is open beneath my fingers, displaying her class photograph. Friends are behind her and beside her. Some of them haven’t changed at all since 1988. Others have grown fat and dyed their hair. And just one or two have blossomed like late flowering roses amid the weeds.

Surprisingly, many have stayed in the area. Married. Had children. Divorced. Separated. One died of breast cancer. One lives in New Zealand. Two live with each other.

The TV is on. I flick through the channels but there’s nothing to watch. A rolling banner catches my attention. It says something about a manhunt for a double killer.

A pretty, plastic woman is reading the news with her eyes focused slightly to the left where an autocue must be rolling. She crosses to a reporter who talks to camera, nodding sagely with all the sincerity of a doctor holding a needle behind his back.

Then the scene changes to a conference room. The dyke detective and the shrink are side-by-side like Laurel and Hardy. Laverne and Shirley. Torvill and Dean. One of the great show-business partnerships is born.

They’re talking to reporters. Most of the questions are being answered by a senior policeman who has a bug up his arse about something. I turn up the sound.

‘… we’re dealing with a pervert and a coward, who targets the weak and vulnerable because he can’t get a woman or hold on to one, or because he wasn’t breastfed as a baby.’

‘The profile Professor O’Loughlin has drawn up doesn’t pass the so-what test in my opinion. Yes, we’re looking for a local man, aged thirty to fifty who works shifts and hates women. Fairly bloody obvious, I would have thought. No science in that.

‘The Professor wants us to show this man respect. He wants to reach out to him with the hand of compassion and understanding. Not on my watch. This perpetrator is a scumbag and he’ll get all the respect he wants in prison because that’s where he’s going…’

The media circus ends in uproar. The plastic woman moves on to another story.

Who are these people? They have no idea of who they’re dealing with and what I’m capable of. They think it’s a game. They think I’m a fucking amateur.

I can walk through walls.

I can unlock people’s minds.

I can listen to the pins fall into place and the tumblers turn.

Click… click… click…

I wake in the folds of a duvet holding a pillow. I missed seeing Julianne wake and get dressed. I like seeing her slip out of bed in the half-light and the cold, lifting her nightdress over her head. My eyes are drawn to her small brown nipples and the dimple in the small of her back, just above the elastic of her knickers.

This morning she is already downstairs, making breakfast for the girls. Other sounds drift from outside- a tractor in the lane, a dog barking, Mrs Nutall calling to her cats. Opening the curtains, I assess the day. Blue sky. Distant clouds.

A man is standing in the churchyard, looking at the gravestones. I can just make him out through the branches, wiping his eyes and holding a small vase of flowers. Perhaps he lost a wife or a mother or a father. It could be an anniversary or a birthday. He bends and digs a small hollow, resting the vase inside and pressing earth around it.

Sometimes I wonder if I should take the girls to a church service. I’m not particularly religious but I’d like them to have a sense of the unknown. I don’t want them to be too obsessed with truth and certainty.

I get changed and make my way downstairs. Charlie is in the kitchen wearing her school uniform. Soft strands of her hair have pulled out of her ponytail, framing her face.

‘Is this bacon for me?’ I ask, picking up a rasher.

‘It’s not mine. I don’t eat bacon,’ says Charlie.

‘Since when?’

‘Since forever.’

Forever seems to have been redefined since I was at school.

‘Why?’

‘I’m a vegetarian. My friend Ashley says we shouldn’t be killing defenceless animals to satisfy our lust for leather shoes and bacon sandwiches.’

‘How old is Ashley?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘And what does her father do?’

‘He’s a capitalist.’

‘Do you know what that is?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘If you don’t eat meat, how will you get iron?’

‘Spinach.’

‘You hate spinach.’

‘Broccoli.’

‘Ditto.’

‘Four of the five food groups will be enough.’

‘There are five?’

‘Don’t be so sarcastic, Dad.’

Julianne has taken Emma to get the morning papers. I make myself a coffee and put slices of bread in the toaster. The phone rings.

‘Hello?’

There’s no answer. I hear the soft whoosh of traffic; brakes are applied, vehicles slow and stop. There must be an intersection nearby or a set of traffic lights.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’

Nothing.

‘Is that you, Darcy?’

There’s still no answer. I imagine I can hear her breathing. The traffic lights have changed again. Vehicles move off.

‘Just talk to me, Darcy, tell me you’re OK.’

The line goes dead. I press my finger to the receiver button and let it go. I dial Darcy’s mobile. I get the same recorded message as before.

I wait for the beep.

‘Darcy. Next time talk to me.’

I hang up. Charlie has been listening.

‘Why did she run away?’

‘Who told you she ran away?’

‘Mum.’

‘Darcy doesn’t want to live in Spain with her aunt.’

‘Where else will she live?’

I don’t answer. I’m making myself a bacon sandwich.

‘She could live with us,’ says Charlie.

‘I thought you didn’t like her.’

She shrugs and pours herself a glass of orange juice. ‘She was OK, I guess. She had some great clothes.’

‘That’s all?’

‘Well, no, not the only thing. I sort of feel sorry for her- about what happened to her mum.’

Julianne appears through the back door with Emma. ‘Who do you feel sorry for?’

‘Darcy.’

Julianne looks at me. ‘Have you heard from her?’

I shake my head.

Wearing a simple dress and cardigan she looks happier, younger, more relaxed. Emma ducks in and out between her legs. Julianne holds down the hem as a modesty precaution.

‘Can you drop Charlie at school? She’s missed the bus.’

‘Sure.’

‘The new nanny will be here in fifteen minutes.’

‘The Australian.’

‘You make her sound like a convict.’

‘I have nothing against Australians but if she mentions the cricket she’ll have to leave.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I was thinking that maybe- now that Imogen has arrived- we could go for dinner tonight. It could be an “us date”.’

‘An “us date”. Mmmmm.’ I grab Emma and haul her onto my lap. ‘Well, I might be available. I will have to check my busy schedule. But if I do say yes, I don’t want you getting any funny ideas.’

‘Me? Never. Although I may wear my black lingerie.’

Charlie covers her ears. ‘I know what you guys are talking about and it’s sooooo gross.’