Michael Robotham - Shatter

The call ends. I look at Julianne. Her face doesn’t begin to hint at what’s on her mind.

I tell her that I have to leave. I tell her why. Without a word she stands and gathers her coat. We haven’t ordered. We haven’t eaten. She signals for the bill and pays for the wine.

I follow her across the restaurant, her hips swinging fluidly beneath her dress, articulating more in a few paces than most people manage in an hour of conversation. I walk her to the car. She gets in. There’s no kiss goodbye. Her face is an unknowable combination of disappointment and disconnection. I want to go after her, to win back the moment, but it’s too late.

Fears and imaginings. They begin as a tiny ceaseless tremor inside me, a buzzing blade that gnaws at the soft wet tissue opening up great cavities that are still not large enough for my lungs to expand.

I have talked to Bruno. He is a different man. Diminished. It is after midnight. Maureen is still missing. Her mobile phone has stopped transmitting. Oliver Rabb has traced the dying signal to a phone tower on the southern edge of Victoria Park in Bath. Police are searching the surrounding streets.

Coincidences and small occurrences keep adding themselves to this story, complicating the picture instead of making it clearer. The emails. The reunion. Gideon Tyler. I have no clear evidence he is behind this. Ruiz has gone to his last known address. There’s nobody home.

Veronica Cray has made two official requests to the MOD for information. So far silence. We have no idea if Tyler is still serving in the army or if he’s resigned his commission. When did he leave Germany? How long has he been home? What’s he been doing?

Maureen’s car is found just after 5.00 a.m., parked in Queen Street near the gates to Victoria Park. Two standing lions watch over the vehicle from stone plinths. The headlights are on. The driver’s door is open. Maureen’s mobile is resting on the seat. The battery is dead.

Victoria Park covers fifty-seven acres and has seven entrances. I look through the railing fences into the gloom. The sky is purple black, an hour before dawn and the air is freezing. We could have a thousand officers turning over every leaf and still not find Maureen.

Instead we have two dozen officers wearing reflective vests and carrying torches. The dog squad will be here by seven. A helicopter sweeps above us, tethered by a beam of light to the ground.

We move off in pairs. Monk is with me. His long legs are made for crossing open ground in the dark; and his voice is like a foghorn. I hold a torch in one hand and my walking stick in the other, watching the beam of light reflect off wet grass and the trees, turning them silver.

Staying on the gravel path until we pass the tennis courts and the pitch amp; putt, we then veer right climbing the slope. On the high side of the park, the Palladian style terraces of the Royal Crescent are etched against the sky. Lights are coming on. People have heard the helicopter.

Two dozen torches are moving between the trees like bloated fireflies, unable to lift off. At the same time the park lights are like balls of yellow blurred by the pre-dawn mist.

Monk is carrying a radio. He stops suddenly and raises it to his ear. The message is punctuated by static. I catch only a few words. Maureen’s name is mentioned and something about a gun.

‘Come on, Professor,’ says Monk, grabbing my arm.

‘What is it?’

‘She’s alive.’

Half-running and half-hobbling, I struggle to keep up with him. We head west along Royal Avenue towards the fishpond and the adventure playground. I know this area of Victoria Park. I have been here with Charlie and Emma, watching hot air balloons lift off on twilight flights.

The old Victorian bandstand appears from the darkness like an enormous cake mould cut in half and plonked near the pond. Low hanging branches reach across the gaps in the trees.

I see her then. Maureen. Naked. Kneeling at the base of the bandstand with her arms spread wide in a classic stress position. Her arms must be in agony- growing heavier by the moment.

Clasped tightly in her left fist is a pistol, adding to the weight. She’s wearing a black eye mask- the sort they give out on long-distance airline flights.

A torch beam hits my face. I raise my hand to shield my eyes. Safari Roy lowers the beam.

‘I’ve called ARG.’

I look at Monk for an explanation.

‘The Armed Response Group,’ he says.

‘I don’t think she’s going to shoot anyone.’

‘It’s protocol. She has a firearm.’

‘Has she made any threat?’

Roy looks at me incredulously. ‘Well, that gun looks fairly fucking threatening. Every time we get close she waves it around.’

I peer across the open ground. Maureen is kneeling with her head tilted forward. Apart from the mask over her eyes, there is something else around her head. She’s wearing headphones.

‘She can’t hear you,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the headphones. They’re probably attached to a mobile. She’s talking to someone.’

Roy sucks air through his teeth.

It’s happening again. He’s isolating her.

DI Cray arrives, breathing hard. The cuffs of her trousers are wet and she’s wearing a woollen ski hat which makes her face look completely round. ‘Where in fuck’s name did she get a gun?’

Nobody answers. A fat duck, startled by the noise, takes off from the weeds that fringe the pond. For a moment it seems to walk on the water before gaining height and lifting its undercarriage.

Maureen must be freezing. How long has she been out here? Her car engine was cold and the headlights had almost drained the battery. She was last seen twelve hours ago. He’s had all this time to break her… to fill her mind with terrible thoughts, to drip poison in her ear.

Where is he? Watching. Police should seal off the park and set up roadblocks. No. Once he sees officers begin to fan out to search for him, he’ll probably make Maureen do something with the gun. We have to move quietly- from the outside in.

First we have to terminate the call. There must be some way to isolate the nearest phone tower and close it down. Terrorists use mobile phones to detonate bombs. Surely there’s a black out switch to freeze communications if a bomb threat is made.

Maureen hasn’t moved. The mask makes her eyes look like black hollows. Her arms are shaking uncontrollably. The pistol is too heavy to hold aloft. A puddle of darkness stains the concrete at her feet.

Somehow I have to break the spell he’s cast over her. A thought loop is running in Maureen’s head. It’s similar to those experienced by obsessive compulsives who must wash their hands a certain number of times or check the locks or turn off the lights in a certain order. He has put these thoughts in her mind- now she can’t let them go. I have to disrupt this loop, but how? She can’t hear me or see me.

The darkness is receding. The wind has died. I can hear sirens in the distance. The Armed Response Group. They’re coming with guns.

Maureen’s arms are dropping. They’re too heavy. Maybe if the police rushed her, they could disarm her before she fired.

Veronica Cray is signalling her officers to stay back. She doesn’t want casualties. I catch her attention. ‘Let me talk to her.’

‘She can’t hear you.’

‘Let me try.’

‘Wait for the ARG.’

‘She can’t hold that gun up much longer.’

‘That’s good.’

‘No. He’ll make her do something before then.’

She glances at Monk. ‘Get him a bulletproof vest.’

‘Yes, boss.’

The vest is fetched from one of the cars. The buckles are loosened and then tightened around my chest. Monk embraces me like a tango dancer. The vest is lighter than I imagined, but still bulky. I pause a moment. The sky has turned to turquoise and watery mauve. Picking up my walking stick and a trauma blanket, I move towards Maureen, watching the pistol in her right hand.