Michael Robotham - Shatter

Stopping about fifteen yards away, I say her name. She doesn’t react. The headphones have separated her from her surroundings. I can just make out the wire running down her chest to a mobile phone resting between her knees.

I say her name again, louder this time. The gun swings towards metoo far to the left and then to the right. He’s telling her where to aim.

I move to the left. The gun follows me. If I were suddenly to throw myself at her, she might not have time to react. Perhaps I could wrestle the gun away.

This is stupid. Foolish. I can hear Julianne’s voice. Arguing. ‘Why are you the one who charges into danger?’ she says. ‘Why can’t you be the one who runs the other way, shouting for help?’

I’m at the steps now. Raising my walking stick, I smash it down hard on the handrail. The crack reverberates through the park, magnified by the fading darkness. Maureen flinches. She’s heard the sound.

I smash the handrail again once, twice, three times, diverting her attention from the voice in her ears. She shakes her head. Her left arm bends and her fingers lift the mask from her eyes. She blinks at me, trying to focus. Her eyes are streaked with tears. The barrel of the gun hasn’t moved. She doesn’t want to shoot me.

I motion for Maureen to take off the headphones. She shakes her head. I raise a finger and mouth the words, ‘One minute.’

Another refusal. She’s listening to him, not me.

I take a step towards her. The gun steadies. I wonder how effective these vests are. Will they stop a bullet from this range?

Maureen nods to nobody and reaches for the headphones, lifting a cup away from her left ear. He told her to do it. He wants her to hear me.

‘Do you remember me, Maureen?’

A quick nod of the head.

‘Do you know where you are?’

Another nod.

‘I understand what’s happening, Maureen. Somebody is talking to you. You can hear him now.’ Hair has fallen over her eyes. ‘He says that he has someone… someone close to you. Your son.’

Heartbroken assent.

‘It’s not true, Maureen. He doesn’t have Jackson. He’s lying to you.’

She shakes her head.

‘Listen to me. Jackson is at home with Bruno. He’s safe. Remember what happened to Christine and Sylvia? The same thing. He told Christine that he had Darcy and Sylvia that he had Alice, but it wasn’t true. Darcy and Alice were fine. They were never in danger.’

She wants to believe me.

‘I know he’s very convincing, Maureen. He knows things about you, doesn’t he?’

She nods.

‘And he knows things about Jackson. Where he goes to school. What he looks like.’

Maureen sobs, ‘He was late getting home… I waited… I called Jackson’s phone.’

‘Someone stole it.’

‘I heard him screaming.’

‘It was a trick. Jackson was locked in the changing rooms at football practice. But he’s out now. He’s safe.’

I’m trying not to stare at the barrel of the gun. The pieces are together now. He must have stolen Jackson’s mobile and locked him in the changing rooms. His cries for help were recorded and played down the line to Maureen.

She heard her son screaming. It was enough to convince her. It would have convinced most people. It would have convinced me.

The barrel of the pistol is all over the place, painting the air. Maureen’s right forefinger is curled around the trigger. Her hands are freezing. Even if she wanted to uncurl her finger she probably couldn’t.

In the periphery of my vision I see dark shapes crouching between the trees and shrubs. The Armed Response Group. They have rifles.

‘Listen to me, Maureen. You can talk to Jackson. Put down the gun and we’ll phone him right now.’ I take out my mobile. ‘I’ll call Bruno. He’ll put Jackson on the line.’

I can feel the change in her. She’s listening. She wants to believe me… to hope. Then just as suddenly, in a half-breath, her eyes widen and she drops the cup of the headphone over her ear.

I yell at her, ‘NO. DON‘T LISTEN TO HIM.’

Her eyes flicker. The barrel of the pistol is doing figure eight patterns. She’s just as likely to miss me as hit me.

‘JACKSON‘S SAFE! I PROMISE YOU.’

A switch has clicked off in her head. She’s no longer listening to me. Her second hand is now gripping the pistol, holding it steady. She’s going to do it. She’s going to pull the trigger. Please don’t shoot me, Maureen.

I lunge towards her. My left leg locks and carries me down. At the same moment the air explodes and Maureen’s body jerks. A red mist sprays across my eyes. I blink it away. She slumps forward, collapsing over her knees, face first, hips in the air, as if subjugating herself to the new day.

The mobile clatters onto the concrete. The pistol follows, bouncing end over end and sliding to a stop beneath my chin.

Something inside me has opened; a black vacuum that is flooded with rage. I pick up the handset and scream, ‘YOU SICK, SICK FUCK!’

The insult echoes back at me. Silence. Punctuated by the sound of someone breathing. Calmly. Quietly.

People are running towards me. A police officer dressed in body armour crouches a dozen feet away, his rifle pointed at me.

‘Put the gun down, sir.’

My ears are still ringing. I look at the pistol in my hand.

‘Sir, put down the gun.’

The sun is up, hidden behind grey clouds that seem low enough to have been painted by hand. White plastic sheets, strung between pillars, are shielding where Maureen Bracken fell.

She’s alive. The bullet entered beneath her right collarbone and exited six inches below her right shoulder, near the middle of her back. The police marksman had aimed to wound, not to kill.

Surgeons are waiting to operate at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Maureen is en route in an ambulance, escorted by two police cars. Meanwhile officers are scouring Victoria Park. The entrances have been sealed off and the perimeter fences are being patrolled.

Two cordons- inner and outer- create concentric circles around the bandstand, limiting access and allowing the forensic teams to safeguard the crime scene. I watch them working, while sitting on the steps with a silver trauma blanket wrapped around my shoulders. The blood on my face has dried into brittle scabs that flake off on my fingertips.

Veronica Cray joins me. I clench my left fist and open it again. It doesn’t stop the shaking.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t look fine. I can have someone drop you home.’

‘I’ll stay for a while.’

The DI muses a moment, gazing at the duck pond where the branches of a willow tree droop into the foam-scummed water. A search warrant is being sought for Gideon Tyler’s last known address, this time with renewed urgency. Detectives are interviewing neighbours and looking for family links. Every aspect of his life will be documented and cross-checked.

‘You think he’s good for this?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would he hope to achieve by murdering his wife’s friends?’

‘He’s a sexual sadist. He doesn’t need any other reason.’

‘But you think he has one?’

‘Yes.’

‘The break-in at the Chambers house, the phone calls and threats, all began when Helen left him and went into hiding with Chloe. Gideon was trying to find them.’

‘OK, I can understand that, but now they’re dead.’

‘Maybe Gideon is so angry and bitter he’s going to destroy anyone close to Helen. Like I said, sexual sadists don’t need to look for any other reasons. They’re driven by a whole different set of impulses.’

I press my face in my hands. I’m tired. My mind is tired. Yet it cannot stop working. Somebody broke into Christine Wheeler’s house and opened the condolence cards. They were looking for a name or address.