Michael Robotham - Shatter

‘What does that mean?’

‘His is a hatred that demands we step aside; it negates the rights of others, it cleanses, it poisons, it dictates his beliefs. Hate is what sustains him.’

‘Who will he target next?’

‘No way of telling. Helen’s family are protected but she must have plenty of other friends.’

DI Cray leans hard on her knees, looking for a scrap of comfort in the polished caps of her shoes. A platform announcement ripples the air. She has to leave.

Buttoning her overcoat, she stands, says goodbye and hustles across the concourse towards her waiting train with an ogreish intensity. Ruiz watches her go and scratches his nose.

‘Do you think inside Cray there’s a thin woman, trying to get out?’

‘Two of them.’

‘You want a drink?’

I look at my watch. ‘Another time. Julianne’s party starts at eight. I want to buy her a present.’

‘Like what?’

‘Jewellery is always nice.’

‘Only if you’re having an affair.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Expensive gifts express guilt.’

‘No they don’t.’

‘The more expensive the jewellery, the deeper the guilt.’

‘You are a very sad suspicious man.’

‘I’ve been married three times. I know these things.’

Ruiz is watching me sidelong. I can feel my left hand twitching.

‘Julianne’s been away a lot. Travelling. I miss her. I thought I might buy her something special.’

My excuses sound too strident. I should just be quiet. I’m not going to tell Ruiz about Julianne’s boss, or the room service receipt, or the lingerie or the phone calls. And I’m not going to mention Darcy’s kiss or Julianne’s question about whether I still love her. I won’t say anything- and he won’t ask.

That’s one of the great paradoxes of friendship between men. It’s like an unspoken code: you don’t start tunnelling unless you hit rock bottom.

The central hall of the Natural History Museum has been transformed into a prehistoric forest. Monkeys, reptiles and birds seem to scale the terracotta walls and soaring arches. A skeletal Diplodocus is lit up in green.

I am showered, neatly shaved and medicated, dressed in my finest evening attire, which hasn’t had an airing for almost two years. Julianne told me to hire a tux from Moss Bros but why waste a perfectly good old one?

I arrived alone. Julianne didn’t get to the hotel in time. More problems at work, she said, without elaborating. She’s coming separately with Dirk and the chairman, Eugene Franklin. A hundred or more of her colleagues are here, being fed and watered by waiters, who move across the mosaic floor with silver trays of champagne. The men are dressed in black tie (far more fashionable than mine) and the women look svelte in cocktail dresses with plunging necklines, daring backs and high heels. They are professional couples, venture capitalists, bankers and accountants. In the eighties they were ‘masters of the universe’ now they make do with mastering corporations and conglomerates.

I should be drinking orange juice but can’t find one. I guess one glass of champagne won’t hurt. I don’t go to many parties. Late nights and alcohol are on my list of things to avoid. Mr Parkinson might turn up. He might seize my left arm in mid-mouthful or mid-sip and leave me frozen like one of the stuffed primates on the second floor.

Julianne should be here by now. Rising on my toes, I look for her over the heads. I see a beautiful woman at the bottom of the stairs, in a flowing silk gown that swoops in elegant folds down to the small of her back and between her breasts. For a moment I don’t recognise her. It’s Julianne. I haven’t seen the gown before. I wish I had bought it for her.

Someone stumbles in to me, spilling her champagne.

‘It’s these bloody heels,’ she explains, apologetically, offering me a napkin.

Tall, reed-thin and well on the way to being drunk, she dangles a champagne flute between her fingers.

‘You’re obviously an other half,’ she says.

‘Pardon?’

‘Someone’s husband,’ she explains.

‘How can you tell?’

‘You look lost. I’m Felicity, by the way. People call me Flip.’

She offers me two fingers to shake. I’m still trying to make eye contact with Julianne.

‘I’m Joe.’

‘Mr Joe.’

‘Joe O’Loughlin.’

Her eyes widen in surprise. ‘So you’re the mysterious husband. I thought Julianne wore a fake wedding ring.’

‘Who has a fake wedding ring?’ interrupts a smaller, top-heavy woman.

‘Nobody. This is Julianne’s husband.’

‘Really?’

‘Why would she wear a fake wedding ring?’ I ask.

Flip plucks another glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘To ward off unwelcome suitors, of course, but it doesn’t always work. Some men see it as a challenge.’

The small woman giggles and her decolletage quakes. She’s so short that I can’t look at her face without feeling that I’m staring at her cleavage.

Julianne is talking to several men at the bottom of the stairs. They must be important because lesser mortals are hovering on the periphery, nervous about joining the conversation. A tall dark-haired man whispers something in Julianne’s ear. His hand brushes her spine and rests in the small of her back.

‘You must be very proud of her,’ says Flip.

‘Yes.’

‘You live in Cornwall, don’t you?’

‘Somerset.’

‘Julianne doesn’t really strike me as a country girl.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘She’s so glamorous. I’m surprised you let her stray so far from home.’

The man talking to Julianne has made her laugh. She closes her eyes and the tip of her tongue wets the centre of her lips.

‘Who’s that she’s with?’ I ask.

‘Oh, that’s Dirk Cresswell. Have you met him?’

‘No.’

Dirk’s hand has slipped lower, trailing over the silk as it falls over Julianne’s buttocks. At the same time his eyes seem to fix on the neckline of her gown.

‘Perhaps you had better go and rescue her,’ laughs Flip.

I’m already moving that way, squeezing between shoulders and elbows, apologising and trying not to spill my champagne. I pause and polish off the contents.

Someone has mounted the staircase and is tapping a spoon loudly against his glass, summoning quiet. He’s older and authoritative. It must be the chairman, Eugene Franklin. Conversations fade. The audience is silent.

‘Thank you,’ he says, apologising for the interruption. ‘We all know why we’re here tonight.’

‘To get drunk,’ someone heckles.

‘In due course, yes,’ answers Eugene, ‘but the reason you’re drinking Bollinger at the company’s expense is because this is our birthday. The Franklin Equity Group is ten years old.’

This raises a cheer.

‘Now it’s evident from some of the “bling” on display that it has been a very successful ten years and confirmation that I’m paying you all far too much money.’

Julianne laughs along with the rest of the crowd, gazing at Eugene Franklin expectantly.

‘Before we enjoy ourselves too much I wish to thank a few people,’ he says. ‘Today we secured the biggest deal in this company’s history. It is a deal that many of you have been working on for nearly five years and it will guarantee we have a very merry Christmas come bonus time.

‘Now, you all know Dirk Cresswell. Like Dirk, I too was once young and handsome. I was also a ladies’ man until I came to realise that there are some things more important than sex.’ He pauses. ‘They’re called wives. I’ve had two of them.’

Someone shouts from the floor, ‘Dirk’s had dozens of wives- just none of his own.’