Michael Robotham - Shatter

Backing away, I gently close her door and turn to other rooms, pressing my ear against the panelled wood, listening for the sounds of sleep or silence. Easing open another door, I find it empty. The queen-sized bed has a patchwork quilt, topped with throw pillows. I run my hands beneath them, looking for a nightdress. Nothing.

I turn to the wardrobe, a hand on the brass handle, my face in the mirrored door and listen to the house again. Nothing. Pushing through the clothes, I find her smell, the one I want, her deodorant and perfume. Fake smells. During my jungle training we were taught never to use soap, or shaving foam, or deodorant. Artificial smells can give a soldier away to the enemy. To survive in the jungle you must become one with the jungle, like the animals.

Women don’t smell like women are supposed to. It comes from a bottle. Manufactured. Deodorised. This one has some nice clothes, but there is a curious formality about her: the mid-length skirts, dark tights and cardigans. She’s as formal as a flight attendant but not so glossy. I’m going enjoy breaking her.

There are boxes of shoes at the base of the wardrobe. Flipping open the lids, I sort through them. Slingback sandals. Peep-toe mules. Court shoes. Flats. Wedges. She likes boots. There are four pairs, two of them with pointy toes and fuck-me heels. Soft leather. Italian. Expensive. I put my nose inside and inhale.

I sit at her dressing table and sort through her lipsticks. The dark vermilion is best; it complements her skin colour. And the malachite necklace in the velvet box will look very pretty on her naked skin.

Stretching out on the bed, I gaze at the ceiling. A square hatch in the corner leads to the attic. I could hide there. I could watch over her like an angel. An avenging one.

There are footsteps on the landing. Someone is awake. A woman. I wait, wondering if I will have to kill her. A toilet flushes across the landing. Pipes rumble and the cistern refills. Whoever it is, has gone back to bed, with her foul breath and bleary eyes. She won’t find me.

Rising from the bed, I close the wardrobe door, making sure everything is back in its place. Returning to the landing, I retrace my steps downstairs, along the hallway, into the kitchen, out the back door.

Pausing at the end of the garden, I watch the wind testing the pines and feel the first drops of icy rain. I have marked my territory and drawn invisible battlelines. Hurry morning.

When we first married, Julianne and I promised ourselves that we would never go to sleep angry at each other. It happened last night. My apologies were ignored. My overtures were brushed aside. We slept back to back on the same white sheet but it could have been an icy wasteland.

We checked out of the hotel at ten; our romantic weekend cut short. On the train back to Bath Spa Julianne read magazines and I stared out the window, pondering what she said to me last night. Maybe I am miserable or looking to blame somebody for what’s happened to me. I thought I was past the five stages of grieving. Perhaps they never go away.

Even now, sitting next to her in a minicab on the journey home from the station, I keep telling myself that it was just an argument. Married couples survive them all the time. Idiosyncrasies are forgiven, routines adopted, criticisms left unsaid.

The taxi pulls up outside the cottage. Emma comes tearing down the path, wrapping her arms round my neck. I hoist her onto my hip.

‘I saw the ghost last night, Daddy.’

‘Did you. Where was he?’

‘In my room; he told me to go back to sleep.’

‘What a sensible ghost.’

Julianne is paying the taxi driver with her company credit card. Emma is still talking to me. ‘Charlie said it was a lady ghost but it wasn’t. I saw him.’

‘And you had a chat.’

‘Not a long one.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “Who are you?” and he said, “Go back to sleep”.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ask his name?’

‘No.’

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘She went for a bike ride.’

‘When did she go?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t read the time.’

Julianne has paid the fare. Emma squirms out of my arms and slides down my chest. Her sneakers touch the grass and she runs to her mother.

Imogen has come outside to help us with the overnight bags. She has two messages for me. The first is from Bruno Kaufman. He wants to talk to me about Maureen and whether they should go away for a few weeks when she gets out of hospital.

The second message is from Veronica Cray. Five words: ‘Tyler is a trained locksmith.’

I call her at Trinity Road. The seesaw whine of a fax machine punctuates her answers.

‘I thought locksmiths had to be licensed.’

‘No.’

‘Who trained him?’

‘The military. He’s been working nights for a local company, T.B. Henry, and driving a silver van. We have matched the plates to a vehicle that crossed Clifton Suspension Bridge twenty minutes before Christine Wheeler climbed the fence.’

‘Does he work from an office?’

‘No.’

‘How do they contact him?’

‘A mobile phone.’

‘Can you trace it?’

‘It’s no longer transmitting. Oliver is keeping a close watch. If Tyler turns it on we’ll know.’

There’s another phone ringing in her office. She has to go. I ask if there’s anything I can do but she’s already hung up.

Julianne is upstairs unpacking. Emma is helping her by bouncing on the bed.

I call Charlie. She still has my mobile.

‘Hi.’

‘You’re home early.’

‘Yep. Where are you?’

‘With Abbie.’

Abbie is also twelve and the daughter of a local farmer who lives about mile out of Wellow along Norton Lane.

‘Hey, Dad, I got a joke,’ says Charlie.

‘Tell me when you get home.’

‘I want to tell you now.’

‘OK, hit me with it.’

‘A mother gets on a bus with her baby and the bus driver says, “That’s got to be the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.” The mother is really angry but she pays the fare and sits down. Then another passenger says, “You can’t let him get away with that. You should go back and tell him off. Here, I’ll hold the monkey for you”.’

Charlie laughs like a drain. I laugh too.

‘See you soon.’

‘I’m on my way.’

It begins with a number: ten digits, three of them sixes. (Unlucky for some.) Next comes the ringing… then the answering.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mrs O’Loughlin?’

‘Yes.’

‘Professor O’Loughlin’s wife.’

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘I’m afraid your daughter Charlie has had a little accident. She fell off her bike. I think she lost control on a bend. She’s quite the daredevil on that bike. I want you to rest assured she’s completely all right. In good hands. Mine.’

‘Who are you?’

‘I told you. I’m the person who’s looking after Charlie.’

There’s a tremor in her voice, a dim stirring of approaching danger, something large and black and dreadful on the horizon, rushing towards her.

‘She’s such a pretty thing, your Charlie. She says her real name is Charlotte. She looks like a Charlotte but you let her dress like a tomboy.’

‘Where is she? What have you done to her?’

‘She’s right here, lying next to me. Aren’t you, Snowflake? Pretty as a peach, a sweet, sweet peach…’

Inside she is screaming. Fear has filled every warm wet place in her chest.

‘I want to talk to Charlie. Don’t touch her. Please. Let me speak to her.’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry. She has a sock in her mouth, taped in place.’

That’s when it starts, the first fracture in her mind, a tiny fissure that exposes the soft unprotected parts of her psyche. I can hear the hysteria vibrating through her body. She calls out Charlie’s name. She begs. She cajoles. She cries.