Shatter (27 page)

‘I love you.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘But I do. I love you more than
she
does.’

She steps away, freeing her hands, letting her coat fal from her shoulders, pul ing her top down, exposing her bra.

‘Don’t you want me? I’m not a child!’ Her voice sounds different.

‘Please, Darcy.’

‘Let me stay with you.’

‘I can’t.’

She shakes her head, bites her lip, trying not to cry. She understands everything. The stakes have changed completely. I can never take her into my home— not now— not after what she has offered me. Her tears are not meant to blackmail me emotional y or to make me change my mind. They’re just tears.

‘Please leave,’ she says. ‘I want to be alone.’

I close the door, lean against it. I can stil taste her in my mouth and feel her trembling. The sensation is one of fear: fear of discovery, fear of what she did and how much I am to blame.

My area of supposed expertise is in human behaviour but sometimes I am astonished by how profoundly ignorant I am. How can someone be a psychologist yet know so little about the subject? The mind is too complex, too unpredictable, an ocean of uncertainty. And I have no option but to tread water or to swim for a distant shore.

Julianne is at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks. Can she see something in my eyes?

‘There’s been a break-in. I have to cal the police.’

‘Now?’

‘You go home. I should stay.’

‘How wil you get home?’

‘Ruiz is stil here.’

She stands on tiptoes and gently kisses my lips. Then she leans back and looks into my eyes.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine.’

An hour later and police have replaced mourners. The cards and envelopes have been bagged and taken to the lab. The doors and windows checked for any signs of forced entry.

Nothing has been taken.

There is no reason for me to be here and every reason for me to leave. I keep thinking of Darcy’s kiss and her awkwardness. It embarrassed us both but she is of an age where rejection can crush. I live with discomfit every day, in the tremble of a hand or a sudden frozen fal .

I keep thinking about what Maureen said about the reunion and losing two of her best friends. Perhaps the murders had nothing to do with a business failing or Christine Wheeler owing money to loan sharks. It was more personal than that. Why would someone open condolence cards? What were they looking for?

Darcy is stil upstairs. Her aunt is talking to police in the kitchen. Outside I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Ruiz is waiting in his car. The heater blasts warm air onto the windscreen.

‘I need another favour.’

‘You got any of those left?’

‘One.’

‘I must have lost count.’

‘I need you to look for someone. Her name is Helen Chambers.’

‘Haven’t you got enough women in your life?’

‘She went to school with Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. They were supposed to meet up a fortnight ago. She didn’t show.’

‘Last known address?’

‘Her folks live somewhere near Frome. A big country house.’

‘Shouldn’t be hard to find.’

The car swings from the parking space and the glare of approaching headlights stings my eyes. Ruiz turns up the music. Sinatra is crooning about a lady who never flirts with strangers or blows on another guy’s dice.

It is after midnight when I get home. The cottage is dark. Above and behind it, a church steeple is black against a purple sky. I close the door gently and take my shoes off. Climb the stairs.

Emma is spread-eagled on top of her duvet. I fold her legs beneath it and tuck it beneath her chin. She doesn’t stir. Charlie’s door is open a few inches. Her lava lamp casts a pink glow over the room. I can see her lying on her side with her hand close to her mouth.

Julianne is asleep. I undress in the bathroom and brush my teeth before sliding alongside her. She turns and wraps her arms and legs around me, pressing her breasts against my back.

‘It’s late,’ she whispers.

‘Sorry.’

‘How is Darcy?’

‘She’s with her aunt.’

Her hand seeks me out, with resolute determination; making a ring with her thumb and finger. She bends and takes me in her mouth. And when I’m ready she rol s on top, straddling my waist, trapping me beneath her.

Her thighs are open. She slides backwards, taking me inside her, inhaling sharply. She guides my hands to her breasts. Her nipples are hard. I don’t have to move. I watch her rise and descend, inch-by-inch, accepting my surrender, seeking her own release and summoning mine.

It doesn’t feel like make-up sex or new-beginning sex. It’s like a quiet sigh drawing colour from the embers. Afterwards Julianne rests her head on my chest and I listen to her fal asleep.

An hour passes. I slide her head onto her pil ow and slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the study. Closing the door before turning on the light, I look for the hotel receipt from Rome. Taking it from between the pages of a notebook, I rip it into smal pieces that flutter into the wastepaper bin.

34

I can understand why a man might lavish affection on a machine instead of a human being. Machines are more reliable. Turn the key, flick a switch, step on the gas and they do the
business when it counts.

I have never owned a sports car— never desired one— but I have one now. It belongs to a futures trader who lives in one of the luxury apartments overlooking Queen Square. You
can’t steal a Ferrari F430 Spider off the street— not without disabling the alarm, ripping the guts out of the steering lock and circumventing the engine immobiliser. It’s far easier to
steal the keys of the rich bastard who owns it. He left them on the radiator cover, just inside his front door, next to the secure parking key and his leather driving gloves.

The one thing I can’t get around is the ‘vehicle tracking system’. Once he reports the car missing I’ll have to say goodbye to my wet dream on wheels.

Steering the Spider through the streets on a Monday morning, I watch the reactions it produces, the looks of admiration, awe and envy. It doesn’t even have to be moving to draw the
eye.

A lot of guys I knew in the army were obsessed with cars. The poor bastards spent their careers rumbling along at sixty k’s an hour in an armoured personnel carrier or a Challenger,
with six forward gears and two reverse. So on their own time they went for something with more finesse and speed. Sports cars. Some of them were in hock up their eyeballs but they
didn’t care. It was all about living the dream.

I park the Spider in a quiet street. The dew-slimed footpath is beginning to dry and sunlight filters through the branches of plane trees. I take a map and spread it out on the bonnet.

The engine is ticking as it cools.

I wait. He’ll be along soon. Here he comes now, shuffling through the leaves, dressed in a blazer and dark grey trousers.

He’s seen the Ferrari. He pauses and studies the lines. His hand is drawn towards it, wanting to touch the gleaming paintwork and run a finger over its curves.

‘Nice wheels,’ he says.

‘Oughta be.’

‘Yours?’

‘I’m holding the keys.’

He does a slow circuit of the Spider. His schoolbag hangs off one shoulder.

‘How fast?’ he asks.

I fold the map in half. ‘Let’s just say I could be a quarter of a mile from here in twelve seconds.’

‘That’s if you weren’t lost.’ He grins.

‘Yeah, wise-arse, maybe you could help me with that.’

He crouches and peers inside the tinted driver’s window.

‘Where you going?’

‘Beacon Hill. Seymour Road.’

‘Beacon Hill isn’t far. I’m heading that way.’

‘Walking?’

‘Catching the bus.’

I show him the map. He points to his school and shows me the route. I can smell toothpaste on his breath and glimpse a younger version of myself, ripe with potential, ready to take
on the world.

‘Can I take a look inside?’ he asks.

‘Sure.’

He opens the door.

‘Get behind the wheel.’

Dropping his schoolbag in the gutter, he slides into the seat, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and settling himself. Any minute he’s going to start making revving noises.

‘This is awesome.’

‘You could say that.’

‘What’s her top speed?’

‘A hundred and ninety-three miles an hour. She has a 4.3 litre V8 483 horsepower engine with 343 pounds of torque.’

‘What’s the most you’ve had her up to?’

‘You’re not a copper, are you?’

‘No.’ He laughs.

‘Hundred and eighty.’

‘No shit.’

‘She was purring like a kitten. But the real rush is the acceleration. She does nought to sixty in 4.1 seconds. Like shit off a shovel.’

I’ve hooked him now. It’s more than curiosity. It’s red-blooded male longing. It’s like the sex dream a boy has before he’s tasted a woman. It’s speed. It’s an engine. It’s love at first
sight.

‘How much did it cost?’ he whispers.

‘Didn’t your mum ever tell you it’s rude to ask a question like that?’

‘Yeah, but she drives a Ford Astra.’

I smile. ‘Not really a car person, huh?’

‘No.’

‘When do you get your licence?’

‘Nine months.’

‘You going to get a car?’

‘I don’t think Mum can afford one. Maybe my dad could help.’

His fingers close around the gearstick. With one hand still on the wheel, he peers through the windscreen and imagines taking the corners.

‘What time’s your bus?’ I ask.

He looks at his watch. ‘Shit!’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Get in. Buckle up.’

35

It’s after nine. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Downstairs I hear footsteps, laughter and the sound of nursery rhymes. It’s like tuning into my favourite radio soap and listening to another instalment of life in the O’Loughlin household.

I lumber downstairs, teeth brushed, face washed and body medicated. There’s laughter from the sitting room. I listen at the door. Julianne is interviewing nannies. Emma seems to be asking most of the questions.

Ruiz is in the kitchen, eating toast and reading my morning paper.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Morning.’

‘Don’t they feed you at the pub?’

‘It doesn’t have the ambience of this place.’

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat opposite him.

‘I found Helen Chambers’ family. They live on the Daubeney Estate, outside Westbury. It’s about thirty miles from here. I tried to cal and got an answering machine. Helen Chambers isn’t listed on the voter rol s or telephone directories.’

He senses I’m only half-listening.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’

He goes back to reading the paper. I take a sip of coffee.

‘Do you ever have nightmares?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you dealt with some pretty terrible things— murders, rapes, missing children— don’t they ever come back to you, the memories?’

‘No.’

‘What about Catherine McBride?’ She was a former patient of mine. That’s how I first met Ruiz, he was investigating her murder.

‘What about her?’

‘I stil see her in my dreams sometimes. Now I’m seeing Christine Wheeler.’

Ruiz folds the newspaper in half and half again. ‘Does she talk to you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘But you’re seeing dead people?’

‘You make it sound crazy.’

He slaps me hard across the side of my head with the newspaper.

‘What was that for?’

‘It’s a wake up cal .’

‘Why?’

‘You once told me that a doctor is no good to a patient if he dies of the disease. Don’t go soft in the head. You’re supposed to be the sane one.’

The Daubeney Estate is two miles north of Westbury on the borders of Somerset and Wiltshire. The rol ing countryside is dotted with smal farms and swol en lakes and dams from the recent rain.

Ruiz is driving his Merc. The suspension is so soft it’s like a waterbed on wheels.

‘What do we know about the family?’ I ask.

‘Bryan and Claudia Chambers. He owns a construction company that does a lot of big money contracts in the Gulf. The Daubeney Estate used to be one of the biggest landholdings in the country until it was broken up and sold in the 1980s. The Chambers own the manor house and eleven acres.’

‘What about Helen?’

‘She’s an only child. She left Oldfield Girls School in Bath in 1988— same years as Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness. She went Bristol University; studied economics and married eight years ago. Since then she’s lived abroad.’

He raises his forefinger from the steering wheel. ‘This is the place.’

We pul into an opening guarded by a ten-foot-high iron gate hinged on stone pil ars. On either side, a perimeter wal stretches through the trees. It is topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete like jagged flowers.

The gate has an intercom box. I press a button and wait. A voice answers.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is that Mr Chambers?’

‘No.’

‘Is he at home?’

‘He’s not available.’

‘Is Helen Chambers at home?’

‘You trying to be funny, pal?’ He has a Welsh accent.

I glance at Ruiz who shrugs.

‘I’m Joseph O’Loughlin. It’s important that I speak to a member of the family.’

‘I’l need more information than that.’

‘It’s a police matter. It concerns their daughter.’

There is a pause. Maybe he’s seeking instructions.

The voice comes back: ‘Who are you with?’

I dip my head and look through the windscreen. A CCTV camera is perched on a metal pole twenty feet above the gate. He’s watching us.