Shatter (10 page)

Each lock has a personality. Time and weather will change its characteristics. Temperature. Humidity. Condensation. Once the pick is inside, I close my eyes. Listen. Feel. As the
pick bounces up and down over the pins, I must apply a fixed amount of pressure, measuring their resistance. This requires sensitivity, dexterity, concentration and analytical
thinking. It is fluid— but there are rules.

This one is a 437-rated high security lock. It has six pins, some of which are mushroom-shaped. The keyhole is paracentric, like a misshapen lightning bolt. Insurance underwriters
consider it a twenty-minute pick job because of its degree of difficulty. I can open it in twenty-three seconds. It takes practise. Hours. Days. Weeks.

I can remember the first time I entered a house. It was in Osnabrück, Germany, fifty miles north of Dortmund. The house belonged to an army chaplain who was counselling my wife,
visiting her while I was away. I left his dog in the freezer and the bath and the washing machine.

The second place I entered was the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, a few steps from the rear door of Harrods. The building had no nameplate on the door. It is a private club
for current and former members of the intelligence services and the SAS. I, however, cannot become a member because I am so elite nobody has ever heard of me. I am
untouchable. Unnameable.

I can walk through walls. Locks crumble in my hands. The pins are like musical keys with a different tone and timbre as the pick passes over them. Listen. That’s the final note. The
door opens.

I step into the flat, placing my feet carefully on the polished floorboards. My tools are wrapped and put away. A torch is now needed.

The bitch has taste, which doesn’t always come with money. None of her furniture came out of a flat pack or was put together with keys. The coffee table is hammered copper and
ceramic bowls are hand-painted.

I look for the phone connections. There is a cordless console in the kitchen and a cradle in the living room and another in the main bedroom.

I work my way through the rooms, opening cupboards and drawers, sketching the layout in my mind. There are letters to read, bills to peruse, phone numbers and photographs to
study. Propped near the telephone is a birthday invitation.

What else can I find? Here is a bright envelope with polished paper— you are cordially invited to a hen night. A note has been scrawled across the bottom
. Bring your dancing shoes.

There are three bedrooms in the flat. The smallest belongs to a child. She has a Coldplay poster on the wall alongside a Harry Potter calendar. There are photographs of horses
and pony club rosettes. Her pyjamas are beneath her pillow. A crystal hangs from a hook on the windowsill. Stuffed animals spill from a box in the corner.

The main bedroom has an en suite. The vanity drawers are full of lipsticks, body scrubs, nail polish and sample packs from a dozen hotel stays and airline flights. Tucked away in
the lowest drawer is a faux fur make-up bag containing a small pink vibrator and a set of handcuffs.

A change in air pressure rattles a window. The main door has opened downstairs, creating a slight vacuum in the stairwell. There are footsteps. I stand for a moment in the bedroom
with an ear cocked. Keys jangle. One of them slides into the barrel of the lock. Turns.

The door opens and closes. I feel the tiny tremor under my feet and hear their voices. Coats are shrugged off and hung on hooks. A kettle is filled. There is soft laughter and the
smell of food— takeaway— something Asian with coriander and coconut milk. I listen to the sound of food being spooned onto plates and eaten in front of a TV.

Afterwards the dishes are cleared away. Somebody is coming. I draw back sharply into the shadows, stepping into a wardrobe, pulling clothes around me. I breathe in the bitch’s
scent, her stale perfume and sweat.

As a child I used to love playing hide and seek with my brother; the ball-tightening, bladder-clenching sense of excitement, the fear of discovery. Sometimes I’d curl up and try not to
breathe, but my brother always found me. He said he could hear me because I was trying too hard
not
to make a sound.

A shadow passes the door. I see the bitch’s reflection in the tilted mirror. She goes to the toilet. Her skirt is pulled up, her tights rolled down. Her thighs are pale as candle wax. She
stands and flushes, turning to face the mirror, pivoting forward over the sink to examine her face, pulling at the skin around her eyes. She talks to herself. I can’t hear what she says.

Her tights are tossed aside. She raises her arms and a nightdress slides over her shoulders and the hem drops to her knees.

Her daughter has gone to her room. I hear her schoolbag tossed in a corner and the sound of the shower. Later she comes to say goodnight. Air kisses. Tousled hair. Sweet
dreams.

I’m alone with the bitch. There is no man of the house. He has been evicted, cast out, passed over, disenfranchised; the king is dead, long live the queen!

She has turned on the TV and watches from her bed, flicking through the channels, a bright square in her eyes. She isn’t really watching. She picks up a book instead. Does she feel
me here? Is there a shiver of apprehension or a sense of disquiet, like a ghost leaving footprints on her grave?

I am the voice she’s going to hear when she dies. My words. I am going to ask her if she’s frightened. I am going to unlock her mind. I am going to stop her heart. I am going to beat
her to floor and feed on her bloody mouth.

When?

Soon.

12

My legs don’t want to move this morning. It takes harsh words and wil power to swing them from the bed. I stand and pul on a dressing gown. It’s after seven. Charlie should have woken me by now. She’s going to be late for school. I yel out for her. Nobody answers.

The bedrooms are empty. I make my way downstairs. Two bowls of soggy cereal sit on the kitchen table. The milk has been left out of the fridge.

The phone rings. It’s Julianne.

‘Hel o.’

There is a beat of silence. ‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’

‘Good. How’s Rome?’

‘I’m in Moscow. Rome was last week.’

‘Oh, that’s right.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Fine. Just woke up.’

‘How are my beautiful girls?’

‘Perfect.’

‘How is it that when I’m home they’re capable of being absolutely horrid but around you they’re perfect?’

‘I bribe them.’

‘I remember. Have you found a nanny?’

‘Not yet.’

‘What happened?’

‘I’m stil interviewing. I’m looking for Mother Teresa.’

‘You know she’s dead.’

‘How about Scarlett Johansson?’

‘We’re
not
having Scarlett Johansson look after our children.’

‘
Now
who’s being picky?’

She laughs. ‘Can I talk to Emma?’

‘She’s not here just now.’

‘Where is she?’

I look at the open door and can hear the rustle of my own breathing in the mouthpiece. ‘In the garden.’

‘It must have stopped raining.’

‘Uh-huh. How’s the trip?’

‘Painful. The Russians are stal ing. They want a better deal.’

I’m standing at the sink, looking out the window. The lower panes are smeared with condensation. The upper panes frame a blue sky.

‘Are you sure everything is al right?’ she asks. ‘You’re sounding very strange.’

‘I’m fine. I miss you.’

‘I miss you too. I’ve got to go. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I hear the click of the phone. As if on cue, Emma comes bounding through the back door with Darcy behind her. The teenager catches the youngster and hugs her tightly. Both are laughing.

Darcy is wearing a dress. It belongs to Julianne. She must have found it in the ironing basket. The light from the doorway paints the outline of her body within it. Teenage girls don’t feel the cold.

‘Where have you been?’

‘We went for a walk,’ she says, defensively. Emma reaches towards me with her arms and I pick her up.

‘Where’s Charlie?’

‘On her way to school— I walked her to the bus stop.’

‘You should have told me.’

‘You were asleep.’ She nudges me gently sideways with her hip and picks up the cereal bowl.

‘You should have written a note.’

She fil s the sink with hot water and suds. For the first time she notices my arm is twitching and my leg seems to spasm in sympathy. I haven’t taken my morning medication.

‘So what’s with the shaking thing?’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a progressive degenerative neurological disorder.’

Darcy pushes her bra strap onto her shoulder. ‘Is it contagious?’

‘No. I shake. I take pil s.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘My friend Jasmine had cancer. She had to have a bone marrow transplant. She looked cool without any hair. I don’t think I could have done it. I’d rather die.’

The last sentence has the bluntness and hyperbole of youth. Only teenagers can turn pimples into catastrophes or leukaemia into a fashion dilemma.

‘This afternoon I’l go and see the headmistress of your school…’

Darcy’s mouth opens in protest. I cut her off. ‘I’m going to tel her that you’re spending a few days away from school— until the funeral or we decide what you want to do. She’s going to ask questions and want to know who I am.’

Darcy doesn’t answer. Instead she turns back to the sink and continues washing a plate.

My arm trembles. I need to shower and change. I’m on the stairs when I hear her final remark.

‘Don’t forget to take your pil s.’

Ruiz arrives just after eleven. His early model, forest green Mercedes is splattered with mud on the fenders and lower doors. It’s the sort of car they’re going to outlaw when emission regulations come into force because entire Pacific atol s disappear every time he refil s the tank.

He has put on weight since he retired, and let his hair grow longer, just over his ears. I can’t tel if he’s contented. Happiness is not a concept that I associate with Ruiz. He confronts the world like a sumo wrestler, slapping his thighs and throwing his weight around.

Rumpled and careworn as ever, he gives me a crushing handshake. His hands are unfailingly steady. I envy him.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I say.

‘What are friends for?’

He says it without any irony.

Darcy is standing at the gate, looking like an elf maiden in that dress. Before I can introduce her, Ruiz mistakes her for Charlie and grabs her around the waist, spinning her round.

She fights at his arms. ‘Let me go, you pervert!’

Ruiz puts her down suddenly. He looks at me.

‘You said Charlie had grown.’

‘Not that much.’

I don’t know if he’s embarrassed. How do you tel ? Darcy tugs down the dress and brushes hair from her eyes.

Ruiz smiles and bows slightly. ‘No offence meant, miss. I mistook you for a princess. I know a couple who live round here. They turn frogs into princes in their spare time.’

Darcy looks at me, confused, but she can recognise a compliment. The flush in her face has nothing to do with the cold. Meanwhile, Emma comes flying down the path and hurls herself into his arms. Holding her high in the air, Ruiz seems to be estimating how far he could throw her. Emma cal s him Dooda. I have no idea why. It’s a name she’s used ever since she could talk whenever Ruiz came to visit. Her shyness around adults has never applied to him.

‘We have to go,’ he says. ‘I might have found someone who can help us.’

Darcy looks at me. ‘Can I come?’

‘I need you to look after Emma. It’s just for a few hours.’

Ruiz is already at the car. I pause at the passenger door and glance back at Darcy. I hardly know this girl and I’m leaving her alone with my youngest daughter. Julianne would have something to say. Maybe I won’t tel her this part.

Heading west towards Bristol, we take the coast road to Portishead, along the Severn Estuary. Gul s swing and wheel above the rooftops, working against a blustery wind.

‘She’s a pretty thing,’ says Ruiz, dangling his fingers over the steering wheel. ‘Is she staying with you?’

‘For a few days.’

‘What does Julianne say?’

‘I haven’t told her yet.’

Nothing changes on his face. ‘Do you think Darcy is tel ing you everything— about the mother?’

‘I don’t think she’s lying.’ We both know it’s not the same thing.

I tel him the details of Friday, describing Christine Wheeler’s last moments on the bridge; and how her clothes were found lying on the floor of her house, beside the phone; and how she wrote some sort of sign in lipstick while leaning on the coffee table.

‘Was she seeing anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Any money problems?’

‘Yes, but she didn’t seem to be too worried.’

‘So you think someone threatened her?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. Blackmail, intimidation… She was terrified.’

‘Why didn’t she cal the police?’

‘Maybe she couldn’t.’

We turn off into a new business park ful of metal and glass office buildings. The bitumen roads are starkly grey against the newly planted garden beds.

Ruiz turns into a car park. The only sign on the building is a plaque beside a buzzer:
Fastnet Telecommunications
. The receptionist is barely twenty with a pencil skirt, a white blouse and even whiter teeth. Not even the sight of Ruiz interrupts her winning smile.

‘We’re here to see Oliver Rabb,’ he says.

‘Please take a seat.’

Ruiz prefers to stand. There are posters on the wal s of beautiful young people, chatting on designer phones that obviously bring them great happiness, wealth and hot dates.

‘Imagine if mobiles had been invented earlier,’ says Ruiz. ‘Custer could have cal ed up the cavalry.’