Shatter (29 page)

‘No,’ she admits. ‘I accused my drama teacher of raging mediocrity.’

Ruiz laughs. ‘Not just any mediocrity then?’

‘No.’

A bel rings. Bodies fil the corridors, flooding around us. There are peals of laughter and cries of, ‘Don’t run! Don’t run!’

Jacquie has reached the classroom. She knocks on the door. ‘Visitors to see you, miss.’

‘Thank you.’

Maureen Bracken is wearing a knee-length dark green dress with a brown leather belt and court shoes that show off her solid calves. Her hair is pinned back and minimal make-up colours her lips and eyelids.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks immediately. Her fingers are spotted with black marker pen.

‘It might be nothing,’ I say, trying to reassure her.

Ruiz has picked up a toy from her desk— a fluffy animal stuck on the end of a pen.

‘Confiscated,’ she explains. ‘You should see my col ection.’

She straightens a stack of essays and tucks them inside a folder. I look around. ‘You’re teaching at your old school.’

‘Who would have thought?’ she says. ‘I was a complete tear-away at school. Not as bad as Sylvie, mind you. That’s why they were always trying to separate us.’

She’s nervous. It makes her want to talk. I let her carry on, knowing she’l run out of steam.

‘My careers advisor told me I’d become an out-of-work actress who waited tables. I did have one teacher, Mr Hal iday— he taught me English— who said I should consider teaching. My parents are stil laughing.’

She glances at Ruiz and back to me, growing more anxious.

‘You mentioned that Helen Chambers sent you an email organising the reunion.’

She nods.

‘It must have come from someone else.’

‘Why?’

‘Helen died three months ago.’

The folder slides from Maureen’s fingers and essay papers spil across the floor. She curses and bends, trying to gather them together. Her hands are shaking.

‘How?’ she whispers.

‘She drowned. It was a ferry accident in Greece. Her daughter was with her. We spoke to her parents this morning.’

‘Oh, those poor, poor people… poor Helen.’

I’m on the floor beside her, col ecting the scattered papers, bundling them haphazardly back into the folder. Something has changed in Maureen, a hol owness that echoes in her heartbeat. She’s suddenly in a dark place, listening to a dul repeated rhythm in her head.

‘But if Helen died three months ago— how did she… I mean… she…’

‘Someone else must have sent the email.’

‘Who?’

‘We were hoping you might know.’

She shakes her head, sticky-eyed and wavering, as if suddenly unable to recognise her surroundings or to remember where she’s supposed to be next.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ I tel her.

‘Oh, right.’

‘Can I see the email?’

She nods. ‘Come to the staff room. There’s a computer.’

We fol ow her along the corridor and up another set of stairs. Chatter and laughter flood through the windows from outside, fil ing even the quietest corners.

Two students are waiting outside the staffroom. They want an extension on an English assignment. Maureen is too preoccupied to listen to their excuses. She gives them until Monday and sends them on their way.

The staffroom is almost completely deserted except for a fossil of a man, motionless in his chair with his eyes closed. I think he’s sleeping until I notice the ear jacks. He doesn’t stir as Maureen sits at a computer and logs on with her username and password. She opens her email messages and searches backward through the dates.

The message from Helen Chambers is headed:
Guess who’s back in town?
It was sent on September 16 and copied to Christine Wheeler and Sylvia Furness.

Hi gang,

It’s me. I’m back in the country and looking forward to seeing you all. How about we get together this Friday at the Garrick’s Head? Champagne and chips all round— just
like the old days.

I can’t believe it’s been eight years. I hope you’re all fatter and frumpier than I am— (that means you too, Sylvie.) I might even get my legs waxed for the occasion.

Be there or be square. The Garrick’s Head. 7.30 p.m. Friday. I can’t wait.

Love Helen

‘Does it sound like her?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Anything strange about it?’

Maureen shakes her head. ‘We used to go to the Garrick’s Head al the time. In our last year at Oakfield Helen was the only one of us who had a car. She used to drive us al home.’

The message came through a web-based server. It’s easy to create an account and get a password and username.

‘You mentioned that she emailed you earlier.’

Again she searches for Helen’s name. The previous message arrived on May 29.

Dear Mo
, it begins. It must be Maureen’s nickname.

Long time no see… or hear. Sorry I’m such a slack correspondent, but I have my reasons. Things have been tough these last few years— with lots of changes and
challenges. The big news is that I’ve left my husband. It’s a long sad story, which I won’t go into now, suffice to say that things didn’t work out for us. For a long while I’ve
been terribly lost but now I’m almost out of the woods.

For the next few months I’m taking a holiday with my beautiful daughter Chloe. We’re going to clear our heads and have some adventures, which are long overdue.

Stay tuned. I’ll let you know when I’m coming home. We’ll get together at the Garrick’s Head and have a night out with the old gang. Do they still do champagne and
chips?

I miss you and Sylvie and Christine. I’m sorry you haven’t heard from me in so long. I’ll explain it all later.

Lots of love to all,

Helen.

I read both messages again. The language and neat construction are similar, along with casual tone and use of short sentences. Nothing stands out as being forced or fabricated yet Helen Chambers wasn’t alive to write the second email.

She wrote of being ‘out of the woods’ referring I assume to her marriage.

‘Was there anything else?’ I ask. ‘Letters, postcards, phone cal s…’

Maureen shakes her head.

‘What was Helen like?’ I ask.

She smiles. ‘Adorable.’

‘I need a little more than that.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Colour is returned to her cheeks. She glances at her col eague, who stil hasn’t stirred in his chair.

‘Helen was the sensible one. She was the last one of us to have a boyfriend. Sylvie spent years trying to hook her up with different guys, but Helen didn’t feel any pressure. Sometimes I felt sorry for her.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘She always said her father wanted a son and she could never quite match up to his expectations. She did have a brother, but he died when Helen was young. Some sort of accident with a tractor.’

Maureen turns in a worn swivel chair and crosses her legs. I ask her again how she and Helen lost touch. Her lips tighten and jerk at the corners.

‘It just seemed to happen. I don’t think her husband liked us very much. Sylvia thought he was jealous of how close we al were.’

‘Do you remember his name?’

‘Gideon.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘Once. Helen and Gideon came back from Northern Ireland for her father’s sixtieth birthday party. People were invited for the whole weekend, but Helen and Gideon left on Saturday at lunchtime. Something happened. I don’t know what.

‘Gideon was quite strange. Very secretive. Apparently he only invited one person to their wedding— his father— who got hideously drunk and embarrassed him.’

‘What does this Gideon do?’

‘He’s something or other in the military, but none of us ever saw him in uniform. We used to joke that he was some sort of spy, like in
Spooks
, you know the TV programme? Helen sent this one letter to Christine that had red ink stamped across the flap saying it had been scanned and opened for security reasons.’

‘Where was the letter posted?’

‘Germany. After Helen married they were stationed in Northern Ireland and later they went to Germany.’

Another teacher has turned up at the staffroom. She nods to us, curious about our presence, and col ects a mobile phone from a desk drawer, taking it outside to make a cal .

Maureen gives her head a clearing shake. ‘Poor Mr and Mrs Chambers.’

‘Did you know them wel ?’

‘Not real y. Mr Chambers was big and loud. I remember this one particular day when he tried to squeeze into a pair of breeches and boots to go hunting. God, he looked a sight. I felt more sorry for the horse than I did for the fox.’ She smiles. ‘How are they?’

‘Sad.’

‘They also seem frightened,’ adds Ruiz, who is gazing out the window at the playground. ‘Can you think of a reason?’

Maureen shakes her head and her brown eyes gaze hard into mine. Another question is hovering on her lips.

‘Do you know why? I mean, whoever did this to Chris and Sylvie, what did he want?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wil he stop now, do you think?’

Ruiz turns away from the window. ‘Do you have any children, Maureen?’

‘A son.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Sixteen. Why?’

She knows the answer but anxiety makes her ask the question anyway.

‘Is there anywhere you could stay for a few days?’ I ask.

Fear catches alight in her eyes. ‘I could ask Bruno if he could put us up.’

‘That might be a good idea.’

My mobile is vibrating in my pocket. It’s Veronica Cray.

‘I tried you at home, Professor. Your wife didn’t know where you were.’

‘How can I help you, DI?’

‘I’m looking for Darcy Wheeler.’

‘She’s with her aunt.’

‘Not any more— she ran away last night. Packed a bag and took some of her mother’s jewel ery. I thought she might try to reach you? She seems to like you.’

Saliva turns to dust in my mouth.

‘I don’t think she’l do that.’

Veronica Cray doesn’t ask why. I’m not going to tel her.

‘You talked to her yesterday after the funeral. How did she seem?’

‘She was upset. Her aunt wants her to live in Spain.’

‘Worse things in life.’

‘Not to Darcy.’

‘So she didn’t say anything… confide?’

‘No.’ Guilt seems to thicken the word until I can barely spit it out. ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.

‘Figured I might leave it a day or two. See what happens.’

‘She’s only sixteen.’

‘Old enough to find her way home.’

I’m about to argue. She’s not about to listen. For DI Cray this is an added complication, one that she doesn’t need. Darcy hasn’t been kidnapped and she’s not a threat to herself or a danger to the public. Missing Persons won’t break any records looking for a teenage runaway. In the meantime, there’s a press briefing organised for three o’clock this afternoon. I’m supposed to make a statement and appeal directly to the kil er.

The cal ends and I relay the news to Ruiz, who is driving. ‘She’l turn up,’ he says, sounding like he’s seen it a dozen times before. Maybe he has. It doesn’t make me feel any better. I cal Darcy’s mobile and get a recorded message:

‘Hi, this is me. I’m unavailable. Leave me a message after the beep. Make it short and sweet— just like me…’

It beeps.

‘Hey, it’s Joe. Cal me…’ What else am I going to say? ‘I just want to know if you’re OK. People are worried. I’m worried. So cal me, OK? Please.’

Ruiz is listening.

I punch another number. Julianne answers.

‘The police are trying to find you,’ she says.

‘I know. Darcy has run away.’

The silence is meant to be neutral but she’s caught between concern and exasperation.

‘Do they know where she’s gone?’

‘No.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Darcy may cal or come to the house. Keep your eye out for her.’

‘I’l ask around the vil age.’

‘Good idea.’

‘When are you coming home?’

‘Soon. I have to go to a press briefing.’

‘Wil it be over then?’

‘Soon.’

Julianne wants me to say yes. ‘I found a nanny. She’s Australian.’

‘Wel , I won’t hold that against her.’

‘She starts tomorrow.’

‘That’s good.’

She hangs on, expecting me to say something more. The silence says otherwise.

‘Have you taken your pil s?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to go.’

‘OK.’

She hangs up.

37

The conference room at Trinity Road police station is a stark, windowless place, with vinyl chairs and strip lighting. Every seat is taken and most of the side wal s are supporting shoulders.

The national newspapers have rol ed out their gun reporters rather than rely on West-Country stringers. I recognise some of them— Luckett from the
Telegraph
, Montgomery from
The
Times
and Pearson from the
Daily Mail
. Some of them know me.

I watch from a side door. Monk is directing the camera crews, trying to stop any arguments. He gives me a nod. DI Cray goes first, wearing a charcoal jacket and white shirt. I fol ow her onto a slightly raised platform where a long table faces the media. Microphones and recording equipment have been taped to the front edge, showing station bandwidths and logos.

The TV lights are turned on and flashguns fire. The DI pours a glass of water for herself, giving the reporters time to settle.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ she says, addressing the audience rather than the cameras. ‘This is a briefing, not a press conference. I wil be reading a statement of the facts and then handing over to Professor Joseph O’Loughlin. There wil be a limited opportunity to ask questions at the end of the briefing.

‘As you’re aware, a task force has been set up to investigate the murder of Sylvia Furness. A second suspicious death has been added to this investigation— that of Christine Wheeler, who jumped from the Clifton Suspension Bridge a week ago last Friday.’

An image of Christine Wheeler is projected onto a screen behind the DI’s head. It’s a holiday snap, taken at a water park. Christine’s hair is wet and she’s posing in a sarong and Tshirt.