Shatter (32 page)

A fol ow up story in the
Western Daily Press
reported that Bryan Chambers was flying to Greece to look for his daughter and granddaughter. Describing him as a Wiltshire businessman, it said he was ‘praying for a miracle’ and preparing to mount his own search, if the official one failed to find Helen and Chloe.

A further story on Tuesday July 31 said that Mr Chambers had hired a light plane and was combing the beaches and rocky coves of the islands and Turkish coast. The story included a photograph of mother and daughter, who were travel ing under Helen’s married name. The holiday snap shows them sitting on a rock wal with fishing boats in the background. Helen is wearing a sarong and Jackie O sunglasses while Chloe is dressed in white shorts, sandals and a pink top with shoestring straps.

A week after the sinking, the search for survivors was official y cal ed off and Helen and Chloe were label ed as missing presumed dead. The newspapers took increasingly less interest in the story. The only other reference to mother and daughter concerned a prayer vigil held at a NATO base in Germany where they’d been living. The maritime investigation took evidence from survivors, but the findings could be years away.

My mobile is vibrating silently. No phones are al owed in the library. I step outside the main doors. Press green.

Bruno Kaufman booms in my ear: ‘Listen, old boy, I know you’re happily married and chief cheerleader for the institution but did you
really
have to tel my ex-wife she should move in with me?’

‘It’s just for a few days, Bruno.’

‘Yes, but it wil seem like much longer.’

‘Maureen is lovely. Why did you let her go?’

‘She drove me away. Wel , to be more precise she drove
at me.
I had to jump out of the way. She was behind the wheel of a Range Rover.’

‘Why did she do that?’

‘She caught me with one of my researchers.’

‘A student?’

‘A post grad student,’ he corrects me, as if resenting the suggestion that he would cheat on his wife with anything less.

‘I didn’t know you had a son.’

‘Yes. Jackson. His mother spoils him. I bribe him. We’re your average dysfunctional family. Do you real y think Maureen is in danger?’

‘It’s a precaution.’

‘I’ve never seen her this scared.’

‘Look after her.’

‘Don’t worry, old boy. She’l be safe with me.’

The cal ends. The mobile vibrates again. This time it’s Ruiz. He has something he wants to show me. We arrange to meet at the Fox & Badger. I’m to buy him lunch because it’s my turn.

I don’t know when it became ‘my turn’ but I’m pleased he’s here.

Dropping the car at home, I walk up the hil to the pub. Ruiz has taken a table in the corner, where the ceiling seems to sag. Horse tackle is festooned from the exposed beams.

‘It’s your shout,’ he says, handing me an empty pint glass.

I go to the bar, where half a dozen flushed and lumpy regulars fil the stools, including Nigel the dwarf, whose feet swing back and forth, two feet above the floor.

I nod. They nod back. This passes as a long conversation in this part of Somerset.

Hector the publican pul s a pint of Guinness, letting it rest while he gets me a lemon squash. I set down the fresh pint in front of Ruiz. He watches the bubbles rise, perhaps saying a smal prayer to the God of fermentation.

‘Here’s to drinkin’ with bow-legged women.’ He raises his glass and half a pint disappears.

‘You ever considered the possibility that you might be an alcoholic?’

‘Nope. Alcoholics go to meetings,’ he replies. ‘I don’t go to meetings.’ He sets down his glass and looks at my squash. ‘You’re just jealous because you have to drink that lol y water.’

He opens his notebook. It’s the same battered marbled col ection of curling pages that he always carries, held together with a rubber band.

‘I decided to do a little research into Bryan Chambers. Mate in the DTI— Department of Trade and Industry— ran his name through the computer. Chambers came up clean: no fines, no lawsuits, no dodgy contracts: the man’s clean…’

He sounds disappointed.

‘So I decided to run his name through the Police National Computer through a friend of a friend…’

‘Who shal remain nameless?’

‘Exactly. He’s cal ed Nameless. Wel , Nameless came back to me this morning. Six months ago Chambers took out a protection order against Gideon Tyler.’

‘His son-in-law?’

‘Yep. Tyler isn’t al owed to go within half a mile of the house or Chambers’ office. He can’t phone, email, text or drive past the front gate.’

‘Why?’

‘That’s the next thing.’ He pul s out a fresh page. ‘I ran a check on Gideon Tyler. I mean, we know nothing about this guy except his name— which must have got him kicked from one end of the schoolyard to the other, by the way.’

‘We know he’s military.’

‘Right. So I cal ed the MOD— Ministry of Defence. I talked to the personnel department but as soon as I mentioned Gideon Tyler’s name they clammed up tighter than a virgin on a prison visit.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Either they’re protecting him or embarrassed by him.’

‘Or both.’

Ruiz leans back in his chair and arches his back, stretching his arms behind his head. I can hear his vertebrae separating.

‘Then I had Nameless run a check on Gideon Tyler.’ He has a manila folder on the chair next to him. He opens it and produces several pages. I recognise the top one as a police incident report. It’s dated May 22, 2007. Attached is a summary of facts.

I scan the details. Gideon Tyler was named in a complaint, accused of harassment and of making threatening phone cal s to Bryan and Claudia Chambers. Among the list of al egations is a claim that Tyler broke into Stonebridge Manor and searched the house while they slept. He rifled filing cabinets, bureaus and took copies of telephone records, bank statements and emails. It was also al eged that he somehow unlocked a reinforced gun-safe and took a shotgun. Mr and Mrs Chambers woke the next morning and found the loaded weapon lying on the bed between them.

I turn the page, looking for an outcome. There isn’t one.

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Tyler was never charged. Insufficient evidence.’

‘What about fingerprints, fibres, anything?’

‘Nope.’

‘This says he made threatening phone cal s.’

‘Untraceable.’

No wonder the Chambers were so paranoid when we visited.

I look at the date of the police report. Helen Tyler and Chloe were stil alive when Tyler al egedly harassed her family. He must have been looking for them.

‘What do we know about the separation?’ asks Ruiz.

‘Nothing except for the email that Helen sent to her friends. She must have run away from Tyler… and he wasn’t happy about it.’

‘You think he’s good for this.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why would he want to kil his wife’s friends?’

‘To punish her.’

‘But she’s dead!’

‘It might not matter. He’s angry. He feels cheated. Helen took away his daughter. She hid from him. Now he wants to lash out and punish anyone close to her.’

I look again at the police report. Detectives interviewed Gideon Tyler. He must have had an alibi. According to Maureen, he was stationed in Germany. When did he come back to Britain?

‘Is there an address for him?’ I ask.

‘I got a last known and the name of his solicitor. You want to pay him a visit?’

I shake my head. ‘The police should handle this one. I’l talk to Veronica Cray.’

41

The window has four panes, dividing the bedroom into quarters. She is naked, fresh from the shower, with her hair wrapped in a pink turban and cheeks flushed.

Nice legs, nice tits, nice body— the full package with all the accessories. Man could have a lot of fun playing with a woman like that.

Unwrapping the towel, she bends forward, letting her dark hair drape over her face and her breasts swing. She dries the damp locks and tosses her head back.

Next she raises each foot in turn, drying between her toes. Then comes moisturiser, massaged into her skin, starting at her ankles and moving up. This is better than porn. Come
on, baby, a little higher… show me what you got…

Something makes her turn towards the window. Her eyes are staring directly into mine, but she cannot see me. Instead she studies her reflection, turning one way and then the
other, running her hands over her stomach, her buttocks and her thighs, looking for stretch marks or signs of age.

Sitting at a mirrored vanity with her back to me, she uses a hairdryer and some contraption to straighten her hair. I can see her reflection. She pulls faces and studies every line and
crease on her face, stretching, plucking and poking. More creams and serums are applied.

Watching a woman dress is far sexier than seeing her undress. It’s a dance without the music; a bedroom ballet, with every movement so practised and easy. This isn’t some poxy
whore stripping in a seedy bar or sex club. She’s a real woman with a real figure. A pair of knickers slides up her legs, over her thighs. White. Maybe they’ve got a blue trim. I can’t tell
from here. Her arms slide into the straps of a matching bra, lifting and separating her breasts. She adjusts the under-wire, making it comfortable.

What will she wear? She holds a dress against her body… a second… a third. It’s decided. She sits on the bed and rolls tights over her right foot and ankle and up her leg. She
leans back on the bed and pulls the opaque black fabric over her thighs and her buttocks.

Standing again, she shimmies into the dress, letting the fabric fall to just below her knees. She’s almost ready. A turn to the left, checking out her reflection in the window, then a turn
to the right.

Her watch is sitting on the windowsill. She picks it up and slips it onto her wrist, checking out the time. Then she glances out the window at the fading light. The first star is out. Make a
wish, my angel. Don’t tell anyone what you wish for.

42

The restaurant is on the river. There is a view across the water to factories and warehouses, reclaimed and renovated into apartments. Julianne has ordered wine.

‘Do you want to taste?’ she asks, knowing I miss it. I take a sip from her glass. The sauvignon detonates sweetly on my palate, cold and sharp, making me yearn for more. I slide the glass back towards her, touching her fingers, and think of the last person to share a bottle of wine with her. Was it Dirk? I wonder if he loved the sound of her voice, which is capable of rendering so many languages beautiful.

Julianne raises her eyes sideways a moment to look at me.

‘Would you marry me again if you had your time over?’

‘Of course I would, I love you.’

She looks away, towards the river, which is painted the colours of navigation lights. I can see her face reflected in the glass.

‘Where did the question come from?’

‘Nowhere real y,’ she replies. ‘I just I wondered if you regretted not waiting a little longer. You were only twenty-five.’

‘And
you
were twenty-two. It made no difference.’

She takes another sip of wine and becomes aware of my concern. Smiling, she reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m just feeling old, that’s al .

Sometimes I look in the mirror and wish I was younger. Then I feel guilty because I have so much more to be thankful for.’

‘You’re not old. You’re beautiful.’

‘You always say that.’

‘Because it’s true.’

She shakes her head helplessly. ‘I know I shouldn’t be so vain and self-obsessed. You’re the one who has every right to be self-conscious and feel resentful.’

‘I don’t resent anything. I have you. I have the girls. That’s enough.’

She looks at me knowingly. ‘If it’s enough why did you throw yourself into this murder investigation?’

‘I was asked.’

‘You could have said no.’

‘I saw a chance to help.’

‘Oh, come on, Joe, you wanted a chal enge. You were bored. You didn’t like being at home with Emma. At least be honest about it.’

I reach for my glass of water. My hand trembles.

Julianne’s voice softens. ‘I know what you’re like, Joe. You’re trying to save Darcy’s mother al over again but that’s not possible. She’s gone.’

‘I can stop it happening to someone else.’

‘Maybe you can. You’re a good man. You care about people. You care about Darcy. I love that about you. But you have to understand why I’m frightened. I don’t want you involved— not after last time. You’ve done your bit. You’ve given your time. Let someone else help the police from now on.’

I watch her eyes pool with emotion and feel a desperate desire to make her happy.

‘I didn’t ask to become involved. It just happened,’ I say.

‘By accident.’

‘Exactly. And sometimes we can’t ignore accidents. We can’t drive by without stopping or pretend we haven’t seen them. We have to stop. We cal for an ambulance. We try to help…’

‘And then we leave it to the experts.’

‘What if I
am
one of the experts?’

Julianne frowns and her lips tighten. ‘I may have to go to Italy next week,’ she announces suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘The TV station deal has hit a snag. One of the institutional shareholders is holding out. Unless we get ninety per cent approval the deal fal s over.’

‘When wil you leave?’

‘Monday.’

‘You’l go with Dirk.’

‘Yes.’ She opens the menu. ‘Imogen is here now. She’l help you look after Emma.’

‘What’s Dirk like?’

She doesn’t look up from the menu. ‘A force of nature.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He’s very ful on. Some people find him abrasive and opinionated. I think he’s an acquired taste.’

‘Have you acquired the taste?’

‘I understand him better than most people. He’s very good at his job.’

‘Is he married?’