Shatter (16 page)

I think of a cover story. I’m an accountant cal ing from London. I’m doing an audit. I give her Julianne’s name and the dates of her stay.

‘Mrs O’Loughlin settled her account in ful . She paid with her credit card.’

‘She was travel ing with a business col eague.’

‘The name?’

Dirk. What is his last name? I can’t remember.

‘I just wanted to ask about a room service charge for breakfast… with champagne.’

‘Is Mrs O’Loughlin querying her bil ?’ she asks.

‘Could there be a mistake?’

‘The room charges were shown to Mrs O’Loughlin when she settled her account.’

‘Under the circumstances, it seems rather a lot for one person. I mean, look at the order: bacon and eggs, smoked salmon, pancakes, pastries, strawberries, and champagne.’

‘Yes, sir, I have the details of the order.’

‘It’s a lot for one person.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She doesn’t seem to understand my point.

‘Who signed for it?’

‘Someone signed the docket when breakfast was delivered to the room.’

‘So you can’t tel me if Mrs O’Loughlin signed for it?’

‘Is she disputing the bil , sir?’

I lie. ‘She has no recol ection of ordering that amount of food.’

There is a pause. ‘Would you like me to fax a copy of the signature, sir?’

‘Is it legible?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Another phone is ringing in the background. The night manager is alone on the desk. She suggests I cal later in the morning and talk to the hotel manager.

‘I’m sure he wil be happy to reimburse Mrs O’Loughlin. The charges wil be refunded to her credit card.’

I recognise the danger. Julianne wil see the refund on her card statement.

‘No, it’s fine. Don’t bother.’

‘But if Mrs O’Loughlin feels she has been overcharged—.’

‘She may have been mistaken. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

20

A dozen women have taken over a corner of the bar, pushing chairs and tables together on the edge of the dance floor. The bitch is dancing, grinding her hips like a pole dancer,
her face flushed from laughter and too much wine. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking every man in the place is looking at her, desiring her, but her face is too hard and her
body even harder.

Mercifully, it’s not youthful innocence that I am after. It is not purity. I want to wade in filth. I want to see the cracks in her make-up and stretch marks on her stomach. I want to see her
body swing.

Someone shrieks with laughter. The middle-aged bride-to-be is so drunk she can barely stand. I think her name is Cathy and she’s late to the altar or going around for a second
time. She bumps into some guy at a table, spilling his pint, and then apologises with all the sincerity of a whore’s kiss. Pity the poor bastard putting his prick in that!

Alice walks to the jukebox and studies the song titles beneath the glass. What sort of mother brings her pre-teen daughter to a hen night? She should be at home in bed. Instead
she’s sulking, plump and sedentary, eating crisps and drinking lemonade.

‘You don’t like dancing?’ I ask.

Alice shakes her head.

‘Must be pretty boring if you don’t dance.’

She shrugs.

‘Your name is Alice, right?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I heard your mother say it. It’s a nice name. “Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly
the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle— will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?” ’

‘That’s from Alice in Wonderland,’ she says.

‘Yes it is.’

‘My dad used to read that to me.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. Where’s your dad now?’

‘Not here.’

‘Is he away on business?’

‘He travels a lot.’

Her mum is being spun across the dance floor, sending her dress twirling and knickers flashing.

‘Your mum is having a good time.’

Alice rolls her eyes. ‘She’s embarrassing.’

‘All parents are embarrassing.’

She looks at me more closely. ‘Why are you wearing sunglasses?’

‘So I won’t be recognised.’

‘Who are hiding from?’

‘Why do you think I’m hiding? I might be famous.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’m incognito.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘In disguise.’

‘It’s not a very good disguise.’

‘Thanks very much.’

She shrugs.

‘What sort of music do you like, Alice? Wait! Don’t tell me. I think you’re a Coldplay fan?’

Her eyes widen. ‘How did you know?’

‘You’re obviously a girl of very good taste.’

This time she smiles.

‘Chris Martin is a mate of mine,’ I say.

‘No way.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The lead singer of Coldplay— you know him?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘A good guy: not conceited.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Big headed. Up himself.’

‘Yeah, well, she’s a cow.’

‘Gwyneth is OK.’

‘My friend Shelly says Gwyneth Paltrow is a wannabe Madonna. Shelly shouldn’t talk ’cos she told Danny Green that I thought he was fit only I never said that. As if! I don’t fancy him
at all.’

Someone stands in the open doorway and lights a cigarette. She screws up her nose. ‘People shouldn’t smoke. It causes gangrene. My dad smokes and my two uncles. I tried it
once and puked over my mum’s leather seats.’

‘She must have been impressed.’

‘Shelly made me do it.’

‘I wouldn’t listen to Shelly so much.’

‘She’s my best friend. She’s prettier than I am.’

‘I don’t think she is.’

‘How would you know? You’ve never seen her.’

‘I just find it hard to believe that anyone could be prettier than you are.’

Alice frowns sceptically and changes the subject.

‘What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’ she asks.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a joke. I heard someone say it.’

‘I don’t know. What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’

‘Forty-five minutes.’

I smile.

‘OK. Now explain it to me,’ she says.

‘That’s how long a wedding ceremony lasts. The difference between a boyfriend and a husband is forty-five minutes.’

‘Oh. I thought it was going to be rude. Now tell me a joke?’

‘I’m not very good at remembering jokes.’

She’s disappointed.

‘Do you really know Chris Martin?’

‘Sure. He has a house in London.’

‘You been there?’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re so lucky.’

She has a small almond-shaped birthmark on her neck below her right ear. Lower still, a gold chain with a horseshoe pendant sways back and forth as she rocks on her heels.

‘You like horses?’

‘I have one. A chestnut mare called Sally.’

‘How tall is she?’

‘Fifteen hands.’

‘That’s a good size. How often do you ride?’

‘Every weekend. I have lessons every Monday after school.’

‘Lessons. Where do you have those?’

‘Clack Mill Stables. Mrs Lehane is my riding teacher.’

‘You like her.’

‘Sure.’

Another shriek of laughter echoes across the bar. Two men have joined the hen party. One of them has his arm around her mum’s waist and a pint glass in his other hand. He
whispers something in her ear. She nods her head.

‘I wish I could go home,’ says Alice, looking miserable.

‘I’d take you if I could,’ I say, ‘but your mum wouldn’t allow it.’

Alice nods. ‘I’m not even supposed to talk to strangers.’

‘I’m not a stranger. I know all about you. I know you like Coldplay and you have a horse called Sally and you live in Bath.’

She laughs. ‘How do you know where I live? I didn’t tell you that.’

‘Yes you did.’

She shakes her head adamantly.

‘Well, your mother must have mentioned it.’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Maybe.’

Her lemonade is finished. I offer to buy her another one but she refuses. The wet cold from the open doorway makes her shiver.

‘I must go, Alice. It’s been nice meeting you.’

She nods.

I smile but my eyes are focused on the dance floor where her mother clinging to her new male friend who bends her backwards and nuzzles her neck. I bet she smells like overripe
fruit. She’ll bruise easily. She’ll break quickly. I can taste the juice already.

21

The phone is ringing in my sleep. Julianne reaches across me and lifts the handset from its cradle.

‘Do you know what time it is?’ she says angrily. ‘It’s not even five o’clock. You’ve woken the whole house.’

I manage to pry the handset from her fingers. Veronica Cray is on the line.

‘Rise and shine, Professor, I’m sending a car.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘We have a development.’

Julianne has rol ed over, pul ing the duvet resolutely under her chin. She pretends to be asleep. I begin dressing and struggle to button my shirt and tie my shoes. Eventual y, she sits up, tugging at the front panels of my shirt and drawing me closer. I can smel the soft sourness of her sleepy breath.

‘Don’t wear your corduroy trousers.’

‘What’s wrong with corduroy?’

‘We don’t have enough time for me to tel you what’s wrong with corduroy. Trust me on this one.’

She unscrews my pil bottles and fetches me a glass of water. I feel decrepit and grateful. Melancholy.

‘I thought it would be different,’ she whispers, more to herself than to me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When we moved out of London— I thought things would be different. No detectives or police cars or you thinking about terrible crimes.’

‘They need my help.’

‘You
want
to help them.’

‘We’l talk later,’ I say, bending to kiss her. She turns her cheek and pul s the bedclothes around her.

Monk and Safari Roy are waiting for me outside. Monk opens the car door for me and Roy guns the car around the turning circle outside the church, spraying gravel and mud across the grass. God knows what the neighbours wil think.

Monk is so tal his knees seem to concertina against the dashboard. The radio chatters. Neither detective seems ready to tel me where we’re going.

Half an hour later we pul up in the shadow of Bristol City footbal ground, where three brutal y ugly tower blocks rise above Victorian terraces, prefabricated factories and a car yard. A police bus is parked on the corner. A dozen officers are sitting inside, some of them wearing body armour. Veronica Cray raises her head from a car bonnet where a map has been spread across the cooling metal. Oliver Rabb is alongside her, bending low, as if embarrassed by his height or her lack of it.

‘Sorry if I caused any marital disharmony,’ the DI says, disingenuously.

‘That’s OK.’

‘Oliver here has been a busy boy.’ She indicates a reference point on the map. ‘At 19.00 hours last night Christine Wheeler’s mobile began “ping”ing a tower about four hundred yards from here. It’s the same phone she left home with on Friday afternoon but it hasn’t transmitted since the signal went dead in Leigh Woods and she began using a second mobile.’

‘Someone made a cal ?’ I ask.

‘Ordered a pizza. It was delivered to the flat belonging to Patrick Ful er— an ex-soldier. He was discharged from the army for being “temperamental y unsuitable”.’

‘What does that mean?’

She shrugs. ‘Your area not mine. Ful er was wounded by a roadside bomb in southern Afghanistan a year or so back. Two of his platoon died. A nurse at a military hospital in Germany accused him of feeling her up. The army discharged him.’

I glance at the grey concrete tower blocks, which are like islands against a brightening sky.

The DI is stil talking.

‘Four months ago Ful er lost his licence for DUI after testing positive for cocaine. Wife walked out on him around that time, taking their two kids.’

‘How old is he?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘Does he know Christine Wheeler?’

‘Unknown.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘We arrest him.’

The tower block has internal stairs and a lift serving al floors. The service entrance smel s of disembowel ed bin bags, cat piss and wet newspapers. Patrick Ful er lives on the fourth floor.

I watch as a dozen officers in body armour climb the stairs. Four more use the lift. Their movements are choreographed by months of training yet it stil seems overblown and unnecessary when considering the suspect has no history of violence.

Maybe this is the future— a legacy of 9/11 and the London train bombings. Police no longer knock on doors and politely ask suspects to accompany them to the station. Instead they dress up in body armour and break the doors down with battering rams. Privacy and personal freedom are less important than public safety. I understand the arguments but I miss the old days.

The lead officer has reached the flat and presses his ear against the door. He turns and nods. Veronica Cray nods back. A battering ram swings in a short arc. The door disappears.

The arrest party suddenly stops. A snarling pit bul terrier lunges at the closest officer, who rocks back and stumbles. Al fangs and fury, the pit bul hurls itself at his throat but is held back.