Free Shatter by Michael Robotham Page A

between the treads.
    She turns away from me and begins making her way along the hal .
    ‘I’m going to take a shower, Professor. You put these girls in front of the fire. I got six different sorts of hot chocolate and I’m in the mood to share.’
    Darcy and Emma haven’t said a word since leaving the car. Veronica Cray can render someone speechless. She’s unavoidable. Immovable. Like a rocky outcrop in a force ten gale.
    I can hear the shower running. I put a kettle on the Aga stove and search through the pantry. Darcy has found a cartoon for Emma to watch on TV. I haven’t fed her anything since breakfast except for biscuits and a banana.
    I notice a calendar pinned to a corkboard. It is dotted with scribbled reminders of feed suppliers, farriers and horse sales. There are bil s to be paid and reminder notes. Wandering into the dining room, I look for signs of a partner. There are photographs on the mantelpiece and more on the fridge of a young dark-haired man, a son perhaps.
    I don’t normal y, knowingly search so openly for clues about a person but Veronica Cray fascinates me. It’s as though she’s fought a lifelong battle to be accepted for who she is. And now she’s comfortable with her body, her sexuality and her life.
    The bathroom door opens and she emerges, wrapped in a huge towel knotted between her breasts. She has to step around me. We both move the same way and back again. I apologise and flatten myself against the wal .
    ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’m inflatable. Normal y I’m size ten.’
    She laughs. I’m the only person embarrassed.
    The bedroom door closes. Ten minutes later she emerges in the kitchen wearing a pressed shirt and trousers. Her spiky hair is beaded with water.
    ‘You breed horses.’
    ‘I save old showjumpers from the knacker’s yard.’
    ‘What do you do with them?’
    ‘Find them homes.’
    ‘My daughter Charlie wants a horse.’
    ‘How old is she?’
    ‘Twelve.’
    ‘I can get her one.’

    The girls are drinking chocolate. DI Cray offers me something stronger, but I’m not supposed to drink any more because it affects my medication. I settle instead for coffee.
    ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing?’ she says, concerned rather than angry. ‘That poor girl’s mother is dead and you’re dragging her around the countryside on some fool’s errand.’
    ‘She found me. She ran away from school.’
    ‘And you should have sent her straight back there.’
    ‘What if she’s right?’
    ‘She’s not.’
    ‘I’ve been to Christine Wheeler’s house. I’ve talked to her business partner.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘She was having money problems, but nothing else suggests a woman on the verge of a breakdown.’
    ‘Suicide is an impulsive act.’
    ‘Yes, but people stil choose a method that suits them, normal y something they perceive as being quick and painless.’
    ‘What’s your point?’
    ‘They don’t jump off a bridge if they’re afraid of heights.’
    ‘But we both saw her jump.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So your argument doesn’t make sense. Nobody pushed her. You were nearest. Did you see anyone? Or you think she was murdered by remote control. Hypnotism? Mind control?’
    ‘She didn’t want to jump. She was resigned to it. She took off her clothes and put on a raincoat. She walked out of the house without deadlocking the door. She didn’t leave a suicide note. She didn’t tidy up her affairs or give away her possessions. None of her behaviour was typical of a woman contemplating suicide. A woman who is scared of heights doesn’t choose to jump off a bridge. She doesn’t do it naked. She doesn’t scrawl insults on her skin. Women of her age are body conscious. They wear clothes that flatter. They care about their appearance.’
    ‘You’re making excuses, Professor. The lady jumped.’
    ‘She was talking to someone on the phone. They could have said something to her.’
    ‘Perhaps they gave her bad news: a death in the family or a bad diagnosis.