Shatter by Michael Robotham Page B

climb the stairs to her room and lower one side of her cot, lifting her into my arms. Her fine dark hair is tousled by sleep.
    I hear the toilet flush downstairs. Darcy has washed her face and brushed her hair, pinning it tightly in a bun that makes her neck appear impossibly long.
    ‘This is Emma,’ I explain as she returns to the kitchen.
    ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ says Darcy, finding a smile.
    Emma plays hard to get, turning her face away. Suddenly, she spies the biscuits and reaches out for one. I set her down and, surprisingly, she goes straight to Darcy and crawls onto her lap.
    ‘She must like you,’ I say.
    Emma toys with the buttons of Darcy’s jacket.
    ‘I need to ask you a few more questions.’
    Darcy nods.
    ‘Was your mother upset about anything? Depressed?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Was she having trouble sleeping?’
    ‘She had pil s.’
    ‘Was she eating regularly?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘What did your mother do?’
    ‘She’s a wedding planner. She has her own company— Blissful. She and her friend Sylvia started it up. They did a wedding for Alexandra Phil ips.’
    ‘Who’s she?’
    ‘A celebrity. Haven’t you ever seen that show about the vet who looks after animals in Africa?’
    I shake my head.
    ‘Wel , she got married and Mum and Sylvia did the whole thing. It made al the magazines.’
    Darcy stil hasn’t referred to her mother in the past tense. It’s not unusual and has nothing to do with denial. Two days isn’t long enough for the reality to take hold and permeate her thinking.
    I stil don’t understand what she’s doing here. I couldn’t save her mother and I can’t tel her any more than the police can. Christine Wheeler’s final words were addressed to me but she didn’t give me any clues.
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ I ask.
    ‘Come to the house. Then you’l see.’
    ‘See what?’
    ‘She didn’t kil herself.’
    ‘I watched her jump, Darcy.’
    ‘Wel , something must have made her do it.’ She kisses the top of Emma’s head. ‘She wouldn’t do it like that. She wouldn’t leave me.’

    7

    The eighteenth century cottage has gnarled and twisted wisteria climbing above the front door, reaching as high as the eaves. The adjacent garage was once a stable and is now part of the main house.
    Darcy unlocks the front door and steps into the dimness of the entrance hal . She hesitates, jostling with emotions that retard her movements.
    ‘Is something wrong?’
    She shakes her head unconvincingly.
    ‘You can stay outside if you like and look after Emma.’
    She nods.
    Emma is kicking up leaves on the path.
    Crossing the slate floor of the entrance hal , I brush against an empty coat hook and notice an umbrel a propped beneath it. There is a kitchen on the right. Through the windows I see a rear garden and a wood railing fence separating neatly pruned rose bushes from adjacent gardens. A cup and cereal bowl rest in the draining rack. The sink is dry and wiped clean.
    Inside the kitchen bin are vegetable scraps, curling orange peel and old teabags the colour of dog turds. The table is clear except for a smal pile of bil s and opened letters.
    I yel over my shoulder. ‘How long have you lived here?’
    Darcy answers through the open door. ‘Eight years. Mum had to take out a second mortgage when she started the company.’
    The living room is tasteful y but tiredly furnished, with an aging sofa, armchairs and a large sideboard with cat-scratched corners. There are framed photographs on the mantelpiece.
    Most of them show Darcy in various bal et costumes, either backstage or performing. Bal et trophies and medals are lined up in a display case, alongside more photographs.
    ‘You’re a dancer.’
    ‘Yes.’
    It should have been obvious. She has the classic dancer’s body: lean and loose-limbed, with slightly out-turned feet.
    My questions have brought Darcy inside.
    ‘Is this how you found the house?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You haven’t moved anything?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Or touched