Shatter by Michael Robotham Read Free Book Online Page B

holds it stil . It’s a game she plays. Holding it with both hands and then letting go to see if it trembles, before grabbing it again.
    Later that evening when the girls are asleep and our horizontal waltz is over, I cuddle Julianne and grow melancholy.
    ‘Did Charlie tel you she saw our ghost?’
    ‘No. Where?’
    ‘On the stairs.’
    ‘I wish Mrs Nutal would stop putting stories in her head.’
    ‘She’s a mad old bat.’
    ‘Is that a professional diagnosis?’
    ‘Absolutely,’ I say.
    Julianne stares into space, her mind elsewhere… in Rome perhaps, or Moscow.
    ‘You know I give them ice-cream al the time when you’re not here,’ I tel her.

    ‘That’s because you’re buying their love,’ she replies.
    ‘You bet. It’s for sale and I want it.’
    She laughs.
    ‘Are you happy?’ I ask.
    She turns her face to mine. ‘That’s a strange question.’
    ‘I can’t stop thinking about that woman on the bridge. Something made her unhappy.’
    ‘And you think I’m the same?’
    ‘It was nice to hear you laughing today.’
    ‘It’s nice to be home.’
    ‘Nicest place to be.’

    6

    Monday morning. Grey. Dry. The agency is sending three candidates for me to interview. I don’t think they’re cal ed nannies any more. They are carers or childcare professionals.
    Julianne is on her way to Moscow, Charlie is on the bus to school and Emma is playing with her dol s’ clothes in the dining room, trying to put a bonnet on Sniffy our neurotic cat. Sniffy’s ful name is Sniffy Toilet Rol , which is again what happens when you give a three-year-old the naming rights to family pets.
    The first interview starts badly. Her name is Jackie and she’s nervous. She bites her nails and touches her hair constantly as if needing reassurance that it hasn’t disappeared.
    Julianne’s instructions were clear. I am to make sure the nanny doesn’t do drugs, drink or drive too fast. Exactly how I’m supposed to find this out is beyond me.
    ‘This is where I’m supposed to find out if you’re a granny basher,’ I tel Jackie.
    She gives me a puzzled look. ‘My granny’s dead.’
    ‘You didn’t bash her, did you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good.’
    I cross her off the list.
    The next candidate is twenty-four from Newcastle with a sharply pointed face, brown eyes and dark hair pul ed back so tightly it raises her eyebrows. She seems to be casing the house with the view to robbing it later with her burglar boyfriend.
    ‘What car wil I be driving?’ she asks.
    ‘An Astra.’
    She’s not impressed. ‘I can’t drive a manual. I don’t think I should be expected to. Wil there be a TV in my room?’
    ‘There can be.’
    ‘How big is it?’
    ‘I’m not sure.’
    Is she talking about watching it or flogging it, I wonder. I scrub out her name. Two strikes.
    At 11.00 a.m. I interview a pretty Jamaican with braided hair, looped back on itself and pinned with a large tortoiseshel clip at the back of her head. Her name is Mani, she has good references and a lovely deep voice. I like her. She has a nice smile.
    Halfway through the interview, there’s a sudden cry from the dining room. Emma in pain. I try to rise but my left leg locks. The effect is cal ed bradykinesia, a symptom of Parkinson’s, and it means that Mani reaches Emma first. The hinged lid of the toy box has trapped her fingers. Emma takes one look at the dark-skinned stranger and howls even louder.
    ‘She hasn’t been held by many black people,’ I say, trying to rescue the situation. It makes things worse. ‘It’s not your colour. We have lots of black friends in London. Dozens of them.’
    My God, I’m suggesting my three-year-old is a racist!
    Emma has stopped crying. ‘It’s my fault. I picked her up too suddenly,’ Mani says, looking at me sadly.
    ‘She doesn’t know you yet.’ I explain.
    ‘Yes.’
    Mani is gathering her things.
    ‘I’l cal the agency,’ I say. ‘They’l let you know.’
    But we both realise what’s happening. She’s