When You Are Mine(116)

My gift to you on your wedding day. I miss those days when your smile made me real.

I look for more. An envelope is taped to one corner of the frame. Tearing it open, I discover a small plastic square – a memory card – which falls into the palm of my hand. Opening my laptop, I plug in a card-reader and click on the files.

The screen fills with a wide-angle shot of a living room. I recognise the location – Goodall’s apartment at Borough Market. The camera must have been hidden in the TV cabinet or nearby because the view is partially obstructed by a potted plant. I can see a sofa and two armchairs, with balcony doors in the background.

Tempe enters the shot. She is followed by Goodall, who is shirtless, wearing a towel around his waist. He pulls at her clothes. She wants him to wait. He tears at her blouse and pushes her to her knees, bending her over the coffee table. He is staring at his reflection in the TV as he violates her. Tempe doesn’t make a sound. When she tries to look away, he grabs her hair and forces her to watch.

Once the act is over, Goodall tosses the torn blouse at Tempe and tells her to ‘get lost’, he has mates coming over. She wants to shower.

‘No time.’

‘When can I come back?’

‘When I tell you.’

Tempe leaves. The camera is still running. I fast forward. The doorbell sounds. I hear male voices. Three men walk into the frame, but I can’t see their faces because the camera cuts them off at chest height. Goodall goes to the fridge. Beers are handed out. Opened. Clinked.

‘Fucking journalists,’ he says. ‘Bottom-feeders,’ is the reply. I recognise the voice: Superintendent Drysdale. ‘Trump got it right – enemies of the people.’

‘What did you dig up?’

‘His sister spent six months in rehab – heroin addiction – but she’s been clean for five years. And his old man lost his licence for drunk driving, but that was last century. Apart from that, I couldn’t find so much as a speeding ticket, or unpaid parking fine.’

‘We need more than that.’

‘Where’s the Scarlet Pimpernel?’

‘Late, as usual.’

The three men sit down. Goodall takes the armchair. The others take the sofa. I see their faces. Drysdale breaks wind, earning rebukes and laughter. He’s been protecting Goodall from the outset, wiping the body-cam footage and burying the investigation.

The man sitting next to him is unknown to me.

‘What if we leaked classified documents to Holstein and had him charged under the Official Secrets Act?’ says Drysdale.

‘That’ll make him a martyr for the freedom of speech brigade,’ says Goodall.

‘Drugs?’

‘Too obvious.’

‘Child porn?’

‘Losing evidence is easier than planting it.’

The doorbell sounds. Goodall grunts, as he gets up from the chair. Another guest has arrived, out of frame. Drysdale is still talking.

‘… I only know what filters down.’

‘Well, it’s too late now.’

The new arrival walks in front of the camera as he crosses the room.

‘Want a beer?’

‘Nah.’

He collects a glass of water, then comes back to the others.

‘We need a more permanent solution,’ says Goodall. ‘Holstein has been writing stories about gangland feuds. Why not make him a victim of his own success?’

‘A gangland hit,’ says Drysdale.

‘Yeah. And we can blame it on the Albanians, or Eddie McCarthy or the Cocky Watchman, for all I care.’

‘And we control the investigation,’ says the third man.

The new arrival finally takes a seat and I see his face. Pale. Freckled. The shock of red hair. Martyn Fairbairn is staring directly at his reflection in the TV. He could be looking into my eyes.

The final piece falls into place. The lead detective on Dylan Holstein’s murder had helped arrange the killing. Now I understand why he was outside my father’s birthday party, directing attention away from the real killers. He must have lobbied hard or called in favours to get assigned to Goodall’s murder as well as the Holstein case. He wanted to control both investigations, to steer them in the right direction, blaming my father for one killing and me for the other.

I close my laptop and retrieve the memory card. This is what Tempe took from Darren Goodall when she ran from him. It was her protection, her insurance policy, her guarantee that he would never come looking for her. Tempe must have lodged it with a solicitor and given instructions that it be sent to me if anything ever happened to her.

‘What are you watching?’ asks Henry, arriving in the kitchen.

‘Nothing important,’ I say, sliding the memory card into the envelope. ‘But I might have to visit a newspaper office before we go on our honeymoon. I want to give someone a story.’

The doorbell rings again. This time it is Tony. I grab the polished box with my wedding dress and my shoes and my going-away clothes for later.

‘Wait!’ says Henry, who dashes along the hallway and sweeps me into his arms. The kiss lasts an age.

‘That’s a down-payment,’ he says breathlessly.

‘On what?’

‘Our life together.’

‘That’s corny.’

‘Yeah, but you love it.’