When You Are Mine(14)

The tub is empty. I breathe. Retreat. Call 999.

‘What service do you require?’

‘The police.’

Several dull clicks follow, before I hear a new voice. ‘Police service. What is the nature of the emergency?’

‘This is PC Philomena McCarthy of Southwark Police. I’m at an apartment at Borough Market. There are bloodstains in the bathroom. The female occupant is missing.’

They want an address and have follow-up questions. Are there weapons involved? Is the address hard to find?

I should wait outside until the police arrive, but I return to the bedroom, avoiding touching any surface. At first glance it looks like a burglary, or a frantic search, but as I look more closely, I notice damage rather than absence. The sleeves of business shirts have been cut off and a blue blazer slashed to the lining.

I move to the living area, where the sofa cushions have been disembowelled, and foam stuffing covers the floor. Broken plastic crunches under my running shoes. Crouching to get a better look, I find the remnants of a small HD webcam. I notice a power cable tucked behind a row of books, next to a potted orchid on a shelf next to the TV. The camera is one of those small, high-quality models that have an internal memory card, but the slot is empty.

The kitchen has a half-eaten bran muffin in the pedal bin and a broken coffee pot in the sink. A cutlery drawer has been upended and the contents are strewn across the tiled floor. I can’t work out if I’m looking at an act of vandalism, a robbery, an abduction, or a murder scene.

Retreating outside, I wait for the police to arrive. Sweat has dampened my clothes and I’m shivering in the hallway when two uniforms emerge from the lift. I recognise both of them. I went through training with Stefan Albinksi at Hendon. Tall and thin, he was nicknamed ‘Horse’ on account of his long face, although he says it’s for a different reason. His partner is Kevin Boyd, who played league football for Oxford United and is ‘almost famous’ according to Nish, who follows football.

‘What are you doing here?’ asks Horse.

‘I was following up on a call-out.’

‘Off-duty?’

I explain how I took Tempe to a hospital three days ago and dropped her off at the women’s refuge. Boyd goes into the apartment.

‘You think she came back?’ asks Horse.

‘A neighbour saw her.’

‘What about the boyfriend – where is he?’

‘He lives elsewhere. Married. Kids.’ I hesitate. ‘He’s a copper. A detective sergeant.’

‘Who?’

‘Darren Goodall.’

‘You mean the Darren Goodall?’

I nod.

Horse laughs nervously. Boyd emerges from the flat. ‘There isn’t enough blood to think anyone was seriously injured.’

‘What about the handprint?’ I ask.

‘Could have been a nosebleed.’

‘You should check the local hospitals.’

Boyd doesn’t like being told what to do. ‘Did you bother looking at the rest of the place? Someone has poured a bag of flour down the sink, blocking the pipes.’

‘Sounds like an act of revenge,’ says Horse. ‘A woman scorned.’

‘She wouldn’t leave her phone behind,’ I say defensively.

The constables exchange a glance. Neither wants to get involved in this, but I’m forcing their hand. The questions come quickly. Is Tempe a drug addict? Could she have run away? Was she depressed or suicidal?

‘I barely knew the woman,’ I say.

‘Yet here you are,’ says Boyd.

Another look passes between them. They want me out of here and I have no authority to stay. This is their call-out.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ says Horse, nodding towards the lift.

I want to argue, but there’s no point. Downstairs, I push through the heavy glass doors, out into the morning. Rain has begun falling. A sudden cloudburst. Big drops dance on the road. Shit! My phone vibrates. There are two missed calls from my stepmother. Two voicemail messages.

Delete.

Delete.





6


Ten days after my suspension I am summoned back to work. The email makes no mention of the misconduct charges, but I’m sure the details have been filed away, a permanent stain on my record. I return on a miserable day in late May, when wind chases litter along the gutters, pinning it against fences and lampposts and bare legs. Summer postponed.

As I’m picking up a coffee from across the road, a man holds the door open for me.

‘Philomena McCarthy?’

I smile, thinking we must have met, but I don’t recognise his unshaven face, or his foppish brown hair, or the slight kink in his nose.

‘I’m Dylan Holstein. I write for the Guardian. I wanted to ask you about Darren Goodall.’

I push past him, ignoring the question.

‘A little birdie told me that you two had an altercation.’

Altercation is such an old-fashioned, almost polite word. A euphemism for a scuffle where harsh words are exchanged, but nobody gets hurt. Couples quarrel. Siblings squabble. Lovers have spats. Altercations are for neighbours who knock on doors at three in the morning, fed up with AC/DC being played at full volume through the walls.

I dodge a street-sweeper’s barrow, trying to stay ahead of Holstein, who jogs to catch up with me. Foam spills from the spout of my travel mug.