When You Are Mine(16)

Ignoring the distractions, I work quickly and create a window of time for myself when I can look through the custody logs and booking sheets for any mention of Darren Goodall or Tempe Brown. There is nothing. Nobody filled out a ‘use of force’ report, there is no record of an interview. There were no background checks for the call-out to the apartment. Nobody is looking for Tempe or is concerned for her welfare.

I take out my mobile and call Nish, who still lives at home with his parents in South London. When he doesn’t pick up, I try their landline. Nish is the only one of my fellow officers who knows about my family connections. I told him because I trusted him to keep my secret, and sharing it made it seem easier to carry.

Mrs Kohli answers, sounding posher than the Queen.

‘Is Nish there?’ I ask, before correcting myself. ‘Anisha.’

‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Work.’

She puts the phone down and shouts in Hindi. I hear footsteps on the stairs. Nish’s voice.

‘It’s me,’ I say.

Silence. I think the line has dropped out. I try again. ‘Nish?’

‘We shouldn’t be talking.’

‘Why?’

He goes quiet. I wait. He breaks. ‘This isn’t personal, Phil. You did nothing wrong – it’s just … I don’t want to … People are …’

I can’t wait for him to get to the point. ‘Did you fill out a domestic abuse report?’

‘I was told not to.’

‘What about the body-cam footage – was it uploaded?’

‘Not by me.’

‘They’ve buried this.’

‘Maybe that’s for the best. Goodall has a wife and kids.’

‘And a mistress.’

‘Not our business.’

‘Who he beat up.’

Nish goes quiet.

‘They wanted to charge me with misconduct,’ I say.

‘I know. But it won’t happen – not if they want to keep it quiet.’

He’s right, but silence won’t save me from being ostracised.

‘Somebody put a dead rat in my locker.’

‘Fuckers!’ he mutters. ‘This will blow over. Keep your head down and nose clean.’

‘I have a very clean nose.’

Nish lowers his voice. ‘Ever heard of the Gladiators?’

‘You mean the Roman variety?’

‘The modern equivalent. About twenty years ago, a group of trainees at Hendon started a drinking club and came up with the name. They liked to party hard and play hard and pretend they were better than everyone else. Over time it became something more.’ He hesitates, as if searching for the words. ‘If one of them had a problem or needed something – a promotion, a transfer, a glowing reference – the others would sort it out. All for one and one for all.’

‘Like the musketeers.’

‘All swash and no buckle.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Every year they recruit a handful of new trainees.’

‘You were invited?’

‘I’m the wrong colour, but I know someone …’ He stops. Starts again. ‘Like I said, they’re more a drinking club, but once a member has proved themselves worthy, they’re given a tattoo. Three letters: MDM.’

I remember the tattoo I saw on Superintendent Drysdale’s wrist.

‘What does it stand for?’ I ask.

‘Maximus Decimus Meridius. Commander of the Armies of the North.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Russell Crowe’s character in Gladiator.’

I laugh because it sounds so foolish. Secret clubs, passwords, funny handshakes – I thought the Masons were a thing of the past.

‘If you attack one of them, you attack them all,’ says Nish.

‘I didn’t attack him.’

‘You bruised his pride.’

Why is it that men have pride, but women have shame?

The silence is filled with the sound of us breathing into the phone.

‘Are we good?’ I ask.

‘Never better,’ Nish replies, ‘but you have to let this go, Phil.’

‘Of course.’

Even as I’m making the promise, I’m typing Darren Goodall’s name into the CRIS database and searching for past incidents or complaints of domestic abuse. It comes back with a single hit, but the file is restricted. There is a case number and an investigating officer, but all of the other details are hidden.

Trying a different approach, I search a separate database called Merlin, which stores information on children. Any domestic abuse incident where minors are witnesses or living at that address will trigger a Merlin report, which is shared with child protection agencies.

‘Bingo!’ I say, too loudly. I glance at the nearby desks, making sure that nobody has heard me.

On screen is an incident report dated 14 August 2019. An emergency call was made from a private home in west London. There is a recording. I put on headphones and press play.

‘You’re through to the police. What’s the nature of your emergency?’

A child’s voice, a little boy. Sobbing.

‘Daddy and Mummy are fighting.’