When You Are Mine(17)

‘Where are they?’

‘In the bedroom. She’s crying.’

‘Is he hurting her?’

He takes the phone away from his mouth and begins yelling, ‘Stop it, Daddy! Please! Stop it!’

The dispatcher remains calm. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Nathan.’

‘Listen to me, Nathan, where is your mummy now?’

‘She’s trying to get the baby.’

‘What baby?’

‘My sister.’ Nathan lowers the phone and starts yelling, ‘Please, Daddy, don’t do it, don’t do it.’

The dispatcher grows desperate. ‘Nathan? Nathan? Can you hear me? Nathan? Nathan?’

I am holding my breath. The boy answers, softly, whispering, ‘Yes.’

‘Where is the baby?’

‘He’s holding her upside down over the stairs.’

‘The police are coming. They’re not far away. Is the front door open?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you open it and come back to the phone?’

‘OK.’

Seconds tick by. I can hear a woman screaming in the background. The phone is picked up.

‘Is that you, Nathan?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Where is the baby?’

‘She’s not moving.’

‘What do you mean? Where is your mummy?’

‘No, Daddyyy. Noooooo! Noooooo! Daddddyyyy.’

The phone falls.

‘Nathan? Nathan?’

Someone picks up the handset. I hear breathing.

‘Nathan? Is that you?’

The lines goes dead.

The written portion of the report is a summary of the incident. Goodall was arrested and taken to Acton police station, where he was held overnight. He was released in the morning without charge. His wife, Alison, was treated in hospital, but declined to make a statement. Photographs were taken, showing swelling to her face and bruises on her chest. These images should have been enough to bury Goodall, but nothing happened. He wasn’t charged or suspended. He didn’t accept responsibility or agree to counselling.

Closing down the screen, I glance over my shoulder again, making sure nobody has been watching. Even so, every keystroke and viewed page will have left a digital trace. I can’t use the information without risking my own career.

Just before midnight, I change into my civvies and make my way downstairs. The shift has changed and there are new personnel on the front desk. One of them signals to me. Warily, I approach.

‘These arrived for you,’ he says, pulling a huge bunch of flowers from behind the counter. Roses and lilies in pinks and peaches are arranged with branches of grey-green eucalyptus.

‘Is it your birthday?’ he asks.

‘No.’

I open the card. The handwritten note says: I’m sorry about what happened. No hard feelings. It’s unsigned.

‘Who delivered them?’ I ask.

‘A courier. Maybe you have a secret admirer.’

‘I doubt it.’ I look at the card again, turning it over, hoping for a clue.

Perhaps Tempe is letting me know that she’s all right. Or maybe Darren Goodall is sending me a peace-offering. Either way, it’s disturbing rather than reassuring.





7


Henry is up early, thumping around the kitchen, opening cupboards, grinding coffee and watching YouTube videos on his phone.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asks.

‘You woke my grandmother and she’s been dead for a decade.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Blaine barked all last night.’

‘I’ll talk to Mrs Ainsley.’

‘She’ll pretend to be deaf.’

‘She is deaf.’

‘Selectively.’

He notices my clothes. ‘Going for a run?’

‘Visiting a friend.’

I steal a slice of his toast and make my way downstairs, wishing I’d made myself a coffee because I might have to sit and wait. My Fiat Punto collects more leaves than miles because I drive it so rarely. Douglas Adams once likened driving a car in London to bringing a Ming vase to a football game, and my Fiat already has the battle scars to prove that point. Every time I read those stories about the cost of running a car in London – the insurance, road tax, petrol, parking, congestion charges etc. – I know it makes little financial sense, but each time I get behind the wheel, it still feels like a badge of freedom and being a grown-up.

I drive north across Battersea Bridge, glancing along the Thames at the string of bridges to the east, which are like loose stitches that hold two halves of a city together. Turning left, I follow the river until the road curves north again, passing through Chelsea, Fulham and Olympia.

Just before eight, I turn into Kempe Road and park diagonally opposite the semi-detached house, which looks like all the others in the street with decorative fascias, net curtains and a wrought-iron faux balcony above the front door. Ten minutes later, a young woman emerges in a dressing gown and collects two bottles of milk from the doorstep. A cat darts between her legs making a dash for freedom. She calls after it, but the cat has already jumped onto a wall.

‘I’m not letting you back inside. You have to go around the back.’