When You Are Mine(49)

‘He filmed us, that’s all.’

I search the ceiling for a new question. ‘The other night you were teasing Henry about threesomes. Is that something you did … with Goodall?’

‘It was a joke.’

‘Did he ever introduce you to anyone?’

‘What do you mean?’

I soften my voice. ‘Did anyone ever visit the apartment – other police officers – business contacts?’

‘He had meetings, but he made me go out. I had to phone him before I came back.’

‘How long did you stay away?’

‘A few hours – maybe longer if they were playing poker.’

‘Would you recognise these men?’

‘Some of them.’

‘Did any of them have tattoos?’

‘I didn’t see them naked,’ she snaps. ‘Just because he paid for the apartment and bought me nice clothes, it doesn’t make me a prostitute.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ I point to the inside of my wrist. ‘Three letters. MDM.’

‘Darren had a tattoo like that. What does it mean?’

‘It’s a gang marking.’

‘You mean like a street gang?’

‘Not quite the same.’

I have to stop myself asking the same questions again. Despite her masochistic attraction to difficult men, Tempe is a victim, not a perpetrator. She shouldn’t be blamed for making bad choices.

‘When you went out to dinner, or he bought you clothes, did he pay by card or with cash?’ I ask.

‘Usually with cash.’

‘Did he ever go to the casinos?’

‘He liked the races. Is that important?’

‘I’m just wondering how a detective sergeant with a wife and two kids and a London-sized mortgage can afford a luxury apartment on the river.’

Another shrug of her shoulders and I get the impression she’s keeping something from me.

‘Goodall said you stole from him. What did he mean?’

‘You’ve asked me that.’

‘Yes, and you said you were owed – but not what you took.’

‘Maybe I took away his pride. Maybe I stole his heart.’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘No. You’re doing what everybody does – and making me feel guilty, as though it’s my fault that he beat me, and he raped me.’

‘Did he rape you?’

‘All the time.’

‘Then make a statement. Help me stop him.’

‘If you have to ask – you don’t understand.’

When I get home, I go to the office upstairs, which will one day become the nursery. Now it looks more like a junk-room, full of boxes and exercise equipment that we purchased with good intentions and stopped using within a month. Opening my laptop, I continue my search for Tempe’s parents. Her mother’s letter mentioned a pharmacy run by her aunt and uncle. I’ve come up with eleven possible businesses. I call them one by one. My script is always the same. I ask for Heather or George.

On my fifth call, I get a hit. A woman answers, ‘Heather isn’t here today, and George is busy with a customer.’

I hesitate, unsure of how to proceed.

‘I’m actually looking for Mrs Brown. She has a daughter called Margaret.’

‘Oh, you mean Elsa. Who shall I say is calling?’

‘You mean, she’s there?’

‘Yes.’

I didn’t expect to find her so quickly. ‘Oh, right. Tell her it’s PC McCarthy of Southwark Police … in London.’

She laughs. ‘I know where Southwark is,’ and lowers the phone to the counter. I hear muffled voices. The phone is picked up. A nervous voice says hello.

‘Is that Mrs Brown?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have a daughter called Maggie.’

There is an intake of breath, followed by a flurry of words. ‘Is she all right? Has something happened to her?’

‘No. Nothing is wrong.’

‘Oh, thank God. Where is she?’

‘Living in London. She doesn’t know I’m calling.’

‘Is she in trouble?’

‘No. It’s nothing like that. I’m a friend of hers. You sent her a letter. I know I shouldn’t have opened it. I tried to give it to Tempe, but she—’

‘Tempe?’

‘She said that was her middle name.’

‘No.’

Her voice is shaking. It takes me a moment to realise that she’s crying.

‘Mrs Brown?’

‘Call me Elsa.’ She blows her nose. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me. I’ve been praying … and writing. So many letters – I’ve lost count. Most have been returned unopened. I didn’t know if any reached her. What is she doing? Is she happy?’

‘She’s been helping me plan my wedding.’

‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ There is an edge to her voice. ‘Are you her friend?’

‘I guess I am. We were at school together – at St Ursula’s. I was a few years below her. Tempe, I mean Maggie, doesn’t talk much about her past. She’s very private.’