When You Are Mine(5)

I take her forearm as we walk along the hallway. Nish is still arguing with the boyfriend.

‘Why are you writing stuff down? I told you, nothing happened.’

‘Why does the young lady have blood on her dress?’

‘It was an accident.’

‘Yeah, so you keep saying.’

‘You won’t be writing this up. I’m a detective sergeant stationed at Scotland Yard. The Intelligence Unit.’

Nish sounds less certain than before. ‘I need your name.’

‘Fuck off!’

Tempe tries to step around him, but the boyfriend grabs at her hair. I knock his arm aside and push her behind me, before bracing my legs, one forward the other back, letting my hands hang ready at my sides. This time he lunges at me. I dance back a step and perform a rising cross-block with open hands.

Suddenly, enraged, he swings a punch, but I grab his attacking arm from inside and back-fist him in the jaw. Dropping to one knee, I trip him backwards, turning him onto his chest and twisting his arm high up the middle of his spine.

All of this happens so quickly that Nish hasn’t had time to unholster his Taser or extend his baton. Taking cuffs from my belt, I snap them on his wrists.

‘I am arresting you for assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything. But if you do not mention now something which you later use in your defence, the court may decide that your failure to mention it now strengthens the case against you …’

The man has blood on his teeth. ‘You’re finished! You’re both fucked!’

‘… a record will be made of anything you say, and it may be given in evidence if you are brought to trial.’

‘I am Detective Sergeant Darren Goodall. I want my Police Federation rep.’

I glance at Nish, who is taking notes, but looks dazed. ‘Can you arrange transport to the station? I’ll take Tempe to the hospital.’

He nods.

Feeling calm, almost weightless, I lead Tempe along the hallway.

Goodall shouts after her. ‘Not a word! Not a fucking word!’

Inside the lift, Tempe pins herself against the mirrored wall, wrapping her arms around her thin frame.

‘How did you do that?’ she whispers.

‘What?’

‘You dropped him like a … like a …’ She can’t think of a word. ‘He was twice your size. It was like something you see in the movies. What are you? Five-six. A hundred and thirty pounds.’

‘On a good day,’ I laugh, the adrenaline starting to leak away.

‘Do they teach you that in the police?’

‘No.’

‘You were so fast. It was like you knew exactly what he was going to do before he did it.’

‘I knew he was right-handed.’

‘How?’

‘That’s the hand he used on you.’

Tempe touches her swollen eye, making the connection in her mind.

We’ve reached the patrol car. Tempe sits in the back seat and I get behind the wheel. We can see each other in the rear-view mirror on the windscreen.

‘Is he a detective?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’

‘How long have you been seeing him?’

‘A year. He’s married. Does that shock you?’

‘All part of the rich pageant,’ I say, but instantly regret the comment because it sounds flippant and condescending. I shouldn’t be mocking an institution that I’m about to embrace.

Tempe pulls at the collar of her dress. She’s fidgeting, wanting to busy her hands. We’ve stopped at the traffic lights and I take a moment to study her face, not the bruising, but the half which is undamaged. Thoughtful. Sad. Lonely.

Ten minutes later we walk into the Urgent Care Centre at Guy’s Hospital. The waiting area is full of the broken, beaten and accident-prone. A black woman with her arm in a sling looks at me with undisguised hatred. She has two small kids clinging to her skirt.

What have I done to deserve such loathing? Put on a uniform? Kept the streets safe?

A triage nurse takes down Tempe’s details and then we sit side by side in the waiting area. A different nurse gets Tempe an ice pack, which she holds gently against her cheek.

‘Has he hurt you before?’

No answer.

‘Will you make a statement?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not stupid.’

I don’t blame her. If Darren Goodall is a police officer, he will know exactly how to handle a complaint like this one; what to say, and who to call, and how to twist the details. He’ll claim that Tempe hit him first, or that he was trying to protect himself. It will be her word against his. No contest.

‘You look so familiar,’ I say. ‘I could swear that we’ve met before.’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Tempe.

Then it comes to me – the memory of a pretty girl with dark hair who was three years ahead of me at St Ursula’s Convent in Greenwich.

‘We went to school together,’ I say. ‘But your name wasn’t Tempe.’

‘It’s my middle name. I hated being called Margaret.’

Maggie Brown. I remember. ‘You were school captain.’

‘Vice-captain.’

‘And you had a sister who was older again.’