When You Are Mine(53)

Lucinda and Oliver are outside on the pavement being comforted by neighbours. I expect to find police cars, but the road is empty.

I radio, ‘This is Delta Four. Where is my back-up?’

‘They’re at the address.’

‘No.’

Confusion. Corrections. Accusations. A few minutes later, the van appears and skids to a halt. Horgan has a face like thunder.

‘Where is he?’

‘He went over the back fence. I thought you had it covered.’

‘You gave us the wrong address. You said Cleaver Street.’

‘No, sir. I said Cleaver Square.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’

‘No. I just … I don’t … I’m sure …’

Horgan turns his back on me, barking orders, organising a search of the surrounding streets. Officers take off on foot, while the minivan circles the block, but Fisher will be gone by now.

Could I have made a mistake? It was dark. I was running.

Horgan comes back to me and demands to know what happened. I give him the bullet points.

‘You handed over your weapon?’

‘He was holding her at knifepoint.’

‘You allowed him to get away.’

‘I negotiated the release of a hostage.’

He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’ve fucked up. I want to argue that he failed to cover the balcony at Cornish House, but it’s not my place to question a senior officer. A gust of wind cuts through my sweat-soaked clothes, making me shiver.

‘Go back to the station, Constable. Write up your report.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I move towards the building.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I wanted to check on the mother and her son.’

‘She is a witness. You are not allowed to speak to her.’

A witness! Am I on trial here?

I have to wait for a car to become available. In the meantime, I stand on the far side of the road, where neighbours have gathered to watch and speculate, taking photographs and posting on social media.

More personnel arrive. Paramedics. Forensics officers. Detectives in rumpled suits. Nish volunteers to drive me back to Southwark. He’s the only officer who has asked about my welfare. The others treat me like I’ve cost them the game in the dying minutes of extra time. What game? I want to scream. I chased him. I cornered him. I confronted him.

Staring straight ahead, I watch the world slip by outside the car – the pedestrians, diners, dog walkers and joggers; the people coming home late from work, or heading off to late shifts.

‘Did I make a mistake?’ I ask.

‘No. You gave us the right address.’

‘But Horgan said—’

‘He misheard you.’

The silence seems to hum. Nish sucks in a breath, expanding his chest, and holding it for a good ten seconds before he exhales.

‘When we got to the address and it was obvious that you weren’t there, Horgan could have called the dispatcher and confirmed your location, but he insisted that we check out the other address first.’

‘Why?’

There is another long pause.

‘You think he wanted to leave me exposed?’ I ask.

Nish doesn’t answer.

My eyes are flat and my hands motionless, but I feel like I’ve stepped from a fairground ride and the ground is buckling and dipping beneath me.

‘You should have stayed outside,’ says Nish. ‘You should have waited for back-up.’

‘Which wasn’t coming,’ I say bitterly.

He glances in the side mirror and indicates before changing lanes.

‘I haven’t known you long, Phil, but it’s obvious that you’re trying to prove yourself. I used to think it was because of your gender, or your size, but I think you’re trying to prove that you’re nothing like your father.’

A bubble of emotion is caught in my throat. It hurts when I swallow.

‘I am a good police officer.’

‘You don’t have to convince me, but they are trying to drive you out. And you can’t afford to make any mistakes.’





28


Sunday afternoon and I’m watching Henry play rugby at a sports ground in Chiswick. It’s the first game of the season and Archie is more interested in jumping into puddles and poking sticks into muddy holes. I normally enjoy watching these games, but now I worry every time Henry gets tackled, or charges into a ruck as though he’s still nineteen and indestructible.

This is supposed to be a social league, but they take it very seriously, huffing and puffing as they pack down into scrums. They grunt and shove and grunt some more. It’s like watching a reverse tug of war, because they’re pushing instead of pulling. Henry’s team are losing. The opposition has some huge players, who effortlessly break tackles or bring opponents to a shuddering halt.

When the final whistle blows, the teams shake hands and embrace, suddenly best mates after ninety minutes of crashing into each other. Archie runs onto the field to greet Henry, asking if they won and if Henry scored any points. No on both counts.

Henry hoists him onto his shoulders, spreading the mud around. Archie will have to change his clothes before we go out to an early dinner.

The crowd disperses. Henry showers and changes, while I wait in the car, putting on a story-time CD for Archie. He says he’s too grown up for Thomas the Tank Engine, but listens to the stories anyway.