When You Are Mine(61)
‘Philomena McCarthy.’
He glances at his screen. ‘You picked Nathan up from his school.’
I nod.
‘Have you ever seen Mr Goodall attack his wife?’
‘No, but he has a track record.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a police officer stationed at Southwark. I’ve had dealings with Sergeant Goodall before.’
‘Dealings?’
‘Yes.’
At that moment, I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake. If I could turn back the clock, would I take Tempe to hospital, or arrest Goodall, or look for any history of domestic abuse? My chest tightens and I swallow hard on my panic, which only lasts a moment.
The officer is watching me sidelong, waiting to see what I might say next. He takes down my details and says he may need a statement from me later. In the meantime, I’m free to go.
Darren Goodall’s car is no longer on the verge, but I keep glancing in my mirrors on the drive home, expecting him to be there, following me. Watching. I have poked the bear and there will be consequences.
32
It’s Archie’s birthday tomorrow and I promised to make him a pirate cake, which is far beyond my Great British Bake-Off skills. I’ve given up on the idea of a ship and opted for a Jolly Roger with a pink bandana and an eyepatch.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Henry, showing him the cake.
‘It looks like Finbar without a beard.’
‘And a lopsided smile.’
Henry helps me clean up and begins stacking the dishwasher.
‘It’s broken, remember?’
‘But you got it fixed.’
‘When?’
‘I came home and there was an invoice on the bench.’ Henry shows me the piece of paper. Ninety quid for the call-out and labour.
‘It must have been Tempe,’ I say, regretting it immediately.
‘Did you give her a key?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Tempe knows that we keep a spare set in the birdhouse beside the garden shed.
‘She can’t just waltz in here without permission,’ says Henry.
‘She had my permission,’ I say, unsure of why I’m lying, but equally sure it’s not such a big deal. ‘She offered to help.’
‘So, you’re OK with her being here by herself – going through our things.’
‘She didn’t go through our things.’
‘How do you know? The other day she picked up our dry cleaning. How did she even know that it needed to be collected? And what about the tyres on my car? I mentioned they needed rotating and next thing she’s arranged it all.’
‘Is that a bad thing? We’re both so busy.’
‘She’s taking over our lives.’
‘By collecting our dry cleaning?’ I laugh.
‘OK, explain this.’ He leads me to the walk-in pantry. ‘Notice anything different?’
Shelves on three sides reach as high as the ceiling. They are filled with cans and dry goods and condiments. Normally the pantry is a mess, but someone has tidied the shelves, putting like with like, the sauces, tinned vegetables, pastas, pulses, baking products, spices and herbs. There are handwritten labels on each container, showing the contents and use-by dates. This is Tempe’s doing.
Henry is at my shoulder. ‘She’s a “a stage-five clinger”.’
‘A what?’
‘In the movie Wedding Crashers, Vince Vaughan called his new girlfriend a stage-five clinger because she talked about marriage after one hook-up. That’s Tempe. She followed you home and now she won’t leave. Every time she’s over here, she stays for dinner.’
‘Your mates drink all your beer and crash on our sofa, but I don’t complain.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Because they’re your friends, not mine?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you like her?’
‘I don’t trust her. For all we know she could have sabotaged the dishwasher.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’m serious. Read the note from the repairman: Replaced burned-out motor. Someone must have disconnected the waterline. I didn’t disconnect the waterline, did you?’
‘Of course not, but neither did Tempe.’
Henry scoffs. ‘If she’s such a hotshot wedding planner, why doesn’t she have a website and testimonials? I’ve looked her up. There’s not a single story or photograph. Nobody has ever heard of her.’
‘How many wedding planners can you name?’
His eyes have a malignant gleam. ‘How many times has she called you today?’
‘Hardly at all,’ I say, but silently count.
‘How many times did she text?’
‘If it bothers you that much, I’ll tell her that she can’t come over because you think she’s creepy.’
‘That’s right – make me the bad guy.’
‘What do you want, Henry?’
‘Get her to stop smothering us.’
‘I’m not being smothered.’
‘Well, I am.’
He’s about to say something else, but the doorbell sounds. Disappointed at being interrupted in mid-argument, he goes to the door, but a moment later, he calls my name. I join him in the hallway. There are two police officers on the doorstep, the same PCs who were at the Highgate house today. This time I learn their names. Noonan has the narrow face and Payne looks like one of Henry’s overweight rugby mates, destined to popping statins by the time he’s fifty.