When You Are Mine(74)

‘You’re going to knock it down.’

‘No. I’m going to bring it back to life. It makes no sense financially. Small independent cinemas are dying, but not everything has to be about money.’

‘If you build it, they will come.’

‘Field of Dreams.’

I glance around the auditorium, looking at peeling wallpaper and rusting power boxes and the remnants of a green copper dome on the ceiling, stripped by scavengers for scrap metal.

‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘I thought you might like to help.’

‘Me!’

‘You could manage the restoration. Talk to the experts.’

‘I have no experience.’

‘You could learn on the job.’

I’m about to say, ‘I have a job,’ when I realise what he’s doing.

‘Conversations with lawyers are supposed to be privileged,’ I say, through clenched teeth.

‘It wasn’t Helgarde.’

I want to argue, but I realise that my father’s reach is so great that he could have heard the news from any number of people, possibly within the police force. In the same breath, I wonder if his influence reaches high enough to save my career. Before the thought even finishes, I dismiss it. Neither of us could risk the fall-out if it ever became public.

‘I don’t need help finding a job,’ I say, trying to sound calm.

‘They don’t deserve you,’ he says.

‘Some of them, maybe. Most are good people.’

We make our way to the projection room, where snippets of celluloid are curling on the floor and a shelf contains diaries that record every film shown at the cinema over seventy years. They should be valuable. They’re probably not.

I peer through the projection window, looking down to the screen, imagining how the cinema used to be when it echoed with laughter or shocked ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.

‘Is Darren Goodall a bent copper?’ I ask.

My father’s shoulders lift and fall. ‘There are rumours.’

‘Surely, you’d know.’

‘Why? Because you think I bribe people like him?’

‘Yes.’

The bluntness of the answer seems to offend his sensibilities. He sways back on his heels, looking pained and breathless. I grip his elbow to steady him. When I pull up a chair, wanting him to sit down, he refuses.

‘Things were so much simpler in the old days. We hijacked trucks. We flogged the merch. We bribed fair-trading officers to look the other way.’

‘You were breaking the law.’

‘OK, but we knew which side of the law we were on.’

‘Your brothers spent ten years in prison.’

‘I wish I could change that.’

I take his arm and we walk back to the car.

‘I want to do something for you,’ he says, explaining the excursion.

‘I don’t need anything.’

‘We all need something, Phil. You just don’t know what it is yet.’





41


A letter arrived this morning listing the date of my misconduct hearing. Normally, proceedings are held in public, but this one will be behind closed doors, without witnesses. Clearly, the Met wants to limit any negative publicity.

Maybe Helgarde is right and I should go public about Goodall’s history of domestic abuse and the corrupt system that is protecting him. I’m sure that Drysdale will be prepared for that. He’ll most likely leak the story of my family connections and the tabloids will have a field day writing about the gangster’s daughter, who deceived the Met and became a police officer – the poacher turned gamekeeper. Truth will be the first casualty.

Henry would be happier if I walked away from the job. It’s OK for him to charge into burning buildings and to rescue cats from trees, but he doesn’t want me wearing a stab vest and putting myself in danger – not if this is what gratitude looks like.

We still have the wedding to look forward to, which means practising for the wedding waltz. Each time we clear the furniture and take a spin, we finish up giggling, which is a sure-fire way of getting me into bed. We’re there now, lying in each other’s arms.

‘I’ve been thinking – why don’t we go travelling?’ says Henry.

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘We’re getting married in two weeks.’

‘We could elope. You’ve always talked about taking a year off and doing something adventurous. We could ride motorbikes across America or go to Australia. You have that friend of yours in Melbourne – Jacinta. You’re always saying we should visit her. Now is our chance.’

‘We will. One day.’

He goes quiet.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is this about my family?’

‘No.’

‘Are you having doubts?’

‘Not about you,’ he says. ‘Never that.’

‘What then?’

‘If we left now, you could avoid having the hearing. You could resign. Walk away.’

‘Give up, you mean.’

‘The Met doesn’t want you, Phil. They’ve made that clear.’