When You Are Mine(9)
‘You’re quick,’ he says, smiling wryly. His lower teeth are overcrowded and yellowing. ‘I know you think it’s unfair, Constable, but we have to protect our own at times like these.’
‘What times are those, sir?’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Will Goodall be investigated?’
‘That’s not your concern.’
‘That’s a no, then.’
His smug, self-satisfied smile grows fixed. ‘Let this go, McCarthy. No good can come of it.’
I want to come back at him with one of those killer one-liners that always occur to me when it’s too late, but my mouth is my worst enemy. Karate has helped me to control my temper, but my tongue still needs a handbrake or a dead man’s switch.
I turn away and jog up the stairs to the locker room, where I get changed into my civvies, locking away my stab vest and duty belt, and putting my hat on the top shelf. I can taste my anger in the back of my throat and wish I could spit it out and gargle mouthwash.
I want to give Darren Goodall the benefit of the doubt because he almost died saving people at Camden Market; and maybe that trauma left him with PTSD, or acute stress or some other behavioural problem, but I can picture Tempe at the shelter, making up a single bed, showering with a threadbare towel, nursing her bruises. He called her a sex worker, and one of his informants. Even if it were true, it doesn’t give him the right to beat her up. My father always told me that any man who raises his hand to a woman is a coward with the devil living in his heart.
I close the combination lock and shrug on my jacket, checking that I have my keys and wallet. Outside, I bury my hands in my pockets and make my way home, knowing that the world isn’t any safer, or cleaner, or fairer because of what I’ve done. Good never prevails. It simply treads water and waits for the bad to show up again.
3
Henry is in the kitchen constructing a sandwich that looks like a work of art. Every jar in the fridge is on the bench, as well as two chopping boards, assorted knives, salad vegetables and sliced meats.
‘What are you doing home?’ he asks, smearing Dijon mustard on a slice of sourdough.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’
‘Archie has a toothache. I’m taking him to the dentist.’
‘Where’s Roxanne?’
‘She has a meeting.’
‘With her hairdresser or her therapist?’
Henry makes a miaowing noise. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face into his back. ‘You love me being jealous of your ex-wife. It makes you feel wanted,’ I say.
He points to the sandwich. ‘Want me to make you one?’
‘I could have half of yours.’
He pouts, aggrieved, but slices the sandwich diagonally and plates up. We sit side by side at the kitchen bench, needing both hands to eat.
‘What time are you picking Archie up from school?’ I ask.
‘Four thirty. Roxanne suggested he spend tonight with us.’
‘The wicked witch strikes again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have Margot and Phoebe’s housewarming.’
‘Oh, shit! I totally forgot.’
‘Roxanne didn’t. She’ll be planning her evening as I speak.’
‘We’ll get a babysitter.’
‘At four hours’ notice? Good luck with that.’
I don’t mind that Henry has been married before – or that Archie, aged six, comes with the package. He’s a sweet little boy who sleeps over three nights a week and crawls into bed with us each morning, clutching his battered teddy bear. He doesn’t call me ‘mummy’, which is good, but he does introduce me to strangers in the supermarket as ‘Daddy’s girlfriend’, announcing it in a booming voice.
I didn’t meet Henry until after he and Roxanne had separated. And we didn’t have proper sex until his divorce came through, although we did everything else. We were like teenagers steaming up car windows and getting hot and heavy in the back row of the cinema. The no-sex rule was important because I didn’t want to be accused of being a home wrecker or stealing someone else’s husband. I know women like that, including my friend Georgia, who treats sex like a sport and happily sleeps with married men. I once accused her of being an anti-feminist, but Georgia replied that sisterhood and sex weren’t mutually exclusive.
‘It’s not my fault if some women frump-up after they get married,’ she said.
‘Frump-up?’
‘You know what I mean.’
I have tried to befriend Roxanne; and I would never bad-mouth her in front of Archie, but she is the sort of ex-wife that comedians make jokes about – ‘the good housekeeper who gets to keep the house’; or the ‘hostage taker who stays in touch after collecting the ransom’.
My main complaint is how she uses Archie as a weapon of mass disruption. Whenever I arrange a weekend away, or have concert tickets, or (case in point) a housewarming, Archie will be dumped on our doorstep with his overnight bag and strict instructions about what he’s allowed to eat, wear, watch and do.
Henry tilts his head to one side. ‘So why are you home?’
‘I think I’ve been suspended.’
‘Is there some doubt?’