When You Are Mine(98)

Henry joins me in the hallway, asking questions, hoping for an explanation. I want him to be quiet, because I know that Fairbairn is listening, looking for any sign of a weakness or a wedge that he might use to drive us apart.

A female officer accompanies me to the bedroom and watches me get changed, checking each item of clothing that I remove from the cupboard or drawers. As I move towards the bathroom, she follows.

‘Really?’

‘I can’t leave you alone.’

At least she turns her face away as I pee and wipe.

Henry is next to change, before we are reunited in the kitchen, sitting in the centre of the room on high stools, as our house and our lives are picked apart, opened, examined and swabbed. Forensic officers are checking the sinks and washing machine, looking for any fibres or particles that might match the crime scene. Our phones have been confiscated, as well as our laptops and iPads.

They think I killed Darren Goodall. What have they found? Traces of me at the house? Fingerprints? Fibres?

Fairbairn joins us, taking a seat at the island bench.

‘Do you own a pair of white sports shoes?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are they?’

‘They’re upstairs in a wardrobe.’

‘These ones?’

He’s holding trainers with red paint splatters.

‘No. They belong to Tempe. We have matching pairs. We bought them together.’

‘We found only these.’

I try to think. Maybe they’re in a locker at the academy or in my car.

Henry interrupts. ‘You can’t seriously believe that Phil is a suspect.’

‘I’m following the evidence,’ says Fairbairn. He turns to Henry. ‘Did you know Darren Goodall?’

‘Me? No.’

‘Ever met him?’

‘Leave Henry out of this,’ I say.

The detective sighs tiredly. ‘I will, if you stop pissing on my leg and blaming the dog.’ He nods towards Henry. ‘You were seen arguing with Darren Goodall outside his house two weeks ago.’

I can feel my mouth drop open and want to push it closed with the palm of my hand.

‘A neighbour heard you threaten him,’ says Fairbairn.

‘I tried to punch his lights out,’ says Henry.

‘The truth at last. Incriminating, but honest.’

I’m staring at Henry, horrified. ‘You went to see him?’

‘I didn’t kill him. I asked him to withdraw his complaint against you. He said that half of Southwark nick had fucked you … and you kept coming back for more.’

‘And you believed him.’

‘No! But I took a swing.’

Fairbairn interrupts him. ‘Where were you in the early hours of Saturday morning?’

‘I was here,’ says Henry.

‘Alone?’

‘You know that.’

One of the officers enters the kitchen carrying the polished paper box that is tied up with a ribbon. ‘What’s in here?’

‘My wedding dress.’

‘Open it.’

I undo the ribbons and lift off the top. My gown is neatly folded. I tell Henry not to look. ‘It’s bad luck.’

He starts to laugh. His chuckle becomes a rumble and eventually brings tears to his eyes. Moments later, I’m laughing with him, realising how ridiculous it sounds to think luck has played a role in any of this.

Fairbairn must think we’re crazy. His phone starts playing the ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. How appropriate. He takes the call, listening and giving one-word answers. Eventually, he lowers the mobile and turns to me.

‘Philomena McCarthy, I am arresting you in connection with the murder of DS Darren Goodall. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’





54


At university I did a semester of philosophy and learned about the trolley dilemma – a classic thought experiment developed by the philosopher Philippa Foot. The scenario involves a runaway tram that is hurtling down the tracks towards five workers, who cannot hear it coming. As the disaster unfolds, you see a lever connected to a railway switch. By pulling the lever, the tram will be diverted down a second track, saving the five workers, but a lone worker on the side-track would certainly die.

The question is: would you pull the lever? Would you sacrifice one life to save five? What if it were fifteen lives to save a hundred? What if the lone victim was your child, or your mother, or your fiancé? One life is meant to be the same as any other, but we all know that’s not true. Some are infinitely more valuable, but it depends upon who is holding the lever.

When I became a police officer, I had to swear an oath to serve the Queen, and to uphold the office of constable with fairness, integrity, diligence and impartiality. I swore to protect fundamental human rights and accord equal respect to all people; and to strive to keep the peace to the best of my ability. The oath said that all lives mattered equally; the good, bad, ugly, cruel, rich and poor. I wanted to believe those words. I have tried to live by them. I was wrong.

My holding cell is six paces long and four paces wide with a polished concrete floor that is tinted green. There is a lavatory, a sink and two benches with thin vinyl cushions. Graffiti has been scratched and gouged into every wall, although valiant attempts have been made to cover it up. Above the heavy metal door, chipped into brickwork, is the message: Send out a search party, I can’t find my self-esteem. Another says, I don’t have a problem with drugs. I have a problem with the police.