‘What did this officer look like?’
‘Fortyish. Dark hair. Handsome, I guess.’ The woman blinks nervously. ‘Why?’
‘He’s the one who beat her up.’
Her mouth opens and closes several times before she finds the words, but I’m already moving, down the steps and along the pavement. I call Tempe’s mobile number. It goes to her voicemail. The image in my dream flashes into my mind and I see Tempe hanging from the water pipe, her eyes accusing me. Picking up speed, I navigate my way towards Borough Market. I know this area. After university, I shared a house not far from the site of the old Marshalsea Prison, made famous by Charles Dickens, whose father was an inmate. If you’re a reader or a nostalgic, London sweats history from its pores; every road, sewer, building, grave and open space tells a story.
I’m out of breath when I arrive at the building and press the intercom. Nobody answers. I try Mrs Gregg, the neighbour. I’m about to buzz again when she answers, sounding annoyed by the interruption.
‘It’s PC McCarthy. We met a few days ago.’
‘You’re not in uniform,’ she says, suspiciously.
I wave at the camera. ‘My day off. Can you let me in please, ma’am?’
The door unlocks and I make my way upstairs. Mrs Gregg meets me before I reach Tempe’s door.
‘Have you seen her?’
‘She came back yesterday, but I think she’s gone again.’
‘You saw her leave?’
‘No, but I found her key under my door when I woke up this morning.’
‘What about the man she was with?’
‘I didn’t see him until an hour ago. I heard him yelling into his phone and calling a plumber.’
‘A plumber?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You talked to him?’
‘Are you crazy! I wouldn’t open my door.’
‘Do you still have the key?’
Mrs Gregg disappears inside her apartment and returns a few minutes later holding the keys and an envelope.
‘I found this in my mailbox yesterday. It’s addressed to someone called Margaret Brown. Could that be her?’
‘Yes.’
I study the envelope, which is postmarked from Northern Ireland, but has no information about the sender. It seems to have bounced between several addresses, chasing Tempe from place to place.
‘Will you make sure she gets it?’ says Mrs Gregg.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I say, glancing at the keys. One has a fob that opens the main doors downstairs.
I move along the corridor and slide the key into the lock, nudging the door open.
‘Hello? Is anyone home?’
I remember the layout of the flat. The lounge is directly ahead of me, linked to an open-plan kitchen and dining area. The two bedrooms are on the left with a bathroom in between.
Taking out my mobile, I call Tempe’s number again. It begins ringing. My heart skips. The sound is coming from the nearest bedroom. I peer around the frame of the door. The queen-sized bed is covered in clothes and rumpled bedding. The floor-to-ceiling wardrobes are open and have been ransacked. Clothes are scattered on the floor, crumpled and trodden underfoot.
Again, I call Tempe’s number. The screen lights up in the darkest corner of the room. Pushing aside shoes, I uncover the handset. There are twelve missed calls. Three are from me. The battery is almost dead.
At that same moment, I notice a spray pattern of dark droplets on the pale carpet. Blood. Dry to the touch. There are deeper stains closer to the bathroom. As I step into the doorway, I see a bloody handprint on the edge of the bathtub. Shuffling sideways, I steel myself for what might be coming. A hinged glass partition acts as a shower screen. I peer around the edge of the glass, expecting the worst.
The tub is empty. I breathe. Retreat. Call 999.
‘What service do you require?’
‘The police.’
Several dull clicks follow, before I hear a new voice. ‘Police service. What is the nature of the emergency?’
‘This is PC Philomena McCarthy of Southwark Police. I’m at an apartment at Borough Market. There are bloodstains in the bathroom. The female occupant is missing.’
They want an address and have follow-up questions. Are there weapons involved? Is the address hard to find?
I should wait outside until the police arrive, but I return to the bedroom, avoiding touching any surface. At first glance it looks like a burglary, or a frantic search, but as I look more closely, I notice damage rather than absence. The sleeves of business shirts have been cut off and a blue blazer slashed to the lining.
I move to the living area, where the sofa cushions have been disembowelled, and foam stuffing covers the floor. Broken plastic crunches under my running shoes. Crouching to get a better look, I find the remnants of a small HD webcam. I notice a power cable tucked behind a row of books, next to a potted orchid on a shelf next to the TV. The camera is one of those small, high-quality models that have an internal memory card, but the slot is empty.
The kitchen has a half-eaten bran muffin in the pedal bin and a broken coffee pot in the sink. A cutlery drawer has been upended and the contents are strewn across the tiled floor. I can’t work out if I’m looking at an act of vandalism, a robbery, an abduction, or a murder scene.
Retreating outside, I wait for the police to arrive. Sweat has dampened my clothes and I’m shivering in the hallway when two uniforms emerge from the lift. I recognise both of them. I went through training with Stefan Albinksi at Hendon. Tall and thin, he was nicknamed ‘Horse’ on account of his long face, although he says it’s for a different reason. His partner is Kevin Boyd, who played league football for Oxford United and is ‘almost famous’ according to Nish, who follows football.
‘What are you doing here?’ asks Horse.
‘I was following up on a call-out.’
‘Off-duty?’
I explain how I took Tempe to a hospital three days ago and dropped her off at the women’s refuge. Boyd goes into the apartment.
‘You think she came back?’ asks Horse.
‘A neighbour saw her.’
‘What about the boyfriend – where is he?’
‘He lives elsewhere. Married. Kids.’ I hesitate. ‘He’s a copper. A detective sergeant.’
‘Who?’
‘Darren Goodall.’
‘You mean the Darren Goodall?’
I nod.
Horse laughs nervously. Boyd emerges from the flat. ‘There isn’t enough blood to think anyone was seriously injured.’
‘What about the handprint?’ I ask.
‘Could have been a nosebleed.’
‘You should check the local hospitals.’
Boyd doesn’t like being told what to do. ‘Did you bother looking at the rest of the place? Someone has poured a bag of flour down the sink, blocking the pipes.’
‘Sounds like an act of revenge,’ says Horse. ‘A woman scorned.’
‘She wouldn’t leave her phone behind,’ I say defensively.
The constables exchange a glance. Neither wants to get involved in this, but I’m forcing their hand. The questions come quickly. Is Tempe a drug addict? Could she have run away? Was she depressed or suicidal?
‘I barely knew the woman,’ I say.