‘Yet here you are,’ says Boyd.
Another look passes between them. They want me out of here and I have no authority to stay. This is their call-out.
‘We’ll take it from here,’ says Horse, nodding towards the lift.
I want to argue, but there’s no point. Downstairs, I push through the heavy glass doors, out into the morning. Rain has begun falling. A sudden cloudburst. Big drops dance on the road. Shit! My phone vibrates. There are two missed calls from my stepmother. Two voicemail messages.
Delete.
Delete.
6
Ten days after my suspension I am summoned back to work. The email makes no mention of the misconduct charges, but I’m sure the details have been filed away, a permanent stain on my record. I return on a miserable day in late May, when wind chases litter along the gutters, pinning it against fences and lampposts and bare legs. Summer postponed.
As I’m picking up a coffee from across the road, a man holds the door open for me.
‘Philomena McCarthy?’
I smile, thinking we must have met, but I don’t recognise his unshaven face, or his foppish brown hair, or the slight kink in his nose.
‘I’m Dylan Holstein. I write for the Guardian. I wanted to ask you about Darren Goodall.’
I push past him, ignoring the question.
‘A little birdie told me that you two had an altercation.’
Altercation is such an old-fashioned, almost polite word. A euphemism for a scuffle where harsh words are exchanged, but nobody gets hurt. Couples quarrel. Siblings squabble. Lovers have spats. Altercations are for neighbours who knock on doors at three in the morning, fed up with AC/DC being played at full volume through the walls.
I dodge a street-sweeper’s barrow, trying to stay ahead of Holstein, who jogs to catch up with me. Foam spills from the spout of my travel mug.
‘Have you ever heard of the name Imogen Croker?’ he asks. ‘She and Goodall were engaged to be married.’
‘No comment.’
‘She fell from a cliff in East Sussex eight years ago. The coroner said it was an accident, but her family don’t agree.’
Holstein is walking backwards in front of me. He almost collides with a woman pushing a pram. He apologises and catches up with me again.
‘Goodall refused to give evidence at the inquest. He hired a barrister to represent him.’
‘You’re blocking a public thoroughfare.’
‘Imogen Croker’s family think she was murdered.’
‘Please get out of my way.’
‘Goodall pocketed a payment from her life insurance policy. He also extorted money from a friend of mine. He’s a bent copper.’
I’m almost at Southwark police station. He won’t be able to follow me inside.
‘You’re Edward McCarthy’s daughter,’ says Holstein.
That statement is like iced water being poured down my back. I miss a step and stumble, catching myself, spilling more coffee.
‘I once made the mistake of writing about your father. Do you know what he did? He dumped fourteen tons of building waste outside my house in the middle of the night. Blocked the road. My neighbours were furious, but I got off lightly. It could have so much worse.’
I can feel myself slowing down.
‘A gangster’s daughter working for the Met. That’s a good story. Money-laundering. Extortion. Racketeering. Theft. That’s some family history. Do your colleagues know who you are?’
I turn to confront him. ‘How did you find me?’
‘I’m good at my job.’
‘I am not my father’s daughter.’
‘Prove it.’
*
I pause inside the glass doors and uncurl my right fist, which has been clenched so tightly that my fingernails have left marks on my skin. My heart is racing and I feel the heat colour my cheeks. I am annoyed at being ambushed in the street, but most of my anger is directed at my father. After ten years, I am not free of his shadow. I hate hearing his name. I hate passing through areas of London that remind me of him. I hate visiting markets and hearing barrow boys yelling for trade. I hate the woman he eventually married. I hate his new house, even though I’ve never been there. I know it’s irrational, but I blame him for things he has no control over – when shoes pinch my feet, when traffic lights take too long to change, when days are too hot, or too cold. Stupid, I know, but he has that effect on me.
Climbing the stairs, I pass Judy Ellis, another PC.
‘All right?’ I ask, trying to appear normal.
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ she replies curtly. Maybe she’s had a tough shift.
The locker room is empty. I set down my bag and begin getting changed into my uniform, but I catch a whiff of something coming from my blouse. No, it’s the locker. I search the shelves, pushing equipment aside. My hat is on the top shelf, resting upside down. I didn’t leave it that way.
Reaching higher, I take it from the top shelf and bring it down to eye level. The smell makes me gag. Inside is a dead, half-gutted rat, crawling with maggots. I glance quickly towards the door, wondering if anyone has come to watch or record the moment. I’m alone.
Holding the hat at arm’s length, I carry it into the shower room and dump the lot into the bin, sealing the plastic liner with a knot. I scrub my hands and contemplate the cost of a new hat.
Back at my locker, I search the shelves for more ugly surprises, tipping up shoes and unfolding my towel. I could complain, but that would only make things worse. This is either a one-off statement or a declaration of war. If I return fire, things will escalate. I close my locker and head downstairs to the briefing room, where I sit apart from the other officers as Connelly issues orders and sets tasks for the afternoon shift. I study the backs of heads, wondering who put the rat in my locker. These are my colleagues. My friends. We are supposed to work together and to watch each other’s backs.
I used to think my family had a mafia mindset, using words like honour and loyalty, but the police are equally tribal. The abiding narrative is ‘us against them’。 We are the thin blue line. The gatekeepers. The guardians. Criminals sometimes die breaking the law, but we will die defending it. And while most people appreciate the sacrifices we make, and the dangers we face, few of them want to be our friends. It’s why so many police officers socialise together and marry into police families.
Assignments are given out. I am on restricted duties. Deskbound. Paperwork. Another punishment. When the briefing ends, I stay behind.
‘Can I help you, McCarthy?’ asks Connelly.
‘Are we good, sir?’
‘In what sense?’
‘The other week … the incident with Detective Goodall.’
‘What about it?’
‘Has it been resolved to your satisfaction?’
He grunts softly. ‘The misconduct charges have been withdrawn.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I wait for something more, but he tucks a folder under his arm and departs, leaving behind a lingering sense of disappointment, or disaffection.
Taking a desk in the parade room, I begin filling out reports. Every incident that an officer attends will generate between ten and thirty minutes of paperwork, even without a complaint being made. Intelligence logs must be updated, facts checked, and phone calls made. In the background, I can hear the radio room, communicating with the foot and vehicle patrols. It sounds like a typical night of fights, accidents, assaults, robberies and domestic disputes.