At midday, I’m picking up coffees from a van near London Bridge when the control room radios about a domestic in progress. A neighbour can hear a woman screaming. The address is one of the newer warehouse developments near Borough Market. Nish pulls into traffic and gives a blast of the siren to clear an intersection. He looks at the dashboard clock. ‘This one kicked off early.’
Nish presses a buzzer on the intercom. The neighbour answers and unlocks the main door. She is waiting on the fourth floor, an elderly black woman in a brightly coloured kaftan and slippers. Her ankles are as wide as her toes.
‘Mrs Gregg?’ I ask.
She nods and points along the hallway. ‘I can’t hear them any more. He might have killed her.’
‘Who lives there?’ I ask.
‘A young woman. The boyfriend comes and goes.’
‘Owner occupier?’
‘The owner works in Dubai. Rents the place out.’
‘You said you heard screaming,’ says Nish.
‘And stuff breaking. She was yelling and he was calling her names.’
‘Have there been other fights?’ I ask.
‘Nothing like this.’
‘OK. Go back inside.’
We take up positions on either side of the door. I have one hand on my baton and my legs braced. Nish knocks. There are muffled voices inside. He knocks again. A chain unhooks. A lock turns. A woman’s face appears. Late twenties. Dark hair. Attractive. Frightened.
‘Hello, how are you?’ I ask.
‘Fine.’
‘We had a report of a disturbance. A woman sounded upset. Was that you?’
‘No.’
‘Who else is in the flat?’
‘Nobody.’
Nish has braced one foot against the door to stop it being shut.
‘Can we come inside?’ I ask.
‘You must have the wrong address,’ she says. ‘I’m fine.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tempe.’
‘Is it short for Temperance?’
‘No, It’s a place … in Greek mythology. The Vale of Tempe.’
‘What about your last name?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a question that we have to ask.’
Tempe’s eyes go sideways.
‘Who else lives here?’ asks Nish.
‘My boyfriend. He works nights. He’s sleeping.’
‘You said you were alone.’
She hesitates, trapped in a lie.
‘Can you open the door a little wider?’ I ask.
‘Why?’
‘We have to check on your welfare.’
Tempe edges it open, revealing her swollen left eye, which is filled with blood, and a split lip that has twisted her mouth out of shape. Even with a damaged face she looks familiar and I wonder if we might have met before.
‘What happened to your face?’ I ask.
‘It was an accident.’
Her gaze shifts to the left again. There is someone standing behind the door.
I motion with my head and mouth the words, ‘Is he there?’
Tempe nods.
I cup my ear in a listening gesture.
Another nod.
‘Maybe you should wake your boyfriend and tell him we’re here,’ says Nish, speaking more loudly.
‘No. Please. I’m fine. Really, I am.’
She tries to shut the door, but Nish has his foot in place and matches her effort. Tempe backs away. The front of her dress is stained with blood and her lip looks like a large marble has been sewn beneath the broken skin.
A man steps from behind the door and pushes Tempe behind him. He’s shirtless, and shoeless, wearing a pair of grey tracksuit pants that hang low on his hips. Early forties. Smiling.
‘How can I help you, officers?’
‘We had a report of a woman screaming,’ says Nish.
‘Screaming? Nah. Must have been the TV.’
‘The young lady has injuries.’
‘That was an accident. She ran into a door.’
‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Let’s not go there,’ says the man, who has a Roman centurion tattooed onto his shoulder and scars on his chest and stomach. ‘I’m a copper, OK. This is all a misunderstanding.’
I glance at Nish, looking for guidance, but nothing has changed in his demeanour. He asks the man to step outside.
‘What for?’
‘My colleague is going to speak to Tempe alone. You’re going to stay here with me.’
‘That’s not necessary.’
‘She has a black eye and a split lip.’
I step past the man, who throws out his arm to block the doorway. I duck underneath.
‘You don’t have permission. I know my rights,’ he complains.
The hallway has a broken bowl on the floor and a smear of blood on the wall. Tempe is in the living area, sitting on the sofa, with her chin resting on her knees. She has found a bag of frozen peas in the freezer and is pressing on the side of her face. She has long slender feet that are calloused around her toes from wearing high-heel shoes.
Her boyfriend is still arguing with Nish.
‘What happened?’ I ask.
‘I made him angry.’
Her accent is Northern Irish. Belfast maybe, but softer. She is two inches taller than me, with almond-shaped eyes that are pale green. Again, I feel as though we might have met, but I can’t place her.
Voices are drifting from outside, where the argument continues. I distract Tempe with a question.
‘You live here?’
She nods.
‘Is your name on the lease?’
‘No.’
Tempe lowers the frozen peas. Her left eye is almost completely closed.
‘Your cheekbone might be fractured. You’ll need an X-ray. I’ll take you to hospital.’
‘He won’t allow that.’
‘He’ll have to.’
I take a photograph of her face. ‘Lift your chin.’ I take another. ‘Pull back your hair.’ And another.
‘Any other bruises?’
‘No.’
‘Change your clothes. Put the dress in a plastic bag.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s evidence.’
‘I’m not pressing charges.’
‘Fine, but I’m taking you to hospital.’
Tempe goes to the bedroom and I look around the apartment, which is tastefully decorated, although everything looks like it came from a furniture showroom, one of those places that puts fake books on the shelves and empty bottles of wine in the bar fridge. There are no personal items like photographs or souvenirs or knick-knacks. Nothing that creates a notable signature or gives an insight into the occupants.
Tempe clears her throat. She is standing in the doorway wearing a modest woollen dress with a cowl neck. She collects her handbag from the table, making sure she has her phone.
‘What about your passport?’
‘Why do I need that?’
‘It’s good to have proof of your identity – in case you don’t come back.’
‘I’m coming back,’ she says adamantly.
I take her forearm as we walk along the hallway. Nish is still arguing with the boyfriend.
‘Why are you writing stuff down? I told you, nothing happened.’
‘Why does the young lady have blood on her dress?’