‘You mean like a street gang?’
‘Not quite the same.’
I have to stop myself asking the same questions again. Despite her masochistic attraction to difficult men, Tempe is a victim, not a perpetrator. She shouldn’t be blamed for making bad choices.
‘When you went out to dinner, or he bought you clothes, did he pay by card or with cash?’ I ask.
‘Usually with cash.’
‘Did he ever go to the casinos?’
‘He liked the races. Is that important?’
‘I’m just wondering how a detective sergeant with a wife and two kids and a London-sized mortgage can afford a luxury apartment on the river.’
Another shrug of her shoulders and I get the impression she’s keeping something from me.
‘Goodall said you stole from him. What did he mean?’
‘You’ve asked me that.’
‘Yes, and you said you were owed – but not what you took.’
‘Maybe I took away his pride. Maybe I stole his heart.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘No. You’re doing what everybody does – and making me feel guilty, as though it’s my fault that he beat me, and he raped me.’
‘Did he rape you?’
‘All the time.’
‘Then make a statement. Help me stop him.’
‘If you have to ask – you don’t understand.’
When I get home, I go to the office upstairs, which will one day become the nursery. Now it looks more like a junk-room, full of boxes and exercise equipment that we purchased with good intentions and stopped using within a month. Opening my laptop, I continue my search for Tempe’s parents. Her mother’s letter mentioned a pharmacy run by her aunt and uncle. I’ve come up with eleven possible businesses. I call them one by one. My script is always the same. I ask for Heather or George.
On my fifth call, I get a hit. A woman answers, ‘Heather isn’t here today, and George is busy with a customer.’
I hesitate, unsure of how to proceed.
‘I’m actually looking for Mrs Brown. She has a daughter called Margaret.’
‘Oh, you mean Elsa. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘You mean, she’s there?’
‘Yes.’
I didn’t expect to find her so quickly. ‘Oh, right. Tell her it’s PC McCarthy of Southwark Police … in London.’
She laughs. ‘I know where Southwark is,’ and lowers the phone to the counter. I hear muffled voices. The phone is picked up. A nervous voice says hello.
‘Is that Mrs Brown?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a daughter called Maggie.’
There is an intake of breath, followed by a flurry of words. ‘Is she all right? Has something happened to her?’
‘No. Nothing is wrong.’
‘Oh, thank God. Where is she?’
‘Living in London. She doesn’t know I’m calling.’
‘Is she in trouble?’
‘No. It’s nothing like that. I’m a friend of hers. You sent her a letter. I know I shouldn’t have opened it. I tried to give it to Tempe, but she—’
‘Tempe?’
‘She said that was her middle name.’
‘No.’
Her voice is shaking. It takes me a moment to realise that she’s crying.
‘Mrs Brown?’
‘Call me Elsa.’ She blows her nose. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me. I’ve been praying … and writing. So many letters – I’ve lost count. Most have been returned unopened. I didn’t know if any reached her. What is she doing? Is she happy?’
‘She’s been helping me plan my wedding.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ There is an edge to her voice. ‘Are you her friend?’
‘I guess I am. We were at school together – at St Ursula’s. I was a few years below her. Tempe, I mean Maggie, doesn’t talk much about her past. She’s very private.’
There is a long silence. I can hear her breathing.
‘She has three sisters,’ I say, trying not to make it sound like a question.
‘No, just the one – Agnes.’
‘What about Elizabeth?’
‘I don’t know who you mean.’
The silence is mine. I have so many questions but I’m now frightened of the answers.
‘What does Mr Brown do?’ I ask.
‘He’s an engineer. He works at the Belfast Docks.’
‘Was he ever a soldier?’
‘No, dear. Maggie has been telling you stories. She can be terrible that way.’
‘Why does she make stuff up?’
‘That’s a good question. She’s always liked to pretend. Even as a little girl she’d dress up and we’d all have to play along. One day she’d be Amelia Earhart and the next she’d be Buffy or Britney Spears or Sporty Spice. We always thought it was quite harmless – until her attachment issues started.’
‘What issues?’
‘Has she mentioned Mallory Hopper?’
‘No, who is she?’
‘Someone Maggie used to know.’
Elsa quickly changes the subject, asking where Tempe is living and what she’s doing. How did we meet up again? Does she have other friends? I feel like I’m being squeezed for every last drop of information, by someone who has been thirsting for details for too long.
‘Can you tell me where she’s living? Her phone number?’
‘I don’t feel comfortable doing that,’ I say. ‘Not without her permission.’
‘I understand. What if I came to London? Would you take me to her?’
‘I can’t make that promise. Perhaps if you told me more about what happened … why she left Belfast.’
‘I can’t, I’m sorry. Maggie can tell you. Ask her about Mallory.’
Elsa makes me wait while she gets a piece of paper to jot down my contact details – a phone number and an email address.
‘I need to sort a few things out. I’ll call you in a few days,’ she says. ‘In the meantime, can I ask you for a favour, PC McCarthy?’
‘You can call me Phil.’
‘Don’t tell Maggie that you called me.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want her running away again.’
It’s only later, when I’m recounting the conversation to Henry, that I realise how odd it is for a mother to talk about a grown-up daughter ‘running away’。 She used the word ‘again’， as though it had happened before. Who was Tempe running from?
27
We lost a fifteen-year-old schoolboy today. Bashir Khan was attacked outside a fish and chip shop on Tower Bridge Road by a gang of five youths wearing masks, who dragged him off a number 42 bus and stabbed him to death in front of horrified passengers. We had emergency response teams swarming over the area within minutes, but the attackers had melted away.
Bashir died at the scene – another victim of knife-crime in London, which is an epidemic rather than a pandemic. Machetes, box-cutters, scalpels, razors, flick-knives – widow-makers and child-takers. Bashir worked part-time at a small off-licence owned by his parents, who emigrated from Pakistan twenty years ago. The store has been robbed three times in the past year.