Alison runs for the door. I pull her back, wrapping my arms around her.
‘He’s bluffing. I’ve heard the tapes.’
Goodall is still talking. ‘Who are the police going to believe? You or me? We both know the answer. Come home.’
Alison breaks free, but doesn’t try to reach the door. Instead, she climbs the stairs. On the landing, she throws her arms around Nathan and Chloe, pulling them into a hug. Protecting them. Guarding them.
‘I’ll tell them about your drinking,’ yells Goodall. ‘And the drugs.’
Jenny looks over the banister. ‘What drugs?’
‘I’ll show them where you hide your pills,’ he yells.
Alison’s head swings from side to side. ‘I don’t, I swear. They’re antidepressants. That’s all.’
I hear a short blast from a police siren and draw back the curtains far enough to see the patrol car pull up and two uniformed officers emerge. Goodall turns to greet them, opening his arms and smiling like he’s catching up with old friends. His booming voice travels as he introduces himself, emphasising his rank.
‘I’m sorry about this, boys. It’s a misunderstanding. My wife is upset. She lost her temper and hit one of our children. This is her parents’ house. The kids are inside. I’m worried about them.’
‘He’s lying,’ says Keith, who has joined them at the gate.
‘Stay out of this,’ says Goodall.
Keith ignores him. ‘My daughter has left him and taken the children. She wants a divorce.’
Goodall laughs. ‘Nobody has said anything about a divorce. This is a storm in a teacup. I want to see my children.’
The officers have quieter voices and I catch only snippets of the conversation. Alison seems to have lost the power of speech. Jenny is trying to talk to her, but getting no responses. I sit on the step below her and touch her knee, trying to break through whatever negative thought loop has hijacked her mind and pushed aside all logic.
‘The police will need to speak to you. If they ask you about Chloe’s bruises, tell them exactly what happened. Say he’s done it before. Tell them you’re frightened. Do you understand? Ask for a DAP notice.’
‘A what?’
‘Domestic Abuse Protection Notice. Say you need to get away from him, until he cools down.’
‘They won’t charge him.’
‘Maybe not, but a protection notice means he can’t approach you for forty-eight hours. In that time the police will apply to a magistrate for a prevention order, which protects you for up to twenty-eight days.’
‘That’s not long enough.’
‘You can get an extension.’
‘What about child services?’
‘They will want to talk to you.’
‘It will be his word against mine.’
‘You have hospital records. Recordings. His only hope is to bully you into silence.’
‘I’m not going back to him.’
‘Good.’
Nathan is tugging at her sleeve. ‘Why is Daddy so cross? Did we do something wrong?’
‘No, sweetheart,’ says Alison, brushing hair from his eyes.
The front door opens. Keith enters with a PC, who looks about my age, with wide-set eyes and a narrow face. I don’t know him. This is a different command area to mine. Camden instead of Southwark.
Jenny takes the children as Alison stands and descends the stairs, pausing at the hallway mirror to check on her appearance. She follows the PC into the sitting room where introductions are made and notes are taken. I hover in the background, looking for a chance to leave.
The second officer is talking to Goodall outside, suggesting that he go home until things cool down. They are following procedure, de-escalating the situation. I wait until Goodall has reluctantly driven away before I say goodbye to Alison.
‘I’m sorry, but who are you?’ asks the first PC, who is perched on the edge of the sofa, recording the information on an electronic tablet.
‘A friend,’ I say.
‘She helped me escape from the house,’ says Alison, who seems calmer now and more confident.
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Philomena McCarthy.’
He glances at his screen. ‘You picked Nathan up from his school.’
I nod.
‘Have you ever seen Mr Goodall attack his wife?’
‘No, but he has a track record.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a police officer stationed at Southwark. I’ve had dealings with Sergeant Goodall before.’
‘Dealings?’
‘Yes.’
At that moment, I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake. If I could turn back the clock, would I take Tempe to hospital, or arrest Goodall, or look for any history of domestic abuse? My chest tightens and I swallow hard on my panic, which only lasts a moment.
The officer is watching me sidelong, waiting to see what I might say next. He takes down my details and says he may need a statement from me later. In the meantime, I’m free to go.
Darren Goodall’s car is no longer on the verge, but I keep glancing in my mirrors on the drive home, expecting him to be there, following me. Watching. I have poked the bear and there will be consequences.
32
It’s Archie’s birthday tomorrow and I promised to make him a pirate cake, which is far beyond my Great British Bake-Off skills. I’ve given up on the idea of a ship and opted for a Jolly Roger with a pink bandana and an eyepatch.
‘What do you think?’ I ask Henry, showing him the cake.
‘It looks like Finbar without a beard.’
‘And a lopsided smile.’
Henry helps me clean up and begins stacking the dishwasher.
‘It’s broken, remember?’
‘But you got it fixed.’
‘When?’
‘I came home and there was an invoice on the bench.’ Henry shows me the piece of paper. Ninety quid for the call-out and labour.
‘It must have been Tempe,’ I say, regretting it immediately.
‘Did you give her a key?’
‘No, not exactly.’
Tempe knows that we keep a spare set in the birdhouse beside the garden shed.
‘She can’t just waltz in here without permission,’ says Henry.
‘She had my permission,’ I say, unsure of why I’m lying, but equally sure it’s not such a big deal. ‘She offered to help.’
‘So, you’re OK with her being here by herself – going through our things.’
‘She didn’t go through our things.’
‘How do you know? The other day she picked up our dry cleaning. How did she even know that it needed to be collected? And what about the tyres on my car? I mentioned they needed rotating and next thing she’s arranged it all.’
‘Is that a bad thing? We’re both so busy.’
‘She’s taking over our lives.’
‘By collecting our dry cleaning?’ I laugh.
‘OK, explain this.’ He leads me to the walk-in pantry. ‘Notice anything different?’
Shelves on three sides reach as high as the ceiling. They are filled with cans and dry goods and condiments. Normally the pantry is a mess, but someone has tidied the shelves, putting like with like, the sauces, tinned vegetables, pastas, pulses, baking products, spices and herbs. There are handwritten labels on each container, showing the contents and use-by dates. This is Tempe’s doing.