Henry is at my shoulder. ‘She’s a “a stage-five clinger”。’
‘A what?’
‘In the movie Wedding Crashers, Vince Vaughan called his new girlfriend a stage-five clinger because she talked about marriage after one hook-up. That’s Tempe. She followed you home and now she won’t leave. Every time she’s over here, she stays for dinner.’
‘Your mates drink all your beer and crash on our sofa, but I don’t complain.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Because they’re your friends, not mine?’
‘No.’
‘Why don’t you like her?’
‘I don’t trust her. For all we know she could have sabotaged the dishwasher.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I’m serious. Read the note from the repairman: Replaced burned-out motor. Someone must have disconnected the waterline. I didn’t disconnect the waterline, did you?’
‘Of course not, but neither did Tempe.’
Henry scoffs. ‘If she’s such a hotshot wedding planner, why doesn’t she have a website and testimonials? I’ve looked her up. There’s not a single story or photograph. Nobody has ever heard of her.’
‘How many wedding planners can you name?’
His eyes have a malignant gleam. ‘How many times has she called you today?’
‘Hardly at all,’ I say, but silently count.
‘How many times did she text?’
‘If it bothers you that much, I’ll tell her that she can’t come over because you think she’s creepy.’
‘That’s right – make me the bad guy.’
‘What do you want, Henry?’
‘Get her to stop smothering us.’
‘I’m not being smothered.’
‘Well, I am.’
He’s about to say something else, but the doorbell sounds. Disappointed at being interrupted in mid-argument, he goes to the door, but a moment later, he calls my name. I join him in the hallway. There are two police officers on the doorstep, the same PCs who were at the Highgate house today. This time I learn their names. Noonan has the narrow face and Payne looks like one of Henry’s overweight rugby mates, destined to popping statins by the time he’s fifty.
I invite them inside, but they decline.
‘We would like you to accompany us to Holborn police station,’ says Noonan, addressing me as PC McCarthy.
‘Why?’
‘A complaint has been made against you.’
‘What complaint?’
‘Detective Sergeant Darren Goodall has accused you of kidnapping his son.’
‘That’s ridiculous. You know the story.’
Payne interrupts. ‘We’re following orders. Our boss has been fielding calls for the past hour. Chain of command stuff. He wants this sorted out.’
I know what this means. Goodall has been calling in favours. Pulling strings. If he complains first, he might manage to fend off an investigation. He becomes the victim. I’m the perpetrator.
‘Let me get my jacket,’ I say, going back into the house.
Henry is waiting in the kitchen. ‘What happened?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
‘Are you being arrested?’
‘No. It’s complicated.’
‘Is this about Tempe?’
‘Not everything is about her,’ I say harshly, and wish immediately that I could take it back.
In the police car, as I’m driven away, I think back to the pantry and the labels on the jars and containers. Something has been bugging me about them and it’s not the fact that Tempe let herself into the house, or that she secretly organised my messy shelves. I keep picturing the labels on the jars, each written in a neat cursive script. She had copied my handwriting.
33
Holborn police station looks like two buildings that have been cobbled together, one at street level made of Portland stone and the other a tower rising from within like the stamen of a flower or a mushroom cloud.
Noonan and Payne had been chatty on the journey, pumping me for details, wanting the skinny on Goodall and his wife. They grow annoyed when I don’t give them anything. By now the whole station will be talking about the hero cop whose child was kidnapped by a constable.
I’m taken to an office rather than an interview suite, which is a good sign. Waiting alone, I glance out the window, which overlooks Camden Lock. I can’t see my mother’s salon from here, but the painted canal boats are visible between buildings that have a faint yellow glow from the setting sun.
The door opens and I stand to attention. The first officer to enter is Chief Superintendent Drysdale, who had me suspended for arresting Goodall. I still don’t know exactly what position he holds, but I remember the tattoo on his wrist. The second officer is dressed in smart casual clothes and looks like a detective, or a budding politician. He introduces himself as Lawrence Pickering of the Police Federation. I didn’t ask for a union rep, but I’m glad that he’s here.
Pickering waits until I’m seated before he takes a chair, sitting apart from me. Drysdale is behind the lone desk, leaning forward, with his hands clasped and his forearms resting on a manila folder.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he says.
I didn’t think it was optional, I want to reply, but politely nod. Don’t offend. Don’t provoke.
‘Do you remember what I said to you when we last spoke, PC McCarthy?’
‘You said a number of things, sir.’
‘I expressly instructed you to let this issue go.’
‘What issue is that, sir?’
‘This vendetta against Sergeant Goodall.’
‘I have no vendetta against him.’
‘He has accused you of kidnapping his child.’
‘I picked Nathan up from school.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘His wife, Alison?’
‘How do you know Mrs Goodall?’
‘I met her a few months ago.’
‘After you arrested her husband?’ There is an arch tone to his voice.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You sought her out?’
‘I was concerned for her safety.’
‘On what evidence?’
‘I didn’t believe that Tempe Brown was the first woman that Darren Goodall had assaulted.’
‘Was that your womanly intuition at work?’
Is that your misogyny asking?
‘I followed the procedure for domestic abuse incidents by looking for any history of earlier complaints.’
‘You were told to leave the matter to others.’
‘I was concerned that we might be accused of covering up the incident. My body-cam footage wasn’t uploaded and no paperwork was filed.’
I can feel the ice beginning to crack beneath me.
‘You accessed a police database for personal reasons,’ says Drysdale.
‘I followed procedure and investigated a domestic violence call-out.’
‘Which you were told to drop.’
‘You told me it was being handed over, not dropped.’
There it is – the spark. Drysdale disliked me before, but now his hatred is a spluttering fuse. Pickering touches my forearm and whispers. ‘Word to the wise – don’t antagonise him.’