‘Where are you?’
‘I’m leaving the shelter in Brixton.’
‘Report to the custody suite.’
‘Received, out.’
Tempe and Beth are on the landing.
‘I’ll call you,’ I say, but Tempe doesn’t reply.
Outside, a bank of dark clouds has cloaked the sun and the temperature has fallen five degrees in the space of a few minutes. Unlocking the patrol car, I slide behind the wheel and feel a hollow emptiness in my stomach. All is not well.
2
The walk through the station is a strange one. I sense that people are watching me, peering over computer screens and pretending to read reports, but nobody wants to make eye contact. I have tried to call Nish, but he’s not answering.
Two shaven-headed men wearing army surplus clothes are being processed in the custody suite. They’ve been arrested for fighting and are still hurling abuse at each other. I wait outside Sergeant Connelly’s office, sitting opposite a narrow window that gives back a watery reflection. I touch my hair and nurse my hat on my lap.
There are male voices drifting from inside the office, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. When the door opens abruptly, I jump to attention, fumbling my phone before putting it away. Connelly motions me inside. Nothing on his face.
Another officer is waiting, a stranger, who introduces himself as Chief Superintendent Drysdale, a short, square man with a pale face and deep-set eyes. His hair is receding and port-coloured capillaries are shading his nose. I glimpse a small tattoo on the inside of his left wrist, before he tugs down the sleeve of his jacket. Three letters. MDM.
‘Sit down, PC McCarthy,’ says Connelly.
The men remain standing.
‘Explain to me what happened.’
‘Regarding what, sir?’
‘You arrested a serving police officer.’
‘He assaulted me.’
‘That’s not what he told us.’
‘If you look at the body-cam footage—’
Drysdale interrupts. ‘Darren Goodall distinguished himself with the Specialist Firearm Command. Eighteen months ago, he won a George Medal for chasing and tackling a knifeman who had killed three people. He was stabbed twice and almost bled to death. The man is a goddamn hero.’
The memory crashes into me. The headlines. The TV coverage. It was at Camden Market, a busy Saturday morning. A mentally disturbed man went berserk with a butcher’s knife, attacking shoppers and stallholders.
‘You arrested a police officer without due cause,’ says Drysdale.
‘He assaulted a woman. Her dress was covered in blood and her left eye had closed.’
‘Did she call the police?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Has she provided a statement?’
‘A neighbour complained—’
‘Has she provided a statement?’
‘No, sir.’
Drysdale takes a seat and leans back, his plump hands linked across his generous stomach.
‘Detective Goodall says her injuries were sustained before she arrived at the address.’
‘That’s not what she told me.’
‘You entered his apartment without a warrant, or his permission.’
‘I was concerned for her welfare. PC Kohli will back—’
‘We’ve talked to PC Kohli. He said it was your decision to arrest DS Goodall.’
‘We both—’
‘DS Goodall clearly identified himself and offered an explanation, but you refused to listen.’
‘That’s not what happened. If you talk to Nish—’
‘Are you calling Detective Goodall a liar?’
‘He attacked me, sir. He was abusive and aggressive, and he tried to prevent me speaking to the victim.’
‘His informant.’
‘What?’
‘Tempe Brown is a registered police informant. She is also a prostitute, who was beaten up by her pimp and came to Goodall seeking help.’
I feel like someone has suddenly tilted the floor and I risk sliding sideways. ‘Tempe Brown lives at that address. I saw her clothes in the wardrobe.’
The comment lights a fire under Drysdale. Flecks of foamy spit are clinging to the corners of his mouth.
‘You’re not listening. You went off half-cocked and embarrassed yourself. You took the word of a prostitute over a police officer. DS Goodall has filed a complaint against you. He has accused you of using unlawful and unnecessary force.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Did you use martial arts to effect his arrest?’
I don’t answer, but Drysdale fills the silence. ‘Under Met guidelines you are required to use only those control and restraint techniques you were taught in your training and no greater level of force than necessary.’
‘I didn’t use excessive force,’ I say, less sure of myself.
‘DS Goodall wants you charged with misconduct.’
‘This is bullshit,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘What did you say?’
Connelly is trying to calm the situation, raising his hands as though quieting a skittish horse.
‘Let’s all take a deep breath and settle down. I’m sure this can be sorted out without any further ructions.’
Such an old-fashioned word, ructions, but he’s that sort of man. I bet he wears flannelette pyjamas to bed and calls his wife ‘Queenie’ or ‘dearest’。
‘Have you filled out your domestic violence arrest form?’ he asks.
‘Not yet, sir. I still have to do the intelligence checks.’
‘I will handle that. What about your body camera?’
I point to my chest.
He holds out his hand. ‘Give it to me.’
I hesitate. ‘The footage hasn’t been downloaded.’
‘The Safeguarding Unit will take it from here.’
Reluctantly, I unclip the camera and hand it over. I glance at Drysdale, wondering where he might be from – what department, or section.
‘Go home, PC McCarthy,’ says Connelly.
‘But the paperwork—’
‘Your shift has ended.’
‘Am I suspended?’
‘You will stay at home until this is sorted out.’
I am so stunned by my rapid fall from grace that I don’t notice Drysdale following me out of the office and along the corridor. He touches my shoulder. I react instinctively, dropping into a defensive crouch.
‘You’re quick,’ he says, smiling wryly. His lower teeth are overcrowded and yellowing. ‘I know you think it’s unfair, Constable, but we have to protect our own at times like these.’
‘What times are those, sir?’
He doesn’t respond.
‘Will Goodall be investigated?’
‘That’s not your concern.’
‘That’s a no, then.’
His smug, self-satisfied smile grows fixed. ‘Let this go, McCarthy. No good can come of it.’
I want to come back at him with one of those killer one-liners that always occur to me when it’s too late, but my mouth is my worst enemy. Karate has helped me to control my temper, but my tongue still needs a handbrake or a dead man’s switch.
I turn away and jog up the stairs to the locker room, where I get changed into my civvies, locking away my stab vest and duty belt, and putting my hat on the top shelf. I can taste my anger in the back of my throat and wish I could spit it out and gargle mouthwash.