‘Always.’
‘And you want to marry me?’
‘I would marry you in a car, in a bar, on a log with a frog, with a bear on the stairs, here or there or anywhere.’
‘Did you know that when Dr Seuss wrote The Cat in the Hat there was a specific list of only three hundred and forty-eight words that he could use?’
Henry laces his fingers into mine. ‘I did not know that.’
‘And when he wrote Green Eggs and Ham, he won a bet with his publisher that he couldn’t use fifty words or less.’
‘I love that book.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘How do you know stuff like that?’
‘I’m a sponge.’
He leads me to the table, which is set out with Tupperware containers ready to freeze the bolognese into portions.
‘What about Archie?’ I ask.
‘Roxanne won’t ask for full custody. She likes having me around.’
‘To torture?’
‘Exactly.’
My stomach rumbles. ‘Can we have some now? I haven’t eaten since some time yesterday.’
Henry boils water for the spaghetti and takes a block of parmesan from the fridge, setting it on a plate next to a grater. While I’m waiting for the pasta to cook, I tell him about finding Tempe’s body and the police dropping the charges against me.
I still don’t feel relieved. Instead, I have a nagging sense of having escaped rather than been vindicated. Henry listens and asks questions, refusing to badmouth Tempe, or criticise the police. He’s happy and I’m grateful, but something between us is impenetrably sad and I know it won’t be repaired over a bowl of bolognese.
That night, there’s no mention of Tempe’s death on the TV news. Suicides are rarely publicised unless the victim is someone famous, or the death is unusual. ‘No suspicious circumstances’ is the euphemism we use. Nothing to see here. Look the other way. Move on.
‘We have to let everybody know about the wedding,’ says Henry. ‘Tell them it’s off.’
‘It doesn’t have to be off.’
‘We don’t have a venue.’
‘We’ll think of somewhere.’
66
Henry can’t find his black shoes. He has a pair of Oxford brogues with thick soles that he only wears to weddings and funerals. A man can’t get married in brown shoes. I’m sure there is some rule or superstition about that.
The cars are due to arrive any minute. I’m not getting dressed until we reach the house, but my hair and make-up have been done by two lovely women that Carmen used when she got married.
For the first few days after Tempe’s death my phone didn’t stop. People I hadn’t spoken to in weeks suddenly wanted to call me. Some commiserated about the suicide of a friend, while others celebrated the dropping of charges against me. Most were fishing for details. A few didn’t know what to say. I accepted their good wishes but spent most of my time alone or with Henry. His love is like liquid that has poured into my life, filling every crack and hollow and empty space.
‘Found them,’ he yells. He’s perched on a chair, searching boxes at the top of his wardrobe.
The doorbell chimes. I think it might be Tony, come to pick me up. He’s early. Instead, I find a Lycra-clad courier on the doorstep. I sign for a large square package wrapped in brown paper and bubble-wrap. A solicitor’s name and address are stamped on the back.
I tear it open and find a picture frame that contains one of Tempe’s portraits of me. Done in astonishing detail, it looks like a black-and-white photograph, which is so life-like and beautiful it takes my breath away. On the back she has written:
My gift to you on your wedding day. I miss those days when your smile made me real.
I look for more. An envelope is taped to one corner of the frame. Tearing it open, I discover a small plastic square – a memory card – which falls into the palm of my hand. Opening my laptop, I plug in a card-reader and click on the files.
The screen fills with a wide-angle shot of a living room. I recognise the location – Goodall’s apartment at Borough Market. The camera must have been hidden in the TV cabinet or nearby because the view is partially obstructed by a potted plant. I can see a sofa and two armchairs, with balcony doors in the background.
Tempe enters the shot. She is followed by Goodall, who is shirtless, wearing a towel around his waist. He pulls at her clothes. She wants him to wait. He tears at her blouse and pushes her to her knees, bending her over the coffee table. He is staring at his reflection in the TV as he violates her. Tempe doesn’t make a sound. When she tries to look away, he grabs her hair and forces her to watch.
Once the act is over, Goodall tosses the torn blouse at Tempe and tells her to ‘get lost’， he has mates coming over. She wants to shower.
‘No time.’
‘When can I come back?’
‘When I tell you.’
Tempe leaves. The camera is still running. I fast forward. The doorbell sounds. I hear male voices. Three men walk into the frame, but I can’t see their faces because the camera cuts them off at chest height. Goodall goes to the fridge. Beers are handed out. Opened. Clinked.
‘Fucking journalists,’ he says. ‘Bottom-feeders,’ is the reply. I recognise the voice: Superintendent Drysdale. ‘Trump got it right – enemies of the people.’
‘What did you dig up?’
‘His sister spent six months in rehab – heroin addiction – but she’s been clean for five years. And his old man lost his licence for drunk driving, but that was last century. Apart from that, I couldn’t find so much as a speeding ticket, or unpaid parking fine.’
‘We need more than that.’
‘Where’s the Scarlet Pimpernel?’
‘Late, as usual.’
The three men sit down. Goodall takes the armchair. The others take the sofa. I see their faces. Drysdale breaks wind, earning rebukes and laughter. He’s been protecting Goodall from the outset, wiping the body-cam footage and burying the investigation.
The man sitting next to him is unknown to me.
‘What if we leaked classified documents to Holstein and had him charged under the Official Secrets Act?’ says Drysdale.
‘That’ll make him a martyr for the freedom of speech brigade,’ says Goodall.
‘Drugs?’
‘Too obvious.’
‘Child porn?’
‘Losing evidence is easier than planting it.’
The doorbell sounds. Goodall grunts, as he gets up from the chair. Another guest has arrived, out of frame. Drysdale is still talking.
‘… I only know what filters down.’
‘Well, it’s too late now.’
The new arrival walks in front of the camera as he crosses the room.
‘Want a beer?’
‘Nah.’
He collects a glass of water, then comes back to the others.
‘We need a more permanent solution,’ says Goodall. ‘Holstein has been writing stories about gangland feuds. Why not make him a victim of his own success?’
‘A gangland hit,’ says Drysdale.
‘Yeah. And we can blame it on the Albanians, or Eddie McCarthy or the Cocky Watchman, for all I care.’
‘And we control the investigation,’ says the third man.