3
Thursday 10 July 2014
Lizzie Griffiths parked her 2008 Golf in one of the off-street police bays and placed on the dashboard the letter from the detective inspector authorizing her to leave it there.
Caenwood was a busy police station on the edge of central London: a big square 1960s building with steel-framed windows, high walls around the yard and CCTV cameras facing the street. Lizzie got out of her car and tried swiping her warrant card in the side door that led to the yard. The light flashed red: clearly the card hadn’t been activated yet. She hesitated. It was her first proper full day back at work and it didn’t help with her trepidation that it wasn’t turning out to be easy getting into her new nick.
She’d dressed up to give herself courage – new dark wool suit, sky-blue silk blouse, soft navy court shoes – but all she’d achieved was to feel as if she were playing a part. Why ever had she worn heels? She was a runner, never comfortable when her feet weren’t flat on the ground. She was slim and athletic – she wore the clothes well – but she felt exposed, overdressed rather than brave. The wind was cold and her hands were already chilled. She tried to put them in her jacket pockets, which, she discovered only now, weren’t cut.
The street was lined with parked police cars, white forensic vans. A group of plain-clothes officers emerged from the gate, carrying stab vests, and piled cheerfully into one of the cars. Lizzie felt it: that police rhythm she had been away from for months. It held her there, caught between two opposing forces, one telling her to go inside, to be part of it all again, the other telling her to run away, just as she had fled impulsively after Farah and Hadley had fallen to their deaths. She saw that moment: the wind whipping across the roof of the tower block, Hadley and Farah on the edge, blue sky and clouds behind them. Lizzie knew how badly wrong things could go.
She went into the station office. People were seated around the perimeter. A woman wearing a lanyard and talking on her phone. Three spotty boys in unlaced trainers. A red-faced vagrant who was probably responsible for the stale smell that filled the room held a cat on a piece of string.
At the counter, a man in a deerstalker hat and dog-tooth jacket was talking loudly at the station officer. Before Lizzie could show her ID, he’d turned crossly to her and asked, ‘Would you mind waiting your turn?’ She smiled apologetically and flashed her warrant card at the young female station officer who barely glanced at Lizzie as she reached below the counter and pressed a button.
The hallway was darkly utilitarian, with a black plastic floor and no windows. Posters on the walls carried exhortations to meet targets or dress smartly. Don’t fail the Victims Charter! A cleaner was moving slowly down the stairs, swiping them with a filthy mop. Although she’d been there only once before when she’d met her new detective inspector, Lizzie knew the way to her new office. She moved up the stairs and turned left along the corridor. She’d been accepted on the training scheme for detectives and had been posted to a borough domestic violence unit. It was all part of the new start she was supposed to be making after the deaths at Portland Tower.
The disciplinary board had gone through its process. They’d sought a misconduct finding for her absence without leave, but her barrister had successfully argued that she’d been suffering post-traumatic stress when she disappeared. Afterwards the chief superintendent had called her in for a meeting. Privately, he said, some people thought she should have had a commendation for her bravery in saving the life of the five-year-old boy, and for trying so hard to save Farah. He’d shrugged – she’d understand that in the circumstances it hadn’t been possible. Still, they didn’t want to lose her. They wanted to integrate her back into work. She needed a new start: a new role, a different nick far from all the officers who had known Hadley.
She’d known everyone at her old station. Here everyone who passed her was a stranger. More than ever, she felt the absence of Hadley. Nearly thirty years in the job, he would have known exactly how to deport himself in a foreign nick. Briefly she felt his big bear arm around her as she walked down the corridor in her ridiculous shoes.
No one looked up when she stepped inside the large open-plan office. The detective inspector’s office to her right was empty. She cast her eyes around. The desks were pushed together in banks of six or so, most of which had no one sitting at them. Their surfaces were dirty, crowded with heaps of files tied together with treasury tags, overflowing plastic in-trays, discarded free newspapers. Photos of suspects were on the walls, some fenced in with thick bars drawn in marker pen. Whiteboards carried the names of officers and their shift patterns. Some names had cut-outs sellotaped next to them: Shaggy Rogers from Scooby Doo, Bret Maverick, Foxy Brown, Jessica Rabbit. Directly in front of her, a computer had a notice stuck to the screen, the typeface bold and large: This dinosaur is a SHIT dinosaur.
In the far corner, an officer had looked up from his screen and was smiling at her, beckoning her over with his index finger. He was brown-eyed, mid-thirties, good-looking but scruffy. His hair looked like he’d just dried it with a towel. He was wearing an unremarkable blue shirt and a maroon V-neck jumper that had gone a bit bobbly.
‘Are you the new girl?’
Lizzie felt herself colouring. ‘Yes, Lizzie.’
He beamed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Manna from heaven!’ He stepped from behind the desk and she saw that his grey trouser bottoms were tucked into his socks. He followed her eyes and smiled. ‘Oh, that? Carpet fleas. We’re infested.’
Immediately her ankles were itching. She reached down and tucked her trousers into her pop socks.
The man giggled. ‘Oh, you’re channelling Audrey Hepburn!’
Lizzie giggled too. She was feeling better. He smiled and offered his hand. His grip was warm and surprisingly strong. ‘Ash Attalah. I’m your skipper.’ He sat again and glanced at his screen, then back at Lizzie. ‘Acting skipper, that is. I’m actually just a DC like you.’
‘Well, I’m just a training DC.’
‘Frankly, my dear, who gives a damn? We’re taking on water quicker than we can bail it out. All hands welcome. Talking of which, we’ve got one in the bin. I’ve no one on duty except you and eight new crime reports to screen. Will you be OK to deal?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
Lizzie flicked the mouse on the computer in front of her. It made a whirring sound like a spaceship taking off.
‘Where’s the inspector? I ought to say hello.’
‘Bridget? She’s practically never here. Which, don’t get me wrong, is no bad thing.’ He passed her a paper folder. ‘Here’s the handover from the arresting officers. Your first prisoner’s a nasty fucker, so congratulations. Good to start with a worthy subject.’
Custody was heaving. Officers queued for the desk and leaned against the wall making small talk with their prisoners and the solicitors. At the desk, a lone female sergeant was booking in a handcuffed prisoner who leaned over, hanging his neck between his shoulders like a worn-out vulture waiting around in the desert heat for something to die. Entirely new to the nick and to her role as a detective, Lizzie nevertheless felt the usual police obligation to look as though she knew what she was doing. She checked the custody screen whiteboard and found her way down the corridor to Male 3.
She slid the wicket down and looked through the Perspex at her prisoner.
Mark Brannon was lying on his back on the plastic mattress, eyes open, jeans unzipped, his right hand resting comfortably on his stomach, his left arm flung out by his side. He made no response to the opening of the wicket, so Lizzie slid down the Perspex pane and said, ‘Mark.’ He stirred, fastening his jeans without embarrassment and swinging his legs over to the floor to come slowly to standing. He wore a blue and white striped football shirt and a grey hoody. He shambled towards the door, rubbing the stubble of his shaved head with his right hand. He had small hands with short fingers and round short nails. Although he wasn’t tall he was evidently strong, and had the look about him of a man who would punch first and ask questions later.
He put his face against the opening and Lizzie leaned back from his breath. A sour smell came off him, but he had film-star pale blue eyes – shadowed, startling. They wouldn’t look out of place gazing at the horizon in a cowboy movie.
‘All right to wash my face?’
Lizzie stood beside him at the end of the windowless corridor as he squeezed pink liquid soap from the dispenser onto his open palm. He bent over the sink and splashed his face and head, drawing his fingers up the back of his neck and over his scalp.
She said, ‘QPR, is it?’
He didn’t reply, bending over the tap and swilling out his mouth.
Lizzie half sang, ‘We hate you, Chelsea, yes we do.’
Brannon unravelled ample quantities of the ribbon of blue paper towel from the plastic dispenser on the wall. He dried his hands and face and said quietly, ‘I can’t stand that stuff. Idiotic.’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘Sorry. Just making conversation.’
Brannon considered her. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘I doubt it. I’m new to this ground.’
‘No, I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before.’ His eyes narrowed as he sought to place her. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Lizzie.’
‘Lizzie what?’
No avoiding it then. ‘Lizzie Griffiths.’
‘Now then, Lizzie Griffiths, be a sweetheart. Can I ring my missus? I just want to make sure my little girl’s all right.’
‘Let’s see how the interview goes. Your solicitor is waiting for your consultation.’
Twenty minutes later, they were in interview. The solicitor’s head was bent over his notepad, revealing hair that straggled thinly over a sun-spotted pate. Brannon leaned back in the chair opposite Lizzie, his legs stretched out straight in front of him, his arms folded across his chest. The room smelled of him – alcohol and the stale odour of a man who had slept in his clothes.
‘Mark – can I call you Mark?’
‘No comment.’
‘OK. Do you understand the caution or do you need it explained?’
‘No comment.’
She glanced at the solicitor but he didn’t even look up.
‘You’ve got legal representation. We’ll move on. Did you say “Hello, cunts” to the officers?’
This provoked a smile. Lizzie could see them clearly in her imagination, those two uniformed officers reaching the end of their night duty, meeting Brannon outside his flat. Apparently he’d been eating cheese on toast and smoking.
‘For the tape – Mr Brannon is smiling.’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you slap Georgina Teel in the face?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you then grab her by the hair and call her a “fucking two-timing little bitch”?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you push her in the chest, and when she fell, did you sit on her chest and call her a “fucking whore”?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you spit in her face?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you drag her by her legs into the kitchen?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you lie on the couch and instruct Georgina to make you some cheese on toast?’
‘No comment.’
‘Where was your daughter when this was happening?’
‘No comment.’
‘Where was Skye, Mark?’
He looked at her, clearly angry for the first time. His mouth was tight, his jaw clenched.
‘Where was Skye?’
‘No comment. No comment. No fucking comment.’
Lizzie glanced at her watch. She should cover defences. Defences? She trawled her mental back-catalogue of excuses and lies. What possible defence could there be?
‘Is Georgina Teel making this account up?’
He studied her face. ‘Has she given a statement, then?’
Look at him: wrong-footing her. Lizzie hesitated. The brief paragraph in the domestic violence report booklet hardly justified the word ‘statement’, although it was, at least, signed. The account was a messy three-line scribble written in a failing black biro that alternated between blotching and fading. The handwriting fell off the page, was crossed out and misspelled, probably scrawled in a pressing hurry. But more concerning to Lizzie than the statement’s paucity was the complication of telling Brannon that his partner had given evidence against him. Who wanted to add to the risk that already dogged Georgina Teel by admitting that?
The solicitor looked up. He had bags under his eyes and the whites were threaded with blood vessels.
‘If there is a statement then you’ll have to disclose it if you come to charge.’
‘We have a brief statement, yes.’
Brannon leaned forward. ‘What does she say?’
‘I shan’t be answering any more questions on this. You are not interviewing me.’
His solicitor lifted his hand slowly. His jacket cuffs were worn. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in the gesture, but still, fair play to him, he was doing his job.
‘If you want to draw any sort of inference from this interview, you need to provide me with sufficient disclosure to advise my client.’
Lizzie thought of this unknown Georgina Teel being dragged along the floor and then making Mark Brannon the slice of toasted cheese he had been eating when the police arrived.
‘Georgina says you assaulted her last night, Mark. That should be sufficient disclosure for you to be able to tell me whether she’s telling the truth or making it up.’
Brannon leaned back and closed his arms across his chest. ‘No comment.’
‘Any reason she would make it up? Any mental illness, any resentment, any jealousy perhaps?’
She was tempted to add, because after all you’re a nice guy, quite a catch.
‘No comment.’
‘What about self-defence? Did she attack you and you were just defending yourself?’
Brannon turned to his solicitor, who spoke just loudly enough for the tape.
‘I remind you of my earlier advice.’
Brannon paused and rocked back in his chair, a parody of a man making a decision.
‘No comment, then.’
It turned out to be a struggle simply to get Brannon back into his cell. First she had to queue to sign him back. Then he asked for another consultation with his solicitor.
The female custody sergeant – glamorous with highlighted blonde hair, dyed dark eyelashes and a seen-it-all attitude – eyed Lizzie with irritation as if it were she who was asking for the consultation.
‘You’ll need to facilitate that.’
Lizzie tried to protest. ‘Sarge, I’ve got to write the report for the prosecutor . . .’
The sergeant’s mouth had set into a thoroughly pissed-off line. ‘No, Detective. He’s your prisoner. I can’t spare a detention officer.’
So Lizzie stood in her uncomfortable heels, leaning back against the wall and watching while Brannon and his brief talked behind a closed glass door. All this effort for what? A suspended sentence? A community order? Her phone buzzed. It was from Kieran, a text.
?
He was due back in London tonight ready for an early shift the following day. The plan was to take Lizzie out for a meal, celebrate her first day back at work. She tapped in a response – an echo of his emoticon – and then deleted it. Here she was again: hesitating but not in the end, she suspected, refusing to meet.
Kieran Shaw had been her inspector when Hadley and Farah died. Even before their deaths, it had been a mess: Kieran was married and had a daughter. After the deaths, when Lizzie had been bewildered, he had taken control, been very clear – too clear perhaps – what she should do. He’d stuck by her, put himself on the line, accompanied her to the misconduct hearing. But when it was all over he had had little patience for her abiding unease. It was time to move on. No amount of introspection would bring Hadley or Farah back.
Her thoughts were interrupted. Ash had slipped in beside her and was now leaning next to her facing the consultation room, watching Brannon and his brief talking. Lizzie closed her phone and slipped it into her pocket.
‘That brief’s taking his time, isn’t he?’ Ash said. ‘They’re not paid by the hour any more.’
‘He’s not the duty brief.’
‘No?’
‘Brannon’s got friends. Looks like they’re looking after him.’
‘Interesting.’
There was a silence. Then Ash said, ‘A little bird told me the nasty custody sergeant is being mean to the pretty new detective.’
In spite of herself, Lizzie laughed.
Ash said, ‘Brannon’s partner Georgina has rung. She needs to speak to you.’
‘But I’m stuck here!’
‘I’ve had a word, and the very nice detention officer Hussain is going to help us out. When you go past Sergeant Hitchin, make sure to say thank you. You don’t want her to take against you. She can be more vengeful than Anne Boleyn.’
Lizzie stared at the board in the inspector’s office. It was marked up with all the borough’s cars’ registration marks, next to the names and mobile numbers of the officers who had taken them out scrawled in wipeable marker. There wasn’t a single car available. She didn’t feel confident to do the rounds of the offices asking people if they would give up their car. Her own Golf was downstairs; she’d take that. She shouldn’t really use her own car on duty but taking public transport would add more than an hour to a day that already looked as though it was stretching out into evening.
By car, Georgina’s flat was only fifteen minutes from the nick: straight along the main shopping street with its independent cinema and gastro pub, then quickly off into the poorer, rougher side streets. Lizzie parked in a metred bay directly outside the block, made her way up the stairs and along the external walkway. Just by the landing someone had drawn a hopscotch in blue chalk. A pink girl’s bicycle with tassled handlebars leaned against the wall just beyond the front door.
Georgina was slim and tall in tight pale jeans. She had long blonde hair, enhanced with some highlights and straightening. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt that showed her small breasts and thin arms. She led Lizzie into the narrow hallway. It was too warm. Heat belched out of radiators turned up full.
‘Do you mind taking your shoes off?’
‘No, not at all. In fact I couldn’t be happier.’
Squatting down to place her shoes on the shoe rack, Lizzie noticed Georgina’s long and beautifully kept feet; her painted toenails. On the inside of her ankle was a tattoo of a lotus flower. She stood up, feeling a bit foolish in her pop socks.
Entering the sitting room through the frosted door at the end of the hallway, she saw a seven-year-old girl sitting at the table. Her mum was visible in her: long legs in pink pedal pushers, long bare arms, a narrow chest in a white T-shirt with a cupcake on the front. Two blonde plaits fell forward onto her shoulders. Her sock-clad toes were curled over the spindles of the wooden chair and her head was bent in concentration over a loom as she weaved colourful rubber bands.
Another woman of Georgina’s age was sitting to the right, on a white sofa behind a glass coffee table. The room was darker there, and Lizzie couldn’t see her properly.
Georgina said, ‘Be a good girl, Skye. Go and finish that in your room. I need to talk to this lady.’
‘But I need the table.’
‘You can watch a DVD later. Now do as I tell you. Go to your room. I won’t tell you twice.’
Skye gave Lizzie a brief but winning smile. She collected her loom and pot of rubber bands and disappeared into her bedroom. Georgina walked towards the kitchen.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
The woman on the sofa spoke up. ‘I’ll make it, Georgie.’
‘Ah, thanks.’
The woman looked at Lizzie, and Lizzie smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Lizzie.’
The woman didn’t smile back. ‘Yeah, I know who you are.’
She was probably late twenties, light coffee-coloured skin and frizzy golden hair, the side of her nose pierced, a sporty cropped top showing a hard brown stomach with a navel pierced by a bar and jewel. She disappeared off to the kitchen area and Lizzie noticed, for the first time, a dog sitting there in a basket with a blue cast on its front right leg.
She sat down at the table. ‘What’s happened to the dog, then?’
Georgina shrugged and sat opposite. ‘Broke her leg, didn’t she? Stupid thing. Ran out. Got hit by a car.’
Lizzie’s eyes flicked around the flat. ‘You keep this place immaculate.’
‘I’m a bit OCD. Comes from my mum.’
‘Your mum’s the same?’
Georgina laughed. ‘God, no. The opposite.’
For the first time Lizzie spotted the bruise beneath Georgina’s eye. It had been skilfully masked by foundation. The other woman brought a tray over with the tea and a plate of biscuits. The cups were china, with saucers. The woman sat down as if she were an accepted part of whatever was going on.
Lizzie said to Georgina, ‘Has anyone photographed that bruise?’
Georgina’s right hand went fleetingly to her face, but the other woman interrupted before she could answer.
‘Look, we might as well get to the point. Georgie rang me this morning in tears. She can’t go through with it.’
Lizzie turned to her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.’
‘I’m a friend of Georgie’s.’
Lizzie moistened her lips. ‘OK.’ She turned to Georgina. ‘Is this true?’
Georgina’s eyes flickered towards the woman, and then back to Lizzie. ‘Yes.’
The friend interrupted. ‘Mark’s Skye’s father. They’re a family.’
‘Could you tell me your name, perhaps?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Maybe I need to talk to Georgina on her own.’
‘But I’m here to support her.’
Support her: the phrase claimed the high ground and demoted Lizzie, as though her role was to harm Georgina.
‘Georgina, do you mind talking to me without your friend?’
The friend interrupted again. ‘Why is that necessary?’
Lizzie looked straight at her, making no attempt to disguise her hostility. ‘Because this is a legal matter and you won’t even give me your name. I’m going to be taking a statement from Georgina.’
‘But I’m here to support her!’
‘So you’ve said.’ Lizzie looked at the table, composed herself. She spoke kindly, concentrating entirely on Georgina. ‘Georgina, do you need your friend to stay?’
The friend said, ‘I can stay, Georgie, if you need me.’
Georgina shook her head. ‘No, it’s OK. I’ll be OK.’
‘You sure, darling?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be fine.’
‘All right. I’m on my phone. Any time.’
There was some bundling around. The anonymous friend put her head into Skye’s bedroom to say goodbye, bustled out, pulling her zip-up jacket around her as if to say she was not at all impressed with Lizzie Griffiths.
There was a moment’s silence after the door had shut. Then Lizzie said, ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.’
Georgina pressed her hands against her eyes. She seemed incapable of speech. Lizzie waited.
‘He says he loves me . . .’
‘He’s not allowed to contact you, not even through another person.’
‘He didn’t. Marley just came round, off her own bat.’
‘Marley?’
‘The girl who was just here. The one you kicked out. He’d called her from the station. She just wanted to tell me how upset he was.’
‘Hang on, Georgina . . .’
‘He says he’s sorry! He loves me. He loves Skye. He wants to change. Make a fresh start.’
Lizzie looked at her tea and thought twice. It crossed her mind that Marley might well have spat in it. She put the cup back on the saucer.
‘Do you believe him when he says he’ll change?’
‘I don’t know.’ She wiped the corner of her left eye.
‘He shouldn’t be contacting you at all.’
‘He just wants me to give him a chance.’
‘But what if you don’t, hey? What if you said no more second chances? What if you said enough is enough?’
Georgina didn’t reply.
‘Hasn’t he made promises like this before?’
‘You don’t get it. I can’t leave him.’
‘Why not? Are you frightened of him?’
‘Marley said you’d be like this.’
There was a pause. ‘Marley? Is she a friend or relative of Mark’s?’
‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘OK.’
‘She said you’d try to pressure me. Said you wouldn’t understand.’
The door to Skye’s room opened and both women immediately stopped speaking and looked towards the girl, who was standing in the doorway holding a loom band in her outstretched hand. For the first time Lizzie spotted that her nails were varnished with flowers and butterflies.
‘I made this for you, Mum.’
It was pink and blue and purple. Lizzie said, ‘That’s lovely. You made it all by yourself?’
Skye took a step forward. ‘I can make one for you too.’
‘I’d like that.’
Georgina got up and took it from her. ‘All right, Skye. I’ve told you to stay in your room.’
Skye pulled a face at Lizzie but retreated. Georgina slipped the band over her wrist. There was one there already. Lizzie met Georgina’s eyes and her police knowledge crowded in: the harm a man can do.
Georgina said, ‘Do you have children?’
‘No.’
‘You got a boyfriend, though?’
Lizzie shrugged. Could Kieran really be described as a boyfriend? Georgina was giving her a misplaced smile of complicity.
‘Men are from Mars, isn’t it?’ she said.
Lizzie smiled uncertainly. ‘Yeah, I s’pose so.’
‘You’ve not seen it, but Mark’s very loving.’
Lizzie’s heart suddenly went out to Georgina: her tidy flat, her Buddha in the hallway, her beautiful feet, her obedient little girl.
‘It’s a pattern,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘He’s only like that when he’s drunk! He’s going to stop drinking. He’s promised. He said that to Marley. He said he knows he’s got to stop drinking.’
Lizzie remembered the report of Brannon’s first recorded assault: a GBH on a shopkeeper who had tried to stop him stealing from his corner shop. Brannon had been fifteen at the time. It seemed he’d been enraged at the idea of anyone stopping him doing what he wanted. He’d called the shopkeeper a Paki, knocked him backwards with a blow to the forehead from a drinks can he’d taken from one of the shelves. Then he’d broken his collarbone by stamping on him. He had taken nothing when he left the shop. He’d been assaulting people ever since.
Lizzie said, ‘Why don’t you take a step back? Give Mark a chance to prove he can stop drinking. When he comes out, you can have a little break, maybe?’
‘If I say yes, does that mean you’ll drop it?’
‘Georgina . . .’
Georgina raised her voice. ‘You won’t, will you?’
The door to the bedroom opened again and Skye was standing there with another loom band.
‘Skye, I told you to stay in your room!’
Skye’s face was pulled tight. ‘But I made this for Lizzie. She asked me.’
‘You didn’t. You never had time to make another one. Go in your room!’
Skye’s expression crumpled. She started to cry.
Suddenly there was an absence of sway in this usually governed place. Georgina’s head was in her hands. Skye seemed stranded in the middle of the room, as if she were a small figure alone on a beach, about to be cut off by the tide. Lizzie got up, stepped towards her.
‘That’s lovely, thank you . . .’ She took the loom band and rested it in her palm. ‘It’s great.’ She slipped it on her wrist and twisted her hand from side to side. ‘I’ll treasure it.’
She glanced at Georgina. She was sitting with her elbows on the table and her face pressed into her hands. Lizzie turned back to Skye, bending to eye level and putting a gentle hand on her upper arm.
‘Your mum will be fine in a minute. She just needs a moment to talk to me. Will you be all right to wait in your room? Not much longer now.’
Skye nodded.
‘Hang on a moment . . .’ Lizzie stepped towards the table and took the plate of biscuits. ‘Why don’t you have a couple?’
The bedroom door shut again. Lizzie sat and waited. Georgina blew her nose.
‘You’re a natural,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘With Skye.’
Lizzie laughed. ‘Dunno about that.’
Georgina smiled sceptically. ‘Have to get you babysitting.’
‘She’s a sweet girl.’ Lizzie showed off her wrist. ‘Anyway, I will treasure the loom band. I’ve never had one before.’
They both smiled. It was funny and nice; they both felt it.
Georgina said, ‘Skye’s worried sick. I can’t do that to her, split us up. You’ve got to understand that. Mark, he just needs to stop drinking.’
‘But what about if you . . . took a short break?’
Georgina’s eyes darted about. ‘I can’t, don’t you see?’
‘You need to think about Skye.’
A sudden fierceness. ‘I’m always thinking about Skye. I always put my daughter first. What are you saying?’
She’d said the wrong thing. Of course she had. ‘Georgina . . .’
‘Skye loves her dad. And he worships her.’
The wrong thing, but still.
‘It’s not good for her to be around violence.’
‘He’ll go on a programme.’
‘So take a break while he does that. She shouldn’t have to see her father hurting her mother.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘What do you mean? I’m just concerned.’
‘Concerned? I hate that word! I know what you lot are like. Always think you know best. Leaving Mark? You’ve no idea! Skye’s fine.’ She looked around at her impeccable flat. ‘Do you see anything to worry about?’
‘Of course I don’t. This place is lovely.’
‘I don’t want the social coming round.’
Everything she had said had made things worse.
Lizzie suddenly remembered her colleague Hadley, his bulk squashed into a tiny wooden chair, a tortoise balanced on the flat of his hand. It had been a miserable little flat. The eldest boy had smashed some stuff up. The exhausted mother, raising four children on her own for far too long, still didn’t want her son arrested. Hadley had kicked the boy out and then sat talking, waiting to ensure he didn’t return too quickly. He’d had his own tortoise when he was a child, he claimed. They can be a devil to find. The woman had relaxed, smiled. Hadley had had that way about him. Still, nobody could ever have accused him of overestimating his effectiveness.
Some people just can’t be helped. Never forget: we’re the police, not the bloody social workers, thank the Lord.
Another memory came: the indelible freeze frames of a postmortem. Cosmina, a woman she had briefly known, reduced to meat and bone and gristle. The whine of the Stryker saw and the smell of burning.
Lizzie looked around the room: the tidy shelves, the sweet dog, the framed picture of Skye with her dad at a skating rink. Well, she’d tried. She had. Now she would follow protocol. She opened her bag and took out the statement papers that she had placed neatly in a plastic folder. She popped her ballpoint.
‘If you’re absolutely sure you don’t want to give evidence, I’ll take a withdrawal statement and inform the prosecution service. They’ll make the decision, not me.’
‘Do that then.’
She began filling in details. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t prosecute him . . .’
‘But it makes it unlikely, doesn’t it?’
Lizzie checked her phone for the date. ‘Less likely. They can summons you, or go ahead without your evidence.’ She filled in Georgina’s name. ‘OK, what do you want to say?’
Georgina’s face was tense. ‘What you say to them will make a difference, won’t it?’
Lizzie shrugged.
Georgina insisted. ‘What are you going to tell them?’
Lizzie knew exactly what she would write on her report to the prosecutor: Brannon represented a continuing and significant threat to Georgina. Skye too was at risk. Brannon should be charged and a summons was needed to compel Georgina to give evidence.
She said, ‘I’m a police officer. It’s my job to look after the criminal aspects of this. Why don’t you let me refer you to a domestic violence charity, someone who can talk this through with you, someone who isn’t part of this process?’
Georgina wasn’t misled. She shook her head. ‘And why don’t you tell me what you are going to say to them?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m going to think about it.’
‘Well, have a think about little Skye before you write anything down.’
‘I am thinking about Skye.’
‘A girl needs her father.’
It was already four when Lizzie headed back to the office. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She pulled over and ran into M&S and stood in a dream state in front of a bright fridge full of harissa chicken and king prawn salads. She picked up a risotto and then put it back, unconvinced. Her phone buzzed: it was Kieran. She’d text him to say she was probably going to be late off, but when she glanced at her screen she saw he was the one blowing her out.
Sorry, parent–teacher meeting. Forgot. I’ll be with you, but late.
Who knew what was really making him late? She’d learned not to ask. She pocketed her phone, pulled a potato and spinach curry from the shelf and succumbed to the temptation of a chocolate bar as she queued to pay.
Ash was still in the office, glued to the screen. She threw her bag on the table and he looked up.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Withdrawal statement.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yep.’
‘You’ll still have to get charging advice.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She got the curry out of her bag. ‘Where’s the microwave?’
Ash glanced at the ready meal and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, looking after number one, are we?’
‘Sorry. Didn’t think you’d still be here.’
‘Bloody offered to help out with a prisoner, didn’t I?’
‘Any good?’
‘Pah! Stupid bugger’s thrown a duvet at his missus.’ His phone buzzed. ‘That must be Mr Slumberdown ready for me right now.’ He pocketed his phone and sauntered out of the office.
The shadows were lengthening on the buildings opposite the office windows. The lawyer at the other end of the phone sounded Welsh. Lizzie imagined him with his cup of coffee and his never-ending list of case summaries that all needed clicking and reading and deciding. Did he have a Rayburn and a view of the sun setting over the valleys? Was there a Labrador sleeping at his feet? Perhaps he was in pyjamas. Perhaps naked. Perhaps he was a centaur. Who bloody knew?
‘First thing, officer, is she going to go to court?’
‘She gave an initial statement, but now she’s withdrawn.’
‘OK, leave it with me . . . Come back to me in twenty minutes. While you’re waiting, can you submit a risk assessment, please? I want to know what the protection issues are.’
Lizzie set the timer on her phone and put a large piece of paper on the keyboard: On phone to CPS! Please do not disconnect.
She sat at her desk and entered Brannon’s name and date of birth into the intelligence programme. The machine sorted and loaded reports from the various police indices – crime reports, calls to police, notifications to social services.
Seven-year-old Skye had achieved her first police reference number while she still moved in the ultrasound ocean of heartbeats and budding limbs. Police had been called by a neighbour, who reported sounds of a violent argument. Shouting was heard, and banging. Georgina, visibly pregnant, refused to let the officers enter. Mark, standing behind her in the hallway, furiously demanded to know which neighbour had called them.
Lizzie clicked on the next one: a report from the local Accident and Emergency. Georgina in hospital with bruising to her arms. The doctor believed the injuries were non-accidental. Georgina said she’d got them when Mark had stopped her falling downstairs. The doctor noted that Skye, then two years old, was very clingy to her mother.
Lizzie typed quickly.
A mug of tea appeared by her left hand. Lizzie looked up. Ash was standing next to her, offering the biscuit tin at a tilt.
‘Custard cream, Detective?’
She shook her head. ‘No thanks. How come you’re not in interview?’
‘John Grisham had some more queries about the duvet. I tried to suggest it wasn’t Twelve Angry Men, but to no avail. They’re back in consultation.’
He picked up the headset and dangled it threateningly over the phone. Lizzie shook her head. ‘Don’t wind me up.’
Ash tutted. ‘Storm alert. New girl already losing plot.’ He put the headset back on the desk. ‘What’s the panic?’
‘No panic,’ she said, pressing send on her email and taking a digestive. ‘The brief needed a risk assessment.’
‘And what did you decide? Is Brannon a proper threat to life or merely a common or garden arsehole?’
‘I think he’s both.’
The timer on Lizzie’s phone sounded. She picked up the headset and unlocked the mute button. ‘PC Griffiths here.’
‘Yes, officer. I’m just reading your risk assessment. I think we’ll charge him.’
Lizzie turned the key in the lock and opened the heavy door. Brannon was lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling. He moved to sitting and smiled: a nice smile that had regret in it.
‘Look, I’m sorry how I was earlier.’
She shrugged.
‘I’m a bit of a wanker, OK? Only when I’ve been on the piss.’
He was more likeable after a few hours’ sleeping it off. Sadder, more human, with those piercing blue eyes that suggested a distant horizon.
‘Yeah, it’s all right.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘I’ve got two charges of common assault for you.’
‘Don’t mess about, do you?’
She shrugged. ‘Do you want legal representation?’
He shook his head, already standing up to go to the custody desk. ‘No, let’s just get on with it.’
They had to queue for the sergeant and sat side by side on the bench. There was a text from Kieran. Lizzie turned her back and read it. He’d be in London shortly. She texted back.
Prisoner. Finished in 30. Can you pick me up?
Brannon leaned over her. ‘Meeting someone?’
Lizzie closed her phone.
He said, ‘Mind my own, is it?’
‘I guess.’
He looked at her and played air guitar, humming along. ‘Name the tune?’ he said.
It had come into her head instantly. ‘I bet you look good on the dancefloor.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, all right. That’s enough.’
He rubbed the top of his head, back and forth. ‘Look, Lizzie – it is Lizzie, isn’t it? I know you think I’m an arsehole, but I do really love her, you know.’
‘Uh huh.’
There was another silence. Then he broke it again. ‘I love little Skye too.’
Lizzie looked at the custody sergeant – an impeccably uniformed man with greying hair and skin so black it almost shone. He was dealing with a lot of evidence, methodically scanning the seal numbers into the custody programme. There were hard drives, phones, a baseball bat . . . It was taking an age. She really didn’t like having to spend time with Brannon. He’d started again.
‘I couldn’t love her more.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I’m a bit of a cunt when I’ve had a drink.’
‘You’d better not say any more. You’re still under caution. I’ll have to write it down.’
‘Yeah, but I want you to understand. I’m not a bad man. I’ve a good heart. I love Georgie. I love my family.’
‘OK.’
‘OK?’
Lizzie turned to him. ‘I dunno, Mark. What do you want me to say?’
Hallelujah! The officers were clearing the evidence bags and the custody sergeant pinged an imaginary bell on the desk. ‘Next.’
The charges were straightforward. The problems began when Brannon realized that Lizzie was applying to remand him.
He turned to her. ‘Oh fucking come on. You’re joking! I’ve been in here all day. I want to go home to my daughter.’
The sergeant intervened, stretching his hand out. ‘Talk to me, not the officer. I’m the one who decides.’
Brannon frowned, never taking his eyes off Lizzie.
‘Why don’t you like me?’
‘It’s not personal, really.’
‘It’s my fucking missus! And my daughter. I live for them.’
A couple of officers came over and stood next to Lizzie. One of them put a hand on Brannon’s shoulder. ‘Come on, mate. Calm down.’
Brannon shrugged him off. ‘I’m not your mate. Fuck off.’
The sergeant glanced at the two officers. ‘I’m granting PC Griffiths’ application for a remand—’
Brannon banged the custody desk with his fist. ‘I’m not going to fucking hurt Georgie. I love her.’
‘You two, can you help PC Griffiths put Mr Brannon back in his cell.’
Brannon walked quickly, head down. Lizzie followed behind the male officers, who escorted him into the cell and shut the door. Brannon was shouting. ‘I want a cup of tea.’
She opened the wicket but left the Perspex shut. Brannon was standing right by the opening.
‘You’ve never made a mistake?’
When she didn’t answer immediately, he said, ‘Well?
‘Course I’ve made mistakes. We all do.’
He didn’t answer, just stared at her. She smiled nervously. ‘I’ll get you that cup of tea. You take sugar?’
‘But you’ve been allowed to move on?’
Moving on? Well, she was trying to. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Do you want that tea or not?’
He stepped back from the wicket. ‘Two sugars.’
She stood in the cramped little room next to the Styrofoam boxes of reheat meals and the shelves of evidence bags and weapons tubes. She checked the tea wasn’t scalding in case he threw it at her, stirred the sugar in with the plastic stirrer. When she opened the wicket, Brannon was still standing there. She passed him the tea carefully, standing back. But he seemed relaxed now, calmer.
‘Thanks, love.’
‘No probs.’
She went to shut the wicket and he said, ‘Can I just ask you something?’
She felt a twist of irritation. She’d told Kieran thirty minutes. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry . . .’
‘Do you believe in giving people a second chance?’
She smiled. ‘What a question to ask a police officer!’
‘What do you mean by that? You’re a person, aren’t you? What makes you so different from the rest of us?’
‘Nothing. Just that, well, you know that’s not part of my job. Forgiveness and understanding, that stuff. I’m in the investigating and charging part of things.’
‘Yeah, but you think people can change, yeah? As a person, I mean, you think that?’
She thought of Georgina. She hoped to God Brannon could change, but she wasn’t convinced. ‘Honestly? I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m only a police officer.’ He seemed very worked up again. ‘Do you need a smoke? I’ll ask one of the detention officers if they’ve got time to take you out.’
His Paul Newman eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He nodded as if he understood her well enough.
‘You’re a clever little cunt, aren’t you?’
Something stopped her closing the wicket. Suddenly he had all her concentration.
‘A hypocritical little cunt too.’
She could feel the heat coming off him.
‘Quite happy for the second chance, aren’t you, when it’s you taking it. Don’t kid yourself. I know who the fuck you are, PC Lizzie Griffiths. You’re that copper that let that girl fall off the roof.’
Ash had already gone when she got back to the office. There was a note on her desk: Toodle pip!
Lizzie’s phone rang: Kieran was waiting for her downstairs. After her encounter with Brannon all her misgivings about Kieran had evaporated. She pressed send on the charging file, grabbed her bag and ran down the stairs in her heels. The Land Rover was parked in the street and the lights flashed for her. She couldn’t see him clearly in the darkness of the interior, just the outline of his face turned to her in deep shadow. He flashed the lights at her again and she was filled with warmth. He was smiling.