She put her hand over her face and nodded again: ‘It’s just … there’s no one else I can turn to.’
‘Clive, a word,’ I said, heading to the front door.
‘Shut the door behind you,’ I told him.
‘Are you telling me that there is nothing we can do to help her?’ I asked.
‘What can we do?’
‘We could go see her ex-boyfriend, have a word.’
‘You know the drill with domestics, Donal. He’ll say: “I was only trying to talk to her.” Unless there’s hard evidence of an offence, you end up going round in circles.’
‘What, so we’ve got to wait until she’s lying on her landing with forty-nine stab wounds before we get involved?’
He sighed. ‘She can go to a solicitor, apply for an injunction. We could get him on that later, okay?’
‘But this is our patch. We can’t just abandon this woman until he hurts her. What if she ends up like Marion?’
‘You’ve got to stop letting your emotions get in the way, Donal. You’ll never survive this business if you don’t. We’re not here to referee relationships.’
‘She’s not like the other people we deal with, Clive. You know that. It’s not good enough.’
He sighed and nodded: ‘I know, son. I know. But we don’t make the laws.’
I was growing heartily sick of our helpless appeasement of petty criminals. It felt like we were almost taunting them to go one step further, to do something that would make our dealing with them worthwhile. Make our day, punk, stick a knife in her next time.
‘What can we do?’ asked Clive plaintively.
‘We can do whatever the fuck we like,’ I muttered, knocking on number 16 again. I knew Clive’s heart was already at the Wimpy. ‘Order me a chicken burger and fries. I’ll see you there in ten.’ Gabby didn’t open the door until he was out of sight.
Her place was classy; chic but homely. I clocked her graduation photo: she was smart too. Why then had she shacked up with a psycho?
She didn’t know where her stalker, Dominic Rogan, currently lived. Mutual acquaintances had confirmed that he still worked for Bank of America in the City.
‘Is there any pattern to his activities?’
‘No. It’s just that he seems to be getting worse. Like I said, he’s never actually come into the garden before.’
‘Do you think he’s capable of violence?’
‘I know he is,’ she snapped, ‘that’s why I dialled 999.
‘Sorry,’ she added quickly, ‘I know you’re just doing your job.’
‘What level of violence, Gabby … are you in fear of your life?’
‘I know he’s capable of … lashing out. That’s why I broke up with him.’
‘What does he want?’
‘I’ve tried talking to him, if that’s what you mean. I tried for weeks. He just won’t accept that I don’t love him.’
‘I can help you get a court order.’
‘I’ve thought about it, but it’d probably just provoke him. I don’t want to make him more angry than he already is. He’d break it, I’m certain. Then what? He gets arrested, charged, a court case? It could drag on for months. All that time, he’d still be in my life. He’d love that.’
‘Look Gabby, don’t listen to my colleague. If he comes again, dial 999. I’ll vouch for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, biting her bottom lip again.
I took out a piece of paper and a pen. ‘This is my work number, and my home number. I live half a mile away. If you feel in danger, call either.’
‘I … really? Wow, I don’t know what to say. Is that …? Thank you, Officer.’
‘Donal,’ I said, offering my hand.
She took it and shook it hard, her tearful smile lighting up a distant galaxy.
Salcott Road, South London
Tuesday, July 2, 1991; 22:31
I drove up and down Gabby’s road but, of course, at that time of night there were no parking spaces. On a second pass, I spotted the entry to the street’s rear alley and ignored the No Parking sign next to it.
If Dominic Rogan launched another sortie tonight, he’d get the shock of his fucking life.
During my shift, Meehan’s words from three years ago had been ringing through my head: You need to keep an eye on that one. I couldn’t just hope that Rogan wouldn’t come back and attack Gabby. I’d failed to protect a woman from a violent man before. I wouldn’t be taking that chance again.
Besides, Rogan had clearly slipped into a delusional cycle that only the sharpest of shocks might break. My springing out of the night could do the trick.
I also figured, somehow, that Marion’s foul-tempered spirit /ghost would be less likely to find me here. And, having grown up on The Rockford Files, Cagney and Lacey and Remington Steele, I’d always fantasised about staking somebody out. I even brought doughnuts.
After midnight, the wind picked up, the last of the house lights went off and the trees groaned.
Just a handful of people walked past, mostly carefree couples gambolling home from a night out. How I envied their playful bickering, their easy intimacy, their ‘wink-and-elbow’ language of delight.
It had been almost three years since I’d shared the thrill of giddy affection. Sure, there had been a few drink-fuelled end-of-night snogs and exchanges of numbers, a few awkward dates. At least, they became awkward as soon as anyone mentioned exes. I hadn’t worked out yet how to talk about Eve and what happened – or how to refer to her in the past tense. Unfinished business, and all that.
I thought back to the last time we’d spoken – two days after she killed Meehan.
The lunchtime news revealed she had been released on bail. Three or four times that afternoon, I picked up the phone to call her home, only to replace the receiver. Eve wouldn’t answer for sure: what was I supposed to say to Mad Mo?
‘Mrs Daly, back from New York so soon?’
No doubt they’d blame me for not protecting Eve – as if her prop dagger-wielding
