The River House

‘Is it possible to speak to Detective Inspector Hampden?’

‘It should be. Who shall I say it is?’

I tell him. ‘I did try ringing earlier. I just wanted some information about a case.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he says. He speaks into his phone. ‘He isn’t answering,’ he says, ‘but I know he’s somewhere around.’

Suddenly I wonder why I’m here.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘Not if he’s busy. I can ring him. I just dropped in on the off chance. You know, as I was passing.’

‘You might as well see him now you’re here,’ he says. ‘I’m sure I can get hold of him. Why don’t you sit down for a moment, Mrs Holmes?’

In the waiting area there are metal seats fixed to the wall. The only other person waiting is an elderly woman: a faint smell of urine hangs about her and she has three bulging Aldi bags and many large safety pins fixed to the front of her coat. A voice crackles over an intercom: it sounds like traffic information. The woman shuffles sideways towards me, catching her capacious skirts in the space at the back of the seats.

She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. ‘You’re pretty, aren’t you?’ she says. Her voice is surprisingly cultured. There’s a fierce scent of spirits on her breath.

‘Mrs Holmes,’ says the desk sergeant. I get up, go to him. ‘Let me take you through,’ he says. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’

He takes me down a corridor; through the open doors on either side, you can hear phones shrilling and cut-off scraps of conversation. He shows me into an empty office, which smells of tuna and of illicit cigarette smoke.

‘I thought you might prefer to wait in here,’ he says. ‘Maureen does go on a bit.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

He closes the door behind him.

It’s a cluttered, disorderly office: on the desk a computer, a litter of papers, a heap of blue ring-binders: and the more personal stuff, framed photos, a mug with pens and highlighters in. My eye is drawn to the photographs. A little blond boy, rather serious: a woman with a fall of straight dark hair. I think idly of something I once read in a novel by Milan Kundera, which I thought to be rather wise: that women aren’t essentially drawn to the most beautiful men—that the men we desire are the ones who have slept with beautiful women. There’s a half-drunk cup of coffee on the desktop and discarded sandwich wrappings in the bin.

The phone on the desk rings, and I have a brief instinctive urge to answer it. The voice over the intercom makes a new announcement, giving the number of a car that’s been abandoned, and inside it the body of an unidentified male. Above the sounds of phones and footsteps from the corridor, I can hear shouting, a man’s voice harsh with anger: I can only make out certain phrases—For fuck’s sake, repeated several times—and then a softer voice, a woman, seeking to placate. The anger in the first voice makes my pulse race. I sit there for what feels like an age in the smells of smoke and tuna, hearing the distant shouting.

The shouting stops, there are rapid footsteps along the corridor. The door bangs as it is pushed back. He comes into the room, then stops quite suddenly when he sees me.

‘What are you doing here?’ he says, as though I’m someone he knows, and I shouldn’t be there.

He’s a little taller than me, with cropped greying hair and a lived-in face. Forty-something. I see in a theoretical kind of way that he is quite attractive: that other women may like the way he looks.

‘I’m sorry.’ I feel an acute, disproportionate embarrassment about everything—hearing the quarrel, that I’m here at all.

He’s staring at me still, as though he finds me perplexing.

‘I’m Ginnie Holmes from the Westcotes Clinic,’ I tell him.

‘Hi, Ginnie,’ he says. He reaches out, as though he’s remembering how he ought to behave. I half get up, unsure what to do. He shakes my hand, and I notice the warmth of his skin.

‘The desk sergeant showed me through,’ I say.

‘He could have told me,’ he says.

I decide that Clem was right: that he is a difficult man.

He’s restless, the energy of his anger still hanging around him. He sits at the desk and takes out his cufflinks and pushes up his sleeves.

‘So, Ginnie, how can I help you?’ His gaze is hard, puzzled.

‘I’ve been trying to ring you,’ I tell him. ‘I couldn’t get through.’

‘That happens, I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘It’s been crazy here. Tell me what I can do for you.’

I tell him I’m a psychologist, that I’m working with a child that I don’t understand.

He’s leaning forward across the desk, his hands loosely clasped in front of him. His hands are close to mine. I notice the pale skin, the dark hairs on the backs of his fingers, the lilac web of veins inside his wrists.

I tell him about Kyle, how I feel he’s been through some trauma but I don’t know what it was. Will Hampden has his eyes on me, dark eyes, with red flecks in. As I talk I’m very conscious of his intent, puzzled gaze. I decide he doesn’t like me. I think how I must seem to him, prissy, bland, ineffectual; my skin reddened from walking here, my hair all messy from the morning’s rain.

‘I don’t remember the name,’ he says, ‘but that doesn’t mean a thing. I’ll have a look on Crim Int. Let’s see what we can find out for you.’

He searches on his computer and gives me the dates the police were called to the house. He says he’ll have a word with the officer involved.

‘Where can I find you, Ginnie?’

I give him my cell phone number.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’ he says.

I know this means that our conversation is over. I get up, pull my jacket round my shoulders. I have an odd, incomplete feeling, but there’s no reason to stay.

‘OK, then. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure,’ he says. He sits there for a moment, looking me over. There’s something unequal about this, the way he doesn’t stand although I’m standing, as though he’s breaking some unspoken rule.

‘I like the shoes,’ he says.

‘Thanks.’ I make a little dismissive gesture, unnerved by this, not knowing what to say. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure they’re really me,’ I tell him. Then wonder why I said that.

His eyes hold mine.

‘What is really you, Ginnie?’ he says.

My stomach tightens. I don’t say anything.

There’s a little silence while he just sits there looking at me. I can hear my breathing.

‘Well,’ he says then. He pushes back his chair: he’s brisk again, full of purpose. ‘I’ll show you out, Ginnie. Where did you leave your car?’

‘I didn’t,’ I tell him. ‘It’s in the garage. They told me the gearbox had packed up. It’s been one of those days.’

‘For me too,’ he says. He smiles at me, a sudden vivid smile.