It’s an instruction rather than an invitation and I should absolutely say no. I should have said it weeks ago, in fact. I should have said, ‘No, I don’t want to go to Vienna. I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I have a boyfriend who makes my insides flutter’ instead of laughing it off with some crack about having lost my passport. But then, I’ve never been good at out-and-out rejection. It’s the people-pleaser in me. It’s the same reason I do the coffee run when I don’t even drink coffee.
And for that same reason, I reluctantly sit down, giving him a quick aesthetic sweep as I do. I don’t know why, but from the other side of the counter I’d never quite appreciated just how striking he is. Coal-black hair. Eyes the colour of aged whisky. Lashes I’d gladly swap mine for. Around early forties, I’d say, with that killer combination of boyish good looks and older-guy knowingness. I doubt he sleeps alone too often. I’d say he’s rejected even less.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ I sound like an overgrown Girl Guide. ‘Although you’ll have to be quick. I can’t have the troops’ coffee going cold. I’ve seen people fired for less.’
He pauses, clearing his throat. ‘Well, it’s all a bit awkward, and honestly, I’m so sorry to trouble you with it, but it’s about my wife, you see. She’s been acting rather . . . well, odd, I suppose, saying really quite disturbing things. It’s completely out of character and, truthfully, I’m starting to worry.’
His wife?
The toddler screams and I quickly feign interest, buying myself a few seconds to recalibrate where we’re headed now it appears I’m not about to be hit on. Unfortunately, though, there’s only so long you can feign interest in the confiscation of a stuffed giraffe and so, reluctantly, I turn back, pasting on a sympathetic smile.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Not sure how I can help, though.’
‘Well, I’d have thought that’s obvious,’ he says, looking perplexed. ‘You’re the police.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘Know what?’
‘That I’m a police officer.’ I can wave bye-bye to any future undercover work if my institutionalisation’s that obvious.
‘You walk by with that fat chap most days – and he’s definitely one. Believe me, if you work near a police station for the best part of ten years, you get to know the signs. The badly fitting suits, the air of importance. They’re dead giveaways.’ His face softens. ‘Not you, though.’
Moving on. ‘I still don’t understand – how does me being a police officer help you with your wife?’
‘I need advice, of course.’
Instantly I relax, knowing I’ll be laughing about this in ten minutes time. Cracking jokes with the team about the guy who mistook the Metropolitan Police for Marriage Guidance. It’s on a par with the fool who asked Parnell – said ‘fat chap’ – to arrest his neighbours because their tree was blocking his Sky dish and he couldn’t watch the wrestling.
Still, I’m a professional and so I rustle up an appropriately solemn tone. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’re having problems, I really am, but this isn’t a police matter. Surely there’s a friend or a family member you can talk to? Or if you’re genuinely worried about her mental health, maybe a doctor might . . .’
‘A doctor! Worried about her?’ His laugh is hale and hearty and shot through with malice. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s me. She’s unstable. She’s made threats against me, several times.’
This changes things. I won’t be dining out on this any time soon.
‘OK, well, threats are a police matter. Has she physically threatened you? Because if she has, we take that kind of thing very seriously. But you need to go to your local station and make an official complaint. That’s my advice.’
He circles his thumbs, agitated. ‘They aren’t physical threats. She’s too clever for that. She’s subtle, you see. Sly. People underestimate her.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Specific?’
I’m cautious of putting words in his mouth but time’s ticking on and I’ve got a tower of witness statements to slog through – a chip shop stabbing on the Caledonian Road where, would you believe it, everyone was too busy buying haddock to notice a murder happening two feet in front of them.
‘Well, has she blackmailed you? Damaged your belongings?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’ His tone says he’s frustrated with me. Christ, I’m frustrated with me. I feel like I’m missing the subtext here. ‘It’s more that . . . well, she keeps saying she’s going to make me suffer, she’s going to make me pay. And it’s almost every day now. The mood swings. The threats. Is that specific enough for you?’
Specific, yes. Criminal, no – although it’s a grey area and it’s getting greyer. Words still aren’t quite weapons in the eyes of the law, but with new legislation coming through, making someone’s life intolerable isn’t as tolerated as it once was, and amen to that.
‘So what have you got to pay for? Sorry to ask, but context is really important with these kinds of complaints.’
He suppresses a smirk that says take a good guess. ‘What can I say? None of us is perfect, Cat. I never claimed to be the world’s most honourable husband.’
A statement only ever made by the bottom 10 per cent.
In that moment, I make a decision: throw him a bone and get the hell out of here. Back to the chaotic safety of Murder Investigation Team 4’s (MIT4) squad room. I’ll even buy Swaines one of those fancy-pants coffee machines if it means never having to set foot in here again.
‘Look, all I can say is that if it’s becoming a daily thing, you might – and I stress might, have a case for Controlling and Coercive Behaviour.’ He leans in closer, enthralled – a bit too close and enthralled for my liking; this guy isn’t big on personal space. ‘It’s a fairly new offence that addresses emotional abuse within relationships. There isn’t much precedent though, and I’ll warn you now, it’s very, very hard to prove.’
‘Controlling and Coercive Behaviour,’ he repeats, eyes glinting as he tries the term out for size. ‘Thank you.’
I stand, picking up the now lukewarm coffees. ‘As I say, I’m not even sure it applies here without knowing more, and it’s not my area of expertise, I’m afraid. But speak to someone at your local station, see what they think.’
He shakes his head. ‘No. No, I don’t need to speak to anyone else. You’ve been more than helpful.’ I’m not sure I have. I’m even less sure I want to be. ‘And besides, I’m not actually going to make a complaint. I’m not even going to tell her that I’ve spoken to you. That isn’t what this is about.’ His grin makes my organs shiver. ‘I’m just safeguarding my position, that’s all. Working out what I can threaten her with further down the line if her behaviour gets worse.’
This is madness. I only came in for three Café Cubanos and an apricot flapjack.
He walks me to the door, positioning himself in front of the handle. ‘So what is your area, Cat? Let me guess – I’m thinking murder?’