‘I hear you’re considering a secondment.’
For once Dr Allen isn’t bang on the money. I’m not considering a secondment, I’m going on secondment. On ‘attachment’ anyway, which isn’t pure semantics or fart-arsey Met-speak, it’s actually the main reason I agreed.
On ‘attachment,’ while I might be learning new stuff in a new building with new people, I essentially stay under the wing of my Operational Command Unit. Or in simpler non-Met speak, I stay tethered to Steele’s apron strings.
Still very much part of Murder, in spirit if not in body.
‘I’ve decided to take it,’ I tell Dr Allen, who looks pleasantly surprised. ‘Well, it is only for five months and it’s “very prestigious”,’ I add, mimicking Steele’s mantra.
She allows herself a smidge of a smile. ‘So where are you off to?’
‘The Mayor’s office, no less. Working on the final draft of the Police and Crime Plan. It’s a four-year plan, quite a big project.’
Dr Allen sips her black coffee, nods her approval. ‘Very prestigious indeed. And high profile. It sounds like a fantastic opportunity, Cat. The content of the work must be hugely appealing?’
It is. Sort of. What’s more appealing is not having to look Parnell and Steele in the eye for the next five months, although I’m not entirely sure five whole lifetimes will lessen the guilt I feel every time Parnell praises me for playing a blinder with Gina Hicks in the interview room. For going after her confession like my world depended on it.
I’m not entirely sure Parnell’s not suspicious about that either, but that could just be my paranoia.
The kind of paranoia five months’ distance might go some way to dissolve.
‘Sod the content of the work,’ I say. ‘The job’s based in Southwark which means I can walk to work in half an hour, no public transport. Who in their right mind would turn that down?’
‘It’s a bonus, yes, I can see that. But I don’t believe for a second it’s your main reason. It must have been a very hard decision.’
It was. I miss Parnell already and I haven’t even left yet.
‘It’s nine-to-five, that’s an ever bigger bonus.’ That’s met with a stern stare but I’m only half-joking this time. ‘Seriously, nine-to-five is good. I’ve got some stuff going on in my personal life, family stuff. I could do with my work life being a bit more routine.’ I laugh out loud, stick my fist in my mouth. ‘Jesus, did I just say “routine”? Not exactly the maverick rookie cliché I thought I was.’
‘Really, is that how you see yourself? Mmm, I’d challenge you to think about that, Cat.’ I lean forward, challenge accepted. Dr Allen reads my body language perfectly. ‘Well, it’s just that only a few weeks ago, you talked about your obsession with fairness, your need for reassurance that certain rules work. Those aren’t generally the concerns of a dyed-in-the-wool maverick. You may be more conformist than you think.’
I nod because she’s right. It’s true there’s part of me that has this deep desire to conform. To be like the Emily Becks of this world, breezing through life with a kind of universally alluring blandness that makes everyone look at you, but not too closely.
Neither ignored nor adored.
‘So what happens now?’ I ask. ‘Do you tick the “not batshit crazy” box and send me on my way?’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘I’m definitely sleeping better.’
Of course, it’s easier to sleep better when you’re being spooned by a sexy Irishman several nights a week, but I gloss over that fact. God knows where ‘shagging a member of the victim’s family’ comes on Dr Allen’s over-empathy scale.
‘That’s encouraging,’ she says, manufacturing an encouraging smile. ‘A good night’s sleep should be a priority, not a luxury. But it’s not the only benchmark of progress.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you’ve moved forward in other ways.’
But backwards in the ways that count. Integrity. Honesty. Trust.
I swallow down the self-loathing and try to sound pleased. ‘Really, do you think so?’
‘You certainly seem more present than in our earlier meetings. I never really had the sense you were ‘here’ until recently. You were physically here, of course . . .’
‘But mentally, about fifty miles south of Botswana?’
I expect a smile but it doesn’t come. ‘You’re far too hard on yourself, Cat. You were distracted, that’s all I meant. Distant.’
‘Distant and over-empathetic? Is that even possible?’
‘Very much so. Most people’s personalities are a mess of contradictions. It’s rarely a case of being A or B.’
Don’t I just know it.
‘So what’s the “benchmark of progress” on the empathy front, Dr Allen? Do I have to prove I’ve become a cold-hearted bitch before you’ll sign me off?’
Snarky comments aren’t a ‘benchmark of progress’ either but she allows it. One for the road, hey?
‘There’s nothing wrong with empathy per se, Cat, but it’s all about levels. And too much empathy in the job you do can be debilitating. It’s very difficult to make rational decisions when you are literally feeling somebody else’s pain. Now, compassion . . .’ She tilts her head the other way. ‘Compassion is another thing entirely. It’s possible to feel compassion for someone without it overwhelming your circuits.’ She glances at the clock, two minutes and counting. ‘But I’d say you’ve made progress there too. DCI Steele tells me you played a key role in your latest case, and I believe that wasn’t an easy one either?’
The praise makes me nauseous, I shrug it away quickly. ‘It was straightforward enough. We got guilty pleas so we’re just waiting on sentencing, and the medical reports for the old guy. He should get sent down though. Fuck him and his illness. Very few people deserve lung cancer, Dr Allen, but he’s definitely one of them . . .’
Dr Allen gives me her Mona Lisa smile. The elusive one. The one that’s annoyingly impartial. I think about practising it in the mirror tonight, I reckon it must come in handy.
‘Well, that’s about it,’ she says eventually, not quite standing up but bracing herself to. ‘We’ll have follow-up sessions every six weeks and of course you know where I am in the meantime.’ A slight pause. ‘But is there anything else you wanted to say, or ask, today?’
I think about this. ‘I suppose there is one thing.’ She picks up the humour in my voice, responds with a pre-emptive smile. ‘If it’s rarely a case that you’re either A or B, does that mean I can be a spontaneous sexy maverick and a slave to routine?’
She laughs. ‘Absolutely. Although, don’t judge routine too harshly, Cat. It gets a bad press in today’s adrenaline-fuelled society, but it provides a level of safety, a level of reassurance. It’s OK to crave routine. Most people do, if they’re honest.’
‘I don’t crave it,’ I say, a little snarky again. Two for the road. ‘I just need some personal time and Murder doesn’t leave room for much else.’
The routine for the foreseeable future, as stipulated by Jacqui, self-appointed chief mediator, is for me to have dinner at her house, ‘Six p.m. sharp, not a minute later’ a couple of times a week.
With Dad there.
Although no Noel, thank God. Noel’s back in Fuengirola, pulling pints in low-rent strip-clubs again and paying off whatever gambling or drug debt Dad bailed him out of.
We’ve only had two summits so far but Jacqui’s been in her element, presiding over anodyne conversations about loft extensions and Finn’s prowess on the football field, while feeding us home-cooked stews and hearty roast dinners. The kind of food that’s supposed to say ‘family’, I think.
Restorative food.
Healing straight out of a packet.
Truth is, the healing tends to start when Jacqui’s not there, when she’s clearing up in the kitchen or holding sleep-time negotiations with Finn. That’s when Dad and I sit in silence – a strained but strangely peaceful silence – watching the TV, laughing or tutting at the same things.
Always the same things.
And in any case, Jacqui needn’t worry. Dad and I are bonded for life now in a way we weren’t before.
Because I’m not just the keeper of his secrets anymore. He’s the keeper of mine.