The Exes' Revenge

by Jo Jakeman

  It started with my boss referring to me as “we.”

  “We’ve been distracted lately, haven’t we?”

  And ended with me telling him that we’d had enough of being told what to do and gave examples of where we could stuff his job.

  Everything was changing.

  It had to.

  Phillip had stopped shouting and threatening. He had another ace up his sleeve, he said. The final act, he called it. We told each other he was bluffing and worked hard to find examples of when Phillip had overstepped the mark at work. Anything that could be called illegal.

  DC Chris Miller agreed to meet me at ten thirty in the Pitchfork café on the high street. It was a glorious day, blue skies without end and enough of a breeze to take the sting out of the sun. I stopped by the bank, filed the papers with my solicitor, and still thought I had enough time to collect my thoughts before he arrived, but he was already there, sitting at the corner table with his back to the wall. I would have to pick up my thoughts as I stumbled over them.

  He held a small coffee that looked like doll’s china in his overlarge hand. Chocolate-brown crumbs peppered a white napkin and the crease at the side of his mouth.

  He stood as I approached, his smile shrinking to a pucker and a wince. I touched the side of my nose. I kept forgetting about the bruising until I saw the shock on the faces of others. He knocked the table as he came out from behind it and gave me a squeeze. We laughed a little, nervously.

  “How’ve you been keeping?” he asked.

  “Really well, thank you. And you?”

  “Same. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Please. Latte.”

  I settled down on the creaky wooden seat and waited. There was a plant pot filled with uneven white and brown sugar lumps. I pretended to busy myself with the contents of my bag and checked my phone messages, though I knew there wouldn’t be any.

  I brushed imaginary crumbs from the wooden table, sat back, then sat forward again and rested my folded arms on the table.

  I jumped as a heavy hand touched my shoulder.

  “Did you want a cake with your coffee?”

  “Oh. No, thanks.”

  Chris turned back to the counter. “That’s everything, thanks.”

  He came back to the table, pushing his wallet into his back pocket before sitting down.

  “She’ll bring it over.”

  “Right.”

  “Am I meant to be ignoring the black eyes?”

  “For now.”

  “Check. Black eyes, broken nose, first time you’ve called in two years. These are normal things that are not to be brought up. Got it.”

  I smiled. I’d always liked Chris. He was one of the few people I knew who could see through Phillip. They’d been partners in the early days of their careers. They’d been a handful back then. “Work hard, play hard,” they used to say. I couldn’t vouch for how hard they worked, but more than once I’d had to pour the pair of them into the back of my car when alcohol had stolen the strength from their legs.

  “Do you ever hear from Julia?” I asked.

  He bristled. The pain was still too raw to be a casual topic of conversation. It was unfair of me, but I wanted him to remember why he hated Phillip.

  A young girl with elaborate tattoos creeping out the bottom of her sleeves stopped by our table. She placed my latte in front of me and another coffee and a blueberry muffin in front of Chris. Wordlessly, she took away Chris’s spent crockery.

  “Not had any breakfast,” he said, explaining the cake. He’d put on weight since I’d last seen him and I didn’t think it was because of lack of breakfast.

  I sipped my coffee and watched him drop large brown lumps of sugar into his cup.

  “No. Me and Julia don’t have reason for our paths to cross anymore. I think she’s working over in Nottingham now.”

  “Right. I’m sorry about . . . you know, all of that.”

  “Not your fault. I’m not sure it was even her fault, but there we go. Water under the bridge, eh?”

  “Seeing anyone?”

  “Married to the job,” he said, and winked.

  He was a lovely man, and he didn’t deserve to have Phillip swan in and destroy his marriage on a whim.

  It was starting to get busy in the Pitchfork. People stumbling in, pushing sunglasses onto their heads with one hand and juggling bags in the other. It was still too early for lunch, but those late-morning coffees might spread, languish, and turn into an early lunch in the pools of sunlight that gathered over the tables.

  “As lovely as this is,” he said, “and, believe me, it is lovely—I think you might have ulterior motives for calling me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Phil,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s he done this time? Or do I already know the answer to that?” He pointed a corner of his muffin at my nose.

  “That’s not why I called.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Chris . . .”

  “Sorry. Ignoring it. Check.”

  “I know this is wildly inappropriate, but I could do with some advice. As you’ve guessed, things are difficult with Phillip right now. I have considered going to the police—I’m still considering it—but I’ve always been put off before because there’s been . . .” I struggled to find words that wouldn’t offend Chris.

  “I suppose you might say there are certain individuals on the force who prioritize looking after their own instead of investigating domestic incidents. I’ve always thought—and been told actually—that any complaint I make wouldn’t be taken that seriously.”

  “We’re not all like that,” Chris said with a frown deeply etched between his brows.

  “I know. And I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that Phillip is persuasive and I’m scared that if I—” I paused and let out a sad laugh. “Actually, I’m just scared.”

  “What are we talking about here? Has this happened before? What complaints might you make?” asked Chris gently.

  I shook my head. This was harder than I’d expected.

  “I need to know I’ll be taken seriously and that Phillip will either be locked up where he can’t touch me and Alistair or he’ll be given a restraining order. There’s others too. His ex-wife and his girlfriend. They’d need protection. Before I take this any further, I need to know that I’ve got a better-than-good chance of making this stick—otherwise I’ll have to find another way to deal with him.”

  “I can’t tell you whether you’d have a case unless you tell me what he’s done. And even then, I can’t guarantee that he’d be convicted of anything. You know that. But the force isn’t like it used to be. They take domestic abuse very seriously. That is what we’re talking about, right?”

  “Mostly. But there are other things too. Arson, false imprisonment, car theft, criminal damage . . . And that’s just the last forty-eight hours.”

  Chris looked at me like he couldn’t be sure I was serious. I smiled at him and shook my head. I wasn’t ready to tell him the details.

  “Well,” he said, “you can’t just get a restraining order off the shelf. You need to report things as they happen. Even if the police don’t act on it immediately, there’ll be a record and over time it might build up to something concrete. Reporting it once might be enough to stop him from doing it again.”

  I shook my head. “No, that won’t do. It needs to be something immediate to stop him retaliating.”

  “You might be better talking to a solicitor. It’s not my area of expertise, but as long as you’ve not done anything in response to his threats . . . There was a woman I knew, got into an almighty slanging match with her other half. You should’ve seen the text messages. When it came down to it, the police couldn’t distinguish between the offender and the victim and she couldn’t get
a—” He stopped talking when he saw the look on my face. I shifted in my uncomfortable seat.

  “Should I take it that there has been a certain amount of retaliation?”

  “Yes, but nothing compared to what he’s done to us.”

  “Might it border on criminal conduct?”

  I pursed my lips and gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “Look, I don’t want to know what you’ve done. I do know that whatever you’ve done might be for a good reason, but I’m just saying it muddies the water a bit. Your best bet is to go after a criminal conviction.”

  “Ha!” I couldn’t help but shake my head at him. He must have known how futile it was to try to pin anything on Phillip.

  We sat with our thoughts and our coffee. The café was filling up around us. The noisier it got, the more remote I felt.

  “Hear me out,” he said after a while. “If Phil has committed a crime, you need to press charges. I know it’s difficult, but if you don’t, you’ll regret it. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with the things he’s done. He should pay.”

  “You’ve not seen his violent side, Chris.”

  “But you have, and that should be enough. If you’re worried about reprisals, then the police will consider that and offer protection.”

  “And if it doesn’t stick, Chris? What then? Who’ll protect me when he gets the charges thrown out? I’ve got my son to think about.”

  Chris looked at each person in the café one by one, checking whether anyone was listening, seeing whether he knew any of them. He leaned over the table, pretending to search for a brown sugar lump.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” said Chris. “But I have reason to suspect you’d get a warm reception should you choose to press charges against Phil.”

  His guarded response had me checking over my shoulder too.

  “Chris? Has something happened?” I asked.

  He inhaled deeply and screwed up his face, as if what he was about to tell me was distasteful. I looked at him, but he didn’t speak for a moment. He was staring into my eyes, searching for something, looking for a sign that he could trust me. I took a breath of my own, teetering between wary and curious.

  Chris pushed his plate to one side and placed his hands flat on the table in front of him.

  “Please. Tell me,” I said. “He had an affair with your wife and he has systematically abused me for years. If you’ve got something to say that could help me—well, he hardly deserves your loyalty. So please, tell me what it is.”

  He carried on looking at his hands, but he was nodding slowly as if he knew what he had to do and was working up the courage to do it. He took one more look around the café.

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” he said. “But . . . it’ll be public information soon enough anyway. From what I hear, he’s pretty confident that he’ll be cleared of any wrongdoing. But whether or not—Christ, I’m really not meant to talk about it.”

  “Chris, tell me what’s going on.” I was desperate to hear what he had to say. I moved my chair as close to the table as possible and fixed my gaze on him. “Chris.”

  When he spoke, his words came out at a rush like a burst water main.

  “He’s being investigated for gross misconduct by the IPCC. The hearing is tomorrow afternoon and he’s been telling everyone it’s a witch hunt. Political correctness gone wrong. He’s got a list as long as your arm of people willing to give him a glowing character reference. I don’t think they can make it stick.”

  “What?”

  “He’s been suspended.”

  “Hold up. That’s why he’s not been in work?”

  Of course. It made perfect sense. I’d not considered that this could be the reason for his secrets, for his anger. With Phillip’s job came status. It meant as much to him as his reputation. The fact that anyone could question his conduct, when he had given everything he had to the force, would be enough to tip him over the edge.

  “Why’s he being investigated? What’s he done?” I was eager for news.

  “There was a sexual assault,” Chris continued. “Years back. I mean, seven, eight years ago now. Phil interviewed the suspect and took his word for it that it was consensual. He was a flyer, this fella. Money, flash suit. He was clean-cut, white, and entitled. His argument was that he had offers of sex every day and he didn’t need to force a woman to sleep with him. The girl says Phil told her in no uncertain terms that no one would believe her version of events—that her sexual history would be brought up in court and she was no angel. She says she was harassed into dropping the charges. She also says—” Chris took a deep breath, as if fighting to get the words out against his better judgment.

  “Phil told her that as she was black and the accused was white, the case wouldn’t go in her favor.”

  I gasped in incredulity that even someone like Phillip would think that was acceptable. My mouth was still agape when Chris started talking again.

  “Look, as much as it pains me to be fair to him, he had a point. Some juries are still biased, but back then it was even worse. Sexual assault cases are difficult to prove. The women are pulled apart on the stand. Pictures of them posing in skimpy clothes are taken from Facebook and splashed all over the media. This guy, the accused—he had more money than her, his lawyer would have had a field day. It’s not nice, but unless these cases have a really strong evidential base, we can’t always guarantee it’ll get to court. She’d gone back to his flat voluntarily, and she didn’t report it until a week later, when it was difficult to get evidence. There’s a good chance CPS would have chucked it out, but still, it wasn’t Phil’s call to make. The fella in question went on to sexually assault other women.”

  “Shit.”

  “I don’t know if we’ll ever know how many, but he was sentenced a couple of months back for the sexual assault of two women. That first woman from years ago saw it in the paper and recognized the guy. She went straight to her local nick and lodged a complaint. If procedure had been followed, those women might have been spared their ordeal. If there’s been these three that we know about, there could be more who are too scared to come forward.”

  Chris sighed and looked out the café window.

  I had no words.

  I’d always known that Phillip bent the rules to suit himself, but I had never considered other victims of his behavior. I slumped back in my seat, numb, wondering about the ripples that stemmed from Phillip’s prejudices and arrogance. I’d always thought his manipulative behavior to be solely aimed at me, and anyone else who was stupid enough to love him, but I had believed him to be a good detective. Until now I hadn’t considered that Phillip hurt strangers who deserved his protection too.

  Chris went on. “There was an internal investigation and they agreed to take formal disciplinary proceedings against him. He’s disputed the findings, of course, and has a hearing tomorrow where he can present his arguments and mitigating circumstances. If he fails to sway them, then it’s an instant dismissal.”

  “Tomorrow?” I pictured him sitting in my cellar, chained by his ankle, and wondered whether the court would get to see him defend his honor.

  “Is he . . . I don’t know how you’d know, but has he shown any remorse for those women?”

  Chris snorted unhappily. “Not that I’ve seen. I’ve read the report he’s put to the panel. It’s all about him being victimized and being made a scapegoat. He talks a lot about things that were going on in his personal life at that time too and how it might have clouded his judgment for a while. No mention of the actual victims, though.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it quickly.

  “What?” I asked. “You were going to say something else?” I leaned forward. He was starting to look irritated. Talking about Phillip and the things he had done was causing Chris to grind his teeth.

  “This is all confidential. No discipli
nary action can be taken before the full investigation has run its course. I . . . I could almost accept that he made a mistake with this one woman—no one’s perfect—but people are coming out of the woodwork, questioning some of the decisions he’s made in the past. Some are saying that he’s used his position to threaten or to get favors. There’s some talk that he’s set people up for crimes they hadn’t committed.

  “If you were to approach the force with your own grievances, I would expect them to be sympathetic, if you know what I mean. There’s a small group of people who would be very happy if they could get as much information as possible before tomorrow’s hearing.”

  “Would it give them enough time? What with taking statements?”

  “They might have to postpone the hearing for a day or so, but just knowing that the allegations had been made could be enough to get the decision in our favor. And if you stressed that you were worried about your safety, they might keep him locked up until the case has been decided. Of course, he has to turn up first, and no one’s heard from him for a couple of days.”

  I looked away quickly before Chris could read anything on my face.

  “What would happen if he didn’t turn up?” I asked as casually as I dared.

  “Dunno. Found guilty of misconduct and sacked, I guess. I mean, if he’s not there to put up a defense, then there’s no one to argue against the accusations.”

  “But he won’t actually be arrested?”

  “Doubt the CPS will think there’s a case to answer. Not based on what we already have, anyway. If other things come to light . . . well, who knows.”

  It was tempting to keep him locked up until after the hearing. He’d be ruined, but we still wouldn’t be free.

  “What about his colleagues, though? Aren’t they standing by him?” I asked, conscious of the only time I’d called the police and they had sided with Phillip, not me.

  “No one’s saying much in case they’re implicated in anything. Phil’s allowed to have a colleague with him for these meetings and hearings, but no one will do it. He’s had to get someone from the union instead, but I don’t know how much of his crap they believe.”