I describe the part of the car registration plate that I thought I’d seen as he writes it in his notebook.
“I get it,” he says. “Your daughter was upset. You wanted to scare this person off.”
“If I had to, yes.”
He takes a sip from his glass of water. “I understand that. But if there’s no immediate threat to you or your family, you’re always—always—going to be better off dialing three nines and letting us handle it.” He scribbles something else in his notebook. “Now, is there any reason why you think this person might have targeted your daughter in particular?”
I show him the string of text messages on my phone, the warning thatThis is just the start.
“Can you trace the number? Find out who it is, stop them harassing my family?”
Goodridge turns to his colleague. “PC James, do you want to answer that one?”
The younger officer sits up a little straighter, clearing his throat. “In dealing with a suspect in a serious crime,” he says, “that is, a crime punishable by imprisonment, the police can apply under the Investigatory Powers Act 2016 to obtain information from an individual’s phone. They have to apply for this authorization from a judge or a senior police officer, demonstrating sufficient grounds to justify such a method of investigation.”
He sounds like he’s reading from a manual, something recently memorized as part of his training.
Goodridge gives him a nod of approval. “Very good, Michael.”
I look from the young PC to his sergeant.
“So, you’re saying you can’t actually do anything? You can’t trace this number, go and talk to them?”
“Correct,” Goodridge says. “Not unless there is a threat to life or a serious crime, or if there are genuine concerns for the safety of a missing person.”
“My sixteen-year-old daughter being followed home from school is pretty bloody serious.”
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Wylie, but I’m afraid it just doesn’t meet the threshold of serious criminal activity. There’s also no clear evidence to link the appearance of this vehicle to the text messages you’ve received.”
“Butobviouslythey’re linked. It stands to reason that—”
“They might be, sir, but they could simply be coincidental.” He points at my phone with his pen as if to shut down any further questions. “So you don’t actually know this person, you’ve never met them?”
“No,” I say quietly. “He thinks there is something in the house that belongs to him, is demanding I return it.”
Goodridge frowns wearily, as if he’s seen this kind of neighborhood dispute a million times before, a squabble that starts small and gets more and more rancorous until no one can even remember why it began in the first place.
“And that’s not something you’d consider doing, just to bring this… dispute to an end?”
“It’s not a dispute,” I say. “It’s malicious and threatening behavior by someone who knows where I live, where my kids go to school. Have you’ve spoken to your colleague DC Rubin?” When he shakes his head, I start to tell him about the dog collar, about Maxine Parish and her missing husband Adrian, the cameras I’d found, and the visit from Shaun Rutherford. But it’s too nebulous, too difficult to form the narrative into some kind of recognizable shape, the story sounding garbled and incoherent even to my own ears. I grind to a halt before I get to the end.
Goodridge checks his watch. He’s already stopped taking notes. “You called in to report this as well, did you?”
“A couple of days ago,” I say. “DC Rubin said someone was going to look into it and call me back, but they haven’t so far.”
He exchanges a sidelong glance with his partner, slipping the notebook back into a pouch on his stab vest.
“I’ll pick it up with her.” He signals to the young constable and both men stand up. “We’ll route some extra patrols through The Park in the next few days, OK? In the meantime, call usstraightaway if you see that car again. Don’t go running after it yourself.”
The two officers are already moving into the hall, putting their helmets back on. I pull open the front door and thank them for coming by.
“Nice house,” PC James says as he steps out onto the drive. “Thanks for the water.”
I stand in the doorway, watching them crunch across the gravel as they hurry back to their patrol car. Heading off to the next call, the next incident, the next dispute or domestic or public disturbance. The unceasing demands of a busy city on a police force already stretched far too thin.
It was onmeto fix this, to deal with the situation and the threat to my family, however unpalatable the solution might be.
Because I knew what I had to do.
