Between Justice and Mercy

From the moment I was born, removed from my sick mum and handed to my grandfather, he taught me to be somebody. My own dad, his son, couldn’t help me either, seeing as he was dead, so I learned everything from Stanley Whitmore. What my grandfather taught me was to stand up for yourself, never let anybody hurt you, physically or emotionally and to always be Imani Whitmore. Now he was gone and I had spent six months crying, I was starting to keep my promise to him and that was to ensure that Whitmore Strategic Solutions stayed running and running well. Before I got out of the car, I checked my dark lipstick, fluffed my curls and took a deep breath.

“Ready?” Tariq asked me as he opened the door for me and I slid out, my beige heels hitting the wet concrete.

“Do I look okay?” I asked him, raising one eyebrow and he chuckled, his almost black eyes perfectly matching his skin. Tariq had worked alongside me since I was seventeen, him being only a few years older. My grandfather wanted me protected and he couldn’t always be there, so he placed Tariq by my side, a man who had seen everything grimey, in the streets of Manchester.

“White makes you a bit washed out,” he shrugged and I scoffed, looking down at my dress. It was to my calves, bright against my light brown skin and I thought it looked okay, so I chose to ignore Tariq’s attempt at winding me up.

“Fuck you,” I hissed, him laughing behind me as we went into the bright hall. Spending the evening with a bunch of Greater Manchester Police, wasn’t exactly what I would call enjoyable but maybe we could get at least one positive outcome. There was light chatter, clinking of glasses around the long white table of canapés and a small wooden stage. Behind was a banner, introducing the purpose of this evening, which was a victim support fundraiser and Whitmore Strategic Solutions was its top donor, as expected.

“Miss Whitmore, I’m so glad you could make it,” Molly grinned, kissing my cheek. Molly was in charge of victim support for Greater Manchester and the woman who got my money. Her dark hair was pulled back professionally and I liked her. She didn’t do this job for politics, she did it because she cared about victims, like me and like my grandfather.

“Molly, call me Imani,” I chuckled and she smiled, looking up at Tariq, always one step behind me.

“Tariq, lovely to see you too,” she said cheekily and before he got the chance to reply something equally flirtatious, a man spoke into the microphone on stage.

“Good evening everyone,” the man smiled and I turned to the stage. The one speaking was very normal looking, the average police officer but it was the man standing slightly behind him that got my full attention. His dark suit was cut perfectly against his frame, broad shoulders and tall. As someone coughed behind me, he looked up, the light catching his eyes and I took a sharp breath in. One eye grey, sharp, almost like slate but the other a deep brown, warmer and although the contrast shouldn’t work, it did.

“So, now I introduce Detective chief inspector Vale,” the man speaking smiled and I caught nothing of what he said before, clapping as everyone else did around me.

“Thank you,” he said firmly, standing in front of the microphone and my eyes travelled along his strong jaw, his hair dark, his nose sharp. “Greater Manchester Police has established a new domestic homicide and coercive control task force,” he paused, his hands in front of him. “I’ve been tasked with leading and building that unit.” His voice was firm, controlled with an air of authority. “The main purpose is to measure risk and intervene before the outcome is fatal,” he said, his eyes towards the back of the room. “Within Greater Manchester, domestic violence conviction rates have increased by eighteen percent within the last twelve months, and I hope to double that,” he paused and I tried my hardest not to scoff. “I will be working closely with victim support and CPS and am open to all ideas, so please do come and see me,” he half smiled then, stepping back and I clapped along with everybody else, Tariq’s hand going onto my shoulder as the chatter in the room got louder.

“Drink?” He asked.

“Yes fucking please.”