The Bridge

by Stuart Prebble

  “Do you have an idea of the clothes you want to bring for him?” asked Squires. “I guess you know where they are, do you?” Alison said that she did. “We’ve already collected up all the items we think could be relevant to our inquiries, and so it’s OK to take anything you see left there. Just check everything with me before you do, though.”

  Alison was quick enough to catch sight of a pile of plastic bags containing the clothes and objects which had been collected by the officers. She noted that they seemed to include several pairs of blue jeans and some white clothes which might have been T-shirts.

  She pulled herself together as quickly as she could and went to the wardrobe in the bedroom she knew so well. As always, the football posters on the walls seemed entirely incongruous, and Alison reflected that anyone looking for clues about Michael’s character would find little that was helpful by searching his room. She knew that it was preposterous for her to be worrying about what Michael would wear for his court appearance in the morning, but nonetheless something in her wanted him to look his best and, perhaps more important, to feel as good as he could in the dreadful circumstances. She thought of a blue linen jacket which he had mentioned was a favorite of his grandma’s and a pair of black chinos which were probably the smartest trousers he owned. She took a polo shirt from a pile she had ironed for Michael a few days earlier and hung all the items carefully on a hanger.

  Alison was about to return to the living room to show them to Squires when she noticed the top of what looked like a piece of card sticking out of the inside pocket of the jacket. She took hold of it and saw that it was not a card but an old photograph. She was about to put it into a drawer when she heard the sound of someone approaching, and instead she put it in the back pocket of her jeans.

  “Do you have what you need?” Squires reentered the bedroom and glanced at the clothes she was carrying.

  “I just want to get some shoes if I can. I think that at the moment he’ll just be wearing sneakers.” Once again Alison rooted in the wardrobe, this time on the floor, and chose a pair of black leather shoes which were covered in dust. “It doesn’t look as though he’s had much use for these recently, but I’ll give them a brush and they’ll be fine.”

  “Where will you stay tonight?” asked Squires. “Can I arrange for you to get a lift somewhere? I think we’ve still got a whole pack of journalists waiting to pounce.”

  Alison was about to respond when their conversation was interrupted by one of the officers who had been searching and now emerged from Rose’s bedroom. “Have a look at this, sir.” The policeman was carrying something which he seemed to be trying to show only to Squires, but Alison was just in time to tilt her head sufficiently to glimpse what it was. It appeared to be a heavy cloth top of some kind, and it was gray. Perhaps it was a hoodie.

  “Bag it up carefully,” said Squires, and turned back to face Alison.

  “If that’s a gray hoodie,” she said, “it isn’t Michael’s. He doesn’t own one.”

  “You mean not that you know of?” said the detective. “I doubt that you know every item of clothing your boyfriend has ever owned.” Clearly the officer had no interest in pursuing the conversation.

  “I have no idea where I can stay tonight, so I wondered whether maybe I could find a cheap hotel somewhere near to the court? Can I accept your offer of a lift back into town, and I’ll google somewhere when we’re on our way?”

  Ten minutes later she was back in the police van and retracing the journey around the South Circular and back towards the West End. She felt her head buzzing with a thousand different thoughts and tried to clear her mind so that she could consider her priorities. Then she remembered the photograph which she had found in Michael’s jacket and slipped into her jeans. She slid her hand into her back pocket and for a moment could not feel anything and thought that perhaps it had fallen out. She checked her other pocket and found it empty. Then she shifted her weight to enable herself to feel again, and this time Alison traced the tip of the stiff paper against the edge of her fingertips. She was able to pincer a corner of the photograph between her fingers and grip hard enough to slip it out.

  The only illumination falling in the area where she sat in the back of the van was coming through the windscreen and side windows, and she looked around and above her head but could see no artificial light. She held the photograph at the corners and turned it this way and that, trying to find the best angle. Through the semigloom she could just make out the shapes of four children. They seemed to be a girl of about eight years old, two boys of around two or three, and a baby in arms. She could not identify either of the boys, but within a few seconds she knew that she recognized the face of the older girl. Alison could almost hear and feel the cogs turning in her brain as a thousand pieces of the jigsaw appeared like birds approaching from over the horizon and began to form into shapes she could remember and recognize. The death by suicide of Michael’s grandfather, the dreadful screams from Grandma Rose at their first meeting, and then the various fragments of the pattern seemed to gain speed as they jostled to find their place in the final picture. Alison felt a shudder run through her entire body like someone walking over her grave in the pitch darkness and was unable to suppress an audible whimper of pain.

  SIXTEEN

  The early morning light was just beginning to penetrate the wire-reinforced windows of his cell when Michael finally fell into a shallow sleep, and it was less than two hours later that he was woken abruptly by the rattling of heavy keys in the lock. For the first few seconds he did not know where he was, and when realization arrived, it felt as though someone had lowered the weight of a boulder onto his chest. He kept his eyes closed tightly for as long as he could, as if it might prevent the reality of his surroundings from invading his inner self.

  “Here’s some tea. I’ll bring you some cereal in a minute.” The words were spoken in a strong Yorkshire accent, and it was a voice he recognized.

  “I didn’t think you’d be here this morning,” said Michael. “Weren’t you here till very late last night?”

  “I should be off today,” said Sergeant Mallinson, “but it’s not every day we have a celebrity in our cells. You’re famous and everybody wants to know all about you.”

  Michael felt as though someone had shoved a sharp stick into an already very sore place, and he winced at the idea of it. Immediately his mind went to thoughts of his grandma Rose, and he wondered how she had passed the night. Flooding in hard on the heels of those concerns, he recalled that he would be taken to court this morning and charged with murder. He found it hard to comprehend his situation, but even now his main concern was whether his lawyer would be able to argue successfully for him to be allowed to visit Rose in hospital.

  When the sergeant returned a few minutes later, he brought a pile of fresh clothes which he recognized as his own, and it occurred to him that he had hardly given a thought to Alison and how she must have passed the night.

  “Your girlfriend brought these from your apartment. It’s still being searched, but they let her in long enough to bring you some clothes to wear in court.”

  “Where did she stay, then, any idea? Is she here now?”

  Mallinson said he had no idea where she had stayed and that she had come to the station late last night but left again after being told that she would not be permitted to see Michael. “She’s obviously going to be a witness one way or another, and so the detectives will want to compare your stories before you get a chance to make sure they match.”

  “We don’t have to match anything up because I already know that we’ll both be saying the same thing. That’s because she and I were together when all these three incidents took place.”

  Mallinson’s expression indicated neither belief nor disbelief, but only that he had heard it all and seen it all before. “Hope you enjoy your cornflakes.” He closed the door and turned the key.

  * * *

  A follow-up phone call from Edwina Morrison at the care hom
e to the duty manager at St. Thomas’ ensured that Esme could avoid the small army of journalists and photographers waiting outside the main doors, and she took directions to the staff entrance at the back where she was expected and ushered through. The male nurse from the intensive care unit who came down to meet and escort her upstairs was obliged to show identification and authorization to three separate sets of police constables en route back to the unit.

  The nurse, a tall and very slim black man in his early thirties, introduced himself as Christopher and ushered Esme though a set of double doors leading into ICU, which were then closed and locked behind them. There was something about the atmosphere inside the unit which would have given away its particular purpose even to a person unused to these surroundings. The half-light which was intended to encourage rest and calm instead served only to throw into shadow the shapes and silhouettes of anxious relatives who passed the time as best they could while waiting for news of their loved ones. On one side of the hallway was a series of individual rooms, each of them illuminated from within by the flashing of lights from tiny high-tech monitors. On the other side, strewn around in improvised patterns, were a number of sofas and armchairs, there to provide some comfort for the never-ending procession of husbands or wives, brothers and sisters, parents or children, who spent hour after hour standing by, worried sick, to be on hand just in case.

  Now Esme was among those standing by…just in case. She was not a parent or sibling or daughter of Rose Beaumont, but she had become closer to her than she had to anyone else she had met at Greenacres these last few years. So close, in fact, that just a week before the incident which caused her stroke, Rose had told her a secret. It was the biggest secret of Rose’s life, and before imparting it to Esme, she had made her new friend swear on all she held as holy that she would never breathe a word of it to anyone else. Less than a week ago that had seemed to be a relatively easy promise to make, but now circumstances had changed in a way that no one could have dreamed. What Esme hoped above all else was that Rose would wake up and be clear enough to free her from the unbreakable solemnity of her promise.

  Esme closed her eyes several times during the night but at no point would she avail herself of the comforts of the beanbags or sofas. She thought that anyone would be terrified to emerge out of a deep sleep to find themselves surrounded by all this technology, so she dearly wanted to be in Rose’s immediate eyeline should she wake up and have no idea where she was. What would it then be like for her friend Rose as her mind gradually reengaged with the circumstances which had undoubtedly brought on her collapse?

  Once or twice in the night Rose showed signs of life, and Esme thought that she might be regaining consciousness. She looked at Rose’s face, once young and full of hopes, and now showing the battle scars of a life filled with pain and trauma. At one point Rose moved her head and seemed to mumble, and Esme was very keen indeed that she should hear anything that her friend was trying to say. She thought that perhaps it was “Michael” but could not be certain.

  When the same early morning light which was illuminating Michael’s cell a few miles away began to peep between the blinds in the intensive care unit, all around there was evidence of the unit’s regular routine getting under way. Only then did Esme allow her head to nod and droop, and she had fallen into a shallow sleep when she felt a hand on her arm and looked up to see one of the nurses who had been on duty when she arrived the previous evening. The name on her badge was Roxanne, and she smiled that smile which you only ever see on the faces of people who were born to care for others.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Esme,” she said, “but there is a woman downstairs who is asking if she can visit Mrs. Beaumont.”

  For a moment Esme did not know how to respond, but then she remembered what Edwina Morrison had said to her the previous day when she left Greenacres. She warned that the press and media would be likely to use any means to get access to Rose, no matter how devious and underhand, and that she should be suspicious of anyone claiming to know her.

  “It’s probably one of those press people, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we just send her away?”

  “Normally I would,” said Roxanne, “but she is saying that you know her—and that her name is Mrs. Rawlinson.”

  Esme’s eyes widened, and it took her a few seconds to take in the significance of what had been said. Collecting her wits sufficiently, she responded: “I think we should ask her to come up.”

  * * *

  The short journey to the Central Criminal Court was by far the most terrifying experience of Michael’s life. His request for a shower and shave had been refused, and he was only just finishing putting on the fresh clothes which Alison had brought for him when two uniformed officers he had not met before burst through the door, came into his cell, and clamped handcuffs tightly around his wrists. Michael jolted back in pain, but the firm hands gripping his forearms allowed no relief. He was being marched along the corridor towards the outside yard when Sergeant Mallinson caught up with the procession and handed him a piece of a blanket.

  “There’s no possibility of being photographed between this door and the van because the yard is concealed at the back here, but once you’re inside, you might want to put this over your head just before you arrive at the court,” said Mallinson. Once again the sergeant’s tone of voice was quite distinct from every other aspect of Michael’s treatment. “The driver has to slow down to pass through the gates when he gets there, and that’s where the photographers will hold their cameras up to the windows and snap away. The windows are high up and have tinted glass, but sometimes they get lucky and can get a shot of you sitting inside. That’s the picture they’ll put on the front pages, and it makes you look like a criminal. You don’t want that. When the van stops, it’s a short walk from there into the court, and the officers with you will make sure you can’t be seen or photographed.”

  Again Michael felt a wave of gratitude which was entirely out of proportion to the kindness, and he thanked the sergeant profusely. “Will I see my lawyer at the court?”

  Mallinson assured him that he would have an opportunity to consult with Mr. Giles in plenty of time before his appearance. “Chances are you won’t be coming back here, I’m afraid. I should imagine they’re likely to remand you in custody, so most probably you’ll go to the Scrubs Prison. It can feel a bit scary there, but there’s nothing to be afraid of. Everyone is just doing their job. I’m sure all this will get sorted out very soon, and you’ll be on your way.”

  Michael remained mystified by the sergeant’s attitude, and a few seconds later he felt himself being shunted into the back of a police van and driven off at high speed along the Strand towards the court. Inside the vehicle he was confined to a tiny cell about the dimensions of the cubicle in a public lavatory, illuminated by the overspill from a fluorescent bulb in the ceiling and the dull-blue glow of daylight through a tiny pane of reinforced glass above his head. Immediately Michael felt claustrophobic and frightened, and he wondered whether his legs would move when the time came. The van was escorted by two motorcycle outriders with their sirens blaring, and so it was only a few minutes before he felt the brakes go on and heard the first cries from the crowd outside. He felt the terror rising from deep inside.

  “Bastard.” “Murderer.” “Fucking maniac.” “Child killer.” The angry shouts were accompanied by the booming noise of fists hammering on the outside of the vehicle, like being inside a huge kettledrum which was being beaten by a frenzied gang. He felt the sides of the van vibrating under the assault and instinctively pulled himself forwards to sit upright and away from the walls. Michael had forgotten what Mallinson had said to him until he saw the flash of light from a camera pressed up against the window and now grabbed the square of blanket and put it over his face. He tightened the material around his neck so that it covered him, pressing his hands to the side of his head to try to keep out the mayhem. Abruptly the banging stopped as the van swung to one side, and he heard the clang of
metal gates closing behind him. He was driven a few more yards, and the shouts of the angry mob receded into the distance.

  * * *

  “There is no point in me requesting bail because the judge won’t grant it—as much for your own safety as anything else. But I understand from Mr. Giles that you want me to ask the judge for permission for you to visit your grandmother. Is that still the situation?”

  Michael had been more or less bundled through a back door at the criminal court and down some stone steps into a stark room with a steel door and no windows. A wooden table and four chairs were the only items of furniture in the room, and sitting on two of them were his solicitor, Gordon Giles, and an older man wearing a long black gown, wing collars, and a barrister’s wig. He introduced himself as Richard Ramsey, Queen’s Counsel, and got down to business.

  “I gather that Mr. Giles has told you that you won’t be asked to plead today, but the charge will be put to you, and you will be asked if you understand it. I take it that you do?” The barrister looked up at Michael for the first time, taking off his spectacles and leaning forwards with his arms on the table. “They’ll be putting to you a specimen charge of the one murder, but that’s just a holding position. Eventually no doubt they intend to charge you with all eleven. We don’t think they’ll be charging you for the time being in connection with the deaths of the two adults who drowned while trying to rescue the children in the Thames, but we may be inclined to take the view that that’s rather academic at this point in time.”

  Michael nodded. He heard and understood the words, but still did not properly comprehend. “I know I won’t be pleading today,” he said, “but just so you know it if anyone asks you, or if you want to know it yourself, I am completely innocent. I had nothing whatever to do with these crimes.”