by Tom Bale
The TV on, Charlie roamed the Freeview channels, wisely saying nothing about the Disney, sport and movie channels available at his father’s. Second best, in every respect: that was how Jen thought he must regard her, because what seven-year-old didn’t rate their parents in terms of the benefits, treats and luxuries they could provide?
Her eyes fluttered closed; maybe a few minutes to zone out, then do the beach before they ate, and on the way down she’d try at the house again. It was always possible that some mischievous kid had come along and removed the note—
A knock on the door made her jump; she must have been on the brink of dozing off. Charlie barely reacted. He’d put on a Thunderbirds DVD and there was a daring rescue under way.
Must be Bridie, she thought, hoping her neighbour hadn’t got confused about something again.
She prepared an expression of gentle humour as she opened the door, but it was wasted on the police officers who stood before her. Two women: one tall, square and fortyish, the other short, slim and a decade younger. Both a bit hot and flushed in their uniforms; both looking serious, almost sombre.
‘Jennifer Lynch?’
Her married name; these days she thought of herself as Jennifer Cornish again. She nodded, thinking, Charlie’s safe, he’s with me, but could it be about Dad, Mum, one of my sisters?
‘May we come in?’ asked the older one, who had warm brown eyes and a reassuring, almost motherly tone.
Jen took a step back. ‘What’s this about?’
‘It’s best if we go inside,’ the older one said, and the younger officer, who had that sharp-eyed look of your best friend’s bitchy mate, moved forward and spoke in quick, clipped sentences.
‘There’s been an allegation made against you. We need you to come with us to discuss it. To do that, we have to arrest you. So it’s better if we can—’
‘Wh-what?’ Jen stammered. ‘Did you say arrest? What do you mean, I haven’t done—’
The younger one was nodding impatiently. ‘Jennifer Lynch, I am arresting you on suspicion of burglary and criminal damage which occurred today, Monday, 22 August 2016, at 14 Regency Place, Brighton.’
5
What followed wasn’t a blur so much as an out-of-body experience. Jen saw the cops from a different vantage point; not up in the corner as the near-death survivors often describe, but slightly off to the side. She felt it would take only a twitch of her eyes and she would be able to see herself, a stricken, unfamiliar figure frozen in the doorway of her flat.
The younger officer started relaying the official caution, so familiar from a thousand TV dramas. Some of the words and phrases seemed to elongate into meaningless sounds, while others struck like fistfuls of sand: evidence against you. . . later rely on in court.
Jen had been in danger before, often in the most hostile of environments, but they were emergencies that demanded quick thinking and a predominantly physical response – fight or flight – which wasn’t appropriate here. She had suffered shock, too, most dramatically after a fall in the Cairngorms when she’d broken her ankle, hip and collarbone. But all she’d had to do then was try to stay conscious, stay warm, stay alive until help came and she was wrapped up and carried to safety.
In this situation, something was required of her but she didn’t know what. Her brain just couldn’t compute, and when she heard herself talking she marvelled at how unfamiliar her voice sounded, hearing it from the outside.
‘I don’t understand what this is about. I’m not a. . . I haven’t done what you said, I wouldn’t—’
The officers were gesturing for silence. ‘It’s really best not to say anything at this stage,’ the older one said.
‘But it’s not true. I’ve got the keys to number 14 – he’d dropped them, you see. I can get them for you now.’ She started to turn away but the younger officer moved to intercept her.
‘We’ll take care of that.’
‘Please, Mrs Lynch,’ the older one said. ‘Let’s just get to the station and you’ll have an opportunity to put your side of the story, all right?’
Registering their eagerness to shut her up, Jen felt she had to comply. Perhaps it meant a lot more paperwork if she kept trying to explain.
From inside the flat came the sound of an explosion. The younger officer frowned. ‘Is anyone else here?’
And with that, Jen was back inside her body, still reeling but horribly clear about her predicament. Charlie shouldn’t have to witness this.
I’ve got to protect him.
It registered now that these police officers were only outwardly calm; there was a wariness about them, a readiness for action that wouldn’t have been appropriate in a normal social encounter. What they no doubt understood from bitter experience was that not everyone went quietly – and they didn’t yet know whether Jen was going to give them any trouble.
‘M-my son, Charlie,’ she said, fighting off the urge to let out a sob.
‘How old is he?’
A gulp. She was so disorientated, she had to run through her memory to find his year of birth.
‘Seven. He’s seven.’
‘It’s just the two of you here?’ the older one asked, and when Jen nodded, she said, ‘Is there somebody who can look after him?’
‘I. . . well. . .’ The officer must have spotted how Jen seemed to deflate, her shoulders dropping as though her legs were about to give way, for she reached out and held her by the arm.
‘This may take a while, so best if Charlie could stay with someone for the night.’
The younger one said, ‘What about his dad, is he around?’
Jen flinched. It was a question that had come to sting. Charlie’s growing up without a father, because I failed to make it work.
‘He, uh, yes, good idea. I’ll call him.’
She turned, then stopped, realising that the cops intended to follow her into the living room. ‘Charlie? Wh-what should I…?’
With a gentle smile, the older one said, ‘We don’t want to make this any worse than it needs to be. Just tell him you’ve been asked to help with an investigation.’
Jen nodded, blinking away sudden tears. The kindness hurt more, somehow, than if they’d simply manhandled her out of the building.
Charlie was still engrossed in his DVD. Jen popped into the lounge, grabbed her phone then shut the door behind her. The older officer stayed close while her colleague took an undisguised interest in the flat, peering into each of the rooms as if to confirm that no one else was lurking.
Jen called Freddie’s mobile, which rang half a dozen times and then went to voicemail. She cut the call, dialled again. Same result.
‘He’s not answering his mobile.’
‘Landline?’ the older cop suggested.
‘He doesn’t have one. I can text him.’
At this, the younger officer said, ‘Can anyone else lend a hand?’
‘The sooner we get this all sorted out, the better for you both,’ the older one reminded her.
Jen had already typed a text: Call me. About to tap on Send, she hesitated. Did she really want Freddie knowing about this? Even an innocent mix-up could be twisted up and used against her, especially when Freddie’s lawyers got to work on it.
Her parents? No, they were a good hour away, and she couldn’t bear the humiliation, or her mum’s inevitable overreaction: Were you taking drugs? What have you done, Jennifer?
‘There’s a friend, a childminder,’ she said, abandoning the text.
Anna answered with a cheerful question: ‘What did he forget?’
‘He didn’t.’ Jen felt her face burning as she stammered out a feeble excuse: a family emergency, can’t say anymore, so sorry but I have to ask a huge favour.
‘Of course. Do you need me to come and get him?’
‘I’d be really grateful, thank you.’
‘No bother. It’ll be about half an hour, though. I’m in Sainsbury’s, so I’ll fetch him on my way home.’
‘Yeah, uh, hold on a
second.’ She pressed the phone to her chest and began to explain, but saw the younger officer’s face harden.
‘What about one of the neighbours?’ the older cop asked. ‘Is there anybody you know well enough?’
Good idea. Bridie Martin wasn’t the perfect childminder, but Charlie liked her, and if it was only for half an hour. . .
The old woman took a few seconds to come to her door. She was readily agreeing until she spotted the police officers, and then her attitude changed in an instant. ‘What’s happened? Are you in trouble?’
‘Not exactly. I don’t really understand, to be honest, but I have to. . . I just have to go. . .’
Bridie’s expression was a mix of doubt and disapproval. ‘Thirty minutes, is it? You’d better bring the lad over.’
They let her find some fresh clothes to put in Charlie’s overnight bag. The younger cop left the flat to make a call on her radio, while the older one stayed with Jen, hanging back discreetly when it was time to fetch Charlie.
‘Change of plan tonight, I’m afraid, buddy.’
He barely reacted until she switched off the DVD. He seemed to welcome another chance to see Lucas, though he was less enthusiastic about having to wait with Mrs Martin.
‘It won’t be long till Anna gets here, I promise.’
‘But why can’t I stay with. . .’ Now he turned, and for the first time registered the presence of a police officer in his home. Startled, he gaped at her for a second, sent Jen a doubtful, questioning look, then stared at the cop again.
‘Your mum just needs to come and help us with something.’ The officer smiled at Charlie. ‘I’m sure it won’t take long.’
His expression grew wary as he picked up on the discrepancy between the policewoman’s friendly smile and his mother’s unease. Jen flashed him the Don’t act up now look that had worked so effectively when the marriage first began to deteriorate. ‘Be a good boy, and I’ll text Anna later and let you know when I’m home.’
She saw him hitch a breath, then swallow firmly. ‘Can you come and get me? Tonight, I mean?’
‘Don’t you want another sleepover?’
‘I’d rather be here.’
‘Well. . .’ Jen glanced at the cop, whose expression gave nothing away. ‘If I’m not too late, I will.’
She hugged him for as long as she dared, and felt a wretched relief when he was delivered to Bridie Martin. At least he wouldn’t have to witness the next stage of her ordeal.
The younger cop watched closely as she locked the flat, then took the keys from her. As she was escorted to the stairs, Jen stumbled, weakened by another wave of shock and disbelief. ‘I promise, I haven’t done anything wrong—’
‘It really is best to wait till you’re formally interviewed,’ the older cop said. With her colleague one pace behind, she took Jen’s arm in a grip that was still supportive but now in a subtly different way, and together they descended the stairs and emerged into the bright, golden sunshine of early evening.
The police car was parked at the kerb. A Jeep had to pull in behind it to allow another car to pass. The driver was a woman who had kids at Charlie’s school; she’d sometimes nod and smile when they passed in the street. Now she stared, aghast, before quickly looking away.
Jen had been grateful that at least she wasn’t handcuffed, but she realised it made little difference. Only one thought came to mind when you saw someone being escorted to a police car.
They’re a criminal.
6
The journey seemed to take an age, and at every set of traffic lights she became an object of curiosity for other motorists and passing pedestrians. Even with her gaze fixed straight ahead, Jen could feel the heat of their unwanted attention, like sunshine on burned skin.
She was sitting behind the front passenger seat, with the younger officer driving and the older one beside her on the back seat. Jen asked once again what she was supposed to have done, but the officers were unwilling to discuss it. After some strained small talk about Charlie, the older one started bemoaning her husband’s ineptitude at DIY.
‘Somebody lent him an angle grinder to take up the path at his sister’s, and he only went and cut through the internet cable. Kathy went ballistic!’
The younger officer made a noise in her throat; not particularly interested. They were in Hollingbury now, passing the Asda superstore whose car park was still crammed with evening shoppers. ‘Beer and barbecues,’ the older cop murmured, with a wistful air.
The car turned into the entrance to the police station and stopped at a large green gate. The younger officer entered a code and the gate slid sideways. As they drove through, Jen felt a shiver run through her and had to resist the urge to turn and watch it closing behind them.
She was already a prisoner, and this was only the start.
The driver got out first, opened the door for her colleague and then both of them moved to Jen’s side of the car. The older one met Jen’s eye and gave a little nod of encouragement. The woman no doubt meant well, but it felt slightly patronising. All Jen had done was sit, stand, walk, breathe – why the congratulation?
Because of all the things you haven’t done, a small voice spoke up. They’re used to dealing with people who scream and fight and rage.
She was taken inside the building, which wouldn’t be winning any prizes for architectural style or beauty, and for a couple of minutes they milled around in a waiting area. Two other officers were there with a prisoner of their own, an elderly man who appeared to be doped to the gills. He was singing something under his breath, his eyes rolling as his head swung from side to side.
Then the door opened and they moved through to a large room dominated by a high, semicircular counter, half a dozen custody staff working behind it. The counter was divided by partitions that gave a measure of privacy during the booking-in process. Jen barely registered anything about the other detainees; it was all she could do to quell her sudden panic.
This wasn’t a dream. An illusion. It was actually happening. She’d been arrested, and would be placed in a cell.
Locked up.
Jen wrapped her arms around herself and suppressed a shiver. She was led over to the counter and directed to stand on a set of footprints marked out on the floor. They were greeted by one of the custody sergeants, a giant of a man with woolly brown hair and a large mole on his temple. He listened as the younger officer relayed the nature of the offences for which Jen had been arrested. There was talk of burglary, criminal damage – utterly surreal, but Jen was advised not to interrupt.
Next came a series of questions about her health and wellbeing, asked in a surprisingly caring manner. It wasn’t unlike being checked into a spa or a hotel, and in fact she’d encountered plenty of desk staff over the years who’d been far less considerate than this. If the police truly believed that Jen had done what they were saying, surely their attitude would be a lot harsher?
With this in mind, she felt comfortable about declining the offer of legal representation. She didn’t require a duty solicitor, and wouldn’t need to call a lawyer of her own.
‘Fine,’ the custody sergeant said. ‘Just remember you can change your mind at any time, and we’ll get it sorted.’
‘I will, thank you.’ Jen found some strength returning. This was a world she knew only from television dramas, and she clung to the thought that it was a mix-up; nothing more. Soon she would be able to explain what had really happened, and no doubt there would be embarrassed laughter, and perhaps some heartfelt apologies, and hopefully the offer of a lift home in time to collect Charlie from Anna’s.
The pleasant atmosphere was disrupted by a sudden loud screech. Jen turned to see a woman kicking and writhing as several officers struggled to bring her into the room. She was in her forties, Jen guessed, and painfully thin, with sores on her arms and lumps of something nasty caught in her hair. She was dressed in oversized jogging pants and a grubby T-shirt with a large wet patch on the front.
‘Get off m
e! Get the fuck off me, you tossers!’ Her voice was slurred, almost unintelligible. Misty, bloodshot eyes struggled to take in her surroundings, then came to focus on Jen. ‘What the fuck you staring at, bitch? I’ll fucking have you—’
She lurched forward but was hurriedly restrained; then she doubled over and vomited with enough force to splatter some of the staff around her.
At the desk, the giant sergeant observed this commotion with dismay. ‘Oh, Mandy,’ he tutted, ‘why’d you go and do that? Poor Simon here’s gonna have to clean it up.’
There was a burst of laughter from his colleagues. ‘Not my turn,’ one of them declared, as the woman continued to hack and spit onto the floor.
‘Oh yes it is,’ said another. ‘I had to deal with Liam Smaith.’
‘Loose Liam.’ The sergeant grimaced. ‘So this one’s yours, Simon.’
‘Nope. Kerrie’s taking my turn.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since I let her have my Albion tickets.’
There were cries of mock outrage, which the officer fended off with good-humoured defiance. ‘Hey, we’re talking 1901 club, not your bog-standard tickets.’
‘Yeah, but no one told me we could trade,’ someone else objected, and the debate continued as Jen was led away. This kind of banter was so familiar from her own workplace, she felt a pang of regret that she couldn’t be a part of it.
The reality of her status hit home when she was searched, photographed, fingerprinted and asked to give a sample of her DNA. She was told that the police officers who’d brought her in would be returning to her flat to undertake what they called a ‘Section 18’ search of her property. Her clothes and shoes were bagged as evidence, and she was given a cheap pair of joggers and a T-shirt, along with a pair of plimsolls of the sort she hadn’t worn since childhood.
Finally she was taken into a long, bare corridor lined with cells. The absence of furnishings and fabrics meant every sound reverberated. Her escort was a heavy, grey-haired woman, keen to tell Jen how much she preferred this job to her previous employment with a large clothing retailer, which treated its staff ‘like scum, to be honest’.
