by Tom Bale
Her voice attracted complaints and demands from the occupants of the cells they were passing, and she interrupted her monologue to throw out responses: ‘Not too much longer, Karen. . . Nothing I can do about that, Mikhail. . . Settle down, Bob, you’re impressing no one with that sort of language.’
They came to a halt outside a vacant cell, and Jen was asked to leave her plimsolls by the door. When the guard ushered her inside, Jen went to move but her legs refused to obey. Although her brain had accepted the necessity of temporary imprisonment, her body was having none of it.
She pictured a team of officers being forced to carry her, kicking and screaming, into the cell. And then she thought of her dad, his quiet disapproval whenever she’d thrown a tantrum as a child; the disappointment in his eyes that had always cracked open her heart.
‘How long. . .?’
‘I’m sure they’ll be talking to you as soon as they can. I’ll bring you a meal, if you’re peckish. And there’s tea, coffee – hot chocolate would be my personal recommendation.’
Jen declined, even though her mouth was as dry as sawdust. The fear of enclosed spaces had never troubled her much, mostly because her lifestyle had enabled her to avoid them. A couple of times she’d forced herself to try caving, but she’d kept moving and never thought too much about her surroundings, and she hadn’t been alone.
This, she thought, was more like Tilgate Forest. A solitary ordeal, and one she had brought upon herself.
She had to consciously take command of her foot and lift it through the doorway. A second step, and a third, and then the guard said something cheery but the message was wiped away by the clang of the door and the heavy thunk of the lock engaging.
Jen shut her eyes, fighting the urge to scream. This can’t be happening.
It took a whole minute before she had her breathing under control, but she could feel the panic waiting, patient and sly, a whispering voice behind the walls.
The cell was bare except for a toilet immediately to the right of the door, and a cot-like bed running along the opposite wall. The thin plastic mattress was bare, though there was a blanket folded up at one end. High above the bed was a window of sorts, a set of glass bricks that allowed in some muted light.
So much for beer and barbecues: right now a sandwich on the sofa with Charlie nestled at her side would have been utter bliss.
Instead, she was locked up, and all because of a good deed. She started to wonder if she’d been too hasty in turning down the offer of a solicitor. She thought ruefully of the firepower that her father-in-law could have brought to bear. Stay on the right side of a man with Gerard Lynch’s connections and a problem like this could be whisked away in no time.
Suddenly bereft, she sat down and covered her face with her hands. It was a brief moment of despair, quickly shoved aside. All she had to do was stay calm and wait it out, to keep faith in the knowledge that she wasn’t any kind of criminal, and that an honest account of what happened would soon see her released.
7
Typical. It had been an unusually interesting day, and wouldn’t you just know it – the witch was home early.
Russell knew what to do. He had an efficient routine, honed over many months.
Left to his own devices, the house was his playground from around seven thirty in the morning (not that he often got up that early) till six or seven in the evening. His main task during that time was to research employment opportunities, badger the agencies with whom he had registered and apply, apply, apply for whatever jobs were available. The witch knew or at least suspected that he did little else that she would regard as a constructive use of his time, but Russell was nothing if not a sly young fox.
This week he’d been assigned the task of painting a section of the rear wall. A leaking garden tap had stained the render, which was cracked in places and pitted with moss and mould. Grunt work, in other words, and a complete pain in the arse.
Foregoing all the tedious preparation – for which he had no energy after a long and satisfying morning of masturbation – Russell had popped outside at four o’clock, armed with a roller and a tin of masonry paint. Twenty minutes of frenetic effort was enough to represent half a day’s worth of diligent painting, and soon he was back at his favourite spot, just to the side of the living room window, shorts round his ankles, a box of tissues and his camera both within easy reach.
The time passed in a pleasurable blur, as it always did. Jolted by the sight of Kelly’s Dacia, he ducked and crawled away, then rose at a safe distance from the window and hoiked up his shorts. He walked calmly into the kitchen, and when the front door opened he was to be found running water for a refreshing and healthy drink.
He gave a start, as if surprised by her presence. ‘Oh! Sorry, I was painting the wall.’
‘I can see that. You’re covered in it.’
‘What?’ He looked down and saw a fine mist of paint splattered over his T-shirt. Little blobs of it had caught in the hairs on his forearms.
‘Are you going to run that water much longer? We’re on a meter.’
‘Sorry.’ He filled a glass and turned the tap off.
‘Stick the kettle on, though. I fancy tea.’
She stepped out of the back door to take a look at his handiwork. Russell ignored her while he filled the kettle, then wandered into the lounge, not wanting to seem too eager for congratulation.
‘Russell? Russell!’
No, he thought. He wasn’t going to come running whenever she called. He wasn’t under the thumb, as some of their friends and family believed. Oh no, he was in control of this relationship, but it was a subtle form of control – as befitting a sly young fox.
The witch loomed in the doorway. ‘You’ve only done the bottom half of the wall.’
‘Yeah, but it’s a start. Like you said, it’s sweltering out there, and it’s a fiddly job, with the waste pipe, and the tap—’
‘You’ve got paint on everything, Russell. Not just the pipe but the window, the frame. It’s on the path—’ She gasped, looking over his shoulder, and for a second he wondered if being positioned for so long in one place had left a kind of after-image, and that Kelly could now see him at the window, fully dressed and respectable from the waist up, secretly naked and pleasuring himself as he watched the girlies go past. . .
‘What is it?’
Kelly marched towards him, so angry that she might be about to lash out. Just give me a reason to hit you back, he thought.
‘There’s a smear on the curtains.’
He turned, shocked, then saw she meant paint and had to hide his relief. Wouldn’t be the first time, he thought, and had to suppress a giggle.
‘It’ll wipe off.’
‘Why didn’t you clean up when you came inside?’
‘I thought I had.’
‘And what were you looking at that was so important?’
He shrugged, wondering if her question was as casual as it sounded. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘There’s a police car outside that little terrace. Did you see what happened?’
‘Doubt it’s anything exciting.’ He heard the kettle boil and used that as an excuse to get away.
When he returned with her tea, Kelly was scratching at the paint with her thumbnail.
‘It’s not coming off. And these are dry-clean only,’ she moaned.
‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘That’s not the point, Russell. You ought to take more care.’
‘You’re never happy,’ he muttered, placing the mug on the glass coffee table. He wasn’t going to put it on a coaster, either.
‘I would be, if you could manage the simplest of tasks without making a lot of mess that I have to clean up. Or better still, if you found a job and started going to work every day.’
‘That’s not fair. You know how tough it is at the moment.’ Time to add a little wounded indignation. ‘I worked so frigging hard out there, in boiling hot weather, and all I get is criticism.’<
br />
There was a stare-off, then her gaze flicked towards the coffee table; Russell grabbed a coaster and slipped it under the mug.
Her face softened, and she opened her arms to offer an embrace. Not much he could do but walk into it. Kelly was a couple of years away from forty, and took far more care of her appearance than he did, and yet even the slightest bodily contact repulsed him. Russell couldn’t remember when it had started, or why, but it was getting worse and he didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
Sex was the biggest problem. These days he preferred imagination, his own hand working to the rhythm of fantasies as outrageous and forbidden as anything you’d find in the darkest reaches of the net.
He squirmed a little, hoping she wouldn’t get any ideas, and for a second his loathing was directed inward: You’re a mess. Kelly deserves better than this.
To his relief, she let him go and regarded him with a humble gaze. ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t a great day at work. Mitch kept us in the conference room for nearly two hours, ranting about the projections for the final quarter.’
He tutted. ‘Mitch is a cock. You can’t be blamed when the projections were unrealistic to start with.’
‘Exactly. It’s like I said to Lindsay afterwards. . .’ And off she went, while Russell’s mind drifted back to the far more captivating issue of the police car outside number 14, and the various comings and goings he’d tracked today, starting with the fit blonde.
The super-fit blonde. Definitely one of the top five in his summer folder. Top three, maybe.
Nothing Kelly needed to know about that.
8
Jen didn’t have sight of a clock, but it felt like an hour or two had passed before she was taken to be interviewed.
The hardest part of waiting was that it became impossible not to worry herself sick about Charlie. How was he feeling? Had he understood that his mum had been arrested? Worst of all: how might this influence his opinion of her? When it came to law and order, there wasn’t a lot of nuance in the mind of a seven-year-old. Cops were there to lock up the bad guys. Jen was locked up. That had to make her a bad guy, didn’t it?
Ever since the separation it had become clear that, unintentionally or not, she and Freddie were competing for their son’s affection. Jen was frequently stung by the fact that Charlie seemed to adore being with his dad, whose concept of parenting featured an unending stream of gifts and treats and spontaneous fun, whereas he often resented the fact that life with Mum was centred on rules and routine.
The same custody assistant escorted her back to the main room, and maybe it was just paranoia but she didn’t seem as friendly this time. Jen felt a spasm of guilt as she set eyes on the two detectives waiting to interview her. Quite irrational – though perhaps a couple of hours in a cell was enough to make anyone believe they’d done something wrong.
She realised she was breathing in short, desperate gasps. Clenching her hand into a fist, she pressed her fingernails into her palm. Hold it together.
The detectives explained that she had to be signed out for interview, and took her over to the custody sergeant, who gave her a kindly look. ‘Don’t be worried now. These two are fully house-trained. And remember you can ask for a solicitor at any stage.’
Jen managed a timid smile. Maybe she should be taking up that offer, but she wanted this over quickly. According to the clock on the back wall, it was almost eight in the evening. With her promise to collect Charlie in mind, she nodded with more confidence than she felt, and confirmed that she did not require legal advice.
Her new custodians introduced themselves as Detective Sergeant Talia Howard and Detective Constable Matthew Reed. Howard was fortyish, wearing a crumpled navy suit over a white shirt; she had an oval face with red spots on her cheeks, and light brown hair spilling from a tortoiseshell claw. Her manner was more energetic than her appearance suggested, as if dog-tired, but ready to pursue this investigation for as long as it took.
Reed was about a decade younger, short and pot-bellied, and had dark hair held in a wave with plenty of gel or wax. He wore black trousers and a pale pink shirt, with the suggestion of a vivid tattoo peeking between the top buttons. A thin but strangely ominous folder was wedged beneath his arm.
The interview room was nothing like the dimly lit, moody spaces she’d seen in TV dramas; it was more like an office, furnished on a tight budget. There was a table with a computer, a TV and DVD player, and recording equipment that included a video camera mounted in the corner of the room.
DC Reed signed onto the computer and began tapping away, the screen hidden from Jen’s view. Gesturing at the camera, Howard explained that the interview would be filmed, and afterwards Jen would be told how she could obtain a copy.
Essential viewing for all the family, she thought wryly, and then congratulated herself. At least her sense of humour was intact, just about.
Once the officers had formally identified themselves for the camera, they asked Jen to confirm her name and date of birth. She was reminded that she could have a solicitor present, or failing that, speak to one on the phone.
DS Howard ran through the reasons for her arrest, cautioned her again and explained what the caution meant. She was softly spoken, with a crisp Home Counties accent, whereas Reed had the sort of watered-down Cockney that probably meant he was local to this area. It was he who asked if she understood why she was here this evening.
‘Not really. I heard what they said when I was arrested, and it’s ridiculous. I’ve been trying to explain what happened, but everybody said I should wait. . .’ Into the silence, she blurted out the question that had occurred to her while she was in the cell. ‘How did you find me?’
‘We’ll come to that,’ Howard said. ‘To start off, why not give us your account of what happened today?’
It was the invitation Jen had been relishing, but when she spoke next her throat was dry and she had to cough.
‘I’d left home around nine fifteen and was on my way to work. Charlie, my son, had stayed over at a friend’s, and I must admit I’d got up a bit late. I was heading down Regency Place towards Eastern Road, to get a bus to Portslade. As I approached number 14, I saw the man who lives there coming out, obviously in a hurry. There was a car waiting for him.’
She hesitated, sensing that Reed had a question, but Howard motioned at her to continue.
‘After they’d driven away, I noticed something on the grass in front of the house. A set of keys.’
She paused again, expecting some kind of reaction, but their expressions remained impassive. Jen described how she had run to the end of the street and tried to attract the driver’s attention. When that failed, she had considered her options and made the decision to go inside the house.
‘I found a pen and paper in a sort of storeroom. I wrote a note, leaving my contact details, and taped it to the front door. The owner couldn’t have missed it.’
Reed tapped the pen against his teeth. ‘And what happened then?’
‘That’s it. I thought he’d get in touch at some point and come to collect the keys. I work at the Skyway – it’s a sports centre in Portslade.’
The detectives nodded, which Jen took to mean they knew of the place. Then she realised it was more than that.
They knew she worked there.
Next came a set of questions about her journey: which bus stop had she waited at, what time had the bus arrived, when did she get to work? As she answered, she was aware of Reed occasionally tapping at the computer.
DS Howard was sitting at the far corner of the desk, adjacent to Jen. Her eyes had barely strayed from Jen’s face; it wasn’t by any means a harsh or unfriendly gaze, but it was having the desired effect. Jen felt compelled to tell the truth, certain the detective would immediately spot any trace of dishonesty.
Now she said, ‘Can you explain what you did next, with the keys?’
‘Nothing.’ Jen was puzzled. ‘I still had them with me when—’ She swallowed. ‘When I was ar
rested.’
‘So you didn’t return to the house at all?’ Reed asked.
‘No. After work I had to collect Charlie from his friend’s, and that was in the opposite direction. I thought about it as we were walking home, but Charlie was bursting for the toilet.’
‘That’s kids for you,’ Reed muttered, and DS Howard gave a wry smile.
‘I’d intended to call round there this evening, on the way to the beach. Charlie and I sometimes go for a swim around six, seven o’clock.’
‘In the sea?’ Howard gave a mock shiver. ‘Isn’t it too cold?’
‘Not this year,’ Jen said, and Reed was on her side.
‘I went in yesterday and it was fantastic. Nearly as warm as the Med.’
Jen sat back, feeling as though a great burden had been lifted. She’d given her explanation and here they were, the three of them chatting like friends.
‘And that’s it?’ Howard asked. No pressure in her voice.
‘That’s it. So you can see why it was such a shock to find the police at my door.’
Without comment, Reed mirrored her body language, resting back in his seat and gently touching his palms together on the table. ‘This man at number 14, is he known to you?’
‘Only by sight. He’s quite often leaving the house as I’m walking to the bus stop.’
‘So a nodding acquaintance, that type of thing?’
‘Not even that, really. . .’ Aware that she must seem unfriendly, Jen considered telling them about the time he’d nearly run her over, but thought she might sound petty.
Except that DS Howard had registered the hesitation. ‘Are you sure you’ve never spoken?’
The question was so assertive, it made Jen doubt her own memory for a moment. She frowned, then shook her head.
‘No. Never.’
