Lasting Scars

by Lenny Brando

  He sat up and he jabbed at the remote to change the station. The news channel was on a commercial break, so he searched for the latest reports about the attack on the phone’s browser. According to reports, the police arrested a 31 year old woman under the Terrorism Act and were questioning her at an undisclosed location. Posts on Twitter suggested the woman was none other than TV Girl Alice. There was also a phone video of her being brought out of her house and put into a police car. Cole studied the video and confirmed it was Alice Madsen.

  When the commercial break ended, the news channel showed footage of police carrying items out of a house. He recognised the reporter and remembered she promised him £200 for the interview. It occurred to him the bitch was bullshitting about the money. He’d see about that later, and he upped the volume on the TV. The ticker bar scrolling on the bottom of the screen read Woman (31) arrested in house near Portobello Road.

  He listened to Laura Bowfield’s commentary on a police officer walking out of a house carrying a cardboard box. She made it sound exciting. The police had a search warrant and were busy rifling the house. They didn’t name Alice, Laura only referred to a 31 year old woman, believed to be a non-national. Then they cut to footage of a woman with blonde hair being escorted onto the street. They had blurred her face, but Cole now knew it was Alice.

  He glimpsed a house number on the gate pillar near an estate agent’s board, and he rewound the TV until he could identify the number. Then he wrote it down. He pressed play and watched two police manhandle a pixelated Alice Madsen into the back of a car. The footage followed the car as it drove off.

  He changed the search words in the burner’s browser and found a similar video clip on another site. It was easy to download the clip and tweet it with the relevant hashtags. Watch #AliceMadsen get arrested! Think of what this BITCH did!! #ChampagneTerrorist #lockherup

  Cole grinned at his tweet and re-read it several times. Then he picked up his other phone and posted the @StalkingAlice tweet to his other account and shared it to his Facebook page, where he urged everyone to forward the video. Within a minute he had four likes and one share. But when he thought about the situation, his grin faded as he realised he might not get his hands around Alice Madsen’s neck. Perhaps Birdy was right. He should forget any developing fantasies about Alice. No. Birdy was wrong. No matter what happened he’d never forget Alice Madsen and what she did to Daz.

  25

  In Kensington Police Station, they took away Alice’s shoes, the belt in her jeans, her jewellery and her watch. They made her remove her bra. Then they threw her in a cell. At least they took off the handcuffs. Alice rubbed at the red welts that now merged with the old scars on her wrists and felt the familiar ache.

  No-one answered her calls and pleas. The occupant of another cell shouted at her to shut the fuck up. She sat on a concrete bench hugging her knees to her chest. She glanced at the stainless steel toilet bowl and curled her nose at the thought of having to use it. Her need would have to wait as long as possible. Would they be watching her? As the reality of her situation dawned on her, she struggled to hold back tears. She bit down hard on her lower lip in the hope physical pain would distract her. It didn’t, so she gave up and let the tears flow.

  Her tears dried and time dragged. She paced the cell and peered through the tiny window set in the door. Just the wall opposite. She sat down again. Her arrest must be a mistake. She repeated it over and over, like a mantra. It’s a mistake. They’ll realise it soon and let me go with an apology. She glanced again at the toilet and grimaced. Cursing the earlier wine, she pulled down her jeans and squatted over the bowl while her eyes darted around for cameras or prying eyes at the window. When she finished, she pressed the flush button several times, but nothing happened.

  She lay on the bench with her head as far from the toilet as she could, but sleep was impossible. Her breathing was heavy and her pulse rapid. The temperature rose as time passed. She sat up and wiped beads of sweat from her forehead. Her top stuck to her. The contours of her breasts were visible beneath the light summer T-shirt, and she folded her arms to cover them. Her throat was sore and her mouth was dry. Water would be good.

  She had lost all track of time when a key rattled in the lock. Then the door burst open and two burly female officers entered.

  “Turn around. Place your hands behind your back,” one said.

  “Why am I here?” Alice asked.

  “No talking. Now, I repeat. Turn around. Place your hands behind your back.”

  “Do it,” the other said in a guttural Scottish accent.

  Alice complied and heard the handcuffs click into place. “Ow. Do they have to be so tight?”

  They spun her around and marched her down the corridor to another room. The hinges squeaked when they opened the door. Cameras spied from all four corners of the ceiling. More equipment sat on the table, nudged against the wall. The Scottish officer released the handcuffs from her left hand, pushed her onto a chair and cuffed her right hand to one of two rings in the table. She pulled it tight and Alice winced. They slammed the door as they left.

  Alice rubbed her right wrist and tried to loosen the link, but it wouldn’t budge. She gave up. At least they had only cuffed one hand, not both. More minutes passed. She stared up at the cameras. People would be watching her. Assessing her. She wondered how an innocent person would react. Different to a guilty person? She didn’t know and she concentrated on pushing her shoulders forward so her breasts wouldn’t show.

  She turned as the door creaked open. Marks and Gilmore entered the room and sat opposite her. Gilmore pressed buttons on the recording equipment and nodded to Marks.

  Marks spoke first. “DI Colin Marks and DS Barry Gilmore interviewing Alice Madsen.”

  Alice blinked when she heard him state the date and time. It was almost midnight. She opened her mouth to speak but Marks cut her off. “For the record, I am cautioning Alice Madsen.” He looked at her. “Alice Madsen, you are under arrest on suspicion of assisting or abetting a terrorist offence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “You already told me that.”

  Marks ignored her. “Tell me what you know about Samir Hassan.”

  “Ian told me to wait for a lawyer. Where is my lawyer?”

  “We arrested you under the provisions of the terrorism act. We can question you for up to 48 hours before you can talk to a lawyer.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “I don't give a damn what you believe. There is no lawyer. Fact.”

  Alice’s heart thumped in her chest and she balled her fists tight. “I don't trust you police.”

  Marks narrowed his eyes. “Why is that, Alice? Have you been in trouble with the police before?”

  Alice looked up at a camera in the ceiling and shook her head. “Not me. A friend. They didn't help when they should have. At home. Copenhagen. They were useless.”

  “A friend, eh? That a euphemism?”

  Alice stared at him with a blank expression.

  “Oh sorry.” Marks’ smile looked anything but genuine. “I forgot you’re foreign. It means...”

  “I know what it means. And it’s not.”

  “Right. Did you get away with something? Is that it? Because, and let me assure of this, we won't let you get away with anything. This is London.”

  “It wasn't like that.”

  “No? What was it like?”

  “It wasn’t me, okay? It was somebody else.” Fatigue ate at her. The initial surge of adrenaline was wearing off, allowing fear and anxiety to rush in and take over. She would have to cling to the certainty of her innocence, focus on the fact she was right and they were wrong, and tell herself she had nothing to fear.

  “All right.” Marks changed his line of questioning. “Did you ever contact Samir Hassan outside of work?”

  “Ian told
me not to say anything until I get a lawyer.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that Alice?” Marks pointed a finger at her. “Remember what we told you about saying nothing. The right to silence isn't the same anymore. Silence may harm your defence.”

  “Defence? I didn't do anything, therefore I’ve nothing to worry about if I say nothing. If I do say something, you’ll twist my words.”

  “How can we twist your words?” Marks indicated the recording equipment. “We record everything. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

  Alice lifted her head up and stared at Marks with as much defiance as she could muster. “I want a lawyer.”

  “What did you do to help the terrorist?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Marks smiled. “Why do you want a lawyer? Are you guilty?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “If you’re innocent, then that's even better. And you know, Alice, I want to help you. So, go on, tell us about Hassan. Where did you meet?”

  She sighed. “Look, you know that. I told you yesterday.”

  “If you told us already, then surely it’s all right if you tell us again? You didn't need a lawyer yesterday, right?”

  Alice shrugged. She rubbed at her handcuffed wrist with her free hand.

  Marks pulled a key from his pocket. “How about I unlock that, huh? Then you can tell us again. How about it?”

  Her wrist was sore and the beginnings of a nasty headache had taken hold behind her eyes. She cursed her crumbling resolve.

  Marks reached over and raised an eyebrow. “Just a few questions, Alice. That’s all. Maybe we’ll clear this up.” He spread his hands, and her eyes followed the key dangling in his fingers. “Then you’ll go home in the morning. We’re the good guys, remember?”

  Her shoulders dropped and she nodded. “He came on to me at the party last year. I thought he was being forceful, so I...” She looked from Marks to Gilmore, “I slapped him on the face. He tried to kiss me. Then he told me he loved me. I can’t remember what I said to him. Things I shouldn’t have, I guess.”

  “For example?” Marks unlocked the cuffs and freed her hand.

  “I told you I don't remember.”

  “Right,” Marks said. “You had a lot to drink according to your statement last night.”

  Alice pouted at him as she continued to rub the welt left by the cuffs. “Yeah.” She saw Marks’ eyes flit to her wrist, but he gave no sign he noticed her scars.

  “Why didn't you tell us last night?”

  For a moment, Alice wondered if Marks was referring to her scars. She wasn't thinking straight, and she tried to compose herself by taking several deep breaths. The whole point of this late interview would be to undermine her and catch her in any lies or inconsistencies. “Tell you what?”

  “About him coming on to you and your response.”

  “I did.”

  Gilmore flipped through his file and passed a sheet to Marks.

  Marks looked down and drew his finger across the page. “According to this transcript, you said, ‘I told him I wasn't interested. I think he was drunk. So, I said stuff to make him stop. Look, I don't remember, okay?’ Nothing about him trying to kiss you or you slapping him.”

  “I didn't think the details were important. Why would I?” Alice swallowed and her throat felt dry. “I’m tired and I’m thirsty. Could I get a drink of water please?”

  “In a minute. Now, you said things to him you shouldn't have, and you told us you can't remember what they were. But the fact is, you remember saying things to him, so you must have an idea?”

  “I don't know.”

  Marks linked his hands and cracked his knuckles. “Come on Alice. Give us an example. Did you goad him? Insult him?”

  Alice winced as she tried to recall the gist of her tirade. “I think so.”

  “Good. Did race come into it? Religion?”

  Alice shifted in the chair and shook her head. “I was scared and angry. I didn't mean it. You know, to be nasty.”

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t like repeating it.”

  “It’s best you do.”

  Alice sighed. “I might have called him a stupid refugee. Something about backward superstitions, and that he should go back to the Middle East to be with the rest of the regressive misogynists that live there. I’m sorry I said stuff like that. I didn't mean it. It all came tumbling out. I’m not proud of it, because I’m not like that.”

  “It's okay.”

  “Those weren't my exact words, but it was like that.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He looked angry. Then he approached me. Others had come over to see what was going on. I slapped him then, which surprised him. And me.”

  “So there are witnesses to this?”

  Alice nodded. “People were there when I, er, slapped him. Someone got me a cab soon afterwards. Dee, I think. A few days later, I heard some of the guys chased him from the party after I left. They might have been rough, I don’t know.”

  Marks frowned. “Oh yeah?”

  While Marks scribbled something in his notes, Alice remembered what Olivia said at lunch and how Ian agreed. “Maybe that’s why Samir went to Exhibition Road? For revenge?”

  Marks finished writing and looked up. “That would be convenient for you, eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” He ran his hand under his shirt collar, loosened the knot in his tie and then undid the top shirt button. “Go on.”

  Alice rubbed her wrist again. “It was the local high summer festival. I think they call it the Thurloe festival even though it’s on Exhibition Road. We held the wrap party during last year’s festival. That might explain it.”

  Marks and Gilmore exchanged a glance and save for a low whirr from the recording equipment, silence settled in the room. Then Marks sniffed. “Explain what, Alice?”

  “Why he attacked the Thurloe area when he did.”

  “Did you suggest that to him?”

  “No. Don't be ridiculous. I told you, the last time I saw him was at the wrap party.”

  “You mean the festival?”

  “No. You don't understand. The festival meant nothing to us. For us it was all about the wrap party, not the festival. We didn't associate the two. Maybe Samir did, I don't know. But I guess that’s your job, not mine.” Alice stared at Marks, and he stared back. She blinked first and looked away.

  Then Marks indulged in his annoying habit of cracking his knuckles again. “You said Dee got you the cab?”

  “I think it was Dee.” Alice rubbed her forehead and felt a sheen of perspiration on her fingers.

  Marks went back to his writing in his notepad. “Dee’s surname?” He glanced up and his eyes stopped at her chest for an instant before turning away.

  Alice blinked several times in rapid succession while she used her arms to hide her bra-less breasts, afraid to look down herself lest she see the outlines of her nipples pushing against the flimsy tee shirt. “Stansfield.” She cursed them for taking her bra and her dignity, now convinced they did it more for control than for suicide prevention.

  “Will she support your story?”

  “They all will. Ask anyone who was there. Dee’s number’s in my phone, Anna’s too. Anna Forrester, she saw the whole thing. Yesterday you told me you had all my work contacts. Even before you stole my phone. So call them.”

  “Don't worry, I will.” Marks tapped his fingers on the table as if he was considering a response to her jibe about stealing her phone, but he appeared to be immune to such barbs, and instead he asked, “Ever hear from Hassan again? See him in work?”

  “No. GMP told the contractor, and the contractor fired him. He sent a card to GMP for me. It was an apology, but I threw the card away.”

  “Could it be that you're making all this up, Alice?”

  Alice sighed. “No, Inspector. I’m not.” She felt another ripple of anger, more difficult to suppress than the last.


  “Yet you didn't think your reaction to Samir Hassan was important last night?”

  Her voice rose and seemed to echo in the confines of the small room. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Marks lifted his hand and examined his fingernails. “Get what, Alice?”

  She squinted her eyes at Marks, and she held her voice steady, loud and controlled, without a quaver of emotion. “Unwanted advances from men. Most of you don’t understand the word no. That night, for whatever reason, I couldn't take it anymore. And you know something? If I was tired of it then, I’m sure as hell sick of it now.” She looked up at the blank expressions on Marks and Gilmore and shook her head. “You think I should do what? Huh? Play along? Humour him?”

  She leaned back in the chair and kept her arms folded tight against her body. “No way. I made a promise to myself that I’d resist. That I’d scream no. I’d fight. Now, you can stare at me all you want, but that’s it. I’m not saying another damn word until I get my lawyer.”

  26

  Marks arrived at Kensington police station around 7:30AM on Sunday and made straight for the coffee machine. Armed with a large black coffee, he logged on to the computer at his desk and when he was certain no-one watched, he let out a long yawn. The next thing he did was arrange for Hassan to be put into an interview room.

  After completing those preliminaries, he updated the file on Alice Madsen with his observations from the interview the previous night and clicked his tongue when he saw the transcripts from the interview were marked as pending. Then he remembered the ROTI clerks who did the transcribing didn't work through Saturday night. Not that there was a lot to transcribe, as after a promising start, Madsen had folded her arms and refused to say anything else.

  Ordinarily, that would have made Marks suspicious, but her description of the events was plausible, even if he didn't want to believe her yet. It was too early to call Dee Stansfield and confirm the incident between Madsen and Hassan last year. He was eager to talk to Hassan again, but he wanted Gilmore with him. Marks glanced at his watch and was about to call Gilmore to ask why he was late when he saw the door from the corridor open. Gilmore made his way over with deliberate, slow steps, and when in range, he grunted at Marks.