by Lenny Brando
“Let’s concentrate on getting them to return the items they took from your house.”
“I feel scrutinised. Invaded.”
Rix cocked his head to one side and shrugged. “In case you haven’t noticed, the police have a very suspicious outlook. In fact, you could say they have a singular talent for it.”
“I noticed.”
Rix shifted a little and grimaced. “Um…”
“What?” Alice asked. “There’s something else isn’t there?”
He nodded. “The media ran with it. News channels broadcast footage from outside your house. While television haven’t mentioned you by name, you’re all over Twitter.” He glanced down at his phone. “The #champagneterrorist hashtag is still trending. As is @TVGirlAlice. Much of it is unpleasant and untrue. Never mind the fact the threats are technically illegal.”
“Technically?”
“It’s difficult to get the police to intervene. They would need a clear and direct threat to your personal safety.”
“Great. Just great...” She reached out for his phone. “May I see?”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She scrolled through the tweets and shook her head. “A rape threat isn't a direct threat to my personal safety? Sounds like a man’s interpretation.”
“I can assure you, that is not my interpretation. However, we have a choice. We either fight back or we ignore it.”
She stopped scrolling and passed the phone back to Rix. “What do you think?”
“I would suggest you ignore social media. I will get someone in the office to tweet supportive stuff and counter it with subtle legal pressure, but that could backfire, so we will exercise caution. That said, I think we should raise a formal complaint with the Met, not these guys.” He waved a hand around in the air. “I doubt they will do much, but you never know. If things haven’t subsided in a few days, then we will review the situation. In the meantime, don’t feed the trolls. Some of these guys are spoiling for the agro. They feel safe behind the anonymous usernames. It gives them a platform to voice opinions and behave in a fashion they never would in real life.”
“Røvhuller, the lot of them. They think I’m guilty...” Alice’s shoulders slumped. “No, it’s worse. They want me to be guilty. They need a scapegoat. You know, years ago, they’d have called me a witch and burned me at the stake.”
“Luckily times have changed.”
“You think?” Alice scoffed. “It’s the same mentality. Just a different method of execution.”
“Not literally. I don’t believe you're in any real danger.”
“You’re not on the receiving end.”
Rix raised his arms. “Apologies, Alice. I don’t mean to trivialise it.”
“While I don't want to give in to them, I don't feel safe here. I’m going home to Copenhagen for a few days. Perhaps it will all have blown over by the time I get back.”
*
Alice leaned into Ian in the back of the taxi. She closed her eyes to the world and found solace in the diesel thrum. They said nothing to each other until Ian opened their front door on Portobello Close.
Despite it being less than 24 hours since her arrest, relief at setting foot in her hall flooded through Alice. “You don't know how good it is to be home.”
Ian held out his arms. “Come here. Let me hold you.”
They hugged in the hall until Alice broke off. “I need to scrub that place off me, and I’m of a mind to burn these clothes.”
“Go ahead. You want me to make you a latte?”
“Is too early for something else?”
He laughed. “I suppose we could agree on extenuating circumstances. Anyway, it will be six by the time you shower and change.”
She smiled at him. “Thanks.” She squeezed his hand and hurried up to the bedroom. Inside, she felt her shoulders relax, and she peeled off all her clothes. Not only were they filthy, they would always be a reminder of her time in custody, so she tossed them by the rubbish bin.
When she got into the shower, she stood beneath the torrent for a good ten minutes. She scrubbed herself hard, reddening her skin before realising the pointlessness of the pain and she gave up. She leaned against the tiles and put her head down. The water swirled at her feet, washing away the sweat and grime of the cell in Kensington police station.
Alone in the cubicle, relieved to have no prying eyes or hidden cameras, her back shook as sobs threatened to overcome her. She took a deep breath. Then another. It took several minutes, but the shakes eased.
She took her time to dress and make herself up. When she finished, she smiled at her reflection, but it wasn't convincing, and her forced smile soon faded, leaving a despondent stare in its place.
Ian turned to her in the kitchen as she walked in, and he jerked his head up when he saw her. “You look amazing. Looks like a different person came down those stairs.”
“Not sure I feel it.”
“Don't worry. You will.” He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to forget all about the police, Samir Hassan, social media, trolls, terrorists, news bulletins, headlines. Anything to do with the attack.”
“Okay. But first...” He opened a drawer and pulled out a can.
“What’s that?”
“Pepper spray. You should keep it in your bag.”
“Why would I need it?”
He shrugged. “You know. In case...”
She took the can from him and turned it around in her hand. “It’s illegal isn't it? Where did you get it?”
“Let’s just say a friend of an acquaintance knows someone.”
“This scares me. Makes me think things are worse than they are.”
“It’s a precaution. Peace of mind.” He eased back onto the stool and picked up his glass.
“I don't know.” She examined the can for another moment then put it into her bag. “Look, I need to get away from all this. I was thinking of going to see Connie for a few days, and you’ll be at that conference in Frankfurt anyway.”
“Be happy to cancel that, it’s four full days of tedium. I wouldn't leave you alone after all that’s happened.”
She sat on a stool and put her hand on his leg. “Thanks. But I’d like to go. I was thinking of going on Tuesday, and I’d come back next Monday. It means you’ll have Saturday and Sunday to yourself. Will you be lonely?”
“I’ll stay in. Watch TV. I’ll be fine”
She took a sip of wine. “I’ll miss you though.”
“Me too.”
“We need to put time into finding a new house.”
“I spoke to Dad. He said they’d give us more than enough for a deposit.”
“Won't be as nice as this will it?”
“Not unless we move outside the area.”
She shrugged. “I like it here.”
“I’ll ring Mark Flanagan…”
“Who?”
“The estate agent. Paul’s son. I’ll ask him to send on property details before I go.”
“Good.” She clinked her glass against Ian’s. “Tonight it’s just us. No Twitter, no news, no more house. Okay?”
“Deal. Do you want to call Kristin?”
She let out a long sigh. “Yes. I should. Then it’s just us.”
“You and me against the world, huh?”
“I guess.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Don't worry. The worst is over. The social media crap will ruin out of energy and soon you’ll be starting work on the new show. Then you’ll be having such a blast, you won’t have time to wonder what the fuss was all about.”
30
On Monday morning, Ian made Alice breakfast and brought it up to her while she lay in bed. She murmured her thanks with sleepy eyes as he kissed her goodbye. It was after 11 by the time he arrived at work in Martins, Flanagan and Coppell. He took the lift to the 6th floor of the Lloyd’s building in Lime Street, where he made his way to his office.
&
nbsp; No sooner had he powered on his computer and logged in, he caught a movement through the window to the open plan area. Paul Flanagan made his way through the lines of desks and angled straight toward Ian’s office. Paul opened the door without knocking and leaned against the frame. He cleared his throat. “Ian.”
“Morning Paul.”
Paul made a show of looking at his watch. “Do we have a problem?”
“How do you mean?”
“I’ve heard some disturbing rumours concerning your girlfriend. Terrorist rumours.”
“It was bullshit. The terrorist guy used to work for her and he tried it on. Alice sent him packing, and he implicated her in an act of revenge.”
At that, Paul stood straighter, put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows. “So it’s true. The non-national woman we saw arrested in connection with the attack was your girlfriend.”
“They released her yesterday.” His eyes flitted to the photograph of Alice on his desk. “She’s innocent.”
“Not according to social media.”
“I told you. There are no charges. They let her go yesterday.”
Paul came over. “Bloody hell, Ian.”
Ian shrugged. “I know. It’s been very difficult for her.”
“For everyone I should say.” Paul folded his arms and stared at Ian over the rim of his glasses. “I mean, I can see the headline in the Lloyd’s Gazette already. Senior MFC partner’s girlfriend arrested in terrorist enquiry. Wouldn't look too good, would it?”
“But she’s not involved.”
“There was nothing about her release last night on TV. The morning papers said the police released a non-national woman without charge. That doesn’t mean she’s not involved. It could be insufficient evidence.”
“If they were still investigating her, they wouldn’t have let her go. They could have held her for 14 days. They can also withhold a lawyer for 48 hours under the terrorism act, yet they let Alice have one sooner. The police established the facts concerning Alice’s involvement and acted accordingly.”
Paul scoffed. “Come on, man. Facts are irrelevant these days. It’s all about perception. Your average Trevors and Sharons put more trust in the latest tweets than they do in headlines on the BBC or columns in the Financial Times.”
Ian considered a quip about the Trevors and Sharons of this world not forming the core of MFC’s client base but thought better of it. “Alice and I avoided the news since her release yesterday. We expect it will all blow over in a day or two.”
“I hope so.” Paul removed his glasses and polished them with a cloth he took from his pocket. “You’re still going to Frankfurt?”
“Wednesday. Fly back Monday morning.”
“Good. I understand the Japanese will be there. Keep them sweet. Piss on the competition if you must. I don't have to remind you how important this is, do I?”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“Good. Remember your bonus. And given the current state of the housing market, you’re going to need it.” Paul put his glasses back on and inspected his fingernails. Then he looked up at Ian. “Assuming you wish to invest in a decent property?”
Ian pursed his lips. “I am aware of the larger picture.”
“How is my son helping you with that? You getting viewings?”
“It’s slow and we had to pause things over the weekend while Alice was, you know…” Ian spread his arms. “Anyway, I’ll be talking to Mark before I go. Hopefully he’ll have some interested parties lined up.”
Paul turned and made for the door. “Good. He’s a fine lad. Tell him I said hello.”
“Sure. Um…” But before Ian could say anything else, Paul left and didn't bother to close the door behind him.
Ian got to his feet and shut the door. He called Jo Page from his desk phone. “Jo? Sorry about the weekend.”
“Really? It’s becoming a habit.”
“Alice was arrested in connection with the South Ken attack.”
“Huh? I spent the weekend watching it on TV.” She took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “Seeing as I had nothing else to do. Anyway, was it her on CCTV outside the Provence?”
“Misunderstanding. It’s sorted now.”
“I see.”
“She’s going back to Copenhagen tomorrow...”
Jo’s voice rose. “For good?”
“No. A few days.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No. Not at all.”
“I could make it up to you?”
She sighed again and said nothing for a moment. Then she laughed. “God. I'm such a push over. My place. Tomorrow, 8pm. But bring plenty of energy. You’re gonna need it.”
31
It was well past noon on Monday when Cole woke with a thumping hangover and no recollection of coming home the night before. He groaned several times on his way to the kitchen where he filled the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he lit a cigarette. On the first drag, he broke down in a fit of coughing and stubbed the cigarette out on a plate. “Fuck this,” he said aloud.
He rummaged in cupboards until he found pills that looked like pain killers, and he washed down three with a glass of water. The kettle flipped off and he brought a mug of sugary tea into the lounge. Still dressed only in his shorts, he slumped onto the sofa. He picked up the remote for the TV and powered it on.
He rolled his eyes at the live coverage of Parliament and he flicked between programs. “Boring. Boring.” He knocked back the last of his tea and stumbled into the shower. As he dressed, the pain killers seemed to kick in and he felt a little better.
Armed with his phone, he returned to the sofa and the TV. Perhaps after the commercial break they’d give an update on the South Kensington attack. In the meantime, he tapped open Twitter on his phone and scrolled through the posts.
He sat further forward as he read. The police had released the champagne terrorist without charge. His grip on the phone tightened. The police hadn’t named her, but several tweets referred to @TVGirlAlice. He put the phone down as the commercial break finished on the TV.
They showed a police press conference from earlier where they announced the release without charge of an unnamed woman on Sunday evening. They refused to take questions concerning her, and only said that investigations were on-going.
Cole wondered what that meant. Was she innocent? He knew the answer to that. It was an emphatic no. He’d been there. He’d seen what went on. The police hadn't. Perhaps he should call the police again? But he’d already given a statement. And the old bill made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He scratched the back of his head. If investigations were on-going, that must mean they didn't have enough evidence against her yet. Was ‘on-going investigation’ the same as ‘pending further investigation’? Cole decided it was.
He looked up to the photo of Daz on his mantelpiece. “What do you reckon bruv? What’s that? Yeah. I hear you. A few more tweets, huh? Yeah. Reckon I should and all.”
Cole thumbed on his phone.
Police release #champagneterrorist #AliceMadsen aka @TVGirlAlice pending further investigation. #guiltybitch #lockherup This is WRONG!!!
When he posted the tweet, he shared it to his FaceBook page and put the phone down. A pang of hunger made him think of breakfast, and a craving for the full English drove him out of the flat and down to Sharon’s Cafe. If his hangover went away, he’d go see Daz in the hospital. And if it didn’t, well he’d worry about that later. He grinned to himself as he admired his tweet. Several people had already retweeted it. Alice Madsen wouldn't get away. No way.
32
Alice found an available SAS flight from Heathrow to Copenhagen for Tuesday afternoon, then booked six nights in a nice city centre hotel. When she printed out her receipts and a boarding pass, she called Connie in Copenhagen.
“Yay Alice. Hvordan går det?”
“I’m fine. All things considered. You heard?”
“I
spoke with Kristin late last night. I tried to call you, but…”
“Sorry. I switched off my phone after I rang Kris. I needed to zone out. Listen, I’m coming over tomorrow.”
“Yay. Great. You’ll stay with us?”
“No. But thanks.”
“What do you mean no? Yes. Yes.”
“I booked six nights in the Petri.”
“Cancel it.”
“There are things I need to do.”
“Like what?”
“See my mother. My brothers…” Alice twirled her hair with her fingers. “…and you know.”
“No. I don't. Tell me. Secret lover?”
Alice sighed. “No. It’s not. It’s…”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh. Of all people you should understand.”
“Oh.”
Alice shook her head and pulled hard at her hair. “Sorry. Sorry Connie. That sounds bad. Rude.”
“Just a little.”
“Damn it. I’m wound up tight. I so need to chill.”
“Hey, I’m sorry too. I should have understood. I was so pleased to hear from you, I kinda forgot, but then, you know… Tell you what, let’s talk when you get here. It’s better that way.”
Alice laughed. “You’ll give me a free session?”
Connie laughed too. “You know I can't do that. We’re too close. But if you want, I can arrange for you to see someone while you're here?”
“I don't know.”
“You ever see someone?”
“No.”
“Perhaps it’s time?”
“Yeah maybe. But I’ve got a lot on my mind. Have you seen what they’re saying on Twitter?”
“Don't look, Alice. Take that as the best counselling advice you’ll ever get. Do. Not. Look. Okay?”
“I suppose.”
“Suppose isn't good enough. Promise me?”
“All right. I promise.”
“Good. Call me when you get to the hotel tomorrow. We’ll celebrate that new show of yours.”
33
The following afternoon, Cole left Hammersmith Hospital and turned left onto Du Cane Road. He walked to the bus stop at Imperial College, leaned against the college rails and took out his phone. The image of Daz connected to wires and tubes proved difficult to shake. Daz just lay on the bed, silent and helpless. Unable to respond to anything. And no doctor could say when Daz would wake up.
