“Follow me.”
She licked her lips and followed. Her hands were still cuffed and the metal chafed against her skin. She tried to shift her arms in front of her to relieve the pressure but that just made it worse. She looked down to see a red weal forming on her right wrist.
“These cuffs are too tight.”
The two policemen stopped and turned to stare at her. She pursed her lips.
“It’s inappropriate force. You need to fix it.”
The junior one, Bill, raised an eyebrow at his colleague. His colleague let out a heavy sigh and looked around them. There was no-one in sight. They were closer to the building now; high windows glinted in the sunshine. She wondered who was in there. How long they were planning to keep her here.
“Alright.” He looked around again, seeming to calculate the distance to the edge of the grounds. It was considerable. He pulled Rita towards him and unlocked the cuffs.
“No running off though.”
She shrugged and rubbed her sore wrist. The skin was dented, a long ridge that reminded her of the scar on her leg from when she’d broken it as a teenager. She hoped this would heal quicker.
The man grabbed her other wrist. His colleague went on ahead, disappearing down some steps at the back of the house.
They followed to find an open door leading to a basement or a cellar. She shivered. She didn’t like the dark.
She looked at the man next to her again. They’d shown ID, but she’d barely looked at it, she’d been so focused on Mrs Toft’s expression and on leaving the children behind.
Were they really police at all?
Chapter Four
Jennifer sat on the plastic chair, staring at the door ahead of her. It was chilly in this corridor, and sounds echoed towards her from what seemed like miles away. Somewhere out of sight, a conversation was going on between two women. Whether they worked here or were inmates like her, she couldn’t tell. She only caught brief snippets – group, women, drugs. The drugs bit didn’t surprise her – if this place was anything like Bronzefield, there would be plenty being smuggled in.
But this place wasn’t like Bronzefield. It wasn’t the Burcot Park she remembered, the one with easy chairs, fine food and doors flung open to the gardens. Her welcome, instead of being from a friendly, besuited receptionist, had been from an orderly in a white coat. Roy Dukes, his name badge said.
It lacked the cold, echoing feel of a prison like Bronzefield. Instead of metal and sweat, it smelled of damp and old wood. And it was quiet. There were no radios here, no shouted conversations across landings or through walls. She’d spent one night in a room with two roommates. They were nothing like Cindy. Paula and Mandy, both in their twenties, had whispered nervously between themselves in the night, heads together where their beds met.
Thin, with grey faces and prominent cheekbones, both seemed jumpy, flinching when she’d dropped her shoes on the floor before going to bed. Paula was the dominant one; Jennifer could sense Mandy looking to her for reassurance and calm. In fact, she wasn’t sure about Mandy’s state of mind. She cried out a few times in her sleep and whimpered for at least ten minutes after waking up. Paula had slid out of bed and held her, rocking her like a frightened child.
The voices along the corridor stopped. A door slammed. It was followed by the hum of a boiler somewhere and the occasional scrape of furniture or feet from the floor above. She wondered what was up there. Whether it still masqueraded as a grand house.
The door in front of her opened and she straightened in her chair. A woman emerged, giving Jennifer a startled look before pushing a lock of greasy hair behind her ear and hurrying away. Her footsteps were quiet as she retreated along the empty corridor.
Jennifer stared at the door, waiting. Finally it opened and a man appeared. He wore a suit – somewhere between expensive and cheap – but no tie. His hair was unkempt, curling around his ears. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, framed by long eyelashes.
He smiled at her. “Jennifer?”
She nodded.
“Come in.”
He stood back and held the door open for her to pass. Inside was a nondescript office. It had a single window high in the opposite wall, at ground level outside, and the walls showed signs of damp. They were mainly bare except for a couple of certificates she couldn’t read at this distance and two small photographs of a toddler, blu-tacked to the wall near the desk. The desk itself sat against the side wall, with two chairs arranged diagonally, one next to it and the other facing the wall. An arrangement designed for collaboration, not confrontation.
Without being asked she sat in the chair closest to her, facing the wall. From here she could read those certificates – Mark Clarke, Psychiatrist – and see the photos better. They both depicted a small boy with shiny blond hair and blue eyes. In one he was riding a balance bike, grinning at the camera with his legs splayed out wide. In the other he was building a snowman, bundled up in bright yellow snow gear that made her think of Hassan. There was another person in the picture, a hand wrapped around his and the edge of a pink coat. The photograph had been torn to eliminate this person – a woman, she assumed. An ex.
The man took the other chair and smoothed his hands on his trousers. He held out his hand. She shook it, surprised at the gesture.
“Pleased to meet you, Jennifer,” he said. “My name’s Dr Clarke. But you can call me Mark.”
She eyed him, wary that the familiarity could be designed to put her off guard.
“Hello,” she replied.
“So,” he said. “My job today is to orientate you to the centre. You’ve already been given your clothes, I see.”
She nodded. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, clothes she’d been handed in exchange for her prison sweats when she’d arrived. She wondered what had happened to her suit. Was it still in that plastic box, back at Bronzefield?
His eyes crinkled. Trying to be friendly. Maybe it was for real, maybe not. She noticed a scar under his right eye, faded with time. His eye looked alright though – he’d had a lucky escape there.
He noticed her looking and put a finger to the scar, then shook himself out. She flicked her eyes away from it and to the desk. It was littered with dirty mugs and pieces of paper. She glanced at them; memos, scrawled notes. Nothing about her.
“So,” he continued. “Let me tell you about the programme.”
She put up a hand. “Stop.”
He leaned back, watching her.
“I’ve been promised a meeting with my solicitor.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, let me make a note of that and see what I can do.”
“I have a right to see my solicitor.”
He stiffened. Was she going to see Edward here? Did he even know where she was?
“As I said, I’ll see what we can do.” He pulled one of the sheets of paper towards him and added another scrawl to it. She wondered if it would get any further.
“And I want to know where my son is. Samir Hussain. No-one’s told me when his trial is. Will I be called as a witness?”
His face clouded. “They haven’t?”
“No.” She dug her fingernails into her palm. Cooperate, she told herself. Don’t make a fuss. People were relying on her.
“I would have thought that the governor at Bronzefield would have—”
“No. She didn’t say anything.”
“OK. Well in that case I have to tell you that it’s already happened. Your son was convicted.” He tilted his head.
“What? But how can they—”
He shrugged. “It was fast tracked. All terrorist cases are.”
“My son is not a terrorist.”
“Terrorist sympathiser. Same thing, as far as the authorities are concerned.”
She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.
“I don’t imagine it’s a surprise to you,” he said. “You must be familiar with the legislation.”
She was. She’d been a backbencher when it was passed, one of
the first of Trask’s hardline measures to combat terrorism after he came to power. After defeating her party. A defeat that she, and her stupid bloody principles, had brought about.
The truth was, she’d known since receiving that note from her friend Catherine – he’s under suspicion, a group – that Samir’s trial would be a foregone conclusion.
She felt her insides loosen. She scrabbled through memories of the law, her understanding of what would happen to Samir now.
“Will he be deported?”
“I think you know I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“The nature of your son’s crimes, and the security implications, means that certain aspects can’t be made public.” He licked his lips; they were full, with broken skin as if he chewed them regularly. He glanced over her head. She frowned and followed his gaze; there was a camera watching. “I don’t know where your son is myself,” he muttered. I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.”
She watched his face, wondering if he was lying. She’d watched so many men lie to her in recent months that she’d lost the ability to tell deceptions from truth. She ran over her memories again, trying to work out what this place was, who this Mark was.
“What is this place?”
He visibly relaxed. “Ah, now that I can answer. This is a British Values Centre. Established last September. I expect you know all about it, given your past.”
September. She’d still been on the Opposition backbenches, licking her wounds and facing the reality that her colleagues despised her for what she’d done. She’d missed a few votes, dealing with problems at home, hardly caring if the Whips chastised her for it.
“Not really,” she said. “Tell me.”
“Alright.”
He walked to a filing cabinet under the window and pulled out a plain white booklet. He put it on the desk in front of her. The British Values Programme. This was the legislation she’d fallen out with Catherine over. Before the Milan bomb had changed everything.
“I know about this. It’s about loyalty to the state. Schools, civil servants. There’s a mantra. An oath.”
He leaned against the wall, nodding.
“I voted against it,” she said.
He laughed. “Of course you did. Jennifer Sinclair, the rebel. Woman of impeccable principles. Brought down your own government.”
“It wasn’t as simple as that.”
“No?”
“No.”
This was irrelevant.
“If you can speak to someone and arrange for me to speak to my solicitor I’d be grateful.”
“Like I say, I’ve already noted it. But I need you to read that leaflet in front of you. It’s the British Values Programme, as it applies to you. To everyone in this place.”
She picked up the leaflet and opened the first page. Step 1: admitting that you’ve been disloyal to your country. She snorted. There were plenty she’d been disloyal to, but her country wasn’t one of them.
“So what do I have to do?” she asked.
“Read that. All six steps. I’ll be taking you through them. One at a time. When you get to the third step, your group will support you.”
“My group?”
“Other women. Who’ve committed similar crimes to yours. We work together here, to support each other. To help each other get through the programme, and understand how to atone for our crimes.”
“Atone?”
“You’ll see.”
“And if I cooperate, what will happen?”
He smiled. “You’ll pass the programme, of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re released.”
Her eyes widened. She flicked through the leaflet. Six steps. And all she had to do was work through each of them and say what they wanted her to. This was easy. Six lies, and she’d be free.
“Does everyone go through this?”
“How do you mean, everyone?”
“Everyone who’s been convicted under the anti-terrorism laws.”
“You’re thinking of your son.”
She said nothing.
He sighed. “I think I’ve made it clear by now that I’m not about to answer that question.”
“No.” But it gave her hope. If Samir was given this chance too, then he could lie, he could get out. If he was sensible. She’d believed him to be a sensible boy, no trouble, always quietly getting on with his schoolwork. But then there’d been the racist taunts, and the fighting. The truancy. The girlfriend, in the photo Edward had shown her. Meena. Who was she, and how had he met her?
She imagined Samir in a meeting like this, talking to a man like Mark.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She’d have to trust that her son valued his freedom over his anger.
“OK,” she said. “I want to do it.”
“Of course you do.”
“How do I start? What do you need me to say to you?”
“It’s not as easy as that.”
Her shoulders fell. Of course it wasn’t.
“Take that with you,” he said, gesturing at the leaflet. “Study it. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we can start the process.”
Chapter Five
Rita peered down the steps. At the bottom, an open door led to darkness. A vague smell of bleach. The dull tang of stewed vegetables. Not a police station.
Next to her, the policeman checked his watch. “I think you need to go down there.”
He pulled his shoulders back and put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
“I can do it myself.”
“Go on then.”
She picked her way down. The steps were bare concrete. To one side was an iron railing running up to ground level. On the other was the red brick of the house. As she descended, the doorway became brighter but the sky above receded. She suppressed a shiver.
When she was halfway down, a man appeared in the doorway. He was tall and gangly, wearing a white coat, like a doctor or a lab technician. Not police. Or maybe forensics? Why did they need forensics?
What might a man in a lab coat do to a person in the basement of a place like this? She stopped walking. The policeman behind crashed into her and cursed under his breath.
The man smiled. On his lapel was a badge. Roy Dukes, Orderly. No logo. No sign of what this place was. But at least he was no doctor, no butcher.
“Where am I?” she asked. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Not my job to tell you. Come on.”
He turned and started walking, footsteps echoing along what sounded like a long corridor. Curiosity overcoming dread, she went as far as the bottom of the steps, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom.
There was a sound behind her and she turned to see the two policemen above her. One of them raised a hand.
“Bye.”
They were leaving her here?
She turned. The orderly was further away now. He’d stopped at the far end of the corridor and was beckoning her to follow. His smile didn’t do anything to alleviate an air of menace about the way he held his body. She backed up, almost tripping over the bottom step.
The policeman – the passenger, the one who hadn’t been here before – was behind her, grabbing her arm to keep her upright.
“You’ll be OK,” he breathed. “Don’t worry.”
She looked at him, eyes wide. She wanted to throw herself on his mercy, beg to be taken away. But he was police.
She nodded and drew in her breath. She turned and walked towards the orderly.
The corridor was flanked by high windows on one side, almost at ceiling height here but at ground level outside. It wasn’t as gloomy as she’d thought, but instead was pierced by shafts of light from each of these windows. On the other side were doors, all of which had peeling blue paint.
She picked up her pace and was soon with the orderly. He said nothing but turned to open one of the doors. A ring of keys rattled in his hand.
He stood back to usher her in. S
he felt a moment’s dread – was she about to be locked in here? – but stepped inside anyway. She’d been arrested in plain sight after all, and the due process of the law would apply. This was an interview room or something, somewhere she would be questioned before being released on bail or maybe held overnight if she was unlucky.
She imagined the questions they’d ask. How did it work now, with the new laws? Was she entitled to a solicitor? Or did the speedy process take away that right too?
Either way, she wouldn’t let them get the better of her.
Inside the room was a desk. It wasn’t the bare table of an anonymous interview room but the desk of a regular occupant. There was even a potted plant. She wondered how it survived in here, then realised it was plastic. Next to it was a pot of pens and a neat pile of notebooks. And in the middle of the desk was a name plate. Counsellor, it said. No name. Surely if she was allowed to know the name of the orderly, she would be told the name of her interviewer?
“Take a seat, please,” the orderly muttered.
Between her and the desk was a single chair, one of those institutional orange plastic ones with black metal legs that they used at school sometimes. It felt incongruous next to the desk, which was large, wooden and battered, and the chair opposite, which was leather. It too was old, with scuffed arms and pockmarks in the seat back.
She eased herself into the plastic chair, controlling her breathing. She didn’t want them to know about her claustrophobia. Maybe they already did; that could be why she’d been brought here.
The orderly left, closing the door behind him. She went to check it. It wasn’t locked. She eased it open, peering into the corridor outside. It was empty.
Should she make a run for it? The outside door would be locked. She would never find her way to the front of the building without being caught. A weight fell over her as she closed the door and sat down again. Good girl, she muttered to herself.
The room was shifting now, floating as if in a hallucination. She placed her hands on the desk, gripping the worn wood. She closed her eyes and pulled a breath in through her nose, panting it out again. Lion’s breath, a yoga technique that always brought her senses back.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 28
