by T. M. Logan
Despite that, I still can’t shake the nagging feeling that I’ve let Kathryn down somehow. I’d like to see her again, to explain what happened with Mia, to check they’re both OK.
I waved away medical help to begin with, insisting they check Mia over first in case she had any kind of injury. But apart from tucking into another bottle of milk she seemed remarkably unaffected by the last few hours, giggling and smiling up at the green-jumpsuited paramedic as she was examined. Once Mia was checked, the paramedic had disinfected the wounds in my foot – two lacerations from the broken glass – and bound it in a bandage. It’s still tender, and pain lances through the sole with every move I make. He also cleaned the cut above my eye and put a plaster over it.
The duty solicitor arrives, an amiable man in his thirties with kind eyes, who introduces himself as Chris Betteridge. He tells me that anything between the two of us is confidential, before asking that I be honest with him. He explains the police caution to me and tells me he’s only there to advise, not tell me what to do, but ultimately I have three options: answer the questions; say ‘no comment’; or read a prepared statement. I tell him I’m happy to answer any questions they have. Lastly, he tells me my legal rights are ongoing so I can stop the interview as many times as I like if I want further advice, although I get the impression that he’d rather get it done and dusted as soon as possible, given that we’re heading into the small hours of the morning. His pep talk complete, he sits next to me filling out a pro forma with various details, while a uniformed PC comes in and takes a saliva sample for DNA, the cotton wool bud soft and strange as it’s rolled up and down the inside of my cheek. Then we wait another hour for a pair of detectives to arrive, while I sip a second Styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea.
Don’t trust anyone.
My mind scrolls back again over the ten words scrawled on that scrap of paper. Examining each line. The first one a request, the next two instructions. Warnings, distinct and clear.
But I know all too well that fixating too long on one thing is a sure way to get blindsided. I was fixated for so long on starting a family that I hadn’t seen the cracks growing in my marriage until it was too late. I was so focused on getting pregnant that I failed to notice the distance growing between me and my husband.
Perhaps I’m looking at this whole situation the wrong way as well.
Perhaps it’s not what was written in the note, but what was missing from it. It didn’t say don’t trust him, or don’t trust Dominic; it didn’t refer to him at all – at least not directly. Does that mean something? It said I shouldn’t trust anyone, but what’s that about? The only specific element related to the police.
The door to the interview room opens and two men come in, taking the seats opposite me at the table. The older one is mid-forties, the top button of his shirt undone, tie at half-mast, five o’clock shadow, short dark hair going in all directions. Glasses already halfway down his nose. He looks as if he’s been awake for days but he’s not unattractive, in a ruffled Willem Dafoe kind of way. The younger one is in his late twenties, slicked-back dark hair, slim and gym-toned in a navy suit and pale pink silk tie. The kind of guy who might hit on you in a bar and refuse to take no for an answer. He has a green cardboard folder which he lays on the table between us. They make a strange pair.
The older one gives a nod of recognition to the duty solicitor before turning his attention to me. He laces his fingers together on the table.
‘Hello Ellen, my name is Detective Inspector Gilbourne from the Major Crimes Unit,’ he says, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Holt.’
‘Where’s Mia?’ I say. ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s being looked after,’ Gilbourne says with a tired smile. ‘She’s safe and in good hands.’
‘Can I see her?
DS Holt frowns, shaking his head.
‘That’s not going to be possible, I’m afraid.’
‘I just . . . want to make sure that she’s all right, that’s all.’
‘Like my colleague said, she’s being looked after.’
‘But you need to put special protections in place, she’s not safe, her father is—’
Holt cuts me off with a raised hand.
‘We’ll get to all that in a few minutes, Ellen.’
Gilbourne says, ‘You really don’t need to worry about the baby anymore, Ellen. The relevant social services teams are doing all they can to get her back to her family, and we certainly all appreciate you bringing her back to us.’
‘I was just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Of course,’ he says, but there’s something strange in his tone, something almost apologetic. To his partner, he adds: ‘Let’s get started, shall we, Nathan?’
Holt busies himself with a boxy black device attached to the table that I assume is some kind of audio recorder. He presses a button, checks the display and then his watch before reciting the time, date and location of the interview.
‘Present are DS Nathan Holt and DI Stuart Gilbourne,’ he says, ‘with Ellen Devlin and duty solicitor Chris Betteridge. First of all, Ellen, can I just check you’ve received medical attention for your injuries, and you’ve had something to eat and drink in the last hour, and that you’re not in need of any specific medication at this time?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Not in too much pain from your foot, are you?’ His face is blank, devoid of emotion. ‘Heard you had some nasty cuts.’
‘They’re all cleaned up and I’ve had paracetamol from the paramedic, it’s fine.’
‘Good,’ he says, opening the folder on the table in front of him. ‘Ellen Devlin, I’m arresting you on suspicion of kidnapping and false imprisonment and possession of a firearm. 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. Do you understand?’
I swallow and nod, my throat suddenly dry. They’re arresting me. Betteridge had told me they would but it’s still unsettling to hear the words.
‘Can you speak up, please?’ DS Holt says, gesturing towards the black box. ‘For the benefit of the recording?’
‘I understand.’
‘Right. So how about you tell us, in your own words, what happened?’
15
Dominic
Dominic turned his head towards the weak light over the mirror. He needed to be able to see what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a wound, but he needed to close it up to stop infection getting in. He couldn’t afford to get sick. And more importantly, he had to blend in better on the street. He still had a lot of work to do and he needed to be able to move around without attracting undue attention. He’d already cleaned and disinfected the area with vodka – the sting enough to make him grip the edge of the sink with white knuckled hands – and now it was time to stitch.
The needle was sterilising in a glass half-filled with more vodka. He fished it out and pushed surgical thread through it. He’d done this before, years ago, but never on himself. Pain is the price of failure. There’s much more pain waiting if you fail again. The wound was about two inches long; the pistol butt had torn the skin in a straight line, leaving it surrounded by livid purple bruising that was darkening by the hour. With his left hand, he pinched the wound, squeezing the separated skin together over his cheekbone. He gripped the needle in his right hand and pushed the point through unyielding skin, his teeth gritted against a fierce flare of pain.
The B & B was a shithole – cracked plaster hanging from the ceiling, mildew in the corners and a wet dog smell in the corridors – but they let him pay cash which suited him fine, and they didn’t ask questions when he walked in, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low to disguise the blood on his face. He couldn’t go back to the studio. Not now. And he certainly couldn’t go to a hospital, either. Not where there might be police snooping around, checking treatment records and looking for someone fitting his description. Fucki
ng police. He went cold with fury at the thought of them.
Each puncture of the needle brought a new grunt of pain, a low growl at the back of his throat. He stopped to take another hit of vodka straight from the bottle, relishing the rasp as it burned its way down his throat. He stared at his busted-up face in the mirror. He had showered, but he could still smell the smoke in his hair, the stink of petrol splashed onto his jacket and jeans seeming to fill the small room.
He wasn’t a violent man. Not normally. His size, his build was normally enough to get him what he wanted, to convince people that confrontation was not a good idea. But sometimes people didn’t behave the way you expected them to.
Like the stranger. Ellen Devlin.
Dominic took another slug of vodka and put the bottle back down by the sink.
He pulled a fifth stitch through, cinched it tighter. Unlooped the thread from the needle and tied it off close to the skin. It was an ugly job, the stitches messy and uneven, but it was better than leaving it open. There would be a scar, but he didn’t care about that. He had plenty of them already, some of them visible, some not. He found a wide plaster in his first-aid kit and stuck it over the top to cover the stitches.
The pain was a savage throb across the right side of his face, but he deserved it. All of it. Because he had been close. So close. And he’d let her get away. He put the vodka bottle to his lips and took another drink, the pain blurring a fraction more as the alcohol hit his empty stomach.
He left the small bathroom and sat down on the single bed with its creaking springs and grey sheets. He picked up his phone and selected the number again. Listened to it ring and go to voicemail. Hung up without leaving a message. Again.
Shit.
He deserved this. All of this. He had been stupid and careless, he’d underestimated her.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
16
‘It’s an extraordinary story,’ DS Holt says when I’m finished. ‘Quite . . . amazing.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But that’s what happened.’
I’ve lain it all out for them, from the moment Kathryn asked to sit down opposite me on the train to when I escaped from Dominic and flagged down a passing van on the street outside. Holt made notes while I was speaking but Gilbourne simply sat and listened, nodding occasionally, hands folded over his flat stomach. The only reaction he’s given is an occasional raised eyebrow.
‘And he knows where I live,’ I say. I think of my captor’s threat as he held up my mobile and made me unlock it. ‘He’s got access to everything in my phone. What should I do?’
Gilbourne’s face crinkles with concern. ‘Is your husband at home?’
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘We do have a few resources for at-risk witnesses, a refuge for victims of domestic abuse, but as you can probably imagine, demand far outstrips supply. They’re over capacity already.’
‘So what do you suggest I should do?’ I say. ‘How long are you going to keep me here for?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
He ignores my question. ‘Is there somewhere else local you could potentially stay for a few days? A relative, a friend?’
I think about texting Tara, then immediately remember again that my phone is gone. I don’t know her number off by heart. Come to think of it, I didn’t know any numbers off by heart, apart from my own, Richard’s and my mum’s landline which she’s had since I was a girl.
‘There is somewhere I could probably go, for a few days. My friend Tara, as soon as I can get a new phone sorted.’
‘Good,’ Gilbourne nods. ‘That would probably be wise.’
Holt taps his notepad impatiently with the end of his pen.
‘Let’s get back to the train,’ he says. ‘Kathryn literally handed you her baby and walked away, and you’ve had no further contact with her since?’
‘She asked me to help for a couple of minutes while she dealt with a personal phone call. I was expecting her to come back at any moment – it never occurred to me that she might get off at the next station.’
‘And you had never met her before this, never had a conversation with her, never discussed anything she might or might not be planning to do with this child?’
‘No,’ I say, looking from one detective to the other. ‘Never.’
‘Obviously we can check that against mobile phone records.’
I frown. ‘Right.’
‘To see if you had any contact with Kathryn prior to today’s events.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I just told you I’d never met her before.’
‘So you’re saying you didn’t plan this with her?’
‘Plan it?’ I stare at the young detective. ‘No, of course not. Wait, so you’re saying that Kathryn planned all of this in advance?’
‘Didn’t she?’ Holt says.
‘I’ve no idea, I’ve already told—’
‘This note you said she left in the baby’s bag,’ Gilbourne says gently. ‘You lost it?’
‘It was in my handbag.’
‘That you left at this place?’
‘Yes.’
‘And just to be clear, everything else that you had – everything related to the baby – you handed over to the desk sergeant on arriving here, correct?’
‘I think so. I mean, Dominic took most of it from me and I left it behind when we ran.’
‘I need you to think hard, now,’ Gilbourne says. ‘Have you surrendered everything? All the baby’s clothes, cloths, feeding paraphernalia, dummies, toys, all that stuff?’
I shift in my seat.
‘I just took Mia and ran for the door,’ I say. ‘There was no time to pick up anything else. What do you need all that for, anyway?’
‘We need to gather all the evidence we can get for potential lab analysis down the line. Depending on how things pan out.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Of course.’
Holt says, ‘What about the guard on the train? Could they corroborate what you’re saying, did you approach the guard at any point?’
I shake my head.
‘There wasn’t one that I could see. Isn’t there CCTV on the train that can confirm what I’ve said?’
‘Not on Chiltern Line trains, unfortunately,’ Holt says. ‘And the cameras at Seer Green have been out of action since last winter. But the cameras at Marylebone picked you up getting off with the baby and heading straight for the exit. Tell us again, why didn’t you alert the station authorities?’
I cast my mind back to those crucial few minutes when I had stepped off the train with Mia in my arms, a little warm bundle of life in the crook of my elbow. Descending onto the platform into noise and chaos, aggression and alcohol, too many people packed in too close to each other.
‘It was chaotic, there were two sets of football fans and it looked as if it was all about to kick off, with us in the middle of it. A lot of hostility. Police with machine guns. And a weird-looking guy who followed me off the train.’
‘And he was different from the one you claim abducted you?’
I suppress a bristle of annoyance at his choice of words.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Two different men.’
‘The first of them, the one on the train, tell me about him.’ Holt has one of those posh accents that he’s trying hard to disguise but that slides out every so often. A home counties public school voice that he’s tried to flatten, coarsen into a generic London accent to blend in with colleagues and suspects alike. Gilbourne, on the other hand, has a natural, soft Cotswold burr.
I summon a memory of the man on the train.
‘He was mid to late-thirties, black leather jacket, average height, maybe a little bit shorter than me—’
‘And how tall are you, Ellen?’ Holt interrupts.
‘Five ten and a half.’
‘Right,’ he makes a note on his pad, taking his time. ‘OK. Carry on.’
‘He had these really intense
staring eyes, dark eyes, black beanie hat on but I think he was bald. He was wearing these big combat boots and he was a bit scruffy-looking, like he’d been sleeping rough. He took a laptop out and when I looked over next, he was taking pictures of me and the baby on his phone.’
‘Taking pictures is not a crime,’ Holt says.
‘Maybe not but it’s bloody weird,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to get her away from him, from all of it, to a police station. Somewhere safe.’
‘But you didn’t do that, did you?’
I cross my arms. ‘Being abducted at gunpoint sort of got in the way of my plans.’
‘After you’d decided to go to a café.’ He strings the last word out, his eyes flicking up to mine. ‘Then a guy comes out of nowhere, threatens to kill you.’
‘He was waiting for me in his car. There’ll be CCTV on St George Street, something, won’t there?’
‘We’re checking that out.’
‘And the place he took me, the old studio complex, what about that? There must be some evidence there.’
‘The fire brigade were called out to it soon after you arrived here tonight, a blaze localised at the back of the building, second floor. By the time they got it under control, the whole wing of the building was gutted. Looks like there may have been some kind of accelerant used. We had a quick look at the scene earlier tonight, there’s some evidence there might have been a few tramps sleeping rough in parts of the building. But nothing useful from a preliminary search.’
‘He wasn’t a tramp,’ I say in exasperation.
Gilbourne sits forward in his chair. ‘Let’s rewind a little back to yesterday, shall we? Before this all happened. Can you tell us about your movements in the hours before boarding that train?’
‘Why?’
‘You boarded at Stoke Mandeville, correct?’
‘No, I had to go back via Aylesbury, some sort of problem on the line.’
‘Did that take longer?’
‘A little bit.’
‘And what were you doing there? Was that a work thing? Seeing a friend? Shopping?’
