A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘That suggests habit?’ The female’s tone made this a question. Amelie noticed a small notebook in her hand. Pen scratching over the page.

  Amelie paused before answering. Could she be hinting at some kind of grooming practice? Didn’t paedophiles do that? They thought Dave was a paedophile? Jesus. She had been about to say that Damaris’s parents ignored her and she practically brought herself up, but she edited that. ‘There are no other kids on the estate.’ Shrug. And she knew there was an elegance to that move­ment that could captivate. After all she’d seen herself do it on the big screen. ‘Now and again she pops in, asks me a lot of questions about being in the movies…’ See, it wasn’t just Dave. ‘Then goes off to find him. Most times he fobs her off. What does a grown man have in common with a little girl, after all? But occasionally he feels bad and gives her a moment or two.’

  ‘And today?’ the female asked.

  ‘I heard and saw nothing until Dave came back in complaining that Damaris was extra annoying. He said she caught her bike on the flex of the lawn mower, fell off and hurt herself.’

  ‘You saw and heard nothing more?’

  Amelie gestured towards the novel on her coffee table.

  ‘Mind if we take a look in the back garden?’ the male cop asked.

  ‘Please. Be my guest.’ Amelie shot a look over her shoulder. ‘The door’s open.’

  Before he made for the door, his head cocked as if he’d heard something that concerned him and instead he went back the way he’d come in.

  As he moved away Amelie looked at the only cop now in the room. ‘PC…?’

  ‘Talbot.’

  ‘PC Talbot, don’t tell me you’re taking this claim seriously?’ asked Amelie.

  Talbot’s brow furrowed. ‘We take all claims seriously, Miss Hart.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Amelie agreed, allowing her features to soften. ‘People who suffer from this kind of thing have to feel safe enough to come forward. I can’t imagine…’ She shuddered. ‘But Dave. He’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘If that’s the case then you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘We both know miscarriages of justice happen, don’t we?’ And she cringed as she thought of how the media would spin this. Hollywood star hiding out with paedo. Then the talking heads would get involved. Opinions as rancid as their so-called person­alities, wearing hair extensions and Botox stares as they demand, how could she not know? And then they’d wonder if she was ac­tually involved in some way. Before they knew it they’d be painted as the twenty-first-century version of Brady and Hindley.

  Jesus.

  You can jump off that bridge when you come to it, Amelie, she told herself. First, she needed to make sure Dave was okay.

  ‘We’ll need access to Mr Robbins’ laptop, please,’ PC Talbot said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Amelie was so lost in her doomsday scenario – media darling to media demon – she didn’t catch what the constable said.

  ‘Often we find that perpetrators of such crimes have a multi­tude of illegal images on their personal technology…’ Oh, laptop, thought Amelie. ‘I’m sure a quick look by our people will cross off that particular box.’

  Amelie hugged herself, dipped her head. Dave was in real trouble here. ‘He has an office at the top of the stairs. Two laptops. A company one and a personal one. His iPhone will probably be up there as well, on the charger. Don’t know why he bothers, barely uses the thing.’

  ‘Is it okay if I…?’ The officer looked back towards the stairs.

  ‘We have nothing … Dave has nothing to hide.’ A bitter smile. ‘Please. Do what you need to do.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wondered if this was the right thing to do. Didn’t they need a warrant or something?

  PC Talbot gave her a polite little bow and left the room, just as the cop who’d gone out the front returned.

  ‘Mr Brown has been ordered to stay indoors until we have taken Mr Robbins from the premises.’

  She jumped to her feet. ‘Why, what happened?’

  ‘It’s all under control now, Miss Hart.’

  ‘Dave was in your custody. If he’s been hurt because of your mis­treatment I will sue your arse.’ Roger was fat and lazy, could barely fit through his own front door, but he would have enough heft to cause some damage.

  The policeman was unfazed. He held up a hand. ‘Mr Robbins is fine.’

  It occurred to her the policeman didn’t much care if he was or not.

  Then the thought hit that, given a supposedly vulnerable child was living right next door, Dave wouldn’t be allowed back until this had all been settled.

  Perhaps, not even then.

  Chapter 6

  Dave had no idea how long it took to get from his home to the police station. Could have been the twenty minutes it should have taken, or it could have been ten days for all the sense his brain was making of things.

  Surreal didn’t cover it.

  This kind of thing happened to other people. Thieves and mur­derers and actual real paedophiles, not guys like him. The closest he’d ever come to being arrested prior to this moment was while taking a leak up a town-centre lane in Blackpool during a stag weekend. The cop who’d seen him was right at the end of his shift. Gave him a bit of a dressing down and mumbled something along the lines of bugger that paperwork, and let him go.

  Once they arrived at the station, he was taken into a room to be ‘booked in’. It had to be the custody sergeant who did it, and he was currently doing something else and then he was having his tea, so get comfortable, buddy, he was told, this could take a while.

  The bucket seat made his backside ache after about half an hour, other than that he barely registered a thing. He was in shock and completely unable to process anything with any degree of sense.

  They thought he molested a child.

  Him.

  A molester of children?

  Didn’t they know how ridiculous that was? He was good with kids. Enjoyed their honesty and energy. He even volunteered in a befriending project recently. One of those where young men from chaotic backgrounds are given a positive role model. Lee was the young fella he’d been put in touch with. His father had died two years previously in a car accident, and his mother couldn’t cope with the combination of Lee, his five siblings and her dependency on alcohol. He’d thrown a rugby ball about with Lee a couple of times, gone to the cinema and eaten a couple of illicit burgers at McDonalds.

  Shit.

  Lee. What would he think? Another adult male had let him down.

  No. This is all a mistake. Any minute now a camera crew would come marching in and say this was all part of some documentary. A documentary about what, he wasn’t sure. How to mess up someone’s life? Because that was what was going to happen to him.

  Life ruined.

  At least he was employed by family. Surely his own father would believe him? They might lose a few clients, but most of them had been with them for decades, and you don’t change accountants just for the sake of it.

  He became aware of someone in the space and he summoned the wherewithal to look around. It was like a waiting area that had been designed by someone with only one colour in their pallet. Grey walls, grey linoleum on the floor and grey chairs. The lights on the ceiling had bars in front of them. Who’d try and steal them?

  He wondered what he should do and say. Don’t they ask for a lawyer in the movies? Why didn’t they have him in a cell or some­thing? How was he supposed to act in this situation?

  ‘What’s this guy’s story then?’ another officer asked.

  ‘Molesting a wee lassie.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Right.’

  The man gave him a hard look. Scrutiny that was like a scouring of his soul. With the wrong word and a cursory examination, he had been found wanting in the worst way possible.

  More people came and went. And more scrutiny. He
was be­ginning to read the signs. Clenched fists, hard eyes and thin lips. Say it and it was so. Guilty until proven innocent. Be accused of something like this and everyone looked like they wanted to punch the last blood cell out of him.

  Time passed in a slow torment of worry before his name was read out, like a klaxon into a heavy silence.

  ‘Mr Robbins, if you would come this way?’ The skin on the guy’s scalp refracted the light almost like a disco ball, and he looked like he had half of one at his midriff, under his white shirt. Shoulders that had seen a few rugby scrums no doubt, so he was not to be messed with.

  It was strange how his assessment of people had changed so quickly. Rather than assessing people for a potential pleasant social experience, he was instantly measuring them up as a source of risk.

  He was guided through to a small room, which was every bit as grey as the space he’d just left.

  ‘I’m the custody officer,’ the man said in a bass that reverberated almost to Dave’s toes. ‘You are now being processed. Do you understand?’

  Dave nodded.

  ‘Please speak.’

  He coughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your rights, while you are in my custody are…’

  Shit, thought Dave, this was as real as it gets. The man con­tinued speaking, Dave doing his best to listen, but only able to concentrate on the odd word. Noises about free legal advice, medical help if he was feeling ill. Something about regular breaks for the toilet and food was written on a card.

  The police officer, with a matter-of-fact expression, pushed his great mitts into blue gloves. ‘Now I need to search you. Please stand.’ At this, Dave’s chest began to thrum so hard he had no idea how he had the energy to get to his feet. ‘Arms out, please.’

  Every part of him was touched. Every part. Almost enough for the man to make an educated guess as to whether or not he was circumcised. The swabs were taken from his hands and arms, inside his mouth and then his prints were taken, just before he was asked to stand in front of a camera.

  There was a loud knock on the door, it was pushed open and a man in a suit walked in. A black pinstripe. His face was lean, his dark hair streaked with grey and his eyes scanned the room like a laser.

  ‘Mr Robbins, my name is Joseph Bain.’ He stood feet shoulder-width apart, briefcase hanging in one hand. ‘Do you require legal representation?’

  Dave nodded.

  ‘Please speak.’

  ‘I think I do.’ Dave looked from the policeman to the lawyer, neither giving anything away. ‘I do,’ Dave asserted. ‘Not sure I can afford you though,’ he said and gave Bain the once over. Saw a suit worth hundreds of pounds.

  ‘My fee has been taken care of, Mr Robbins,’ said Bain. Then he looked at the custody officer. ‘May I have a word with my client in private, please?’ His tone brooked no dissent. Not that he would get any, Dave was sure. This was a man who was clearly all about the theatre, and Dave was strangely reassured by it.

  The officer left the room. Bain took a seat, across the table from him where the policeman had been. Looked at Dave. ‘Bloody hell, that was close. I was three gins into a supper party when the call came.’ He glanced around. ‘I’m a solicitor advocate, would you believe? Don’t normally do house calls.’ He sucked in some air. ‘Good news or bad news?’

  ‘Wait a moment. How can I afford you?’

  ‘Your father pulled in a favour.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Few people in Glasgow don’t know who Peter Robbins is.’

  ‘I know Dad is well connected but…’

  ‘Let’s keep the conversation to pertinent matters, Dave. May I call you Dave?’

  Dave nodded. ‘But how did Dad get to hear about it?’

  ‘Your lady friend, Miss Hart, called him.’

  Shit. Dave wanted to be the one to do that. His father was big on ‘avoiding avoidance’. All through his childhood the mantra was: a man squares his shoulders and faces life’s problems. Never forget that and you will do well, my son.

  Dad was big on advice, and problems were like numbers in a spreadsheet, to be analysed and dealt with. Emotion at a remove. He’d seen his father cry exactly once in his life. When his own father died. Other than that he misted up when athletes were awarded gold medals at the Olympics and then he’d walk/run away from the TV as if he’d just been caught with a urine stain on the front of his trousers.

  ‘So, good news or bad news?’ Bain repeated.

  ‘What I don’t feel like is drama, so just tell me, for fuckssake.’

  Bain’s smile was genuine for the first time since they’d met. ‘Good. A backbone. You’ll need it for what you are about to go through.’ He placed his briefcase on the table. ‘Good news: the evidence I’ve seen so far is weak. The bad news is that Roger Brown’s uncle is a senior-ranked police officer, with a lot of pull.’

  Dave had forgotten this. And then recalled the local gossip that Claire and Roger’s family ties to both sides of the law had created a lot of tension in their lives. He searched his memory for a poss­ible uncle who might have come visiting. Remembered a man of whom Damaris appeared to be fond. Heard her singing ‘Uncle Jack’ from the garden. Then, he caught an image in his mind of them strolling side by side. The low rumble of the man’s voice as he pointed out which were flowers and which were weeds.

  ‘And,’ continued Bain, ‘Great Uncle, Chief Superintendent Brown is baying for blood.’

  Chapter 7

  As soon as the police left with Dave, Amelie ran to the parking bay at the side of the cottage and jumped in her car.

  Driving into town she realised with a start that she wasn’t quite sure where the police station was. Near the library perhaps? Should be quite central, she reasoned and aimed for the road that sliced through the heart of East Kilbride.

  An approaching driver flashed his lights at her and as she drew close, she could see an old man. He was waving at her. What the hell was his problem? Then she realised all the parked cars either side of the street were facing in the one direction, towards her.

  She was driving the wrong way down a one way. Idiot.

  Feeling her face heat with embarrassment, she held a hand up in apology. Then she stopped the car, stuck it in reverse and ma­noeuvred to the end of the street. She parked. Held a hand to her forehead and realised she was trembling.

  Emotion demanded a release and she started to cry. Great heaving sobs.

  Get a grip, she told herself. This wasn’t about her. Dave. Poor man. What must he be going through?

  She heard a knock at her window, turned, and saw the man who’d been waving her down. On automatic pilot she located the window switch and opened it a little.

  ‘You okay, hen?’ the man asked in a tremulous voice. Nothing to do with his emotion, more to do with his great age, she thought as she looked at the deep wrinkles around his rheumy eyes.

  She nodded. Sniffed. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Even managed a bit of a smile.

  He reached a hand through the window and patted her shoulder, his concern for her a reminder that there were decent people about. ‘A large whisky,’ he said. ‘Always works for me.’ And with a sad, but supportive smile, he straightened his back with a little groan and ambled off.

  Her phone sounded an alert. She fished it out of her pocket and read her manager’s name. Had he heard about this already? Bernard Mosley had come into her life just at the right time. Camp as a fortnight in Butlins, was how he described himself. He loved nothing more than a fresh orange and champagne for break­fast, was rarely seen without a cravat and fob watch. He found her her first role and took the place of the father who’d run out on her and her family and returned to his native France when she was around eleven years old.

  About the same age as Damaris Brown.

  She stuffed the phone back in her pocket with the thought; not now, Bernard.

  Amelie forced a deep breath. Right. Where was she? She stepped o
ut of the car and straining her neck, looked down the street. A part of a sign caught her view; blue background and white lettering, edging out from beyond a building further down. ICE she read.

  When she started walking towards it she realised she was still wearing her slippers, a shapeless brown cardigan over a baggy T-shirt and black leggings.

  She reached the glass double door of the police station, pushed it open and walked into a reception area. Facing her was a desk area. On the wall behind it a plethora of community-service posters. Drug abuse and suicide helplines. Something about how the local police were there for you.

  Right.

  Pulling her cardigan tight around her, she moved closer to the desk and noticed a buzzer. She pressed it and a few seconds later, a door opened and a female entered. Pretty, middle-aged, ample-bosomed, matronly type.

  Of course the woman recognised her. Her look said, oh dear, you look a mess, but that quickly passed and she switched into polite and professional mode. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘My … friend has just been brought in.’ Part of her mind paused and wondered why she’d left the ‘boy’ out of that statement. ‘And I was wondering who I should speak to about what was going on.’

  ‘Name, please?’

  ‘Amelie Hart.’

  ‘No, your friend’s name, Miss Hart. I know who you are. Of course I do.’ The woman’s eyes brightened and she looked like she was about to go into full-on fan mode, but she stiffened her stance as if she had just reminded herself of their situation.

  ‘Dave. Sorry, David Robbins.’

  ‘You just have a seat over there, Miss Hart,’ she pointed to an area behind Amelie, ‘and I’ll go check.’

  Amelie turned and saw a row of four plastic chairs in front of a panel of wood-coloured Formica. Tall plastic ficus plants had been placed at either end of the row, probably in an effort to make the place appear friendlier.

  She sat down, crossed her legs and, leaning forward, became aware of the weight of her mobile phone in her cardigan pocket. Before she left the house she’d made a couple of phone calls. Lisa made her regret the call to her. She screeched and went into full drama-queen mode. Said ‘ohmygod’ at least a dozen times on the one breath.