Chapter 26 The Police Station
The Police Station
The police station doesn’t look like the ones on TV.
Laptop clutched underarm, I wonder if the police stations I’ve seen on TV are just sets, or maybe regional stations, which must be cleaner, newer, with more funding—certainly more than this one, because this police station does not inspire confidence at all.
It looks like the kind of place crimes happen, not where they are solved.
The waiting area smells of urine and homeless clothing. It is empty. The front desk is abandoned.
Behind me, back out on the street, through the large motion-sensor glass doors, an older woman is shouting loudly at her fabric shopping cart, as if it were a person. And from the vehemence of her garbled words, it is clear that she is angry with it.
I watch as the automatic doors reopen every time she gesticulates toward the cart.
I turn back to the reception counter, but it is still unmanned. I suddenly feel the tiredness of months inside me, perhaps awoken by the grogginess from the pills I took last night.
The lobby is flooded with bright streetlight through the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage, which no doubt looked impressive when it was first installed, but is now riddled with scratched graffiti tags and smeared.
At a loss for what else to do, I take a seat. The chair’s plastic squeaks loudly as I sit. I should have just called. I shouldn’t have come, I decide.
But then I know there would have been no point in calling 999. I wouldn’t have been able to explain, or tell them where to go. Best to just show them the footage.
I clutch my laptop tighter under my arm. They’ll be able to search for her once they see that she’s trapped, and have her name. They’ll be able to track the route or something, I reassure myself.
But the panic and the urgency that got me out of the house and down to the station, my resolve, is now already beginning to sour.
Because no one is here, so maybe I shouldn’t be here, either?
It’s a little after eleven on a Friday night. Surely it should be busy here, or am I thinking of A I’m not making any of this up!”
I immediately regret saying anything about making things up, because now it fully sounds like I’ve made all of this up.
DI Cobham grimaces sympathetically, then straightens in his chair, presenting an amiable but authoritative front as he leans in to say, “Ms. Green, without the consent, tacit or otherwise, of this homeowner, and the parties involved in your recording, I am legally unable to watch it.” He taps his pen in a fast, arrhythmic burst against the notes in front of him.
“I have the victim’s name, and the name of the man holding her against her will. She wrote them down and held them up.”
DI Cobham looks up fast. “Okay, I’m listening,” he prompts, flipping his notebook back open.
I feel a sudden rush of vindication. “Her name is Anna Derwent, and the man keeping her there is called Simon Hughes.”
I watch DI Cobham scrawl out the names and underline them.
“She’s been locked down there for about a year, she says, and she needs help.”
DI Cobham nods, then looks up when no further information materializes.
“Okay, and the address, location?” he asks, sensing what’s coming next.
“I don’t know. I tried to work out the route but it’s impossible to follow. But it can’t be more than five, ten minutes from my house.”
DI Cobham squeezes his eyes shut tight before saying, “You tried to work out the…cat’s route?”
“Er, yeah.”
“Right,” he says, in a way that signifies he dislikes himself at this point as much as he dislikes me. “Let’s wrap this up, I think.”
DI Cobham blows out a long breath, his cheeks ballooning as he pushes the folder away from him.
“Best I can do,” he says after a moment of internal conflict, “is run the names through the system. If anyone by those names is missing, or has previous, I’ll follow up. But other than that there is not much anyone can do…whatever it is you say you saw on your pet camera.”
“Can’t you look up ‘Simon Hughes’ in the area and go and check his house?” I blurt. DI Cobham clears his throat loudly, otherwise maintaining the patience of a saint.
“I cannot, no. I would need a warrant to search this man’s house, even if we knew where it was, and I would need reasonable cause to search, some kind of evidence—”
“But we have evidence.”
“No, we don’t, Ms. Green. Putting aside the fact that your video is totally inadmissible in court, it is a criminal offense to record members of the public within their own homes without their consent. And I’m just guessing here, but you don’t have their consent. Do you?”
“Anna asked me to help her. She says as much in the footage—she wrote it down. Is that consent? I can show you.”
“I’m not legally allowed to watch your illegally obtained video, Ms. Green.”
I feel my jaw set. None of this is going at all the way I had anticipated.
“If Anna Derwent’s name flags as missing on our system, or if there have been any reports of domestic violence involving a Simon Hughes, we will look into this. But I better not find that he’s an ex of yours, Ms. Green, or I will charge you with wasting police time. Is that understood?”
I force myself to nod assent, instead of letting expletives fly from me. The idea that I might be doing this as revenge on an ex is beyond infuriating.
“Also, Ms. Green, this”—he pauses, gesturing between us—“is not a movie. If there is an issue with the named individuals you have mentioned, your involvement in any of this ends here. Your part is over. We have a name. Thank you for that. Consider your involvement ended.”
I stare at the man. “I’m sorry? That woman needs help. How will I know if you’re going to do something—”
“You won’t; you’re not a member of the Metropolitan Police, Ms. Green.
It’s not your business to know what happens next,” he explains.
“I’m also issuing you with a formal police caution now, regarding filming members of the public in private residences.
And I’m going to ask you to hand in your filming equipment and delete any illegally obtained footage you may have before you leave the station. ”
With that, he stands, takes the incident report with Anna’s name on it and gestures to the door. I rise quickly.
“Wait, what? A formal warning. Do I have to disclose that to an employer—er, future employer?”
He looks back at me, not without sympathy. “If they ask, yes. But I’m guessing people in your area of work probably don’t get asked. I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’ll be conditional, so it’s only on for three months. Conditionally.
“Oh,” he adds as he walks me out, “and I’d advise you not to make copies; we can see from metadata if you have. Hand everything at reception; you’ll get your laptop back when we’ve confirmed it’s clear.”