Chapter 3
3
I’ve cried myself out and I must have dozed off, because the clang of the shutter opening starts me awake.
‘Stay well back from the door,’ the same police officer from earlier tells me. We repeat the journey to the interview room and, after a short wait, DS Hollis and DI Winter come in and sit opposite me again.
‘OK,’ DI Winter says. ‘Here is what we’re going to do. DS Hollis and I agree that, although there are a number of holes in your story, it’s not enough to charge you at this point. So we’re going to release you on bail, pending further investigation. What that means is that you will be taken back to your residence by a police officer, and you will surrender your passport to that officer. You must be at your residence between the hours of 7p.m. and 7a.m. Do you understand?’
I’m so relieved that it’s all I can do not to stand and punch the air. ‘Yes,’ I say meekly.
‘You will report back here at 10a.m. next Monday, the twenty-fourth. At that time, we will tell you whether we are going to charge you or not. If you do not keep the conditions of your bail, or you fail to report at the time set, we will issue a warrant for your arrest. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’ll take you to the front desk, where the custody officer will book you out and we’ll return all your possessions apart from your phone. We need to keep that as evidence for the time being. Do you have any questions before we go?’
‘No.’ I’m anxious to get out of here as quickly as possible, before they change their minds. DI Winter leads me back to the desk where I was booked in and, after I’ve signed the forms, my keys and the envelope with my birthday money from Madame is returned.
‘Take a seat over there,’ the custody officer instructs, pointing to a row of chairs by the door. ‘I’ll let you know when the car is here to take you back.’
I do as I’m told and, a few moments later, the door to the custody suite opens and Jock appears. After going through the same process, he sits down next to me.
‘Are you OK?’ he murmurs.
‘I’ve been better. You?’
He sighs. ‘It’s been pretty intense.’
‘Your carriage awaits,’ the custody officer informs us cheerfully, pointing through the glass doorway to an unmarked police car, although the driver’s uniform gives the game away somewhat. ‘We’ll see you next week. Don’t be late.’ He smiles, but I’m not in the mood for humour.
Neither Jock nor I utter a word to each other on the journey back; both of us are lost in our thoughts.
‘I’m going to drop you at the rear entrance,’ the police officer explains as we approach the hotel. ‘Word has got out, as it always does, and there are a number of individuals from the press staking out the front. I suggest you keep a low profile.’
He’s not wrong. As we drive past the hotel, I can see a couple of police officers guarding the front door, and there’s a TV van and a number of people wielding long-lensed cameras on the other side of the road. Unfortunately, they’ve outmanoeuvred us, and there are a few outside the back door as well. No sooner has the car pulled up than cameras are being shoved in our faces and I’m temporarily blinded as the flashes go off. They’re shouting questions but I concentrate on keeping my head down as the police officer bundles us towards the rear entrance. My hands are shaking and it takes me a few goes to get the key in the lock, but then we’re in the kitchen. Such was the speed of our departure that nobody has turned the light off, and we stand there, blinking for a moment or two as our eyes adjust to the brightness.
‘OK,’ the police officer says. ‘I’m going to ask you to accompany me to the lobby and lock the front doors. That will allow our officers to stand down. I will then wait here while you fetch your passports, and I’ll leave you in peace once you’ve surrendered them.’
I normally make a rule of climbing the stairs to my room, telling myself that the exercise is good for me, but I don’t have the energy today, so I insert my key in the slot in the lift that unlocks the top floor, and Jock and I ride up in silence. As soon as I step into my room, I can tell something isn’t right. It looks broadly the same as when I left it this morning, but a few objects are in the wrong places. The police must have searched it, I realise. Thankfully, it only takes me a moment to locate my passport, but I have to wait a few minutes before Jock reappears and we take the lift back down.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t where I thought it was.’
‘Did they search your room too?’
‘It looks like it.’
After handing us a receipt, the police officer warns us again about the curfew, as well as not entering any of the guest bedrooms in case they need to get forensic evidence from them, and then he’s gone and it’s just the two of us.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Jock says with a weak smile, ‘but I could really use a drink. Would you care to join me in the bar?’
‘I don’t think Madame would like that,’ I say automatically.
‘Eileen, you mean? Oddly, after what I’ve been through today, I struggle to give a shit what she thinks. I’m going to have a large Scotch. Are you coming?’
I dither for a moment. It feels wrong and unprofessional but, on reflection, I realise that Jock has a point and I could do with something stronger than tea after the ordeal I’ve just been through.
‘You’re right,’ I tell him. ‘Lead the way.’
The bar is in darkness apart from the glow coming from the till, and I’m careful to pull the heavy damask curtains across the windows before turning on the lights. The last thing we need is to be spotted by any passing paparazzi.
‘Did you suspect?’ he asks as I follow him over to one of the tables in the bar, having poured him a generous measure of whisky and filled a glass almost to the brim with red wine for me.
‘Not a thing. You?’
‘Nope. I just thought she was a pernickety old woman with an eighties food obsession. I mean, who even eats duck à l’orange any more? We must be the only place in London still serving this stuff.’
‘Technically, she’d call it canard à l’orange . French is more sophistiqué .’
‘Yeah, like petits pois à la Parisienne , otherwise known as ponced-up peas and carrots.’ He laughs.
‘And a generous helping of croquettes de pommes de terre .’ I’m laughing too. I’m sure it’s just the release of tension, but it feels good.
‘Otherwise known as deep-fried mashed potato,’ Jock howls.
‘Don’t forget the silver service. In on the left, out on the right, don’t stack the plates,’ I add, barely able to breathe for laughing.
‘It just doesn’t add up, does it?’ Jock says when we’ve laughed out the stress and recovered our composure. ‘Such a stickler for detail down here, while all along up there…’ He pauses, lost in thought. ‘Do you think the girls were coerced?’
‘I can’t think of any woman who would go into sex work if she had alternatives,’ I tell him. ‘I’m still struggling to come to terms with it though. Alicja, for example. She’s so delicate that she bursts into tears if Maria so much as looks at her crossly. I can’t marry that up with the other things Madame must have expected her to do.’
He ponders for a moment. ‘I hate her,’ he says.
‘Yeah. If this is true, and what the police showed me this afternoon would indicate that it is, I hate her too.’
We sip our drinks in silence, contemplating the enormity of Madame’s deceit. After a while, I get up and bring both the scotch and wine bottles over to the table so I can refill our glasses. Jock stares at me thoughtfully.
‘What?’ I ask him when his gaze starts to make me uncomfortable.
‘Sorry. I was just trying to work you out,’ Jock says after taking a large mouthful of whisky.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve always seen you as Madame’s little enforcer, continually on the lookout for an excuse to pick up people’s mistakes.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being good at my job and having high standards,’ I tell him fiercely. Unfortunately, the wine has started to go to my head so it comes out slightly slurred. I make a note to slow down a little. Today’s been bad enough without me getting drunk and vomiting my guts all over the place.
‘Sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you. It’s just that we’ve never really chatted before, and I’m seeing a different side of you tonight. I’ll admit that I’ve always thought you were a bit uptight, but you’re OK, you know that?’
‘Why thank you, I think.’ I smile and chink our glasses before taking another sip.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask him after another pause. ‘I think we can assume this place won’t be reopening any time soon.’
‘I might go back to Scotland,’ he replies after thinking about it for a while. ‘I like London, but I think I need some time back home after this. You?’
‘I’ll get in touch with the agency again. Hopefully, something will come up soon. That’s assuming the police don’t convince themselves I’m in cahoots with Madame, in which case it won’t matter because I’ll be behind bars.’
‘I reckon they know we’re innocent. There’s a reason why we’re here and Madame and Maria aren’t, don’t you think?’
‘Do you think Maria was in on it too?’
‘She must have been. She was directly in charge of the housekeeping team, wasn’t she.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I murmur.
Our thoughts are interrupted by the distant sound of a telephone.
‘It’s the main switchboard,’ I say to Jock as I get to my feet. ‘I’d better get it.’
‘Leave it,’ he suggests. ‘We’re closed.’
‘What if it’s the police, wanting to check we haven’t absconded?’
‘Fine. Answer it then.’
I hurry out into the reception area, which is also in near darkness. It’s eerie out here, and I wish I’d asked Jock to come with me.
‘It’s quite safe. Nobody’s going to jump out at you,’ I tell myself before lifting the receiver and carefully saying, ‘Hotel Dufour, how may I help?’
‘Oh yeah, hi,’ the male voice on the other end says. ‘My name is Robin Bugg, from the Morning Post . I was wondering if you would mind answering a few questions. Can I take your name, for the record?’
‘No, and I have nothing to say to the press,’ I tell him, putting on my most officious tone. ‘Goodbye.’
No sooner have I hung up than the phone rings again. The stress of the afternoon combines with the wine I’ve drunk to tip me over the edge, and I snatch up the receiver angrily.
‘I said I’m not talking to the press ,’ I snarl belligerently. ‘Piss off and leave us alone.’
‘Beatrice, is that you?’ I’d recognise that voice anywhere. Even after thirty years of living in the UK, my mother still has a vestige of a Spanish accent. My relationship with my parents is best described as distant, so I’m momentarily dumbfounded that she’s rung at all, especially using the main switchboard.
‘Oh, hello, Mum. Sorry about that, I thought you were a journalist,’ I say quickly. Mum doesn’t approve of what she calls ‘coarse language’.
‘What’s going on, Beatrice?’ she asks anxiously. ‘We’ve just seen you on the news. Did you know what that woman was doing?’
‘Of course I didn’t know!’ I exclaim. ‘Wait, what do you mean I was on the news?’
‘It was the leading item on the ten o’clock news. Police raided and shut down a brothel that was hiding in plain sight, pretending to be a hotel. They showed pictures of you and a young man being escorted by a policeman. I tried your mobile but it just kept going to voicemail. We were worried.’
The accusing tone of her last sentence washes over me as I digest the information. The pictures by the back door. I should have known they’d be sold on instantly.
‘Sorry,’ I tell her. ‘The police have confiscated my phone.’
‘Why? Have you been arrested ?’ She sounds absolutely horrified.
‘All the staff were interviewed under caution,’ I explain quickly. I don’t know if it’s true, but I know she’ll feel better if she thinks it was just a routine thing. ‘But they let me go, so it’s fine.’ I decide not to tell her that I’m officially on bail; there’s no way she’ll be able to cope with that.
‘You poor darling, do you need to come home? Oh, hang on a minute, your father is saying something. What is it, Rod?’
I listen to my parents’ muffled voices while I try to think up a plausible story about why I can’t go home right now, without mentioning that I’m under curfew and might still go to prison.
‘Sorry about that, darling,’ Mum says as she comes back on the line. ‘Your father feels, well, we both feel that it might be best if you didn’t come home right now , on reflection. You’re something of a celebrity at the moment, and please don’t take this the wrong way because we love you desperately , but you might draw the wrong kind of attention to us. I’m sure it will all blow over in a few weeks and then we’d love to see you, of course. You understand, don’t you?’
Bloody hell, that’s a low blow, even from them.
‘Of course I understand,’ I tell her flatly. I don’t know why I’m upset; it’s not as if I could have gone anyway, even if I’d wanted to, which I don’t.
‘I knew you would,’ she gushes. ‘OK, well if there’s anything we can do, just let us know. I expect you’re exhausted after all your adventures, so I’ll let you get to bed. Bye darling, love you.’
‘Bye, Mum,’ I say, but she’s already hung up. As soon as I put the phone down, it starts ringing again, so I take it off the hook and walk back into the bar.
‘Who was it?’ Jock asks as I take a large mouthful of wine.
‘My mother. Apparently, we were the lead item on the news, along with the pictures those bastards took of us coming in the back door. She’s asked me not to go home in case I taint them by association.’
‘What?’ He sounds appalled.
‘Don’t worry. It’s not a surprise. It’s kind of par for the course from my parents.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thanks.’
Jock has been here longer than me but, as we sip our drinks in silence, I realise I’ve never looked at him properly before. I mean, I’ve looked at him, obviously, but I haven’t really noticed him. Physically, we couldn’t be more different, and it’s not just because he’s a man and much taller than me. Where I’ve definitely inherited my dark hair, brown eyes and olive complexion from my mother, Jock is fair haired with bright-blue eyes that sit above a perfectly straight nose. When he smiles, his teeth are even and white. He’s actually quite good looking, now that I’m seeing him as a person rather than just the head chef. He’s obviously noticed me gazing at him because his face turns quizzical all of a sudden and I feel my cheeks heating up in embarrassment that he caught me staring so brazenly.
‘It’s late,’ I tell him to defuse the sudden tension in the air. ‘We probably ought to go to bed.’
‘You’re right,’ he says, picking up the bottles and putting them back on the bar.
We ride the lift up in silence, and then wish each other goodnight before disappearing into our rooms. As I brush my teeth in my tiny ensuite shower room, I contemplate my conversation with Jock. That was probably the most we’ve spoken since I’ve been here, but he seems like a nice guy. There are many worse people I could have been incarcerated with for a week, I think as a big yawn catches me by surprise. At least I should sleep well tonight; I’m absolutely exhausted.