Chapter 8
8
Having sex with Jock turned out to be just the tonic I needed, and I slept soundly until he woke me at seven thirty. I was initially anxious that he might have regretted it and there would be an awkward atmosphere, but he obviously sensed my unease as he held me for a long time and told me it had felt like the most natural thing in the world. I agreed, and we ended up doing it again. Despite a good night’s rest and the endorphins that are probably still floating around my body, my heart is in my mouth as we leave the hotel to make our way to the custody centre where we will learn our fate. Having studied the Tube and bus routes, we agreed a taxi would be the most reliable option, and I’m drinking in the view as it trundles along, just in case this is my final glimpse of freedom. I feel like I might throw up at any minute. We’ve given ourselves plenty of time; better to be early than late for something like this. I wonder how long they give you before they decide you’re a no-show and issue a warrant for your arrest. Ten minutes? A couple of hours?
I’m shivering with nerves when the taxi pulls up outside, and Jock has to help me out as my legs are feeling so wobbly. He’s trying to appear relaxed, but I can feel the tension radiating off him. Underneath the fa?ade, he’s just as scared as me.
There’s a different custody officer on the desk today, and he looks at us quizzically as we make our way through the door.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks.
‘Andrew McLaughlin and Beatrice Fairhead,’ Jock tells him. ‘We have a bail appointment at ten o’clock.’
The officer glances at the clock behind him. ‘You’re a bit early, it’s only nine thirty. Did you want to wait or come back?’
Jock looks at me. ‘Wait,’ I whisper. Now I’m here, I can’t stomach the idea of going away for half an hour. What would we do? Sitting quietly in a chair is probably the best thing for me right now.
‘Fine,’ the custody officer says. ‘Take a seat and I’ll let them know you’re here.’
By ten fifteen, I’m in total meltdown and wondering if this is some kind of mad power game they like to play. Make you wait longer, just to soften you up before they deliver the fatal blow. It’s working; I’d probably be prepared to confess to pretty much anything, just to end the waiting. I’m sure the clock has been running deliberately slowly, as this is by far the longest forty-five minutes of my life. At one point, my teeth started chattering and Jock took my hand in his in an attempt to reassure me. I’ve been hanging on to it like grim death ever since, even though both our hands are sweaty and it’s not actually that pleasant a sensation.
At twenty-five past, the door finally opens and DS Hollis appears, along with another detective I don’t recognise.
‘Beatrice, you’re with me,’ he announces. ‘Andrew, I think you know my colleague DS Harvey.’
‘Good luck,’ Jock murmurs to me, planting a kiss on my forehead as he lets go of my hand and gets to his feet. It takes all my willpower to force my legs into action and get out of the seat, and I follow DS Hollis unsteadily to the same interview room I was in last week.
‘Take a seat,’ DS Hollis instructs, holding the door open. ‘We’ll be with you in just a minute.’
The click of the door closing and the lock engaging sound so final that, before I know it, the tears are pouring down my cheeks. This is it, the beginning of my incarceration, I just know it. I may be innocent, but that doesn’t mean anything in here. You hear about people who serve years and years before they manage to clear their name, and they made it very obvious that they didn’t believe a word of my story last time I was here. This whole week has just been a cruel game, I realise. It’s like when a cat catches a mouse. It lets the mouse think it’s escaped before pouncing again and again until the mouse is dead. That’s what the police have done to me, and I almost wish they’d kept me in custody rather than let me hope like I have been. I’m full-on sobbing now, and I can feel a river of snot running onto my top lip.
‘Sorry to keep you,’ DI Winter says as she and DS Hollis re-enter the room. ‘You have no idea how much paperwork we have to fill in. Goodness, are you all right?’
‘Sorry,’ I sniff.
‘DS Hollis, fetch a box of tissues, will you?’ DI Winter instructs. ‘And some sweet tea.’
‘It’s fine,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s just get this over with.’
‘Are you sure?’
Her kindness doesn’t fool me. What’s the point of tea and tissues now, when the van is probably already outside, waiting to take me to prison?
‘Yes,’ I tell her.
‘Fine.’ She plonks a large file stuffed with papers onto the table between us, and she and DS Hollis sit down opposite me.
‘So, the good news is that we have concluded our investigations, as far as you are concerned anyway. We have consulted with the Crown Prosecution Service, and they agree that there aren’t sufficient grounds to formally charge you with an offence.’
‘I’m sorry? What does that mean?’
‘It means we won’t be taking this any further and you’re free to go. Do you have any questions?’
I can’t make sense of this at all. I was so convinced that I was going to prison that my mind just doesn’t seem to be able to comprehend the fact that I’m not.
‘How? Last week, you said you didn’t believe me.’
‘You’re right. There were a number of aspects of your story that didn’t make sense in isolation. However, when we combine it with the other evidence we’ve gathered, it actually checks out.’
‘What other evidence?’
‘I’m afraid that’s confidential. What I can tell you is that we’ve learned that you were deliberately kept in the dark. It was important that the hotel appeared respectable, on the surface at least. That’s what your role was.’
‘Did Madame tell you that?’
‘Eileen?’ DS Hollis laughs. ‘She may be a slip of a thing, but she’s tough as nails, that one. She’s not giving anything away.’
‘Thank you, DS Hollis.’ DI Winter’s tone is disapproving and I briefly wonder if she has to tell him off a lot.
‘So Madame – Eileen – is she going to prison?’
‘That will depend on whether we put forward enough evidence for a jury to convict her. Is there anything pertinent to your own case that you’d like to know before you leave?’
‘Can I have my phone back?’
‘Absolutely. As soon as we’re finished here, DS Hollis will escort you back to the desk, and the custody officer will return it. Anything else?’
‘No. Not that I can think of.’
‘Great. Thank you for being so co-operative, Beatrice, and I’m sorry you had to go through this.’ She picks up the folder of papers and gets to her feet. ‘There’s a toilet by the front door if you need to sort yourself out a bit once the paperwork is complete. Oh, and I’m going to give you my card. If you need to speak to me for any reason, it has the number of my direct line.’
I take the card she’s holding out and put it in my purse, although I can’t think what would make me want to call her. I’m still trying to process what they’ve said as I follow DS Hollis back through the door to the desk. How can something as enormous as telling me I’m a free woman be made to feel so mundane?
When we get to the desk, I’m relieved to see that Jock is already there, waiting for me. My hands are still shaking as I sign the forms and the custody officer hands my phone back. I try to turn it on, but there’s no charge, unsurprisingly.
‘What happened to you?’ Jock asks, his voice full of concern.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You look like you’ve just stepped out of a boxing ring.’
‘He’s not wrong,’ the custody officer agrees. ‘Toilets are just behind you if you need them.’
I don’t really want to go into the toilets. I want to go through the front door and get as far away from here as I possibly can, but the look of concern on both men’s faces convinces me that I ought to take a look at least. As soon as I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror, I can see what they mean. My eyes are red and puffy from crying; my face is blotchy and there’s a nasty shiny track from my nose down to my mouth. I turn on the cold tap and splash my face with water to try to get rid of the worst of it. By the time I’m done, I’m still no portrait, but I’m unlikely to frighten children in the street.
‘I’ve called a taxi,’ Jock tells me when I reappear. ‘It should be here in ten minutes or so.’
‘Great. Can we wait outside?’
‘Of course.’
‘What happened?’ Jock asks again once we’re through the door and out of earshot of the police.
‘I had a bit of a meltdown when they shut me in the interview room,’ I explain.
He pulls me into a tight hug and kisses the top of my head. ‘It’s over, Beatrice,’ he says. ‘We’re free.’
I’m still trying to process that information as we head back to the hotel. He’s right. It’s over, and I can start planning for the future again. I feel light-headed with relief as the taxi pulls up outside the back door and we clamber out.
‘I’ve got a few things I need to sort out,’ Jock tells me once we’re inside. ‘I’ll see you in the bar at seven, OK?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Our celebration.’
‘Oh yes. Sorry. Best dress.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that and I’ve decided to make a change. Dress warmly instead.’
‘How formal?’
‘Jeans and hoodie are fine, but make sure you’ve got a coat. We’re going to be outdoors.’
As soon as I get into my room, I plug my phone in to charge before sitting on the bed and reflecting on everything that’s happened in the last week. I’m free. It’s over. On the one hand, I’m ecstatic, obviously. I can start looking for work and get my life back on track. But I can’t deny I’m going to miss the little bubble that Jock and I have been in since we were arrested. We’ve both been up front about the fact that this was never going to turn into anything more, that we’d be going our separate ways, but part of me can’t help wishing that it could have been something more. I’m going to miss him, that’s for sure. But we’ve got to be realistic; we both need jobs and the probability of finding a hotel that needs both a head chef and a manager is non-existent.
To distract myself from thinking about Jock, I let my eyes wander round the room that’s been my home since I started at Hotel Dufour. I haven’t really spent any time in here since my arrest, but sitting in here now reminds me that other people, people I don’t know, have been in this room going through my stuff. I consider my options as I lay back on my bed. I decide to have a purge and get rid of everything that reminds me of Madame (the black skirts and jackets, plus the white blouses), and replace all my underwear. People rifling through my jeans and tops I can cope with. Rummaging through my knickers and bras, no.
I grab a couple of bin bags from the communal kitchen and start stuffing clothes into them. By the time I’m done, my wardrobe is looking surprisingly bare, but I feel much better. Two hours later, my bra and knicker drawers are refreshed with the new underwear I’ve bought, I’ve changed what I’m wearing and all of the unwanted clothes have either been donated to charity or binned. My phone is now fully charged, so I turn it on.
At first glance, I haven’t missed much. There are the text and voicemail messages I was expecting from Mum on the day I was arrested, plus some missed calls from unfamiliar numbers that I’m guessing were probably journalists. However, I’m bombarded with notifications from my normally silent social media feeds, and I quickly discover they’re all from people checking in to see if I’m OK. It’s a nice feeling to know that people have been worried about me; since moving to London, I’ve been so immersed in my work that, not only have I not made any friends down here, I also haven’t really kept in regular contact with people I was close to at home and uni. I seize the opportunity to catch up with a few of them, passing several hours very happily. I even managed to have a reasonably constructive conversation with my parents, inasmuch as they agreed to let me stay with them while I search for a new job. I’m certain I want to look for another post in London, but there’s no way I can afford to stay here while I’m officially unemployed. Also, although you could never accuse me of suffering from lack of motivation, being under the same roof as Mum and Dad is going to seriously focus my mind on finding a new position.
I’m aware of Jock returning late in the afternoon but, now that we’re no longer tied together by our bail conditions and we’re about to go our separate ways, I feel a little unsure about how I’m supposed to act with him. Yes, we’ve had sex twice, but maybe they were just acts of desperation between two frightened people. The fact remains that our destinies are different, this has just been a refuge for us both when we needed it, and I know I need to let him go. Despite that, I feel a pang of sadness that this will be our last night together, and I’m in a reflective mood when we meet in the bar at seven.
‘Are you OK?’ Jock asks as the taxi trundles west. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘Sorry. Just trying to make sense of everything, I suppose.’
He smiles. ‘Dare I suggest you’re overthinking again?’
‘You’re right,’ I sigh. ‘Sorry. Tell me where we’re going.’
‘It’s a surprise, but it’s not far now.’
Sure enough, the taxi turns into a pub car park a few minutes later.
‘Long way to come for a pub, Jock,’ I remark as we climb out and he pays the driver.
‘It’s not just any pub. Come on.’
He leads me inside and gives his name at the welcome desk. With a smile, the waiter takes us through the dining room and onto a terrace, where I suddenly realise what he’s done.
‘Outdoor heaters and a river.’ I sigh contentedly.
‘My original plan was to go somewhere incredibly upmarket to celebrate. Somewhere that does the kind of food I want to cook. But then I thought about your remark on the bus the other day and I realised you would enjoy this much more. Is it all right?’
‘It’s more than all right,’ I tell him, leaning across to give him a kiss. ‘It’s perfect.’