‘Gemma Bradley, from CitiFirm.’
I was put on hold for a few minutes while Beethoven’s 5th Symphony played into my ear; how appropriately doom-laden.
‘Someone asking for too much money again?’ Philippa croaked with her husky smokers’ voice.
This was how she always greeted me on the telephone.
‘I’m afraid it’s not work related.’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re getting a divorce,’ she sighed, and then breathed in, probably from her e-cigarette.
‘I wish it was that simple.’
‘Spit it out then woman.’ I heard her tapping into her computer.
‘I’ve been arrested.’
As though her attention had snapped into place, her voice sounded less muffled.
‘You know I’m not often surprised in this job, but now you’ve got me. What for?’
‘They say I’ve assaulted my daughter, but I didn’t do it. In fact, I’m not even sure what it is that I’ve meant to have done.’
I was sounding brave, but I felt anything but. There was something about speaking to Philippa Letwin that gave me some false courage, and reminded me of how to conduct myself professionally in a stressful situation.
There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation before she said, ‘How can I help?’
‘I know before you turned corporate, your background was in criminal, wasn’t it?’
‘I wish I’d never moved on.’
‘D’you think you’d know someone who might come down and get me out of here?’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘I can’t ask you to do that.’
‘You didn’t. I offered.’
My professionalism disappeared and the urge to cry again pushed at my throat. ‘Thank you, Philippa. Thank you.’
‘Give Lucy your details and I’ll be there as soon as I can. They’ll have twenty-four hours to charge or bail.’
I didn’t really want to engage with what this meant for me, still hoping that I would be out of here in a couple of hours and back at work tomorrow as though nothing had happened. I knew I could ask her everything when I saw her. ‘And Philippa, don’t mention anything to anyone, will you?’
‘Client privilege, Bradley.’
The Custody Sergeant took me back to the custody desk. ‘Take a seat, we’ll be with you shortly.’
Wiping a scratchy grey tissue under my nose, resolutely not at my eyes, I sat down on one of the three plastic-moulded chairs. Immediately I was handed tea in a plastic cup which scalded my mouth, and within five minutes I was being led by DC Bennett down corridors that reminded me of halls of residence at university, but interjected by barred gate doors and CCTV cameras and ominous warning signs.
Beeps and clanging and thuds echoed around me, but there was no screeching or weird, scary people as I had seen on television, simply a series of police officers passing us, briefly looking me up and down, too busy to concentrate on me.
I could smell the reek of vomit and disinfectant before DC Bennett even opened the cell door.
‘If you could take your shoes off and just leave them here please. Do you want a blanket or anything?’
‘No, thank you,’ I said, thinking about how horrible the blanket would be and how many others might have had it before me.
As I bent down I noticed a pair of laced high boots two doors down and wondered who was behind that locked door.
‘I know it’s not the nicest room in the world.’
‘How long will I be in here for?’
‘When your solicitor gets here, we’ll come get you, okay?’
I stood in the middle of the room and he slammed the heavy metal door closed.
The white walls shot up around me, the smell from the low metal toilet in the doorless cubicle soured my tastebuds. Everything was too unfamiliar to take in, and I stood paralysed in the middle of the room, transfixed by the shadows moving behind the warped glass of the grid window above the plank bed. I was catatonic with fear. My attention was drawn to this natural light, outside of which was freedom, and I wanted to stand on the bed to peer out to feel connected to the outside world somehow, but I felt self-conscious of every move I made. The CCTV camera, in the left-hand corner above the cell door, flashed its tiny red light. I sat down on the low bed with my knees pulled up to my forehead, my face buried in the lock of my arms, hiding from my surroundings.
By the time the little small square window slid open, I was shivering violently.
‘You’re going to speak to your solicitor now, okay?’
Bleary-eyed, I slowly unpeeled, one vertebra at a time, to sit straight. My back was stiff and my sitting bones were numb as I stood from the bench. I must have been in the same hunched position for over an hour, too frightened and forlorn to move an inch from the spot.
By the time I was sitting in front of Philippa Letwin’s red lips, her perfume and cigarettes stinging my eyes, I was in a stupor, barely managing to articulate a sentence to answer her questions. Her teeth were yellow as she talked.
‘I’ve spoken to the DS and basically your daughter has accused you of slapping her face causing a bloody lip. Can you talk me through this from your point of view?’
Rosie’s accusation didn’t register properly at first.
‘Slapped her? Are you serious? I’ve never slapped her? Why would the police make that up?’
‘The police didn’t come up with that, Rosie did.’
‘No, no, she wouldn’t say that when it never happened.’
‘Apparently Rosie can’t specify exactly when it happened, which is good for you.’
‘It didn’t happen at all.’
‘She told the police that when you came back from work, you were in a “grumpy” mood and you slapped her because she hadn’t finished her homework.’
I wanted to laugh with relief, knowing for certain that I didn’t do it, feeling confident I could persuade anyone of this. ‘I have never slapped Rosie in my life. Surely they can’t believe I would.’
‘Have you had any other dealings with the police or Social Services before this recent spat with the neighbour?’
‘No, never. The first time was two weeks ago as I told you.’
And then came the question that shocked me out of my momentary relief.
‘Can you think of a reason why Rosie would lie then?’
My mouth was dry, I gulped repeatedly before I spoke. ‘I have no idea.’
I could pull one reason out from the recesses of my mind. I felt nauseous and an uncomfortable feeling crept under my skin. ‘She must have got confused or something. The police must have twisted her words.’
‘Have you heard of TED?’
‘Who’s Ted?’
‘Tell me. Explain to me. Describe to me. That’s how the police question a child witness. In a recorded interview if they tried to lead the child into an answer to suit their own narrative, it would be inadmissible in court.’
‘There must be ways of getting stuff out of kids.’
‘But why would they bother? Believe me, they don’t have time. So I’m going to ask you to think about why she might have lied.’
‘She must be angry with me about something.’
‘Get her not to be, because you know, if she takes it back, the case’ll be dropped like that,’ she said, snapping her fingers in the air like she could conjure a magic trick.
‘When can I talk to Peter?’
‘When you’re home.’
Home. There’s no place like home, I thought, echoing Dorothy’s whimsical words after the storm. I felt my feet encased by ruby red slippers, as red as Philippa’s lips, and imagined Rosie’s envy of them. A haze obscured my vision and I felt the violent shuddering take over my body again. My poor, unborn baby would be feeding on toxic adrenalin.