by Alex Clare
‘I can’t remember.’ Newman buried his head in his hands. ‘I really can’t. It was early, we’d had a couple to drink, I think we all said something.’ He lifted his face, chin resting on his hands. ‘It didn’t mean anything.’
Robyn caught Lorraine’s eye and looked towards the door.
‘Right, we’re letting you go.’ Lorraine shuffled her papers together and stood up.
‘Thank Christ. What about my van?’
Lorraine paused by the door. ‘You were in the clear on the second reading so you can drive. There was no question about the reading before, so the points will go on your licence.’ She held the door open.
Newman looked up at her for a second before standing.
Robyn waited until he passed her. ‘What’s your nickname?’
Newman swung his head towards her. ‘You what?’
‘You’ve told us the lads all went by nicknames – I want to know what yours was.’
Newman barked a laugh. ‘Paul.’ He paused, holding his palms out as if waiting for a response. When there was none, he shook his head. ‘Paul Newman. Christ, you thick or what?’ He walked between them into the corridor, shrugging his arms into his blue jacket. ‘Where do I get my stuff back from?’
‘Just wait there, someone will be with you shortly.’ The custody sergeant pointed to a bench. Newman looked at the couple of teenagers sprawled across it, one pressing a thick dressing to his arm and remained standing.
Robyn and Lorraine retreated back into the interview room. Lorraine stretched out, up on her toes, the tips of her fingers touching the low ceiling. ‘Now what, Guv?’
‘Now we start again with the basics, like who let Shazia into the room? If we accept the evidence to date, we’re looking at a sexual assault leading to an attempted suicide.’ Robyn straightened. ‘Right, I’m going upstairs to go through the family statements you collected. For the rest, we’d be better tackling everything else when we’re fresh tomorrow.’
‘I’ll need to leave by one, Guv, so I’ll be there first thing. My band’s playing at the Markham air memorial festival tomorrow – it’s a whole weekend of 1940s events with a jazz dance in the afternoon.’ Lorraine gave a quick smile. ‘See you.’
In the corridor, Robyn swung her handbag to her shoulder and headed for the lift. The teenagers were now flipping a plastic bottle. There was no sign of Newman.
‘DI Bailley?’
The custody sergeant was waving from behind the desk. With the telephone tucked under one ear, she scrabbled through the paperwork in front of her until she found a Post-it. ‘Hang on a sec.’ She turned the receiver into her shoulder. ‘Message for you. Came in about fifteen minutes ago.’ She handed over a scrap of paper and turned back to her call.
‘Thanks, Martha.’ The writing was almost illegible. It took Robyn a few seconds to work out the scrawled ‘Kall ID’ meant the message was from Khalid. The only other legible word was ‘urgent’. After squinting at the rest, she gave up and decided just to call him direct. Her mobile didn’t work well down here in the basement: she punched the number from her phone into another desk phone.
‘Hi, Kh –’
‘Robyn. Did you get my message?’
‘Just now. I couldn’t read it, so I thought I’d call you.’
‘Is the rape suspect still with you?’
‘No, we’ve just let him go, why?’ Robyn switched the phone to her other ear.
‘Bugger. Where is he? Is he still in the building?’
She’d never heard Khalid swear before. ‘I’m not sure – hang on.’
The sergeant was still on the phone. Robyn reached past her and checked the clipboard. ‘He’s gone. What’s up?’
‘I guess you haven’t seen outside. There are protestors out there. They’ve picked up there was a rape and somehow they know you had a suspect in custody.’
‘Christ. Ady turned up at the hotel and he overheard us talking. Is there an article in the Evening Gazette?’
‘All of this stuff is through social media now.’ Khalid paused. ‘They came and unfurled some banners about half an hour ago. Something has got them angry, can’t you hear the chanting?’
‘Not down here. Isn’t anybody out there keeping them in order?’
‘No, it wasn’t this angry when they first got here. Wait.’
‘What is it?’
‘Is your man tall with fair hair? He’s out there now – the crowd has just seen him. They’re closing in.’
7
‘That sounds like him.’ Robyn moved back towards the desk, where a bank of screens showed the views from the CCTV cameras around the police station.
‘He’s just walked out of the front door. Why did you let him out?’
‘Because he hasn’t done anything.’ Martha was still on the phone. Robyn waved a hand in front of her face. ‘Can you switch any of these to the cameras at the front entrance?’
Khalid shouted something. The only word she understood was ‘surrounded’.
The sergeant frowned then reached for a remote control and got a menu up on the screen. The picture changed. It took a second for Robyn to make sense of the scene: the square in front of the police station’s main entrance was a mass of bodies.
‘What did you say, Khalid?’
‘They’re all around him.’
‘Where are the uniform team? Has anyone told DI Pond what’s going on?’ Martha gazed at the screen, her phone call forgotten.
The back of Newman’s head was just visible at the bottom of the screen. In front of him was a massed rank of people, some holding banners. The screen automatically switched to the next location. The sergeant began stabbing at the remote.
‘What’s happening, Khalid?’
‘They’re clustering around him. I can’t see him anymore. Someone’s going in – one of ours. He’s trying to get through, it’s Clyde, I think it’s Clyde.’
The pictures scrolled through the car-park, the back gate and the fire exit before there was a glimpse of the front entrance and the picture moved straight on to the car-park.
‘Get it back, get it back.’ Robyn pounded the counter.
‘He’s down, Clyde’s down!’ Khalid’s voice was close to hysteria.
Dropping the phone, Robyn ran for the back entrance. Racing around the edge of the car park, she could hear nothing over her own footfalls. The pedestrian gate took precious seconds to open and she could hear a rumbling. Rounding the final corner to the front square, she ran into an angry mass of sound. There were a lot of people, their backs to her. She aimed for where the chanting was loudest, protest signs jerking up and down to the angry rhythm. She slowed, dodging though clumps of people. Approaching the denser crowd, her foot struck something. Momentum pitched her forward, slamming into the people in front. The bodies absorbed the impact, sending her sprawling. She landed on the paving stones, rolling to a stop against someone’s feet. Through a forest of legs, Robyn caught a glimpse of bright blue and Clyde’s dark face before he brought his arms up to shield his head. Bodies closed around him, blocking her view. Over the noise, Robyn heard a high, angry voice leading the chant, speeding it up. She staggered upright, seeking a way to get through. The movement of the crowd changed, jerky, irregular: they were kicking the bodies on the floor. Without thinking, Robyn took a step back. She sprinted for the centre of the cluster, dropping her shoulder. She barged between two, barrelling into others who reeled back. She could see Clyde, who’d put his body over Newman’s. A woman had her leg back, ready to strike.
‘POLICE. Stop this.’ The nearest woman ducked away covering her ear. Robyn used the second of surprise to step forward, to stand over Clyde. She balanced on the balls of her feet, ready for an attack, keeping her stance wide. From somewhere, a rhythmic pulse had started. She was surrounded. There was a tang of iron and sweat in the air. She could only take short breaths.
A high-pitched scream drove out all other sounds. Ears numb, Robyn whirled around. A skeletal woman had her protest sign
above her head and brought it down like an axe, aiming for Newman who was trying to get to his feet.
Robyn lunged, grabbing for the handle. She got her left hand around it, the wood rough on her palm as the shaft slid until she could get a grip. Her weight pulled the swing short; the sign smashed into the ground inches from Newman’s face, the end broken into a mass of sharp splinters. The banging was closer.
The woman twisted, trying to stab with the shaft. Robyn caught the end. Their bodies were locked together. She could hear panting, not sure whose it was.
‘Police brutality. I’m being violated.’ A sudden slackening of pressure pitched Robyn forward. As she regained her balance, the woman was on her, pummelling at her chest. Robyn kept her hands locked around the shaft, telling herself she must not let go. An elbow slammed into Robyn’s ribs. The pounding in her ears was louder. The temptation was to lash out with the shaft but the blows slackened, stopped. She risked a shaky glance around. She was surrounded by colleagues in riot gear; she realised the banging had been them beating a warning on their shields. The woman had her arms pinned behind her back, a pale blob against the circle of black-clad figures. Robyn breathed out, shutting her eyes. The shaft clattered to the floor. Something warm hit her face and began to dribble.
Laughing, the woman allowed herself to be pulled back. ‘Oh sorry, copper. Better wash your face.’
Skin crawling, Robyn wiped her face on her sleeve, seeing smears of foundation stain the pale green material. A dizzy moment made her bend forward, needing to suck in lungfuls of air, resting her hands on her knees to keep herself stable. Agony shot up her arms. She looked from one hand to the other, blinking to try and clear her eyes. Her palms were a mess of bloody gouges where the rough wood had shredded the skin.
‘You bastard.’ A woman with flyaway chestnut hair was struggling in the arms of a constable. She got one arm free and swept the strands away from her face. The policeman pulled her arm back and tried to turn her towards the police station.
‘Are you ignoring me?’ The woman wrenched herself clear and lurched towards Robyn.
Focusing, Robyn tried to get her body to face the new threat. The woman’s face was familiar though the hair was wrong, a different colour. ‘Julie?’ The last face-to-face meeting with Roger’s ex-wife had been nearly three years ago when picking their daughter Becky up for her grandfather’s funeral.
‘You bastard, you bastard.’ The PC had got his arms around Julie again. It wasn’t clear who she was screaming at and he hesitated, looking at Robyn. His visor was open and she recognised Jeremy, who would love to hear some gossip about her after being turned down for the fast-track CID programme.
Julie had stopped struggling and stood, stiff. ‘So you force me to submit – what are you going to do to me?’
Robyn studied her face. Even without the incandescent anger, Julie’s face had aged. The depth of the lines around her mouth made it look as if she spent a lot of time with pursed lips.
‘Well, come on then.’ Julie stuck out her jaw.
Robyn hated how she could see Becky in the face in front of her. ‘Take her away.’
Julie began struggling again: Jeremy hadn’t put handcuffs on her. ‘How can you say you’re a woman?’ Her voice was rising, becoming shrill. ‘You can never be a woman. You don’t know what it’s like to bleed, to have a child growing inside you.’ She wasn’t looking at Robyn, staring past her, into space: Robyn followed her gaze and saw a hand-held TV camera, red light burning. ‘You are nothing, Roger. You were a joke as a man so now you’re trying to be a woman – why, because you think it’s easier? You want to find some rich man to keep and pamper you? You make me sick.’
She tossed her hair on the last words. A clump hit Jeremy in the face: he had to spit. The shock seemed to galvanise him. ‘Move.’ His push was perhaps harder than it needed to be and Julie stumbled forward, almost out of Jeremy’s grasp. Another officer ran across, grabbing her free arm and twisting it into handcuffs. Julie lifted her head, now staring at Robyn. ‘How can you claim to be a woman when you have no compassion?’
Robyn watched her go and let the pent-up breath out in a long sigh. She had to shut her eyes for a second as her head was beginning to swim. From the first time she’d seen the posters around town for the Loveless celebration, there had been an uneasy anticipation that Julie, a lecturer in Women’s Studies, would be coming to Meresbourne. She began moving, one foot in front of the other, towards the police station.
‘DI Bailley? DI Bailley!’
A man in a suit so tight she could see the shape of coins in his pockets appeared in front of her. ‘Hi, I’m Danny from South East media. Can you give me your views on this disturbance?’
‘I’m sorry, Danny. This is not a good time.’ Robyn tried to compose her face into an appropriate mix of authority and concern, conscious of the ruined make-up and blood. ‘Anything has to come from Khalid.’ All she wanted was to get back to the station.
‘The lady seemed to have some very strong views about you.’ Danny held the microphone closer. ‘I was hoping for your personal comment on what she just said.’
‘I don’t have any comment to make.’ Beneath the sharp pains from her hands, she was becoming aware of aches from other places: each breath she took was painful.
‘Oh come on, those words must have hurt your feelings. How do you feel about this sort of criticism?’
Over Danny’s shoulder, Robyn could see a small group clustered around a figure on the ground. Otherwise, the square had been cleared, debris and discarded banners were being swept into a pile. With a sudden shock, Robyn realised she hadn’t seen Newman since she had glimpsed him on the ground. ‘Danny, I’m sorry, I cannot talk to you now. There are things we need to do. Goodbye.’ She turned away, knowing the camera would still be filming and began limping towards the station.
Martha hurried towards her with a first aid box. ‘Right, let’s have a look at you.’
‘Don’t worry about me, how’s Clyde?’
‘Not good.’ The sergeant looked to where Clyde lay on his side in the recovery position. It wasn’t clear whether he was conscious.
Beside him, Donna was checking his pulse, her helmet and baton discarded on the ground. ‘Come on, man. Stop pretending. You’re not getting out of a late shift with me so easily.’
‘Is he OK?’ Robyn dropped down next to her, slipping against Donna’s shoulder as her leg refused to hold her up. She saw Donna’s eyes widen and tried to speak, to take the attention away. ‘Clyde may have internal injuries – they were kicking him, we need an ambulance.’
‘They’re on their way.’ Martha checked her watch. ‘Don’t know what’s keeping them.’
With a moan, Clyde’s eyelids flickered.
‘Hey there.’ Donna bent closer. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘I’m all right.’ One hand flat on the ground, Clyde tried to push himself up. ‘Just knocked heads with someone in the crush.’
‘And what do you think you’re doing?’ Just the touch of Donna’s hand on his shoulder was enough to stop the movement.
‘You’re going to lie there quietly until someone comes along and checks you out.’ Martha dropped her voice. ‘I didn’t realise he’d been hit on the head as well. I’ll chase up the ambulance.’ She stood up. ‘Oy!’
Turning, Robyn looked straight into the cameraman’s lens.
‘DI Bailley, how seriously is the officer hurt?’
The adrenalin flooding her system drove Robyn forward: she ground the palm of one hand into the lens, ignoring the pain. Blood smeared across the glass and she heard the cameraman swear.
‘DI Bailley.’ As the cameraman squinted at the lens, Danny spread his hands. ‘This is a legitimate news story.’
‘Hi.’ One of the officers sweeping away debris looked around, which saved Robyn having to remember his name. ‘Please escort these gentlemen away from the area to allow treatment to take place.’ When they were twenty yards away she turned back to Clyde.
Clyde blinked, trying to turn his head. ‘Who’s up there?’
‘You should stop talking and keep quiet.’ Donna squeezed his hand. ‘You’re not normally this chatty on patrol.’ Her tone was light but the corners of her mouth turned down
Robyn sank back into a crouch. ‘It’s me, Clyde, Robyn Bailley. You’re braver than me, arguing with Donna – I wouldn’t dare.’
There was something between a laugh and a cough, which turned into a grimace of pain. Robyn exchanged a look with Donna: Clyde’s saliva was a foamy pink.
‘Seems like the last thing …’ He took a ragged breath. ‘I remember …’ His chest seemed to be moving without air. ‘Was you coming in, ma’am …’ Another rattle in his throat. ‘Like a bull in a china shop to get me out.’
‘Don’t strain yourself.’ They all looked up as the sound of a siren cut across Robyn’s reply. They were strobed with blue light before the wail shut off.
‘About time. Now you go and have a nice lie down and I’ll do my late shift all on my own. I’ll save you some villains.’ Donna bit her lip.
Clyde’s response was a twitch of his lips: it might have been an attempt at a smile. Feet sounded over the stones.
‘Now I hear some tossers beat you up. We’ll get you sorted out, mate.’ The paramedic opened his bag.
Robyn stood up, desperate to escape to the quiet of the CID room. Her body was a mass of dull aches.
An approaching clatter was the other paramedic wheeling a stretcher. Another ambulance pulled in. Robyn watched two more paramedics look around, feeling an odd detachment from the scene.
‘Evening. We’ve got some minor injuries in the custody suite.’ Martha pointed to the path to the back entrance and the new paramedics turned towards the station. ‘And they should be starting with you, ma’am.’ Martha narrowed her eyes. ‘I shall expect to see you inside.’
‘In a moment.’ The stretcher was being wheeled towards the ambulance, Donna still holding Clyde’s hand.
Robyn tried to smile, to sound less worried than she felt. ‘He’ll be fine, Donna. This is just a precaution.’ The back doors were closed and the ambulance moved away, lights flashing. Donna’s face had crumpled in on itself, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Come on. You could use a cup of tea.’