like that idea?’
Gabriel said he did very much and followed her inside to
find his swimming trunks and a towel, trying to ignore the
drift of unease that this talk of clothes and drinks at
upmarket places had drawn out of the blue, perfect
morning.
Marianne rose with difficulty from a thick, heavy sleep, to
hear Nico shouting down the telephone, saying it was four
in the morning for Christ’s sake, what the hell was the hotel
doing, putting calls through at such an hour, and then he
was saying; ‘Oh, oh, I see,’ and handing her the phone. ‘It’s
for you. It’s the police.’
She took the phone, looked at her watch: four a.m. This
was no ordinary call; this was the one, the one every
mother dreaded, the one that would impart the information
that a beloved child had been attacked, raped, mutilated.
She closed her eyes, swallowed hard. ‘Yes?’ The blood was
pounding so hard in her ears that she could hardly hear.
‘Mrs Muirhead? This is Kennington East police station.’
‘Yes,’ she said again, her voice so faint she could hardly
hear it herself.
‘We have your daughter here, Mrs Muirhead. Zoe
Muirhead.’
‘Is — is she — all right?’
‘Yes, she’s perfectly all right. But she’s been arrested for
burglary.’
‘Burglary? Zoe? Oh, no, there must be some mistake!’
‘I’m afraid not. Perhaps you’d like to speak to her. She
can tell you about it.’ She heard a hum in the background,
then his voice saying, ‘Take it over there, other side of the
room. Putting you on to her now, Mrs Muirhead.’
Marianne shut her eyes; that might do it, turn it into a
dream.
Of all the things she had feared for Zoe, being arrested
for burglary was not even on the agenda. She licked her
lips; they were very dry.
‘Mum?’ It was Zoe’s voice: subdued, shaky even, but
unmistakable.
‘Zoe, darling, what’s happened? It must be some mistake,
I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, Mum. Please, please come!’
‘Zoe? Darling, you must tell me what’s happened,
please.’
There was a long silence; she could hear the heavy
breathing that always indicated Zoe was struggling not to
cry, heard her blow her nose, heard her say, ‘Could I have
another tissue, please?’
‘Zoe? Come on, darling, please …’
‘I — oh, God. God, Mum, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.’
‘Zoe, have you really been arrested? You must tell me,
it’s obviously a mistake, we must—’
‘No, no, it’s not a mistake. I have.’
The room swam. Marianne grasped Nico’s hand. It was
warm, strong, reassuring. ‘But whatever for, for heaven’s
sake?’
‘For — for burglary. Like they said.’
‘But, Zoe, that’s absurd. You don’t need to steal
anything.’
She saw shock begin to register in Nico’s eyes.
‘I know, I know, but…’ The voice rose in a wail, then
turned to sobs. ‘Just get here, will you? Please?’
‘Zoe, are you all right? Do you want a solicitor or
anything? Let me speak to them.’
A silence; then, ‘Mrs Muirhead?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Muirhead. Your daughter was found in a
house in Kennington. With a young man. We have him
here, also. Your daughter has admitted taking one hundred
pounds in cash from the owners of the house. And it seems
other things had been taken, by the young man.’
‘But what were they doing there? In this house? I don’t understand, it’s absurd.’
‘I think perhaps your daughter should tell you that
herself, Mrs Muirhead. She was also in possession of drugs.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Marianne. She looked at Nico, and
her fear must have shown in her eyes, for he put his hand
out and took hers. It was warm, strong, oddly comforting.
‘I imagine you’ll want to get down here as soon as
possible. I realise it may take a few hours.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I will get there as soon as I can.’
How did you do that, in the middle of the night? Panic rose
in her, the blood pounded harder in her ears. ‘Can I - can I
speak to her again, please?’
‘You may.’ She heard the voice turn from the phone,
say, ‘It’s your mother. She wants to speak to you again.’
And then, through the nightmare, the confusion, Zoe’s
voice, childlike, frightened, very shaky, saying again and
again, ‘Mum, I’m so sorry. Please, please come …’
Zoe lay on her bed in the cell, trembling. Her teeth were
chattering. Not only with cold, but shock and fright. It had
been so terrible. She could see, with strange foresight, this
night would set a yardstick for the whole of the rest of her
life. Everything that ever happened to her from now on
would be set against it, compared with it: the frozen terror
as the man had come into the room, the humiliation of
being caught there, with Ian, both of them stark naked, him
rolling off her, seeing his penis shrivelled suddenly, him
pulling the sheet over it, trying to cover it. It seemed to
sum up the whole ghastly scene, that penis and its
transformation, no longer bold and pleasure giving, but
small and wretched, something to be ashamed of: and then
the horror as a girl came into the room, said, ‘There is
something missing, Tim, the money I left for Mrs Kendall,
a hundred pounds. She’s left a note, said the envelope was
empty, had I forgotten to put it in.’ Sensing, rather than
seeing, Ian’s eyes on her, shocked and accusing.
And then the ghastly nightmare of the police arriving.
Being questioned, asked if they could explain what they
were doing there. It was like a bad dream; no, a bad film.
Hearing the words ‘You are under arrest for burglary.’
Being cautioned, being told anything they said might be
given in evidence. Definitely a bad dream. She’d wake up,
any minute now. Being taken to another room by the
woman officer, being searched, the Ecstasy being found in
her pocket. ‘They’re nothing,’ she said, ‘they’re codeine.’
And then, fearing it might make things worse for her if she
lied, saying no, they were Ecstasy. Being charged again,
cautioned again, this time for being in possession of an
illegal drug.
Being taken out to one of the cars, Ian being put in the
other, being driven to the police station; taken into it at the
back, led through a kind of caged area, with a locked door
at each side into the custody area. She didn’t seem to be
waking up; and she couldn’t have dreamt this, she didn’t
know about it. It was very, very frightening.
Then being questioned, where did she live, what was her
date of birth, all that sort of thing. And then things got
really bad; she asked if she could go to the lavatory, and
they said no, not until she’d been searched.
‘I have been searched,’ she said.
‘No,’ they said, ‘you have to be strip searched.’
She was taken to a cell; told to take all her clothes off. It
was vile, but she refused to cry.
‘Now you can use the toilet,’ said the WPC, pulling off
her rubber gloves. She nodded at it; it was in the corner of
the cell. That was when Zoe did cry. And asked them to
phone her mother.
Later they were interviewed separately. The interview
was taped. On and on it went: what had they been doing
there, had she taken anything else, what had she used the
money for, was she going to buy drugs with it, who had
supplied the tablets, was Ian involved in procuring them?
Zoe stuck stolidly to the truth. Speaking to her mother
had both helped and made her feel worse: hearing
Marianne’s shock and disbelief, and at the same time her
calm assurance that she would be there as soon as she possibly could be. ‘But it won’t be much before midmorning,
darling, it can’t be. Try to keep calm. We’ll do
everything we can.’ She was concentrating now with every
fibre of her being on keeping calm, not screaming, not
bursting into hysterical sobs. It was extremely difficult. And even in her wretchedness, she thanked God that she had arranged for Mrs Blake to be with Romilly. If she was not
going to get home till midday, Romilly was going to need
looking after.
Romilly lay in her bed, her face buried in the pillow. She
felt herself on some kind of ghastly fairground ride of
humiliation and misery and distaste and confusion; a ride
she had got herself on to through a mixture of arrogance
and stupidity and from which there seemed no prospect of
escape.
She had run out of the building, and mercifully a taxi had
been passing; she had hailed it and directed it to Eaton
Square, ignoring the cries and gestures of Ritz and Serena.
She had half expected them to follow her, had shot into the
house and double locked it, put the chain on the door. The
phone started to ring at once; because it seemed simplest,
she picked it up. It was Ritz, telling her not to be silly, not
to stay alone in the house, to let her at least come and join
her there.
‘I’d rather not,’ Romilly had said, the polite child in her
adding, ‘thank you. My sister is here now,’ she said firmly,
‘please leave me alone,’ and then put the phone down,
checked that the answering machine was on, and then went
and stood in the shower for a long time. She felt dirty,
wretched, and she ached all over; the hot water was
soothing, almost cathartic. Afterwards she had made herself
a cup of cocoa and tried to watch an old film on television,
but it was useless, the scene at Serena’s house intruding,
ugly, shocking, more vivid than the one on the screen.
After a while, she went upstairs to her room, too
exhausted and wretched to be frightened of any creaks and noises, and hoped that she would sleep; but three came and then four and then five, and she heard the grandfather clock
in the hall striking every time, and the half and quarter hour
in between as well.
Finally, at six, she got up and made herself a cup of tea,
and sat in the kitchen, listening to Capital Radio, oddly
reassuring in its banal familiarity, her mind fixed now only
on Zoe’s return and a huge thankfulness that she was not
going to have to face her mother until she had worked out
some kind of sanitised and face-saving explanation for her
determination never to enter a photographic studio again as
long as she lived.
‘What on earth am I going to tell Donna?’ said Serena to
Ritz. They too had been awake all night; the rift between
them closed sharply and completely by what had happened.
Marie France lay in a drunken sleep in the guest room;
Serena had no idea what to do about her in the morning
either. But it seemed a minor problem by comparison.
‘I have no idea,’ said Ritz. ‘No idea at all.’
‘You don’t think …”
‘I don’t think what?’
‘Well, that Romilly might - get over it. Decide it was all
a lot of silly nonsense and — come back.’
‘Frankly, Serena, no, I don’t. That is a very innocent,
very sensitive girl. You could see how appalled she was.
And then she’d heard that message from fucking Alix.’
‘I could kill that man,’ said Serena, ‘slowly and painfully.
Cut off his balls and then—’
‘Serena,’ said Ritz, ‘don’t start talking about cutting off
men’s balls. It doesn’t help. He did behave very badly. Of
course. But—’
‘I know. I know,’ said Serena. ‘Jesus, what a mess. Oh,
Ritz, I’m so sorry.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Ritz, with a sigh, ‘not really.
Well, I suppose you could choose your girlfriends with
more care
‘Stupid bitch,’ said Serena. Her eyes were very hard
suddenly. Clearly any relationship with Marie France had become history. ‘But - God, Ritz, it isn’t just Donna, is it?
I’ve blown it. Just blown it. Oh, God …’ She started to
cry, very quietly. Ritz looked at her uncertainly for a while,
then put her arm round her.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Serena. It wasn’t actually
your fault. Just a hideous series of accidents. And you
certainly can’t be blamed for Alix Stefanidis. It was Donna
who insisted on him. Personally I’m much more concerned
about Mrs Muirhead. What she might do when she finds
out. As for Mr Muirhead
‘Maybe we should both flee the country,’ said Serena
with a rather shaky smile.
‘Right. Come with me, please.’
Zoe had been back in the cell, sitting with her head in her
hands. She was so frightened by now she would not have been
surprised to find herself facing a firing squad. The custody
sergeant, almost fatherly, telling her she was simply to receive
a caution was such a shock she burst into tears again.
‘But you do now have a police record. And if you
commit any further offences, it will be taken into consideration.
Now we want your fingerprints and to photograph
you and then you can go.’
‘Go?’ she said stupidly. ‘But my mother’s coming here to
collect me.’
‘We’ll tell her you’ve gone. You can’t stay here.’
‘But how will I get home?’
He gave her a look of grim patience. ‘There are Tubes.