Almost a Crime (79 page)

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.