Invisible (11 page)

Once I’d also rolled every
individual finger and my thumb across the glass as well, and even done the side
of my palm (why?!) I then held my trousers up with my right hand and repeated
the whole process with my left.

Finally, a DNA sample was
taken. A little swab brushed against my cheek, like a Popsicle, while I stood
with my mouth open, fighting the childish urge to go ‘
ahhh
’
like I would if a doctor were checking out my tonsils. Now there will be a
little piece of me held on the nation’s database for all time.
 

Then I was put in a cell.
Actually locked up.
The metal door clanged shut, I heard the
key turn in the lock,
then
I was alone.

The shaking, which had eased
a bit, got worse again as I looked around that tiny little room. It wasn’t
dirty, in fact it was surprisingly clean, and painted that special, industrial
creamy yellow that institutions choose when they’re trying to be cheerful.
Whose bright idea it was to pain a cell that colour I couldn’t tell you.

My legs were feeling weak
and
wibbly
, were starting to give out, so even though
I didn’t want to sit on the thin mattress that was placed over the concrete
ledge that clearly served as a bed, I finally let go of my jeans and perched on
the very edge of it. Drew my socked feet up and balanced my heels on the edge
too, wrapping my arms round my knees as I tried to take in the reality of the
fact I was here in a police cell, having been arrested.

‘Daryl will sort it,’ I told
myself. How
was he
doing, I wondered. Was he locked in
a cell too, feeling sorry for himself?

I couldn’t imagine it
somehow, could more imagine him ranting at people. Or, actually now I’d thought
of it the most likely scenario was that he’d smooth-talked the policemen, made
friends with them, and was having a chat with them in reception right now,
charming them. He could turn on the magic when he wanted. He’d probably
forgotten about me and would remember in an hour or so, and fling open the door
eventually, having a laugh about ‘my babe in a police cell!’

I shifted uncomfortably as I
thought. About two inches thick, the mattress wasn’t exactly comfy and my bum
was starting to go numb but I couldn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
I wanted as little physical contact as possible with anything in that room –
I’d have hovered above the floor if I could.

How long had I been in
there? I’d no idea; they’d taken my watch and rings when they’d taken my shoes
and belt. At one point I did stand and, clutching the waistband of my jeans,
paced the cell to get the circulation moving again in my legs, stiff from
sitting in one position for so long.

The fear started to be
eroded by boredom, which made room for a bit of anger at this stupid situation.
Why was I even here? It made no sense. They should be speaking to me, trying to
clear this mess up.

For a moment I contemplated
knocking on the door and asking to be dealt with – not in a nasty way, just in
a firm manner.
Pah
, who was I kidding, there was no
way I’d do something like that, it’s just not my style.

Pressing as all this was,
the police seemed in no hurry to clear things up and tell me what the hell was
going on, and there were certain physical problems starting to rear their ugly
head. Like, I started to need the loo.

There was a little, low wall
in the cell and I had a horrible feeling…yes, when I peered round it, there was
a shiny, stainless steel toilet. I couldn’t use that! God knows who’d used it. Credit
where credit’s due, it looked like it had been scrubbed to within an inch of
its life – it positively sparkled – but even so, I baulked at the thought.
Apart from the hygiene reason, what if an officer walked in as I was mid
business?
Didn’t bear thinking about.

Such are the daft things
that went through my head during this.
Because as weird as
things were, my life was still essentially the same at that moment.
I’d
no idea what was coming next. People talk about having their world torn apart
and yes, that’s the closest description I can find for what happened.

I’ve been arrested. And now
I’ve worked myself up until I’m ready to tell why.
Ready to
write the words down and face them.
No point hiding from them
any more
.

Daryl is a rapist.
A serial rapist who has attacked at least five women, and murdered
one.

Even though I’m staring at
the words, this feels no more real. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I take it
in? I’m still in my bubble of shock, I think. I feel removed from it all, like
I’m hiding in the corner of the room watching it all pan out and none of it
really affects me. How do you deal with something like this? How do you accept
that the man you love is vicious, twisted,
evil
and
you didn’t even notice? How could I not have noticed?

What do you do when you
realise your whole life has been a lie?
 
I don’t know. Somebody tell me, please.

Monday 13

It’s 6am. My mind is
whirling too much to sleep, though I did manage an hour or so. My eyes feel
full of grit, my head full of cotton wool.
And my heart?
I don’t know. I don’t know.

But, as I keep replaying
everything over and over in my head anyway, maybe it’ll help to write it down.
Hell, it might even help me make sense of things, if that’s possible. There has
to be some way of me getting a grip. So, here’s the rest of what happened on
Saturday…

When I was finally taken
into the interview room I had no idea what to expect. There was a skinny man in
there already, his incredibly thick, black hair stood up here and there like
straw, even though I could tell he’d tried desperately to smooth it down, and
he had the kind of stubble shadow on his pale face that is ever-present on very
dark-haired men, even immediately after shaving.

‘Hi,
I’m Peter Simpson, the duty solicitor who has been designated to represent you
at this time.
Are you happy with that or do you have your
own solicitor you wish to contact?’
Business-like, but
friendly.

Despite his suit seeming too
big for him, adding to the whole impression that he was young and new to this game,
I somehow felt I could trust him. I nodded timidly.

Then he told me why Daryl
had been arrested. I shook my head, refusing to take it in. Patiently, he
repeated the words, as though he was talking to a child. I just stared at my
hands and continued to shake my head.

‘Do you realise why you’re here?’
he ploughed on. More head shaking. He continued: ‘You have been arrested as an
accessory. The police think you may have helped him. But as far as I can tell
there is no evidence to support that. I have to ask…did you?’

My head shot up then and I
looked into his eyes. ‘No!’ I replied. It was whispered but still had force
behind it. ‘I would never hurt anyone. And neither would Daryl.’

I stuck to that, even when a
man I hadn’t seen so far walked in. I could tell from the way he held himself
that he was in charge. He had that
air, that
confidence, bit like Daryl until you broke through the swagger to the scared
child inside. Was this officer like that, I wondered?

 
He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Baxter
and the woman beside him was Detective Sergeant Chapman. Just like I’ve seen on
telly, they explained about how the interview would be taped, gave the date and
time, and my name, then the fun began.

When I say fun, I’m being
ironic.

For the next goodness knows
how many hours I was basically asked the same questions over and over again:
Where were you on this date? Where was your
husband on that date? What happened on the other date?

‘I’m really bad with things
like this,’ I tried to explain. ‘If you asked me what I did yesterday I’d be
hard pressed to remember.’

Still they asked.
So many dates, going all the way back from nine months right up
until a few weeks ago.

‘Where were you on Tuesday the
second of June this year?’ the DS asked.

Automatically, I opened my
mouth to say I couldn’t remember, but then I did. ‘Turkey! We were in
Olu
Deniz
on a week’s holiday,’ I
said triumphantly.

At least I could help with
that
one,
so didn’t feel completely useless. Ha! Daryl
couldn’t have hurt anyone when he wasn’t even in the country.

But judging from the way DI Baxter
pursed his lips he still wasn’t happy, because then he just asked me tons of
questions about the exact timing of every little thing we’d done while there.
The more I tried to remember the more fuddled I seemed to get.

‘We went on a boat that day…or
was
that the day I just stayed round the pool...? No,
no, we went on a boat to a beach called,
ummm
…’ I
waved my hands, as if the whirring motion they made would help my brain turn a
bit faster. Then I slumped.

‘I don’t remember the name
of it, but it’s where the turtles lay their eggs,’ I said apologetically. ‘But
if you really need to know all these things, I do have a diary. All the info
will be in there.’

That seemed to cheer the DS
up,
she seemed to sit a little straighter in her chair. The
DI pursed his lips again though, drawing them together so that they reminded me
of a dog’s bum. Still, I wanted to help, I really did, because this had to be
one big mistake and the sooner we got it cleared up the faster Daryl and I
could go back to our old lives. And Daryl could probably sue the police for
wrongful arrest…

After hours and hours of
this, I was exhausted and still didn’t feel like I’d helped either the police
or Daryl, although I had remembered a couple more of the dates they’d asked me
about, just because it had been Daryl’s birthday and the like. I answered as
honestly and fully as I could, but it’s not as easy as it looks on telly and I
was still so scared – especially of saying the wrong thing.

Then they start asking me
about my love life! Does Daryl have any weird fetishes? Is he ever violent with
me? Does he like it rough? Do I like it rough! Do we role play? It was
mortifying. I wanted to be helpful but come
on,
some
things are just off limits with strangers – what business was it of theirs what
we did in private?

‘Everything is perfectly
normal, thank you,’ I said primly.

Which it is! Like I’m going
to start telling them about his occasional problem getting it up, or anything
else we do. Some of the questions though…they made me squirm with embarrassment.
DS Chapman tried to make out like we were having some kind of girlie chat
together instead of sitting in a windowless interview room that smelt vaguely
of farts (either that or someone had been boiling sprouts in there. I think not.)

‘Come on, we’ve all been
there; sometimes you go along with stuff your fella wants just for an easier
life, even though it doesn’t really do it for you. Just agree and get it over
with, eh? Like, maybe some kinky stuff,’ she said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial
way and nodding gently, presumably at her foolishness in the sack.

‘I-I don’t…no,’ I replied,
confused.

Why was she saying this
stuff to me? I’m sorry, but what happens between me and my husband is private;
it’s got nothing to do with anyone but us. I’m not one of those people who just
tells
all and sundry what I’ve been up to in bed. I
don’t even go into details with Kim, for goodness sake, and she’s my closest
friend!

‘I don’t know what you want
me to say. Everything is fine and normal between us,’ I said. DI Baxter did his
dog bum impression again.

Finally the duty solicitor
stepped in. ‘It seems clear to me that my client knows nothing more than she
has already told you.’ And after a couple more minutes of waffling between the
three of them a decision seemed to be made. Next thing I knew I was back at the
reception desk signing yet another form to get my shoes and so on back.

‘Here’s a key to your
place,’ said the duty sergeant. I took it and stared at him, confused. ‘New
locks had to be fitted after they knocked your door in with the Big Red Key
during the raid,’ he added.

That just confused me even
more.
Big Red Key?
But apparently that’s the police
nickname for the battering ram they use.

‘Umm,
what about my husband?’
I asked timidly. ‘Where is he? Is he
coming home now too?’

‘He’s at a different
station, still being questioned,’
came
the swift
reply. I just nodded and wandered outside feeling like I’d been hit over the
head.

Standing outside, the
daylight seemed strange after leaving the house in the dark, then spending all
that time in artificial light. I’d lost track of time. I looked around the car
park, hoping for answers.
Or at least a lift home.
Stared at the big concrete building.
It stared back,
offering me nothing in reply to my questioning glance. So finally I turned and
walked away, hands in my jeans pockets, towards the bus station.