stop her running away than to support her.
There was a green door ahead, with a small viewing window. He swiped his card on a panel, the door slid open and he ushered her forward into a bare, narrow room about fifteen feet long and eight wide. The door closed behind them. At the far end of the room was another identical door. The walls were painted a stark, institutional cream and the floor was made of some speckled brown substance. There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard, bare bench with a green surface.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
She sat down, resting her chin against her knuckles, feeling badly in need of a cigarette. No chance. Then her phone rang.
She fumbled with the clasp of her handbag and pulled the phone out. But before she could answer the officer shook his head.
‘You’ll have to switch that off, I’m afraid.’ He pointed at a sign on the wall which read: NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.
She stared at him for a moment, trying to remember what the law was about making calls when you were arrested. But she’d only done a tiny bit of criminal law in her studies – it wasn’t her area – and she didn’t have the will at this moment to argue. If she complied, just did everything she was told, then maybe this nightmare would end quickly and she could go to the office. As for her particularly demanding client, she’d have to see him another day, but she absolutely had to be in the office for 2 p.m. for a conference with the barrister and another client, a woman who was due in court tomorrow morning for a hearing about financial matters in her divorce. Missing that meeting was not an option.
She switched off the phone and was about to put it back in her bag when he held out his hand, looking embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take that phone off you for forensic analysis.’
‘My phone?’ she asked, angry and bewildered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, taking it from her.
Then she stared at the bare wall in front of her. At another laminated plastic notice stuck to it: ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICER NOW.
Then she read another: YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.
She tried to think exactly how much she had drunk last night. Two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc in the pub – or was it three? Then a Cosmopolitan at the restaurant. Then more wine over dinner.
Shit .
The door beyond her slid open. The officer gestured for her to go through, then followed, staying close to her. His prisoner.
She walked into a large, brightly lit room dominated by a raised semicircular central station made from a shiny, speckled grey
composite and divided into sections. Behind each section sat men and women dressed in white shirts with black epaulettes and black ties. Around the edge of the room were green metal doors and internal windows looking on to what were probably interview rooms. It felt like another world in here.
In front of one section she saw a tall, balding, slovenly man in a shell suit and trainers, with a uniformed police officer wearing blue rubber gloves at his side, searching his pockets. In front of another, there was a gloomy youth in baggy clothes, hands cuffed behind his back, with an officer on either side of him.
Her own officer steered her across to the console and up to the counter, which was almost head-high. Behind it sat an impassive-looking man in his forties. He wore a white shirt with three stripes on each epaulette and a black tie. His demeanour was pleasant but he had the air of a man who had never, in his entire life, allowed the wool to be pulled over his eyes.
On a blue video monitor screen, set into the face of the counter, at eye level, Carly read:
DON’T LET PAST OFFENCES COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU.
A POLICE OFFICER WILL SPEAK
There was a green door ahead, with a small viewing window. He swiped his card on a panel, the door slid open and he ushered her forward into a bare, narrow room about fifteen feet long and eight wide. The door closed behind them. At the far end of the room was another identical door. The walls were painted a stark, institutional cream and the floor was made of some speckled brown substance. There was no furniture in here at all, just a hard, bare bench with a green surface.
‘Take a seat,’ he said.
She sat down, resting her chin against her knuckles, feeling badly in need of a cigarette. No chance. Then her phone rang.
She fumbled with the clasp of her handbag and pulled the phone out. But before she could answer the officer shook his head.
‘You’ll have to switch that off, I’m afraid.’ He pointed at a sign on the wall which read: NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA.
She stared at him for a moment, trying to remember what the law was about making calls when you were arrested. But she’d only done a tiny bit of criminal law in her studies – it wasn’t her area – and she didn’t have the will at this moment to argue. If she complied, just did everything she was told, then maybe this nightmare would end quickly and she could go to the office. As for her particularly demanding client, she’d have to see him another day, but she absolutely had to be in the office for 2 p.m. for a conference with the barrister and another client, a woman who was due in court tomorrow morning for a hearing about financial matters in her divorce. Missing that meeting was not an option.
She switched off the phone and was about to put it back in her bag when he held out his hand, looking embarrassed.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take that phone off you for forensic analysis.’
‘My phone?’ she asked, angry and bewildered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated, taking it from her.
Then she stared at the bare wall in front of her. At another laminated plastic notice stuck to it: ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY AND ARRESTING OFFICER NOW.
Then she read another: YOU HAVE BEEN ARRESTED. YOU WILL HAVE YOUR FINGERPRINTS, PHOTOGRAPH, DNA TAKEN RIGHT AWAY.
She tried to think exactly how much she had drunk last night. Two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc in the pub – or was it three? Then a Cosmopolitan at the restaurant. Then more wine over dinner.
Shit .
The door beyond her slid open. The officer gestured for her to go through, then followed, staying close to her. His prisoner.
She walked into a large, brightly lit room dominated by a raised semicircular central station made from a shiny, speckled grey
composite and divided into sections. Behind each section sat men and women dressed in white shirts with black epaulettes and black ties. Around the edge of the room were green metal doors and internal windows looking on to what were probably interview rooms. It felt like another world in here.
In front of one section she saw a tall, balding, slovenly man in a shell suit and trainers, with a uniformed police officer wearing blue rubber gloves at his side, searching his pockets. In front of another, there was a gloomy youth in baggy clothes, hands cuffed behind his back, with an officer on either side of him.
Her own officer steered her across to the console and up to the counter, which was almost head-high. Behind it sat an impassive-looking man in his forties. He wore a white shirt with three stripes on each epaulette and a black tie. His demeanour was pleasant but he had the air of a man who had never, in his entire life, allowed the wool to be pulled over his eyes.
On a blue video monitor screen, set into the face of the counter, at eye level, Carly read:
DON’T LET PAST OFFENCES COME BACK TO HAUNT YOU.
A POLICE OFFICER WILL SPEAK
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