Inspector Doyle looked as if he didn’t want to be in the station on a Sunday lunchtime either.
‘So, Pete Carroll, your downstairs neighbour, came to see us this morning,’ he said, sipping from a plastic cup of coffee that looked grey and cold.
‘He said that on the night Donna Joy was last seen, you arrived home in the early hours, upset, with blood on you, saying that Martin Joy, your boyfriend, had been with his wife and that it had upset you.’
Pete Caroll. My stomach twisted in hatred at the thought of him. I’d known how vile and manipulative he was, but hadn’t appreciated he would deliver on his threats so soon. Emotion clogged my throat as I replayed my meeting with him over and over. I’d made it perfectly clear that I was not interested in him romantically but had tried not to agitate him too much. I thought it had been the best way to play it, but I had obviously been wrong.
Doyle looked back at me as if waiting for me to say something, but I chose to keep silent. Within two minutes of me sitting in front of the detective inspector I knew what sort of conversation this was going to be. I knew enough about criminal law to know that anything I said could be seized upon.
‘You’re also aware that Mr Joy has a property on Dorsea Island in Essex. I believe that you’ve been.’
Again I didn’t respond.
‘We interviewed the manager of the Anchor Pub on the island and he says you were in there together, five days after Donna was last seen.’
He threw his empty coffee cup in the bin and looked at me.
‘We’d like to take some fingerprints, and a few other samples, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Fingerprints. What for?’ I replied, feeling the earth begin to spin. ‘I don’t want to give you any fingerprints.’
‘Then we’re going to have to arrest you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
The only person I wanted to speak to was Tom Briscoe. I didn’t care about our rivalries any more. He was simply the one person that I trusted.
He came within forty minutes – I had no idea how he’d got down from Highgate so fast and even allowed myself the mischievous thought that he’d come direct from the bedroom of some Belgravia-based girlfriend. Perhaps the person he’d taken to see his brother’s play.
‘Thought you might need that,’ he said, handing me a Starbucks outside the station.
I’d hardly ever seen him out of a suit. Today he was wearing jeans, a polo shirt and a beige Harrington jacket. He reminded me of a college professor – or at least how one would look in a Hollywood movie.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, tasting the sickly liquid.
‘Girl’s drink.’
He grinned at me and momentarily I felt buoyed.
‘The inspector in charge let me out to make a call, but he’s treating me like a criminal.’
I felt tight pains begin to gather in my chest and raised my hand to rub my breastbone.
‘You’re only here to answer some questions,’ he said with a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘You’re free to come and go as you please.’
‘But if I answer the questions truthfully it’s not going to look good for me.’
I knew I had to tell him everything. The whole unvarnished truth – or what I could remember of that truth – about my affair with Martin, the night of Donna’s disappearance, our trip to Dorsea Island and my subsequent lies to the police. I knew I had to tell him everything.
‘Should we go inside and find a meeting room?’ he said more efficiently.
I shook my head, paranoid that the police station might be bugged.
‘Can we just stay here?’ I asked, perching on a wall and gripping my fingers around the cup.
I glanced around, looking for CCTV cameras or eavesdroppers but the street had a Sunday stillness to it. My foot started tapping on the pavement as I opened my mouth to speak.
‘Have you seen Martin since his arrest?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you still involved with him?’
I nodded, then avoided his gaze, wondering what my colleague must think of me.
‘Tom, I followed them to Donna’s house. I remember seeing Martin leave, and Donna watching him from the window, but I can’t remember anything else. Pete’s evidence that I turned up at my flat dazed and confused incriminates me. This is going to destroy me, my career.’
‘Fran, don’t get ahead of yourself,’ he said reassuringly. ‘There’s still no body. Without a body it’s going to be nearly impossible to get a conviction. And right now, the Met need a successful conviction.’
‘Of course they do. They want to do their job.’
‘Remember the Rachel Miles case last year? A string of men were arrested after her body was found in Leas Wood. In the end it was her boss – someone they’d barely interviewed. They got their man, but there was so much bad publicity and two civil suits for wrongful arrest … The Met won’t want to make that mistake again.’
‘So you don’t think I’ll be arrested?’ My first sliver of hope on a depressing day.
‘On some nutjob’s testimony that you ripped your tights in a cab? Not likely.’
I nodded, wanting to believe him, but finding it hard.
‘We’ll sort this, Fran, trust me. I won’t let anything happen to a friend or a client of mine.’
‘So let me get this right?’ said Doyle, resuming our meeting in the confines of the interview room. The office carpet was tacky under my feet. ‘You are the barrister instructed to work on Mr Joy’s divorce. You began an affair with Mr Joy, and on the night that Donna Joy was last seen, you followed her from her art studio to a restaurant where she met her husband. You then followed them to her house and eventually arrived back at your own address at two o’clock in the morning, where you were let in by Pete Carroll, who reports that you were bruised and bleeding.’
‘I was not bruised and bleeding,’ I said, determined to hold my ground. ‘I must have fallen over and ripped my tights. There was a bit of a cut, but that was about it.’
Doyle didn’t look convinced.
‘Were you jealous that Mr and Mrs Joy had resumed their relationship?’
‘I wouldn’t say they’d resumed their relationship. I found it strange, yes, that Martin went to her house, but it hardly suggested that their divorce was off.’
‘A barmaid at the Walton Arms says she remembers someone sitting by the window all night. On their own. We think that person was you.’
‘I was there for a while, yes. I was waiting to see what time Martin left.’
‘But you don’t remember him leaving.’
All his questions sounded like blunt statements of my guilt.
‘Yes, I do. It was late. I don’t remember the exact time, but it was after the pub had closed. I remember looking over at the house, watching Martin leave, and then seeing Donna at the window.’
‘Neither of them saw you.’
‘No.’
‘Martin Joy said he left the Chelsea house at around midnight. Pete Carroll says you got home at about two o’clock in the morning. That’s two clear hours. What were you doing?’
‘I was a bit drunk, so I don’t really remember. Obviously it takes a while to get from Chelsea to Islington.’
‘Did you go and see Donna Joy?’
‘No.’
Doyle gave a small, disapproving sigh.
‘Miss Day, it’s difficult to know what to believe. We have a statement taken from you by my colleague Rob Collins six days ago in which you claimed you went to Mrs Joy’s Studio, but when she wasn’t there, you went home.’
‘I was embarrassed. I was protecting myself.’
‘What from?’ he asked.
‘From looking guilty of something.’
‘So you didn’t want to look guilty.’
I couldn’t believe I’d been caught out so easily.
Tom Briscoe rolled up his sleeves and looked at Doyle.
‘Francine is here to answer any questions you’ve got and she’s been honest and cooperative. We can leave at any moment, but we want to help as much as we can.’
‘Then we’d like to have a look around your apartment,’ said Doyle, fixing me with a look.
‘Why?’ I said, unable to disguise the panic I felt.
‘I’m afraid we must call an end to this interview,’ said Tom, standing up. ‘You’re on very precarious ground here, Inspector Doyle. There’s nothing to suggest Miss Day has committed any offence. Nor have you produced any evidence that Donna Joy’s disappearance is anything more than an unhappy woman who wants to escape the gilded cage and the shame of divorce and has gone on a temporary walkabout.’
He paused as if he was standing at the Old Bailey about to make his closing remarks. ‘It’s not for me to tell you how to do your job, Inspector, but we all know that you’ve already had one person in custody and had to release them without charge. You are going to appear trigger-happy if you do it again. Besides, the real story here is that Pete Carroll is exploiting the fact that he opened the door to Miss Day that night, and has subsequently been blackmailing her, demanding sex and threatening to use the information he had on her if she refused to comply. I need to discuss with my client whether we are going to report that sexual assault. I think, under the circumstances, she needs to be treated with tact and respect, not this barrage of damaging innuendo.’
My hand clenched. I wanted to shout out Go on, search my apartment. I have nothing to hide. But Doyle glanced from Tom to me and simply nodded.
‘We’ll be in touch tomorrow,’ he said, closing his notebook and switching off his tape recorder. ‘Stay local, Miss Day,’ he said. ‘Stay local.’
It was after six o’clock by the time we stepped back out on to Buckingham Palace Road. I took big gulps of air as soon as I was outside. I was someone who needed control in their life but I felt helpless. Right now, Tom Briscoe felt like my only safety net, so I reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it as tightly as I could.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, not flinching at my touch.
I let go quickly and turned to face him.
‘I should have told them to go ahead and search my flat,’ I said, letting go of his hand and shaking my head with frustration.
‘That wouldn’t have improved your position,’ he replied carefully.
‘Then what will?’
‘We’re working on it,’ he said, bumping his shoulder against mine as we walked.
In other words, neither of us knew the answer to that question.
‘Fancy getting something to eat?’ he asked.
‘Lost my appetite.’
‘Police stations do that to you.’
‘Do you miss it?’ I asked. ‘Criminal work.’
‘You’re not a criminal,’ he replied.
‘You were good back there.’
He gave a soft smile and I thought he was going to make a joke of it, but he didn’t. ‘I do miss it. It’s what I always wanted to do. Every Saturday at school I used to go to the bookshop in Windsor and buy a detective novel. I read everything from Sherlock Holmes to Ian Rankin. It was my weekly puzzle ration. My parents were against me joining the police. So I became a lawyer.’
‘Why defence work?’ I asked, imagining a young Tom Briscoe in his Eton tails, his nose in an old paperback in some shady spot by the Thames.
‘Because in the books, the villains were always the most interesting.’ He smiled, then added: ‘And because sometimes, the accused isn’t the villain.’
‘You shouldn’t have let the Nathan Adams case put you off something you loved doing.’
‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘I mean it, Tom.’
He looked straight out in front of him, into the gloaming.
‘I did love it. Even though I was always asked, how can you do it? How can you work for the defence? I always gave the same answer. To my family, curious friends or people I met at parties. I did it because I believed in our justice system. Because it’s not up to me to make up my mind that someone is guilty or not.’
He hesitated before he continued.
‘But I’ll never forget Suzie Willis coming up to me outside court after Adams was found not guilty. After I’d got him off. Her eyes were red from crying. She was shaking. Not from anger or frustration or injustice. But out of fear. She was with her lawyer who turned to me and said, ‘We’ll just have to wait until next time.’ And she was right. Adams was found guilty eventually, but the next time he was violent against his girlfriend, he murdered her. And I felt that was on me.’
His voice cracked with emotion and it was my turn to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but he put his hand in his pocket to discreetly shake me off.
‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’ he said brusquely. I realized we’d stopped by his car.
I didn’t reply at first, not knowing where home was any more, where I felt safe and wanted.
‘I’ve got a spare room, if you don’t want to go back to your flat. You’ll have to share it with my squash kit, but I’ve just bought a new Heston Blumenthal coffee machine and you can road-test my macchiatos.’
I had to admit, the thought was not an unappealing one.
I’d long believed that the course of our lives was decided by choices, not fate, and at that moment, I wondered if I should have made better ones. Perhaps if I had chosen Tom Briscoe, I wouldn’t be standing outside a police station on a Sunday afternoon, being threatened with arrest in connection with the disappearance of my lover’s wife.
No. A life with Tom Briscoe, or someone like Tom Briscoe, might have had a reassuring rhythm; no intense excitement but a shared appreciation of each other’s skills and talents and a contented day-to-day life.
Not that Tom had ever shown any romantic interest me, a voice in my head reminded me.
‘Tempting, especially the posh coffee, but it’s fine,’ I said, shaking myself out of my thoughts. ‘I’ve put you out far too much already.’
‘It’s not a problem.’
‘I should go home. I’ve seen the police. Pete Carroll can’t blackmail me any more.’
Tom shook his head. ‘You should have told me about Carroll. I could have done something.’
I raised a brow. ‘Like what? Jumped him at the bus stop? We both know there’s nothing we can do. I can’t injunct him or get a restraining order. I’m not his girlfriend and he’s not been convicted or even arrested for anything.’
‘There are things we can do, Fran. You know that.’
I shook my head to strengthen my resolve.
‘I should go home. Pete Carroll isn’t the most important thing I need to deal with right now.’
I got in the passenger seat and Tom drove across London, distracting me with gossip from chambers. The potential merger with Sussex Court was out in the open now. Tom thought it was a sound business move. If he had any thoughts about my discredited reputation threatening the merger, he didn’t say anything.
When my stomach rumbled above the soft music of the stereo system, he stopped at a kebab shop near my apartment and went inside, returning with a couple of chicken burgers and cans of Coke.
He stopped the car in a side street and I opened the polystyrene box that was on my lap, licking my fingers to avoid grease and breadcrumbs getting on the upholstery.
‘We’re a class act, aren’t we,’ I said, grinning as I felt ketchup slide down my chin.
‘I like to think so,’ said Tom, opening his can with a hiss.
‘This is good,’ I sighed, realizing how hungry I was. ‘When you’re a QC, promise me you won’t be above going to the local kebab shop.’
‘When we make silk, I’ll take you to Kebab Kid in Parson’s Green to celebrate. Best chicken shawarmas in London.’
I didn’t reply. We let the silence hang in the air, not wanting to say out loud what we were both thinking: that I’d be lucky to avoid a jail sentence, let alone make silk.
‘Thank you for being a good friend.’
‘To think you never used to like me,’ he chided.
‘I’ve never not liked you.’
‘Come on, I know you thought I was a pompous tosser.’
‘Not true.’
‘So true,’ he smiled. ‘It’s why I avoided you for almost our entire first year in chambers.’
‘You avoided me because you thought I was weird.’
‘Not weird. Cool. Too cool, actually. I remember turning up that first day at Burgess Court. I had my new suit, new haircut, new robe. I thought I was the dog’s bollocks. And then I met you. And I realized I was just this public school geek with no street smarts whatsoever. If I ever avoided you it was because you were so hip and smart I was a little bit intimidated by you.’
‘People never stop surprising you.’ I smiled under my breath.
‘It’s why I stopped being judgemental a long time ago.’
He drove me to the flat and I instructed him to park the car on a nearby street, not wanting anyone to see me get out.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ said Tom.
I felt another flutter of panic, wondering if Pete Carroll could see me.
‘You don’t mind seeing me into the house, do you?’
Tom nodded as if he understood.
It felt strange being back. Already it had a faint, stale unlived-in smell. As I turned on the light I saw the bin with my duvet in it. I turned back to the door and double-locked it.
‘Come on, why don’t you pack up some things and come stay at my house?’ said Tom, noticing how on edge I was.
I knew how easy it would be to grab some more lithium pills, and a suitcase of clothes, and go to Tom’s, but I was tired, so tired. I just wanted to stop running.
‘I hate the idea of Pete Carroll being downstairs. Hate it,’ I whispered. ‘But I’ve been moving around since Tuesday, Tom. I can’t keep on like this. Besides, Pete doesn’t have anything on me anymore.’
‘I think you need to make an official report to the police,’ he said finally.
I didn’t reply.
‘It’s not too late, Fran. Although there are things you should do. Don’t wash your sheets. Keep any evidence you think you might have.’
I looked at the bin liner again and felt sick. I wanted Pete Carroll to be punished, but I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to go through the trauma of reporting sexual assault.
‘Can I just not think about anything for a little while?’ I said, gripping my hands and pressing my fingers together.
‘I’ll make you some coffee,’ he said.
As Tom headed into my tiny galley kitchen and pulled two Cornish striped mugs out of the cupboard, I felt enormously sad that we hadn’t been to see the Hampstead play together. There were some people who were decent. Some people you could trust.