Bitter Sweet (27 page)

29

Ivonne dropped
me off at Mike’s offices and Mike and I went round to the Merchant Building in his car. He removed the surveillance equipment whilst I emptied both apartments and gave the floors a quick swipe with a mop. Two black bin bags went into the bins and six – containing enough goods to open a delivery service to the sex trade – went into the back of Mike’s car.

Mike turned into Northwood Road.

‘Oh shit,’ I said, seeing a police car double parked outside my place.

Mik
e groaned and slowed the car to a stop. ‘You know what that means,’ he said.

‘I do, but I don’t want to.’ Adrenalin, or something like that fizzed through my body, it was as if e
very muscle and organ had gone on high alert. My brain went very still – it knew. Slowly, my mind unfroze and began to catch up, struggling to confirm the sequence of actions which my brain had already established.

   ‘Mike,’ I said, taking both the tracking phone and my new smartphone out of my bag, ‘hold on to these.’ Next came the laptop. I laid it in the back footwell. ‘I don’t want them pawing over that and I’ll need it for my studies.’ Finally, I popped on a pair of oversized sunglasses and lifted a baseball cap which was in the door panel. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, putting it on my head.

‘No, go ahead,’ Mike said, laying a hand on mine. ‘Do you want me to drive round the block?’

‘No, let me sit here a moment.’

The moment passed. I exhaled a big long whoosh.

‘I’ll go with you,’ Mike said, ‘and then phone Oscar.’

Mike found a parking spot. We got out together and walked towards my bedsit.

‘Are you going to invite me in for a coffee, this time?’

‘Ha, ha.’

At the door, a six-feet-four uniformed bobby moved to block our path. He looked at me and asked;
‘Are you Miss Thompson?’

I reckoned I’d be dealing with quite a few more of them today and decided to start out confidently. I raised my head and looked into the bobby’s eyes. ‘I am,’ I said innocently, and gave him a smile. ‘What’s the problem?’  

The bobby gave Mike a look of appraisal – he looked real smart in a dark blue suit.

‘Please wait here,’ the bobby said. He turned his head and without waiting for a response spoke into the radio clipped to his uniform.

Moments later the front door opened. Detective Crawford opened his mouth to say something, saw Mike and closed his mouth.

‘Detective Crawford
,’ I said, ‘my accountant Mike Marshall.’

Mike didn’t hesitate, he str
etched out his hand and Crawford was forced to take it.

L
ooking somewhat peeved, Crawford faced me again. ‘Miss Thompson you are under arrest.’

Again
, I was tempted to say.

‘We have a search warrant,’
Crawford continued, ‘and are searching your apartment.’

It flashed through my mind; were they also searching the apa
rtment in the Merchant Building? If so, it was a good job Mike had removed the surveillance equipment, although they hadn’t discovered the stuff first time around.

‘Detective,’ Mike said, ‘we’ll wait in the apartment.’ He turned to me and s
poke in full earshot of Crawford; ‘I’ll phone counsel and let him know.’

Crawford
’s eyes widened at the mention of counsel. 

Two detectives, wearing gloves, were busy sifting through the drawers and cupboards. In an evidence bag were my bank statements – they’d have fun with those as they didn’t correspond with the lifestyl
e of someone living off a big cash income. One bank account was Tina Thompson – the student – and the other was Nina with her expenses and outgoings as an escort. Cold hard cash did not exist under the floorboards or stuffed into a cushion. It did exist, well hidden under a flagstone of my mum’s patio, in the form of Krugerrands.

The search continued. I kept a close watch on my study books; if they were carried off it would be a major inconvenience. The two detectives looked around the r
oom, conferred and told Crawford they were finished.

Mike took my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back. ‘Tell Oscar to be damned sure to get me out on
bail.’

‘I will,’ Mike said, ‘and don’t answer any questions or make any statements until he has talked to you.’ He leaned over and whispered into my ear; ‘I have a client who owns a lot of property, he’ll let you have a flat for as long as you need one.’ 

30

Once I was formally arrested at the bedsit, I clammed up and remained that way whilst being questioned. I don’t know what Driscoll had been expecting – a confession to crimes I hadn’t committed. Crawford’s questioning about why I had been at the warehouse and why my car had been found there, was perfunctory. He did, however, make a more determined effort to illicit answers about my exploits on the buses and the call to the Transport Police. The phone call I had made to them had been traced to my mobile, which was damning in itself. Jake, the bus driver, had confirmed hearing the call – he couldn’t do otherwise but tell the truth. Crawford explained that they had CCTV footage of me exiting the lifts of the Merchant building in the company of a woman dressed as a nun and three girls. The girls, he explained, were in a refuge and were obviously human trafficking victims, but that they were refusing to talk. Crawford made repeated efforts to get me to open up as to who and where the girls had come from and why I was leading them out of the building. He also pressed me for the identity of the woman, dressed as a nun.

The charge of being a public nuisance could not in itself be exonerated, only the mitigating circumstances could get me off the hook. The bus drivers had told the truth, seen through their eyes, which included the apparent pursuit by two
black BMWs. Only the girls would able to provide the testimony needed to prove that I had made the call, in desperation, whilst attempting to rescue trafficking victims.

After being questioned I was taken to the police cells and began to wonder if Oscar would show up. The first time around he’d left me dangling in ignorance, would he do it again, only to explain his motives as if he were some chess grandmaster.

With nothing to do – I suppose that’s one of the reasons why people are kept in cells – my mind gnawed at the problems it could not solve. Was I being charged for being a public nuisance?  What was with the trafficking? Crawford’s questioning seemed to point towards me being charged for moving them within the UK with the intent to sell them for sexual exploitation. What did that mean, legally? What evidence did they have? And what sort of a sentence did that carry?

By the time Oscar did show up, just before six, I had massacred the skin around my fingernails, and was sitting upright in a semi-foetal position unsure as to whether I was facing a life sentence or if I would walk away free. 

I was brought back up to the interview room, where Oscar was waiting. I sat down and pointed towards the surveillance camera.

Oscar glanced at it and waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I
’ve spoken to Detective Crawford, he is not happy—’

‘Neither am I.’

‘Nor do you look it.’

‘I’ve been kept in a cell all afternoon with nothing to but—’

Oscar held up a hand. ‘There will be no more questioning. You don’t have to answer their questions, although the police and the courts expect it.’

‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ I snapped.

Oscar grinned. ‘Ah . . . with you in the witness stand, the two of us could sway any jury.’

‘Oscar?’

‘Back to business,’ he said, running a finger across his chin. ‘You will be charged with being a public nuisance – the bomb threat. And trafficking within the UK for sexual exploitation is an offence under the Sexual Offences Act of 2003.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Not very much, Tina. You have no record and as to trafficking, they’ll only be able to throw intent at you.’

‘But?’

‘No, not now. No further comments until I have seen the basis of the charges.’

I let it go, although I was sure that Oscar was playing it down for my benefit.

‘In the morning,’ he continued, ‘you will be brought to the Magistrates’ Court. There is a good chance it will be Harkins again. Same as last time, I’ll do the talking.’

‘What about bail?’

‘That will not be a problem, however, a surety, a curfew or most likely you will have to surrender your passport, something like that will be attached. Tomorrow is purely a formality. Afterwards,’ Oscar leaned back in his chair, ‘you go home and study like hell. I’ll make sure a trial date is set for after the exams. It will look good if you get a first-class honours degree.’

‘I might.’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m on the borderline.’

‘Good for you. After the exams we will sit down together and look at the prosecutions’ evidence.’ Oscar stood up. ‘Oh and that was good legwork. You kept Eileen busy this afternoon.’

31

Surprisingly, I slept well,
ate the breakfast this time and had a shower. A change of clothes would have been nice; the jeans were now into their third day.

I was moved to the courthouse. Time ticked away. I could have sworn that police and public sector clocks moved at a slower pace than those on the outside.

Every time the door to the cells opened I looked at the custody officer, expecting him to call out my name. Was the court busier at the start of the week? I didn’t know; such speculation kept my mind occupied.

The door opened and this time the custody officer looked at me. I stood up, saving him the bother of calling out my name.

As the door to the court opened, I heard an unexpected buzz of voices, naïve or just plain dumb; I didn’t override the automatic response to seek out the source. I looked to the right. The buzz ceased. I stopped dead in my tracks, horrified.  The custody officer bumped into me. A good sense of balance and the door handle kept me on my feet. There was no going back to the cells. Anyway, they’d seen me by that stage. How had they known, flashed through my mind as I lowered my head and averted my gaze. I had seen Mike amongst them, looking harrowed. Our eyes had locked, fleetingly, his filled with compassion.

With my head bent I entered the defendant’s box and glanced at Oscar, accusingly. He rose from the defence table and crossed over to where I sat.

‘You could have warned me.’

‘I saved you half an hour’s mental anguish.’

‘Very considerate.’

‘Mike’s car is at the side of the courthouse. He’ll whisk you away afterwards.’

‘At least someone has used their head.’

‘It’s a
courtroom. They are not allowed to take pictures.’

‘It’s that bastard Driscoll’s doing.’

Oscar closed his eyes. ‘They were tipped off.’

The Clerk of the C
ourt cleared his throat.

‘Chin up,’ Oscar said. ‘And remember, I’ll do the talking.’

What the hell! I raised my head and gave the press a level stare. Amongst them sat a few with sketch pads – might be all you get. I resisted the urge to smile at the thought.

The Clerk of the C
ourt began the proceedings. I paid close attention; however, my concentration wavered now and again towards the prosecutor, Dougal Alexander. There was something about the man, he looked as if he could make the front cover of a high-class men’s fashion catalogue. Why was he such a dandy?

Harkins maintained an expedient grip on the proceedings and within ten minutes bail had been agreed – I had to surrender my passport.

The press were on their feet, ready to bombard me with questions. One phone appeared. Harkins banged his gavel and wagged a finger. The phone disappeared; its owner apologised, turned and casually made his way to the doors of the court. Damn, I’d bet the clever bugger had got a photo.

Oscar lifted his satchel. Mike joined him, took off his jacket, draped it over his arm and they both approached me.

‘Timing is going to be critical,’ Mike said.

It was clear that he wanted to give me a big hug, but his demeanour was businesslike.

‘I go first,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll have my car as tight to the side exit as I can get it. Tina you go out directly behind Oscar. He will try to block the press.’ Mike handed me his jacket. ‘On the left are the toilets, make it look as if that’s where you are headed. Walk, don’t run. When you reach the toilets push the door open. Then walk really fast to the exit, okay?’

‘Got it.’

Mike left the courtroom with the last of the press. Oscar and I waited.

‘Sorry about that with the press,’ Oscar said. ‘I didn’t want you coming into the courtroom all nervy or spitting bullets. Odds on
, it would have been the latter.’

I stared at him.

‘They saw your natural reaction. One of horror and that is how an innocent person would react.’

Maybe he was right, but I couldn’t swallow my hurt, yet. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I want out of here.’

I put on my oversized sunglasses and the baseball cap with the bill canted right down, and held Mike’s jacket ready to cover my head. Oscar opened the door and marched out, only to be blocked by the throng of journalists. The questions flew thick and fast. He held up a hand. ‘One at a time please.’

I sidled to the left and got as far as the toilet doors.

The first call rang out; ‘Miss Thompson?’

I increased my pace. The cameras began clicking and the flash guns flashed and whined. I gave the exit door a hard shove. The press were hard on my heels, their feet pounding along the corridor. I jumped the couple of steps. Mike had the passenger door open. Going fast, I slid into the seat and yanked the door closed.

‘Go!’ I yelled, pulling Mike’s jacket over my head.

On the main road, Mike accelerated away from the last of the pursuing journalists.

‘I can’t go home,’ I said, ‘they have my address.’

‘Once we get well clear I’ll phone and see if we can get you into the apartment.’

‘Did you bring my phone with you?’

‘In the glove box. The laptop is still in the footwell.’ 

I switched on the phone and looked for a local news site. Under breaking news were two headlines.

Crew Street station bomb hoax. Tina Thompson charged with being a public nuisance.

The press hadn’t worked out the connections yet as the second one read:

Tina Thompson charged with human trafficking.

I switched the phone off and sat back into the car seat, blankly staring out the window.

Mike drove into a supermarket car park. He phoned and arranged to take me to the apartment in an hour’s time.

He placed a hand on mine and said softly; ‘Tina you need some clothes and some food.’

‘Okay,’ I said lamely.