Page 2 of Too Busy for Love

‘Calm down, Gary,’ the police officer calls. ‘We’re very busy right now, so you’ll have to wait your turn.’

Gary obviously doesn’t like that answer, as the intensity of the banging only increases.

‘Left at the end, through the door and then up the stairs,’ the policewoman’s voice says behind me. I follow her instructions and find myself in front of another door.

‘Stand to one side, please,’ she instructs before swiping a card through a slot next to the door. I’m expecting a loud buzz as it unlocks, but there’s just a soft click and then she holds it open for me to step through. I find myself in another corridor, but this one has a thin carpet and the doors on each side are wooden office-type ones rather than the steel of the cells.

‘Third on the right is you,’ the policewoman tells me, repeating the procedure with her card when we reach the door. The room I’m shown into is exactly the same as the ones I’ve seen on TV. There’s a small table with two chairs on each side, and a screen fixed to the wall over the table.

‘Take a seat on the far side,’ the policewoman instructs. ‘They won’t be long. Would you like a cup of tea or anything?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you,’ I reply, making sure to sound as grateful and obsequious as possible. This is obviously a mix-up of some description, but I’m wise enough to realise that stomping around arrogantly asserting my rights is just going to get their backs up.

The door closes with a soft click and I can hear the lock engage. I’m alone again. The weird thing is that I’m not scared. The arrest itself was such a whirlwind, I didn’t really have time to feel anything, but I’m so certain they’ll realise this is all a massive mistake that it hasn’t occurred to me to be frightened. I know some London hotels turn a blind eye to prostitution; I’ve heard all the stories about guests phoning down for a coded ‘extra pillow’, or concierges who are in cahoots with various escort agencies, but I’m certain that Madame would never permit anything so sordid. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’d have spotted it if anything like that was going on. I spend quite a lot of time around the reception area, so I’d notice random young women having meetings with their ‘uncles’, which is another giveaway.

I have no idea what time it is, I realise. I could have been here for thirty minutes, but it could equally be three hours. I haven’tseen daylight since I arrived as there was no window in my cell, and there isn’t one in here either. They also relieved me of my phone when they booked me in, so I have no way of telling the time. I wonder if taking away all the normal indicators that tell us where we are in the day is a subtle ruse to confuse prisoners and make them more likely to confess.

I’m still pondering this when the lock clicks, the door opens, and two plain clothes police officers enter the room, one male and one female.

‘Sorry to keep you, Beatrice,’ the female officer says, pushing a plastic disposable cup across the table towards me as she and her colleague take their seats. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Winter, and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Hollis. Are you ready to begin?’

‘I am,’ I tell her.

‘Great. I’ll just start the recording and then we can get down to business,’ she informs me as she reaches out and presses a menu item on the screen.

‘No tape recorder?’ I ask.

‘Goodness no. We’re digital now. Welcome to the twenty-first century.’ She smiles and then taps an icon.

‘Interview with Beatrice Fairhead,’ she says in a monotone. ‘Seventeenth of April 2023, time is six fifteen p.m. In the room are Miss Fairhead, DI Winter and DS Hollis.’

‘Beatrice, you are being interviewed under caution,’ DS Hollis informs me. ‘I’m going to repeat what that means for the recording. You have been arrested on suspicion of being an accessory to keeping a brothel and controlling prostitution for gain. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him.

‘And can you confirm for the recording that you have declined to have a solicitor present during this interview?’ he continues.

‘I can.’

‘Great stuff,’ DI Winter says, as if I’ve just won the star prize at school. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. How long have you known Eileen Strickland?’

Who?

2

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them as carefully as I can. ‘I think there must be some mistake. I don’t know anyone called Eileen Strickland.’

‘Let’s not play games,’ DS Hollis says abruptly. ‘She was literally standing next to you at the moment of your arrest.’

‘That was Madame Dufour,’ I insist.

DI Winter laughs softly. ‘Of course. I keep forgetting that’s what she’s calling herself now. Fine. Tell us about your relationship with Madame Dufour.’

‘She’s the owner of the hotel where I work. I’m her hotel manager.’

‘I see. And how long have you worked there?’

‘Just under two years.’

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