Page 1 of Too Busy for Love

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If you’d asked me where I’d spend the evening of my twenty-ninth birthday, the last place I’d have said would have been a police holding cell. Yet this is where I am, and I still don’t really understand how I ended up here.

The day started normally enough. My alarm went off just after five so I could shower and dress before going downstairs to supervise the breakfast service and guest checkout. I’m the manager of a small boutique hotel in Shoreditch, and every day starts pretty much the same way. Madame Dufour, the owner of the hotel, is a stickler for protocol and she relies on me to ensure standards don’t drop. For example, although our restaurant doesn’t open for lunch, she insists on full silver service for both breakfast and dinner. Our guests must be addressed by name wherever possible, to ensure they feel valued. I had to remind Amber on reception only this morning, when she failed to read the name on a guest’s credit card and addressed him as ‘sir’.

This morning. It feels like a lifetime ago as I cast my eyes around the bare, tiled cell. The mattress I’m sitting on is hopelessly thin and provides very little cushioning from the concrete slab that is allegedly the bed. I hope I don’t end upbeing kept in here overnight; there’s no way I’d be able to sleep on this. I wonder how Madame is coping. The cold concrete is going to be playing havoc with her rheumatoid arthritis.

My thoughts are interrupted by a commotion outside. It sounds like the guy is either drunk, high or both as he’s shouting at the top of his voice and his speech is slurred.

‘Don’t you touch me, pig,’ he yells. ‘Do not put your hands on me, OK?’

‘If you behave and go into the cell without a fight, nobody’s going to touch you, Gary,’ a calm voice replies. ‘You know how this goes.’

Gary may know how this goes, but he’s obviously decided not to behave, as I can clearly hear the sounds of a scuffle, along with Gary’s voice shouting, ‘Get off me, you bastards!’ A cell door slams and Gary’s protests are silenced.

I wonder if this is what an out-of-body experience is like. Your imagination takes you somewhere so completely unfamiliar that you just can’t connect it to reality. That’s kind of how I feel at the moment. My eyes are telling me very clearly that I’m in a police cell, but my brain is refusing to engage with it. I gaze around the small room once more and my eyes alight on the toilet in the corner. Now I come to think of it, I would quite like a wee, but I’m very conscious of the CCTV camera on the ceiling. There’s nothing like the feeling that some big, burly guy is watching to make your bladder shy.

Things were fairly quiet when Madame called me into the hotel dining room just after three this afternoon. Our clientele is mainly overstressed City workers, so we offer a siesta service where they can check in at midday for a snooze, and we wake them at four so they can go back to their offices refreshed and ready to pull yet another all-nighter. Housekeeping then have two hours to turn everything around before the evening check-in begins at six. Three o’clock is therefore one of the lulls in an otherwise busy day.

‘Is everything all right, Madame?’ I’d asked.

‘Of course,chérie,’ she’d replied in her strong French accent. ‘I have a little surprise for you, that is all.’

At that point, the kitchen door had opened and Jock, the hotel chef, had appeared. In his hand was a plate containing a cupcake with a single lit candle sticking out of it. They’d both serenaded me with a tuneless version of ‘Happy Birthday’, I’d blown out the candle and Madame had handed me an envelope that I suspected would contain a hundred pounds in cash, because that’s what she gave me last year.

I never got the chance to thank her because that was the moment the police stormed the hotel. It was extraordinary; one minute, the three of us were quietly celebrating my birthday, and the next, there were people in black uniforms everywhere, shouting at us not to move.

They’ve charged Madame with keeping a brothel and controlling prostitution for gain, and Jock and I have been charged as accessories. I was so shocked that I hardly noticed the handcuffs going on, and I meekly let an officer lead me out into the lobby.

One night, not long after I’d started at Hotel Dufour, the fire alarm had developed a fault and went off just after two in the morning. The scene in the lobby as the police officer had led me through reminded me of that event. It was a chaotic tableau of angry, partly dressed guests who had obviously been woken from their sleep, along with several members of the housekeeping team. Exchange the police uniforms for the fire brigade and it could have been a repeat. As we drove away, I could see several of the guests and housekeepers being bundled into vans.

For some reason, all I could think about was Madame. Although she’s a forceful personality who can reduce a member of staff to jelly with a single rebuke, she’s physically frail, and the shock of her hotel being raided and us being arrested could be enough to trigger a heart attack or stroke.

Now that it’s made itself known, my bladder is upping the ante to the point that I can’t think about anything else. I try jiggling my legs to relieve the pressure, but something is going to have to give. I stare at the toilet; it’s a stainless-steel, all-in-one affair with an integral wash basin, and it’s securely bolted down, presumably in case I decide to try and smash up the cell with it. It’s no good; burly man or no burly man, I need to go. I hurry over to it, yank down my skirt and knickers and wince at the sensation of the cold steel on my bum as I sit down. Carefully arranging my blouse to preserve my modesty as best I can, I breathe a sigh of relief as I let go.

No sooner have I wiped myself, pulled up my knickers and skirt and washed my hands than the shutter in the door snaps open. ‘They’re ready to interview you, Beatrice,’ a female police officer tells me. ‘Please stay away from the door while I open it.’

‘Were you watching me?’ I ask suspiciously. The timing is just too convenient for it to be a coincidence.

‘Did we know you were using the lavatory? Yes, but we can’t see anything untoward, don’t worry. The camera pixelates the area round the lavatory to protect your privacy.’

I’m not sure that makes me feel any better, but I stand obediently against the bed as the door opens and the policewoman enters the cell, along with the custody officer who booked me in. She’s not one of the officers who arrested me or took my details when I arrived here, but I have no idea how many people would work in a place like this. I hold out my hands like I’ve seen people doing on TV to make it easier for her to put the handcuffs on.

‘I’m not going to cuff you, Beatrice.’ She smiles. ‘You’re not planning on giving me any trouble, are you?’

‘No. Absolutely not,’ I assure her.

‘Good.’

The custody officer glances at the clipboard in his hand. ‘Can I just confirm that you have declined to have a solicitor present during your interview?’

‘That’s correct,’ I tell him. I’m still riddled with doubt about whether I’ve done the right thing in turning down a solicitor. On the one hand, it seems foolish to be going into the lion’s den without someone there to have my back, but I also wonder whether asking for a solicitor makes you seem more guilty. On the TV dramas, suspects only demand a solicitor when the police start to bring up clear evidence of their crime. Then, when the solicitor arrives, the suspect immediately starts answering all the remaining questions with ‘no comment’, which only confirms their guilt. I know I haven’t done anything wrong, so in the end, I decided to dispense with the solicitor.

‘You’re in interview room three,’ the custody officer informs me as if I’m supposed to know where that is.

‘Turn right out of the door,’ the policewoman instructs. ‘We’ll be right behind you.’

As we make our way down the brightly lit corridor, Gary obviously hears us because a fearsome commotion starts up behind one of the other cell doors. He’s banging on it with all his might and shouting, ‘Let me out, you bastards!’

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