Page 22 of Close to You
Eleven
THE NOW
The custody officer bats away a yawn and seems ready for a nap when she hands me some papers and tells me that I shouldn’t be planning any holidays.
‘I’m supposed to be moving in with my boyfriend this weekend,’ I reply.
‘I don’t see why that would be a problem,’ she replies. ‘As long as we know your address.’
She talks me through how I’m supposed to return to the station in a month to either be re-bailed or exonerated. ‘It might happen sooner than that,’ she adds.
I tell her that someone was supposed to be visiting later to take a statement about my stolen car. It’s all a bit redundant now, so she makes a note and says I can contact the non-emergency number if there’s anything I want to add.
It’s only as I’m leaving the station that I realise the implication. If whoever was hit by my car ends up dying, it could be a manslaughter charge. Suddenly, it feels like a bad idea to have spoken to the police without a solicitor. Perhaps karma does exist? I’ve apparently got away with something Ididdo and yet I could be in severe trouble for something I didn’t.
As soon as I’m outside, the wall of cold hits me like a brick. After the breathalyser test, I didn’t have the clarity of thought to grab anything like a hat or gloves. I’ve only taken a few steps across the car park when it feels as if I’ve buried my face in the freezer. I have no easy way to get home. Kingbridge Police Station is twelve or thirteen miles away from where I live in Gradingham. I suppose I’m fit enough to run it – but the country lanes will be covered with frost – plus, even if I wanted to, I’m not in any gear that’s particularly suitable for such a long run. It would take too long to walk and, though there must be buses, I have no idea about the schedule. I could try for a taxi – but my purse is sitting on the counter at home.
Hours have passed in a blink and it’s now a little after two in the afternoon. I’m not sure what else to do, so I start walking towards the golden arches a couple of streets over. They’ll have free Wi-Fi there.
As I walk, I call Jane. I only manage the word ‘hi’ and she must hear it from my tone. We’ve had enough of these conversations over the years – and she’s always been the first person I contact when something is up.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jane replies.
‘Can you come and get me?’ I ask.
‘Of course. What’s happened? Are you at the hotel?’
I stop for a second, confused until I realise that she has no way of knowing for sure that I arrived home from the hotel. The last time we were in contact, she’d texted to say she was home safely.
‘I’m near the police station in Kingbridge,’ I reply.
There’s a longer pause this time and I can hear the hesitation from the other end of the line. ‘The police?’
‘I can wait at the McDonald’s,’ I add, skirting the obvious. ‘Do you know the one?’
‘Why have you been with the police?’
‘It’s sort of… complicated. Can you come?’
‘Sure. I’ve got Norah and she’s not a fan of her car seat, but I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’
Jane says goodbye and then she’s gone.
I cross a couple of roads and traipse across the McDonald’s car park. There is a lone vehicle parked off to the side, with a woman in the driving seat staring aimlessly across the tarmac while munching into a burger. I can imagine her car and this hideaway being her last sanctuary of tranquillity before the madness of the school run, or whatever else she has to do.
It’s relatively quiet inside, though none of the staff members bother about me as I sit in the corner with a coffee and log onto the Wi-Fi. I search for details of the incident involving my car. There are a few stories and social media posts about how the centre of Gradingham was shut down through the morning after a pedestrian was hit. Other than that, details are sparse. It’s hard to put that to one side, though the red dot of email notifications is also burning accusingly at my lack of attention.
A few of the people with whom I swapped business cards last night have emailed, largely saying things like, ‘Just checking in to say congratulations on the win’. There’s somebody who’s organising a fitness conference in Edinburgh next year who’s wondering if I’m interested in hosting a session. There’s the usual marketing emails from companies I’ve used once and now think I want to buy something from them twice a week for the rest of eternity. After that, there’s a note from the organiser, Steven, which is a general message of congratulations. I figure I’ll deal with everything later, but then have another idea and reply to him, asking if he can send me any photos from the previous night. There might a shot of the man in the blue suit from a different angle, or in altered light, that makes it clear it isn’t David. If I can make myself certain it’s definitely someone else, I can focus on trying to figure out who stole my car – and how.
Someone in a grey uniform comes across and starts sweeping up around me. He asks if I want him to clear away my empty coffee cup, but I keep hold of it, if only so that it’s not completely obvious that I’m freeloading the Wi-Fi and heat. I suppose loitering is part of the fast-food business model. The main difference is that it would usually be teenagers hanging around inside to get away from the cold.
I see Jane’s black 4x4 pull into the car park after almost fifty minutes. She parks and ducks momentarily out of sight to grab her phone, but by then I’m already halfway across the car park. She waves when she spots me and I clamber up into the back, behind the passenger seat, as if she’s a chauffeur.
Norah is strapped into the carrier that’s belted into the passenger seat and Jane reaches across to wipe something from her daughter’s face.
‘Traffic’s a nightmare,’ Jane says as she turns to me. ‘There was some sort of hit-and-run in Gradingham this morning. They’ve shut down the road for investigation work. It’s total chaos.’
‘That’s sort of why I’m here,’ I reply. ‘It was my car.’
