had and I didn’t know they had because my French just wasn’t good enough.
‘I need to make a call,’ I announced to the policewoman. ‘I have rights. I’m a British citizen.’
Nothing I said worked. I was completely ignored by all three officers for the whole journey to the police station. I was strong-armed into the building and shoved into a cell before my feet could touch the ground. I asked over and over what it was they thought I’d done. Obviously they thought I’d stolen that bag but they wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.
I wasn’t sure how much time went by as I waited in the cell. I assumed they needed to find a translator and I tried not to panic. Sitting on the hard bench, eyes up to the ceiling, willing myself not to cry in case it made me look guilty, I thought of Anthony and wondered if he’d wait for me if I was wrongfully charged and sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.
The Interrogation
I was cold and I was hungry. More time had passed and I didn’t know how much because the police had taken everything: my bag, my watch, and my shoes. I looked at the unsavoury throw on the rock-hard bench in my cell but I wasn’t tempted to put it around my shoulders. I had to keep getting off the bench and rubbing my bum because it was going numb from sitting for so long. No one had pushed a plate under a little hatch in the door (there was no hatch, actually) and no one had offered me a chance to make a call.
This was police brutality at its worst. Completely unnecessary because this was all some great big misunderstanding. Surely I had rights. I pictured Anthony, happy and grumpy in his studio, and I had never missed him more. In fact, I missed home; I missed work, my family, and friends; and I missed my caffè macchiato from Jimmy’s.
I heard a key in the lock and stopped rubbing my bottom.
‘At last,’ I said. ‘Have you sorted out the mix-up?’
The guard at the door simply jerked his head towards the corridor and said, ‘Allez!’
I knew what that meant. Was I free to go? I certainly hoped so and I’d be calling my lawyer to sue every last member of the French police.
‘Where do I get my things?’ I asked.
Just outside the door was the policewoman from earlier. She hooked my elbow with a clamp-like hand and started pushing me along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Along the dark corridor on the upper floor was a series of closed doors and at the very end, a fire escape. She opened a door. The room looked ominously like the interview room in NCIS. I looked at the fire escape just before entering and thought I could make a break for it. It was obvious I wasn’t about to be released; they wanted to interrogate me about the bag. But at least I would get the chance to explain.
The policewoman gestured for me to go in with a hard shove. Her hand went to her gun. I got nervous and went into panic mode.
‘Look,’ I said, swiftly backing into the room. ‘I didn’t do anything. Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’m innocent. Well no one is completely innocent. I mean, who is right?’ She jerked me into a chair at a metal desk. I fell into it. ‘But this, whatever this is about, I’m completely innocent.’
‘You just said no one is completely innocent.’ A voice came from the doorway. I turned to see a tall, thin man entering the room. Closely cropped hair and a receding hairline. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite me. The policewoman sat beside him and looked me up and down. She hadn’t said a single word so I tried to appeal to this new officer’s kind-looking eyes. They were deep blue and his slim face was unshaven. He rubbed his chin as he flicked open a file he’d brought in.
‘Magenta Bright, you say? From London?’ he said.
‘That’s right. You can confirm this. Just call anyone –’
He put up a hand to shush me. I shushed.
Looking at me but not saying a word he began to lay photographs out in front of me on the desk. ‘I am Inspecteur Martin.’ He tapped loudly with his forefinger at a photograph. ‘You know this man?’
I looked from his kind eyes to the photo. He pushed it closer. I shook my head.
‘Never seen him before,’ I said. ‘But he wasn’t the one who gave me the bag. That guy was a lot younger.’
‘His name?’
‘I never knew his name. He just passed me the bag.’
‘And you just took it?’
‘Well, yes, I had lots of bags, you see. I was confused. I thought it was one of mine but then I realized that –’
‘Look at the photos. Tell me the names of all the people you recognize.’ His voice wasn’t unpleasant. If anything he sounded tired and uninterested.
I looked at each photograph, shaking my head with as much confidence as I could muster.
‘I don’t know a single one,’ I declared.
The inspector and the policewoman looked at each other and the atmosphere in the room changed. It got decidedly heavier and I knew that my arrest had nothing to do with anything as simple as a case of a stolen bag. He gathered the photos and put them back into the file. He then whipped out a sheet of paper. On it was a list of names.
‘All I want you to do is look at the list and tell me which one of them is your contact.’
I mouthed the words ‘my contact’, because I was too nervous to use actual words. I blinked vigorously so I could read the list through the tears welling up in my eyes.
I shook my head after carefully going down the list. I cleared my throat and pointed at a name.
‘Yes?’ Inspector Martin said. He and the police officer leaned forward on their elbows.
‘W-well,’ I stuttered. ‘I think this one won an Emmy at the awards recently.’
‘Very funny.’ He snatched the list away and got up, scraping the chair on the floor. ‘This interview is terminated.’
I stood and the policewoman got up, too. Inspector Martin was at the door.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This interview is not terminated.’
‘You have something to confess?’ he said.
‘No, I don’t. I want to go home. I know my rights. You should at least let me make a telephone call. At least one. I know the law.’
Inspector Martin looked at the policewoman with the gun. She shot a look at the chair I’d got out of so abruptly, implying I should sit. I did so, my eyes on her weapon, and gulped. Inspector Martin left and the policewoman plugged in a phone, which appeared from a shelf I hadn’t noticed before.
‘I’m calling London,’ I said, haughtily.
Anthony would be at the art gallery or on his way home if I was right about the time. His phone started ringing. Please pick up, please pick up, I kept saying under my breath. The second I heard Anthony’s voice I inhaled deeply and burst into tears.
‘Magenta, slow down. I don’t understand a single word. Did you say arrested?’ Anthony sounded as desperate as I was.
‘Well, I think so. No one said that thing, you know: “You have the right to remain silent” or whatever it is. Or if they did, they said it in French and I missed it. If I’m not arrested can’t I just walk out? Only they’ve got my shoes.’
‘Magenta, I’m coming out there straight away. Ask for a translator. In fact, don’t say anything until I get you a lawyer.’
‘Call Indigo,’ I said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’ My sister specialized in business and corporate law. In truth, I probably needed a criminal lawyer but I was