And if chemically-induced tears had not already been tumbling from her eyes, Sandy Jones would probably have wept with relief.
She was led straight into what she assumed must be the booking office, known in the UK, she was aware from that predilection for TV detective shows, as a custody suite. Her head was immediately and unceremoniously dunked into a small washbasin to one side where a kind of customized fountain gushed water upwards into her burning face. At first she wondered what the heck was going on, and was further unnerved. But the relief the water instantly brought made her realize that this must be what the washbasin was for, and that spraying a noxious substance into the face of a suspect was probably common practice in these parts — or certainly when the suspect was dumb enough to appear to be putting up a fight.
Jones’s cuffs and leg irons were removed by the two officers who had arrested her, and she was asked to empty her pockets. All she had on her was a few dollars and her mobile phone, which were duly placed in a brown envelope. She had left everything else in her hotel room. She hadn’t planned to be gone long. Her father’s watch was also removed and bagged. She hated being without it.
She was then told to stand with her legs apart and arms akimbo while she was searched by a third, female, officer.
‘Look, there’s been a dreadful mistake,’ she said, eventually gathering courage. ‘I’m Dr Sandy Jones from Exeter University in England. I just came to see the damage for myself. Two great friends of mine have died. I realize I behaved stupidly, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong...’
Jones wished she hadn’t left her shoulder bag containing her passport, credit cards and all the rest of her documentation in her room at the Nassau Inn. Glumly she realized that she couldn’t even prove her identity. Not immediately anyway. But it seemed to make little difference. Nobody was listening.
‘I want to see the British consul,’ she demanded.
Even as she said the words she was struck by how silly the request sounded. The officers didn’t exactly smile — it was hard to imagine them smiling, actually — but they definitely looked mildly amused.
‘I must speak to someone. I’m entitled to representation. Surely I’m entitled to representation?’ Jones continued.
‘You will be interviewed in due course, ma’am,’ said one of the officers eventually, as he replaced, in spite of her protests, Jones’s cuffs, but mercifully not the leg irons. ‘Meanwhile, please cooperate and you will come to no harm.’
It sounded like a threat. Jones stopped protesting and did as she was told. She had no choice, it seemed.
She was led to a cell by the two officers. One of them, a short skinny man who somehow gave the impression that he was acting extra tough in order to compensate for his lack of height and bulk, pushed her ahead with what Jones felt was unnecessary force. The second officer removed her handcuffs.
The cell was a surprise. Jones had never been in a police cell before, but doubted if many were as smart and clean as this one. A stainless-steel lavatory and wash basin ensemble had been installed behind a slotted wooden bench which ran along one immaculately white wall, and neither would have looked entirely out of place in some kind of ultra-modern, minimalist-designed apartment. Jones was reminded that this was Princeton. And Princeton was not only smarter and richer, but also totally different from anywhere else on earth. There was even a phone on the wall. She glanced enquiringly at the officer.
‘Collect calls only,’ growled the short skinny officer. ‘But it’s out of order, anyway.’
The officer seemed to derive a certain amount of pleasure from that. And it occurred to Jones that the phone being out of order might well be no accident. Even in Princeton, cops will be cops, she thought.
Her arms still ached. She flexed and stretched them, seeking relief. The two officers backed watchfully away, as if she really was some sort of violent criminal. She made one last futile attempt to explain herself.
‘This is a mistake, a complete mistake,’ she began. ‘I’m Dr Sandy Jones, ask anyone. I’m always on TV back home. I’m very well known.’
She couldn’t quite believe she’d said that. It was such a crass remark. But these were desperate circumstances. And it made no difference anyway. Nobody was listening. Nobody cared. The officers retreated into the corridor. The cell door slammed shut.
Without either her phone or her treasured watch, she had little idea of the time. And there was no window.
Jones wasn’t normally claustrophobic, and this cell was far less unpleasant in every way than she might have expected. All the same, she couldn’t quite conquer the feeling that the walls were gradually closing in on her. She felt as if she was suffocating. It took a great effort of will not to panic.
There were actually two cells side by side — their doors iron-barred gates and the division between them also made of iron bars — within one bigger outer room. The second cell was unoccupied. Jones didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Periodically an officer opened the solid door of the outer room and looked in. At first Jones called out every time, demanding to speak to someone in authority, to be allowed to make a phone call from a phone that worked, to be given the chance to explain herself.
After a while she realized she was wasting her time. At some stage a packet of fat cheese sandwiches, wrapped in paper bearing the legend Wa Wa, and a paper carton of luke-warm milky coffee, were pushed through the bars. Princeton Borough Police Station did not, apparently, run to a canteen. But it still fed its prisoners. Jones recognized the Wa Wa logo from her Princeton days, and assumed the food and drink must have come from the store over by the Dinky Train station. She couldn’t eat anything. However, she drank the insipid coffee gratefully.
Soon afterwards the outer door opened again, and two different police officers entered. Jones had absolutely no idea how long she had been in the cell. It seemed like days, but she knew it must only be a few hours at the most.
The officers, in what she regarded as normal uniform, were both reassuringly ordinary looking, one tall and very young, the other shorter, plumpish, and middle-aged. Jones was rather glad not to see the skinny aggressive man she had encountered earlier in the day.
‘Right, let’s go then,’ said the middle-aged officer, unlocking the barred gate to Jones’s cell.
‘Go where?’ asked Jones.
‘There’s somebody wants to talk to you.’
Jones relaxed slightly. She welcomed the opportunity of speaking to almost anybody.
‘’Fraid we’ve got to cuff you again first.’
Jones flinched. She knew well enough this was the way American police did business. Those under suspicion of almost any sort of crime were cuffed all the time when they were not actually under lock and key.
Meekly, she held her hands out.
‘Behind your back, ma’am.’
Resignedly, she thrust her arms behind her back as directed, and the cuffs were locked into place.
They took her to what she assumed was an interview room and directed her to sit at a small table. The room was not equipped with any visible recording equipment. Jones guessed there would be a video system. She glanced upwards. Sure enough, there was a tiny camera in one corner of the ceiling.
The door opened again. A large man of indeterminate years, probably nearing retirement, Jones thought, advanced into the room in a business-like manner. He was wearing a cream jacket rather cleverly tailored so that he looked big rather than fat. and stood with a hand on each hip looking Jones up and down.