‘This is bloody disgraceful,’ said Frank Reed, angrily.
He got to his feet, gripping the back of the wooden seat he’d been sitting on.
Apart from the small table, it
was the only piece of furniture in the interview room at Theobald’s Road Police Station.
The room was no more than twelve feet square and the presence of both Reed and the single uniformed man in there with him made the place look overcrowded.
‘I’ve been here over an hour now,’ Reed snapped. ‘I haven’t been charged, I haven’t even been allowed to call my solicitor. What the hell is going on?’
‘If you’d just sit down, sir,’ said the constable quietly, motioning towards the chair with his eyes.
Reed still gripped the back of it as if threatening to use it as a weapon against the policeman but, after a moment or two, he sat down heavily.
He could smell the acrid odour of perspiration and realised that it was his own.
What are you afraid of?
He’d drunk two cups of coffee since being escorted into the room, his breath smelled of the brown liquid which was now going cold in the cup before him.
What the hell was going on?
His mind was reeling, words tumbling through it like collapsing building bricks. And each of those bricks carried a different word on it: ASSAULT
CHARGES
COMPLAINT
INVESTIGATION
Jesus Christ!
He wanted to scream it.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?
It was like some kind of bizarre nightmare from which he felt he must wake at any second. What did
they call them? Lucid dreams? The ability to be aware of what you’re dreaming while it happens.
Then wake yourself up. Get out of here.
But there was no waking.
No respite.
No end to it.
Whatever it was.
They said he’d assaulted his own daughter.
Sexually assaulted.
One of them had actually used that word when he’d arrived at the police station.
Sexual assault.
Dear God, even the words made him feel sick.
There had been a complaint. By whom ?
He sat forward, head resting against his hands, palms pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode with so many fearful and conflicting thoughts spinning through it.
So many emotions were coursing through him, his body wired like some cocaine fiend, his mind hyperactive as it searched for answers when it didn’t even have questions.
Sexual assault.
An image of Becky flashed into his mind.
How could anyone even think he would touch her?
Who would think it, let alone say it?
Who would …?
He swallowed hard.
Go on, you’re supposed to be a teacher. Think. Use your brain. Who would say it? Who?
He clenched his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.
The uniformed officer cast him a cursory glance, then snapped his eyes forwards again as the door of the interview room opened.
Reed got to his feet and glared at the two men who had entered.
‘Can one of you tell me what the hell is going on?’ the teacher barked.
‘Mr Reed, my name is Detective Inspector Macpherson, this is Detective Sergeant Collier’ said the larger of the newcomers.
Macpherson leaned against the table, the DS stood close to the door as if fearing Reed was going to make a run for it.
‘Look, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,’ Reed snapped.
‘That’s a slight exaggeration, Mr Reed,’ Macpherson told him. ‘It hasn’t been anywhere near that long.’ The detective perched on the edge of the table and motioned for Reed to sit down, which he did.
‘I want to know why I’m being held here,’ Reed said, trying to control his temper.
‘We received a report about you and your daughter,’ the DI told him.
‘From who?’
‘Ellen Reed. I believe that’s your wife.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed rasped, leaning back in his chair. ‘I should have fucking known. What did the bitch say?’
‘You and your wife are separated, aren’t you?’ Macpherson said.
‘I want to know what she told you.’
‘We’ll come to that, Mr Reed. If you could just answer these questions it would make things a lot easier.’
A heavy silence descended on the room, all eyes fixed on the teacher.
‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘We’re separated.’
‘And she lives with a Mr Jonathan Ward and your daughter Rebecca. Correct?’
Reed nodded.
‘Are you divorced?’ Macpherson continued.
‘No. She just walked out on me and took my daughter, but you’d better ask her about that.’
‘Your daughter stayed with you over the weekend?’ the DI asked.
‘Yes. For the first time since my wife took her away.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Reed snorted.
‘Where did you go? What did you do together?’ the detective continued.
‘Went out, saw a film, had some fun. We did what most normal fathers and daughters do,’ Reed said, shaking his head.
‘Did your daughter sleep in the same bed as you at any time?’
‘Jesus Christ, don’t be so ridiculous. Is that what Ellen said? Is that what all this is about?’
‘Did she sleep in your bed at any time during the weekend?’ Macpherson persisted.
‘No.’
‘She didn’t get into bed with you at any time?’
‘Well, she came and woke me up on the Sunday morning,’ Reed said. ‘She woke up early, she came and woke me up.’
‘And got into bed with you?’
‘Yes. It’s perfectly natural, you know. Seven-year-olds do that.’
‘Was there any physical contact between the two of you while she was in bed with you?’
‘For God’s sake,’ Reed hissed, angrily. ‘If you mean did I touch her the answer is no. No, sorry, I hugged her once or twice, is that against the law?’
‘Were you fully clothed at the time?’
‘I was in bed,’ Reed blurted, incredulously.
‘Naked?’
‘I was wearing pyjama bottoms.’
‘Did your daughter have a bath while she was with you?’
‘Yes, on the Saturday night before she went to bed.’
‘Did you bath her?’
Reed swallowed hard and glared at the DI.
‘I ran the bath for her,’ he snapped. ‘I made sure she was OK, then I left her to it.’
‘You left her alone.’
‘I was in the next room, in case she needed me.’
‘For what?’
‘In case she slipped, in case she wanted to get out. In case she swallowed the fucking soap. What do you think?’ Reed snarled.
‘And when she’d finished?’
‘She got out and dried herself.’
‘Did you help her?’
Reed shook his head, letting out a weary breath. ‘Yes, I helped her,’ he said quietly. ‘She asked me to help her. Then she got dressed.’
‘On her own?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you dried her off?’
‘I wrapped her in the towel, she was cold, she was damp. I helped her, then I left her to dress herself.’
‘Which parts of her body did you dry?’
Reed gripped the edge of the table.
‘Her feet, her toes, her back,’ he said, quietly.
‘Between her legs?’
The question hung in the air.
Macpherson’s stare was unflinching.
‘Did you touch your daughter between the legs?’ he persisted.
‘No, I did not’ Reed hissed.
‘You didn’t dry her there?’
‘I may have … I…’
‘Did you touch her vagina?’
‘You sick bastard,’ Reed breathed.
‘Did you touch your daughter’s vagina, Mr Reed?’
‘No.’
‘But you say you may have helped her to dry herself between her legs. Surely you must have touched it.’