Rosa Temple - Playing Her Cards Right

‘ Tienes ,’ a voice from behind me said. A young guy was holding up the last bag I’d dropped. He placed it over my shoulder.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said and went about trying to find my wallet again. From my bag I pulled out tissues, a compact, and my phone before the wallet came into view.

‘Take your time,’ the pharmacist said in perfect English. With his huge smile and chubby cheeks he was looking at me as if I was already pregnant by about eight months and struggling to cope.

‘Here.’ I handed him my Visa card and secured all the bags around my person. Having second thoughts about lugging multiple bags up the Eiffel Tower and down the Champs-Élysées, I decided to drop them off at the hotel first. If I was quick I could take that test right away and still have time for some sightseeing.

I left the shop, tucking my purchase into my bag, my footsteps slow and heavy because, now that it was imminent, I was afraid to take the test on my own. I should just wait until I was back in London, talk to Anthony. That was the sensible thing to do. But just a few metres from the pharmacy I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was the young man from before who had been so helpful. He pushed a black leather courier-style bag at me.

‘You dropped this,’ he said and ran off.

Before I could even say thank you, but this isn’t mine, he was gone, crossing the road at speed while the traffic honked and swerved to avoid hitting him. I waved at him. He’d never hear me call out so I hooked the bag onto my shoulder, thinking I could catch him up. Just as I stepped towards the kerb a black car screeched to a halt in front of me, its front wheel mounting the pavement just at my feet.

There were gasps all around me from onlookers on what was a fairly busy street. My first instinct was that Nadia hadn’t understood my earlier instructions and wanted to whisk me off to my next appointment at warp speed, hours in advance. But when I saw two large men in long black coats lurch themselves out of the car I staggered backwards to get out of their way.

Looking around I tried to see who they were trying to catch in the act of doing something dreadful when, all of a sudden, they had me pinned against the shop front of a hair salon.

‘What the –?’ I tried to stand my ground but the two men started yanking all my bags away. ‘Wait! Do you mind telling me wh –?’

There was no time to finish the sentence. A crowd of gasping people gathered in a semi-circle around me and the two men. One had his hand on my chest, securing me against the window; the other was looking inside each of the bags coming off my shoulders. The traffic had come to a standstill.

‘ Est-ce votre sac ?’ one of the men bellowed into my face, holding up one of the bags.

‘Sack?’ I asked him.

‘ Oui, votre sac. Est-ceci ?’

I shook my head and shrugged. He proceeded to search the bag and when I saw that there were items in there I didn’t recognize, I realized it was the courier bag the young man had just given to me by mistake. I tried to pull free from the man who was holding me against the window.

‘Look, wait a minute,’ I gasped. ‘I can explain. I know what I did.’

‘Of course you do,’ the man searching the bag said.

A policewoman appeared from the back of the black car and gathered up all the bags from the ground. One of the men in black held up the courier bag as if he was exhibiting it to the crowd then both men pulled and pushed me to the car.

In a wave of horror I began to shake. My legs gave way as they forced me into the back seat. It happened so fast. All at once the car was in motion. Next to me the policewoman was staring straight ahead, not blinking once. I was in a state of shock, though I did notice what gorgeous cheekbones she had – she would age well. I also noticed her gun. I swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said to her. ‘ Je ne … je suis … non … s’il vous plaît ?’ I was out of French. I’d never learned how to say “not guilty” and I was pretty sure that little phrase was going to come in handy. I was being arrested although no one had read me my rights. Or maybe they 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.

Chapter 7

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.