Chapter Seven

France

13th August: The day of the arrest

Siobhan

The morning they come for him, there isn’t any time for Callum to pack. The French police stand at our door, looking horribly out of place in the hot sun, their dark uniforms a stark contrast against the bright blue of the sky and the deep pink roses that climb up along the door frame. They must be hot, I think stupidly. Maria speaks to them in rapid French as Callum and I stand there, dumb, and I feel a stab of jealousy at how cleverly my sister can interpret their words. Emma has for once followed my instructions to remain downstairs, or so I think, but as Maria invites the police inside, I see the flash of her blonde hair disappear out of sight, proof that she has in fact been listening in. I reassure myself that she can no more understand the French than I can.

‘Callum, they want to take you back to the UK,’ Maria says to him, her words quick and urgent as the police look on. I try to meet the policewoman’s eyes, but they gaze past me, flat and deadened in her face. I wonder what she thinks of us – the half-dressed English tourists linked to a dead woman back at home.

‘I’ve done nothing to Caroline, what’s happened to her?’ Callum is saying, over and over. His eyes are welling up, tears threatening to spill over, but the police officers ignore him. I stare at him, wondering how real his reaction is. Crocodile tears, or the real emotion of a grieving lover? How much did this woman mean to him that he’s prepared to risk admitting their affair? Or is he playing us all for fools?

‘Suivez-nous,’ the man says, and Callum swallows, looks at me, his face suddenly like that of a little boy. ‘Come with us.’ I stare back at him, feeling sick with dread.

‘You’d better go with them,’ Maria says, ‘they can handcuff you otherwise. This way, you’re cooperating.’

All at once, I am immeasurably grateful that she is here, taking control – she speaks again to the police and they nod, apparently satisfied.

‘Get him some clothes, S,’ Maria says, and I run into our bedroom, where Callum’s clothes are scattered across our unmade bed and a little on the floor on his side. He has always had bad habits when it comes to tidiness; I scoop up the clothes he was wearing yesterday, shorts and a white shirt that still has a splash of aloe vera aftersun lotion on the collar. His shoes, brown loafers, are discarded by the wardrobe and I grab those too, hurrying back into the hallway where the little group stand waiting.

‘Siobhan—’ Callum says to me as I hand them to him, my hands beginning to violently shake, ‘I didn’t have anything to do with this, I mean—’ he swallows, ‘I know Caroline, I do, but I didn’t hurt her. I’d never hurt anyone! I know you’ll be angry but please, Siobhan, you have to believe me.’

I look up at him, and in that second, I feel as though I don’t know him at all.

‘Allez, vite,’ the policewoman says, her accent thick, and Callum struggles into the clothing, in front of us all, pulling the shorts up over his boxers. The police avert their eyes. I stare at Maria, willing her to tell me that this is all a joke, an elaborate trick designed to unnerve us – for what purpose, I don’t know. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything at all. I wonder if she is embarrassed, by my family coming to her beautiful house and causing all this upset. Shame curdles in my stomach.

‘Emma,’ Callum says to me, and I step forward, place a hand on his, grip onto him as tightly as I can.

‘We’ll come home,’ I say, ‘we’ll get the next flight. I’ll speak to Emma. Don’t worry, Cal. Just do what they say, for now at least.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry.’ His eyes look desperate, hunted, but is it all an act?

For a moment or two, I feel the younger of the two police officers look at me, but I avoid their gaze. I don’t want anyone looking too closely.

‘Can I pack my things?’ he says to Maria, and she translates quickly, before shaking her head and wincing.

‘They want everything left as is,’ she says, ‘for now, anyway. But you need your passport.’ Carefully, she reaches out a hand and touches my husband’s shoulder. I watch as she gives it a squeeze, so tight that it almost looks painful. The male police officer says something else, and Callum looks around, grabs his iPhone from where it sits on charge on the top of the bookshelf near the door. He hesitates, the phone in his palm, before giving it over to the policeman without complaint. Maria raises her eyebrows at me and I run back into our bedroom, fumble for Callum’s passport, which is sitting nestled on top of mine in the drawer where I’ve put my underwear. My fingers are shaking as I bring it back to the hallway, hand it to my husband. The policeman takes it from his grasp.

‘Things will be easier in England,’ says Maria, and I watch in horror as Callum steps towards me, kissing me and whispering that this is all nonsense, lies and rubbish, that it will all be sorted in no time at all, that I am to tell Emma not to worry. He smells stale, of our twisted up sheets and of the sun. I stare at him, uncomprehending, and then he is walking away and the police are smiling grimly at Maria as she says something else that I don’t understand, and then the front door is closing behind the three of them and the bright patch of sunlight is shut out, gone.

For a moment or two, my sister and I stand in silence in the darkened hallway. The main shutters that cover the huge sliding doors are still closed, none of us had got round to opening them yet. We had all slept in. I think of the bright red numbers on the alarm clock next to my bed – it feels like a lifetime ago now that the doorbell first rang, although in reality – I glance at my watch – it has only been twenty-six minutes.

‘Do you know who she is? Caroline Harvey? Callum obviously does,’ Maria asks me bluntly, and as I watch her mouth move, I feel the bare flagged stones of the hallway rise up to meet me, feel the world swimming in front of my eyes.

‘Put your head between your legs, S,’ Maria says, and her hand is on my lower back, guiding me gently towards the sofa in the large open-plan living room. The soft padding is comforting, and I sink down, Maria’s reassuring voice in my ear, rubbing my back as she sits down next to me, telling me that it’s all OK, that it’s all going to be OK.

But it isn’t, I want to scream, it isn’t.

Outside, there is a loud splash, and despite my dizziness, I lift my head. Maria is swearing, running to the doors. Emma has jumped into the swimming pool.

I sit on the large double bed, the windows to our bedroom still closed against the sun. Callum’s belongings are scattered around me – his wallet, his keys for our house in Ipswich. What will he do without them, I wonder, then realise there probably isn’t much call for shopping inside a police station and that they’re not likely to let him go home first anyway. Maria is on hold to the airline whilst she sits at the table, trying to book us all onto the next flight back home. None of us want to stay here – how can we, when this has happened?

Getting up, I pull back the shutters on the bedroom window and see Emma emerge from the pool at last, dripping wet. Hurriedly, I rush out, bringing her a thick, fluffy towel to the side of the water.

‘I wanted to feel something,’ she says, by way of explanation, and I nod as though I understand.

‘Dad is going to be fine,’ I tell her, watching as she dries herself off. I bite the inside of my mouth to try to calm my anxiety, and taste the rusty tang of blood.

‘It’s a misunderstanding,’ I say, ‘but we’re going to go home and sort things out, straight away, OK, Ems?’

She stares at me; her blue eyes look huge in her face. She has Callum’s eyes.

‘Who is she?’ she asks me. ‘Who is the woman they’re talking about, Mum?’

I hadn’t realised she’d heard.