Page 4 of What Would Dolly Do?

A s the police car sped through the city streets on its way to the cop shop I watched ordinary people going about their ordinary business and wished with all my heart I was back there among them.

It was all so absurd I’d have laughed if it wasn’t for the growing ball of anxiety that was filling my chest as the reality of my situation sank in.

‘I don’t understand, what am I supposed to have done?

’ My voice was trembly and the sound of my own fear made tears prickle in my eyes.

The officers in the front of the car studiously ignored me and heaped more humiliation on me by doing so.

I had no experience of criminality, having always been a goody-two-shoes by anyone’s standards so I had nothing to draw on to help me in this alien situation.

When I was a teenager I’d been horrified when some of the girls in my class bragged about the shoplifting sprees they carried out most Saturday afternoons.

They’d come to school with bags overflowing with cheap make-up they’d pinched from Woolworths on Princes Street.

Passing around tubes of cherry lipstick, pots of cream blush, and blue powder eyeshadow, they’d looked pityingly at me as though having an unpainted face and no criminal tendencies was a very bad thing.

I was almost wishing I’d joined in with the pick ‘n’ mix pilfering brigade now; at least it might have given me some idea of what to expect when you got your collar felt.

All I actually had to go on was stuff I’d seen in police dramas or ancient sit-coms. Was the ‘good-cop bad-cop’ routine a real thing?

Would one detective try to gain my trust while another waited for an opportunity to catch me out with a loaded question?

Would I be placed in an empty room and then watched from behind a one-way mirror by a team trying to decipher my body language?

Was I heading for a long stretch in jail protesting my innocence, would I fester behind bars until I became an old lag?

I wasn’t sure where the jailbird jargon phrases popping into my head were coming from …

I wasn’t much of a crime drama fan so maybe it was down to those late-night re-runs of Porridge on the comedy channel?

My mind was spinning out of control now …

were you forced to eat porridge in prison?

Horrifyingly, I gave a sudden snort at the very thought and quickly turned it into a bout of coughing in case they thought I was laughing.

It really wouldn’t do me any favours if the police thought I wasn’t taking this seriously.

It wasn’t hard to take the whole thing a lot more seriously once I was sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a windowless interview room, being told that I was being accused of theft. Me!? Some kind of jewel thief? I could barely take it in.

A female detective with a very stern expression insisted I had a duty solicitor present. I should have realised that didn’t bode well. I resisted at first but, when she doggedly persisted, that was the moment I realised I was in a lot of trouble.

The door opened and a skinny youth with a bum fluff beard loped into the room. This did nothing to help quell my nerves. Were they kidding? Was this some sort of weird reality TV show? Was there a camera hidden somewhere on his red spotty tie? This … boy was supposed to be my legal representative?

The man-boy introduced himself as Calum Crutchley and we had a brief conversation where I told him I knew nothing about anything, which didn’t seem to impress him much either.

Someone brought us two paper cups of tepid, grey liquid, I had no idea if it was tea or coffee and had no chance to find out as Calum knocked my cup off the table splattering liquid all over the floor as he struggled out of a coat two sizes too big for him.

This was going from bad to worse. This was who I had to rely on to help me? … Calamity Calum?

The detective then told us both she had reason to believe I had stolen items worth thousands of pounds from Grayson’s Jewellers. Shocked, I glanced at my Kevin-the-teenager solicitor but he looked just as bamboozled as I was.

There was worse to come. They had CCTV evidence from the back office at the shop.

I thought the system was out of action but there I was on the flickering black and white footage, stuffing watches, necklaces, rings and bracelets into my bag and skipping merrily through the door like some modern-day Artful Dodger.

‘It’s not … I wasn’t …’ My protestations stuck in my throat as I tried to explain.

Then the killer punch. Detective Constable Thatcher had sent a colleague to my flat this morning, she said. My blood ran cold as I realised why I’d been left waiting for almost two hours and I guessed where she was going with this.

‘Your neighbour downstairs was very helpful,’ DC Thatcher said. ‘She gave us a spare key so we gained access to your flat.’ Was I meant to thank them for not battering down my door? She carried on as I kept my mouth firmly shut. ‘Do you know what we found, Miss Mooney?’

I did. I knew they would have found some of the most expensive items we’d ever had in stock at Grayson’s stuffed under my mattress. You didn’t have to be any sort of legal eagle to know this did not look good for me and whatever I said would sound like a lame excuse.

For the next couple of hours I pleaded my innocence, tried to make them understand what had really happened, but the circumstantial evidence against me was too strong and DC Thatcher appeared to think she had an open and shut case.

I was to be charged with theft. Me, Becky Mooney, no previous convictions or even petty pilfering misdemeanours to be taken into consideration, but now I would have a rap sheet reading ‘theft’. The shame was overwhelming.

But Calum Crutchley swung into action at this point, successfully arguing that more investigation needed to be carried out before I was charged.

My version of events had to be fully explored, he’d said, stressing there was an entirely legitimate explanation for having high-value merchandise under my bed.

He believed me! Perhaps having this young man on my side would not be such a calamity after all? Maybe?

I was released shortly after with a grim warning to expect the police to be in touch. It was a relief not to have been charged immediately or kept in a cell while they carried out more enquiries, but it didn’t feel like I was off the hook yet.

I emerged from the front entrance of the station, blinking into the daylight, as though I’d just tunnelled out of Shawshank Prison.

The shock of being arrested and questioned had been a nerve-jangling start to the day.

All I wanted was a calming cup of tea and a sit down, but my mind was racing.

The faces of the gruesome twosome of Guy Grayson and his joyless wife JoJo swam in front of my eyes but the police had warned me to stay right away from the shop while they completed ‘further enquiries’.

I just needed to go home. My stomach lurched when I thought of police officers invading my flat and rifling through my belongings but I couldn’t blame Mrs Forsyth for giving them access.

I squirmed with embarrassment yet again when I thought of how I was going to explain all this to her.

I loved my little apartment and I couldn’t bear it if, on top of everything else, I now had to find somewhere else to live.

Although anywhere would be better than a six-by-eight-foot prison cell.

I tottered on shaky legs to the top of the steps outside the cop shop, spotting solicitor Calum paused halfway down the stairs with his phone clamped to his ear.

He looked up and gave a brief nod in my direction as I attempted a smile I hoped showed him my gratitude for saving me from being thrown straight into clink.

Suddenly a commotion behind me made us both stop and turn.

A man with unruly reddish hair and worn jeans was being manhandled through the revolving police station door by a burly uniformed cop.

The two of them barely fitted into the glass compartment together and they burst out with the officer holding the guy by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his denim-clad bottom.

‘And this time stay out of bloody trouble!’ the policeman growled as he threw the guy roughly in the direction of the steps where Calum and I were still standing. I was glad I’d only encountered the hatchet-faced DC Thatcher and not this muscly monster.

The red-headed man wasn’t the young scruffy kid I’d initially taken him for.

He looked like he could be well into his thirties and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was clearly a no-good wastrel being booted out of a cop shop I would have said he was really rather attractive.

I only caught the briefest glimpse of his face, strong jaw and a devilish grin, before he pulled out a pair of dark glasses from his back pocket and put them on.

It wasn’t particularly sunny so maybe that was why he then immediately misjudged his footing on the stairs.

He stumbled down a couple of the steps but managed to stop himself from falling down the rest, sticking out his arms as though he was balancing on a tightrope.

I caught a flash of taut tanned skin as his blue-checked shirt fell open and his tight white t-shirt rode up his toned stomach, but hastily looked away before he could see me checking him out.

I’d only been incarcerated for a couple of hours, for heaven’s sake, and here I was eyeing him up like I hadn’t seen a man in years …

what was wrong with me? It might have been a difficult morning but the last thing I needed now was to develop a sexual appetite for petty criminals and vagabonds … what was I thinking?

The ginger guy turned and fired off a mouthful of colourful expletives in a Scottish accent to the officer who stood with his arms folded looking down with an expression more amused than annoyed.

I knew I shouldn’t gawk but I couldn’t help but wonder what crime the villain could have committed?

Was he a shoplifter? A mugger? Was he a political activist who’d been defacing public monuments or glueing himself to traffic lights?

He couldn’t be that dangerous if he was being let loose on the Edinburgh public.

The guy had a rather peculiar smirk on what I could see of his face behind his completely unnecessary shades, as though being thrown out of a police station was merely an occupational hazard for a cool career criminal such as himself. He mockingly dusted himself down and gave the cop a jaunty wave.

‘Be seeing you officer,’ he called.

‘Not if I see you first, Tommy,’ the policeman retorted with a knowing nod of his head.

Right, I decided, this was none of my business. I had enough problems of my own and it was high time I was on my way, leaving the baby-faced solicitor, the burly officer and the red menace well behind me.

Turning quickly on the stair to make my getaway my stupid foot slipped off the troublesome step I’d just watched the other guy tackle and, giving a squeal of distressed horror, I fell awkwardly and painfully head first down the remaining stairs.

My landing, witnessed by all three men plus a couple of amused by passers-by, left me spread-eagled face down on the pavement with my feet still on the third step from the top. Excellent.

As I scrambled for the scattered contents of my handbag I sensed young Calum was mortified by a flash of my bright pink knickers and the sight of my bum stuck up in the air.

I felt like I was moving in slow motion as we all watched one lipstick and two tampons roll, along with my last shred of dignity, towards the gutter.

It was the true criminal among us who moved first. With one bound the ginger demon was by my head grabbing for my bag, like the opportunist thief he was.

That did it. I’d had quite enough to deal with already, thank you very much.

Springing to my feet in a cat-like move that surprised even me I caught the guy about to make off with my handbag completely by surprise.

What a brazen scoundrel! Trying to rob me blind, and right in front of a police station, a cop and a solicitor too!

Snatching my leather shoulder bag out of his grasp with such force it must have left friction burns on his thieving hands I swung it backwards and then landed him with a good clout around the head.

I only remembered I’d got my GHD hair straighteners in the bag when I heard the satisfying ‘dong’ sound as it made contact with his red head.

‘Ow! What the …?’ He looked affronted as much as in pain, rubbing his unruly ginger hair at the spot where I’d made contact, his face screwing up in shock and pain.

Ignoring his protestations and picking up as much of the debris from my bag as I could, I was assisted by Calum the wonder-boy who finally managed to move his feet and help me.

Although he did hand me a tampon with such a quizzical look on his face I did wonder if he’d ever seen one before.

No matter, he was helping me and that’s what counted.

The cop and the robber were both now yelling stuff I chose to ignore.

I was so desperate to get home, I blanked them as they shouted after me, and limped away from the station as fast as I could.

What a pair of Neanderthals! At my side though, bless him, holding my elbow supportively, was little Calum who stuck out his hand like a proper grown-up and hailed me a black cab so I could make a decent escape.

He pulled open the car door and practically pushed me inside as I stuttered my thanks.

‘What the hell just happened?’ I asked him as I clambered in.

The question could have been about my shocking arrest, interrogation, surprise release or humiliating tumble down the station steps, all of it was crazy, but I was actually referring to the fact that, after all that, I’d then had to defend myself from being robbed by a brazen bad guy in broad daylight right outside a police station!

Calum seemed to be as bewildered as I was by the turn of events and understood what I was saying. He shook his head wearily as though he had already seen too much crime in his young life.

‘If I hadn’t been there and seen it for myself I would never have believed it,’ he said.

Slamming the door shut as if to accentuate his point I left him standing on the kerb as the taxi pulled away.

Well said, Calum! It wasn’t him that deserved the nickname ‘calamity’ after all, it was me!

In one sentence he’d actually summed up the entire situation, my disastrous day and the whole sorry mess that was my life.