This Honourable House by Edwina Currie Page B

of a VIP there would have been no question. Had she been the wife of a known villain he would have handed the case over, pronto, conscious of the aggravation such individuals could cause. But with vacancies at the current level, car thieves cocking a snook at them in their own back yard and the pressure on to compile the force statistics by the end of the month, other priorities had necessarily prevailed. His gut instinct, like the sergeant’s, was that no offence had been committed. Police officers of long experience could tell. To devote a ton of scarce resources to proving the obvious was a negation of his duty. But he had, none the less, felt obliged to pay the visit himself.
    He should have sent his sergeant, whose bluff manner concealed no great brain but whose compassion for the victims of crime was limitless and delicately expressed. Stevens himself could be sympathetic, but knew his limits. Boredom and exasperation would inevitably intervene.
    Gail Bridges was seated in an old armchair, a crumpled heap of tissue screwed up in her hand, her face doleful. From the kitchen came the unmistakable smell of a blocked drain; through the door he could see unwashed crockery piled high in the sink. As he politely removed his leather gloves and cap, Stevens could not help reflecting that if this woman stopped feeling sorry for herself long enough to clean up her flat and apply some makeup, her whole outlook on life might improve – she must once have been quite attractive. It would certainly make his own task easier. There came unbidden the unworthy reflection that he could almost see why her husband had left her for someone else. ‘I’m sorry,’ he could hear himself saying.
    ‘No action?’ she repeated. ‘But a crime’s been committed. A very serious crime.’
    ‘Ah, yes. The trouble is, Mrs Bridges, there isn’t much for us to go on. No fingerprints or DNA, for example. We have tried.’
    ‘But you’ve got a motive,’ Gail wailed. ‘He wants to scare me! Why don’t you arrest him?’
    ‘Mrs Bridges.’ Stevens could feel his temper rising and fought to control it. ‘A motive is not sufficient. Before we can put a case to the Crown Prosecution Service, we need to have a reasonable chance of obtaining a conviction. Otherwise we can be accused of harassment. Your husband has rights too, you know.’
    Gail blinked. She held herself rigid, but her hands fluttered as if escaping from her control. ‘It seems to me, Inspector, that he’s the only one who does. Nobody seems to consider my needs. When I was his wife, people like you couldn’t do enough for me. Now I feel like a non-person.’ The inspector pressed together the leather gloves, stroking them as if for comfort. The odour from the kitchen made him want to blow his nose. ‘I could get Victim Support to talk to you, if you like,’ he offered lamely.
    ‘At least that would recognise that I am a victim,’ Gail said. ‘But no, thanks. What I’d like to hear is how I’m to get justice. Why won’t you bring a case?’
    ‘Because, as I’ve explained, we have to be sure we won’t make fools of ourselves, or of you. The prosecution like to be fairly certain that they can prove their argument. If your husband, or anybody else, were to bring a claim for wrongful arrest it can cost a packet in compensation.’
    ‘Not to speak of your prospects of promotion, I suppose.’ But Gail’s faint attempt at sarcasm fell on deaf ears. Stevens was unlikely to rise more than one rung up the ladder before retirement, which, on days like this, could not come too soon.
    She was silent for a moment, picking at the ball of tissue until bits began to detach themselves like confetti and litter the floor at her feet. ‘I can’t just leave it. Tell me honestly, Inspector, whatwould be my chances if I brought a private prosecution?’
    ‘You could try,’ he answered cautiously, ‘but I really wouldn’t recommend it. Not least because if we haven’t any evidence