Maurise talks for a while in a gravelly voice, which makes me think he is a heavy smoker when he's not grilling suspects for information, then when he stops, the woman cuts in again, “We will need your finger prints to rule you out as a suspect, as you know Mr. Johnson has already confessed, but there were finger prints on the pack of cocaine, so we must be sure”.
“OK” I reply. They both stand and leave the room again, with no explanation, leaving me alone with nothing but my paranoid thoughts.
When they eventually return they bring with them an ink pad and a sheet of paper with ten boxes for each finger print.
Maurise takes my hand and proceeds to press each finger into the ink with unnecessary force, when he is satisfied, they again leave the room, taking the equipment with them. I know I'm still a potential suspect, but do they have to be so cold towards me?
They return shortly this time and my interpreter explains they have a few questions for me while my prints are being processed.
They cover everything, how do I know Carlos, what was our relationship, what did we do today, when did I pack my bag, was it ever left unattended. The questions go on and on, the interview dragging out as every question and answer has to be repeated twice through the interpreter. Hours pass and I'm left on my own again numerous times while they go, I can only assume, to collaborate information and compare what I am saying to what Carlos answers, until they can be convinced I am telling the truth.
Each time they return they give nothing away, instead remaining tight lipped and stoney faced. I got barely any sleep last night, assuming I would get a few hours tonight, then be able to sleep the whole journey back, so as they start to ask the same questions over and over, my irritation rises.
“I've already told you that, we went horse riding, then we went to lunch, then we sat on the beach, then we shopped, then we went home” I snap for the third time.
“You said you saw your friends when you were on the beach” the interpreter repeats the detectives pointless statement.
“Yes that is correct, you can ask them if you don't believe me” I say frustrated at having to repeat every last detail. I'm exhausted, the stress and lack of sleep are making me nausea’s and fractious and confused, I've had enough, I just want to go home now, literally home, back to rainy, boring, safe England, where there's no knight in shining armour, who turns out to be a drug peddling user.
But I get no such luck, instead it goes on and on in circles, 'but you said this before' and 'didn't you say it was actually like that' and the whole time in my head I'm screaming 'what does it matter anyway? You have a confession, you must know by now that my finger prints are not on the drugs, so just let it go!'
They're trying to catch me out, to put words in my mouth, to make me as guilty as Carlos, but I'm not and there's no way in hell I'm going to fall into that trap; even if they make me miss my flight and deprive me of sleep for the next week with these infernal questions I am not going to change my story.
They leave the room for the tenth time, but this time when they return they are all smiles and lighthearted, “You are free to go” my interpreter explains.
“Just like that?” I question her skeptically.
“Yes, your finger prints were not on the drugs, you maintain your innocence and Mr Johnson maintains his guilt and your stories match up, so he will be charged and you are free to go. We will wish to have details of how we can contact you at home however.”
I draw a blank, I've been sat here for so many hours I had started to believe they would never actually let me go and now they are, I don't know what to do, should I get up and just walk out? No, even to my sleep addled brain that seems like some sort of trap. I decide to just stay put and wait for further instructions. After staring at me for a minute my interpreter comes over and crouches next to me, “Kaitlin?” she speaks gently to me.