According to Imogen’s statement, she had initially been quite horrified at the thought of breaking the law in such spectacular fashion, declaring several times, quite vehemently, that she wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing. It was Eric who had reassured her that it wasn’t really illegal – sort of like getting a parking ticket and no one worried about those, did they? she said.
An enclosed note from Officer Varma indicated that, after discreet investigations, security rather thought the boots had been on the other feet and that it had been Eric who had been the cautious one. When challenged on her statement, Farnborough appeared gobsmacked they hadn’t just taken her word for everything, and there had been tearful accusations – firstly of invasions of privacy and secondly of police brutality. Officer Varma had noted, rather wistfully, that the latter was almost completely untrue.
Another note informed Commander Hay that Eric’s friend from the bar, the original contact, had disappeared without trace.
Imogen eventually admitted that she’d been persuaded to partake of the experience. No, she couldn’t remember by whom, exactly. The friend – whose name she didn’t think she’d ever known, let alone could remember because she knew so many people – you know how it is – had said it was all great fun. Perfectly safe. They’d never lost a client yet. And all right, not quite legal, but they’d been operating for some time and the authorities had never even had a whiff of them.
Depressingly true, thought Hay, flicking to the next page.
According to the still-unnamed friend, time travel couldn’t possibly be classed as a crime because there were no victims, were there? Simples.
And so, somehow – Imogen was a little hazy on this point – she and Eric had found themselves at a restaurant on the river – the King’s something or other – Arsenal, that was it. The King’s Arsenal. It was apparently the place at which to be seen, so obviously Imogen should be seen there. She’d talked about it for some time while the long-suffering Officer Varma had probably decided she wasn’t paid enough for this and wondered what to have for lunch.
Prolonged and penetrating questioning, however, had elicited a contact at the King’s Arsenal. Geoffrey. Whether this was a first or second name was unknown because he, Geoffrey, was so awful that she, Imogen, had been unable to bring herself to listen to a word he said.
Anyway, they’d had dinner and Geoffrey had been a bit of an oily git, but an appointment had been made for the next day. Somewhere by the canal, Imogen had said vaguely. The travel arrangements had been left for Eric to arrange while Imogen appeared to have concentrated on other issues. No, she couldn’t quite remember what they were.
They’d found the place easily enough the following day. Some sort of industrial unit, she’d said, which covered just about every building in the area. Pressed for details of the interior, she remembered it had been dark. No, not night-time – it had been dark inside and she couldn’t make a guess as to how big it was – it was just big.
Yes, there were other people. No, no idea how many.
More than five?
Yes. But less than a hundred. No, she didn’t know exactly. Because it was dark, wasn’t it? For security or something.
She and Eric had sat in some sort of box. There was champagne and canapés. It was all very nicely done. There were attendants and other passengers. No, she couldn’t remember how many.
More than five?
Yes. Definitely less than a hundred. Probably about twelve. Or seven. Or nine, perhaps.
Commander Hay imagined Officer Varma, an experienced and intelligent officer, sitting in a tiny, claustrophobic interrogation room, with the headache-inducing lights, gritting her teeth as she struggled to pin the prisoner down on the details and getting almost nothing.
And then what?
Well, it was all very exciting – the lights dimmed – like in one of the old cinemas, you know – and off they went. No, she had no idea how long the trip – sorry, jump – had taken. She was talking to Eric when it happened but suddenly the big window things – which weren’t windows at all, it seemed – lit up and there they were. In Ancient Rome. There were buildings and people everywhere. No gladiators or lions or people being stabbed. One of the attendants had droned out facts and figures – as if anyone was interested in that sort of thing. No, they weren’t allowed outside. No one was. Not on a first jump. Apparently, there were germs and things.
Varma had queried ‘first jump’ and Imogen had happily replied that for regular customers, arrangements could always be made, which she’d thought to be some sort of frequent-flyer scheme. Like the air-travel people do.
Anyway, the whole thing had – from Imogen’s point of view – been rather underwhelming. Varma had the impression if it hadn’t been for the secret frisson of law-breaking, Imogen wouldn’t have been inclined to proceed any further. A fact she had restated on several occasions in the mistaken assumption it would help her defence.
Eric, however, had quite enjoyed himself, joining one of the attendants at the screen and having landmarks and buildings pointed out to him, leaving her, Imogen, completely abandoned.
At this point, Commander Hay began to flick through Imogen’s really rather lengthy statement, picking out the salient points as they struggled to emerge from the narrowness of Imogen’s Imogencentric world view.
It would seem that she and Eric had allowed themselves to be tempted into a return visit to the dark industrial unit. Tudor England had been their next destination. No, she hadn’t seen the queen – although since it appeared Imogen had based her romantic image of Elizabeth on the film-maker Calvin Cutter’s legendarily inaccurate view of the Virgin Queen, and since the real monarch was a short, badly pockmarked, overly made-up woman with bad teeth and an obvious wig, it seemed likely to Commander Hay that Imogen had seen the queen but failed to recognise her.
She and Eric had also gone waltzing in romantic, snowy, 19th-century Vienna which Imogen had thoroughly enjoyed – even her failure to exchange Eric for a handsome European prince had not marred her pleasure. Why she might be looking for a prince was an area Varma had inexplicably failed to explore – although by now Commander Hay couldn’t find it in her heart to blame her officer. European princes tend not to be bright, but even the dimmest specimen would have taken one look at Imogen, enlisted in the military and volunteered for distant parts.
Over the weeks, however, Imogen – according to Imogen – became aware of a cooling in her feelings towards Eric. Unfortunately for everyone – as it turned out – Eric was warming up nicely and unbeknown to her was in conjunction with that sad sack, Geoffrey, and organising some sort of surprise.
Unfortunately, 17th-century England had not impressed her and Eric’s so-called proposal even less so. Hay was amused to see that Imogen’s version of Eric’s proposal differed considerably from Eric’s. There were several pages justifying her rejection – hairy toes, snoring, and not remembering people didn’t like smoked salmon appeared to be the most serious – and several more pages devoted to justifying her decision to have a look around London without Eric whinging on, or that oily git Geoffrey breathing on her.