The Marmite Kid (you either love him or hate him; I'd adopt him tomorrow if I could) was under strict instruction to answer my phone while I was sorting out a problem in the corridor. He took this to include my mobile.
"Miss, miss. There's a policeman on the phone. I think he said he's a detective."
Six months ago I was sexually assaulted on the tube. I was told today that, in effect, the case has been closed. I think I'd worked that out for myself. Three phone calls in all that time and apologies on each occasion for allowing the file to languish kind of convinced me I wasn't top of the pile.
I have been surprisingly quiet listening to arguments about how our every move is being followed: CCTV, oyster cards. These are the two things I was led to believe could catch the perpetrator. The video footage is apparently crystal clear but he's not known to the police. The information from Transport for London is inconclusive.
I received a follow up email from the Indecency Unit thanking me for having reported the crime as if somehow I was doing them a favour. I'm wondering if it would have been less traumatic not to have bothered.