‘Thank you, madam. I’ll look into it immediately.’
Virginia put the phone down just as Paulo and Jessica passed her in the corridor. She remained in the shadows as the young couple made their way up the stairs and out on Berkeley Square. A liveried doorman handed Paulo his car key in exchange for a five-pound note. Paulo jumped into the driver’s seat, eased the gear lever into first and accelerated away as if he was in pole position on the starting grid at Monte Carlo. He’d only gone a few hundred yards when he spotted a police car in his rear-view mirror.
‘Lose them,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s only a clapped-out Sierra.’
Paulo moved into third and began to dodge in and out of slow-moving traffic. Jessica was screaming obscenities and cheering him on, until she heard the siren. She looked back to see the traffic moving aside to allow the police car through.
Paulo glanced in his rear-view mirror as the traffic light in front of him turned red. He shot through it, turned right and narrowly missed a bus as he careered down Piccadilly. By the time he reached Hyde Park Corner, two police cars were in pursuit and Jessica was clinging on to the dashboard, wishing she’d never encouraged him.
As he swerved around Hyde Park Corner and on to the Brompton Road, he ran another red light, only to see a third police car heading towards him. He threw on the brakes and skidded to a halt, but was too late to avoid crashing head on into the squad car.
Jessica didn’t spend her nineteenth birthday in the arms of her lover in his luxury Knightsbridge apartment, but alone on a thin, urine-stained foam mattress in cell number three of Savile Row police station.
27
SAMANTHA WAS WOKEN just before seven the following morning by a telephone call from Chief Inspector Mullins. She didn’t need to wake Seb, who was in the bathroom shaving. When he heard his wife’s anxious voice, he put down his razor and walked quickly back into the bedroom. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Sam crying.
A cab pulled up outside Savile Row police station just after 7.30 a.m. Sebastian and Sam stepped out, to be met by flashing bulbs and shouted questions, which reminded Seb of when Hakim was on trial at the Old Bailey. What he couldn’t understand was who could have alerted the press at that time in the morning.
‘Is your daughter a drug addict?’ shouted one.
‘Was she driving?’ Another.
‘Did she take part in an orgy?’ Yet another.
Seb recalled Giles’s golden rule when facing a pack of hacks: if you’ve got nothing to say, say nothing.
Inside the police station, Seb gave the duty sergeant at the front desk his name.
‘Take Mr and Mrs Clifton down to cell number three,’ the sergeant instructed a young constable, ‘and I’ll let the chief inspector know they’ve arrived.’
The constable led them along a corridor and down some steep steps into the basement. He inserted a large key into a heavy door and pulled it open, then stepped aside to allow them to enter the cell.
Sebastian stared at the dishevelled girl hunched up on the corner of the bed, her face smeared with mascara from crying. It took him a few moments to realize it was his daughter. Samantha crossed the room quickly, sat down beside Jessica and wrapped her arms around her.
‘It’s all right, my darling, we’re both here.’
Although Jessica had sobered up, the smell of stale alcohol and marijuana still lingered on her breath. A few moments later they were joined by the case officer, who introduced himself as Chief Inspector Mullins and explained why their daughter had spent the night in a police cell. He then asked if either of them knew a Mr Paulo Reinaldo.
‘No,’ they both said without hesitation.
‘Your daughter was with Mr Reinaldo when we arrested him this morning. We’ve already charged him with drink-driving, and possession of three ounces of marijuana.’
Seb tried to remain calm. ‘And my daughter, chief inspector, has she also been charged?’
‘No, sir, although she was drunk at the time and we suspect had been smoking marijuana and later assaulted a police officer, we will not be pressing charges.’ He paused. ‘On this occasion.’
‘I’m most grateful,’ said Samantha.
‘Where is the young man?’ asked Sebastian.
‘He will appear before Bow Street magistrates later this morning.’
‘Is my daughter free to leave, chief inspector?’ Samantha asked quietly.
‘Yes she is, Mrs Clifton. I’m sorry about the press. Someone must have tipped them off, but I can assure you it wasn’t us.’
Seb took Jessica gently by the arm and led her from the cell, up a well-trodden staircase and out of the police station into Savile Row, where they were once again greeted by flashing bulbs and hollered questions. He bundled his wife and daughter into the back of a taxi, pulled the door closed and told the cabbie to get moving.
Jessica sat cowering between her parents, and didn’t raise her head even after the cab had turned the corner and the press were no longer to be seen.