‘You don’t?’
‘No, of course not.’ I adjust my seatbelt so I can look at him face on. He can’t be much taller than me but his large gut and lack of neck make him look broad and there’s a sheen at the top of his bald head. ‘I’m not that kind of woman. My husband is Brian Jackson, MP for Brighton.’
‘Great.’ He reaches into his inside pocket, pulls out a handkerchief and presses it to his brow. ‘That’s all I fucking need, the bloody government getting involved just because Henri can’t keep it in his pants.’
‘So he did have sex with my daughter?’ I ask the question as evenly as I can even though my heart is twisting in my chest.
He stops mopping to look at me. ‘Hang on one fucking second. It sounded to me – and every other twat with ears – that you were accusing my client of having sex with a minor. Are you saying now that he didn’t?’
‘I didn’t accuse him of anything. I asked him to talk to me.’
‘Stop the car!’ He leans forward in his seat and holds up a hand. ‘Stop the fucking car right now!’
There’s a squeal of brakes, a horn honks and then the car jerks to a stop. To our left is a park, an enormous iron fence wrapped around it and to the right there’s a row of B&B style hotels. The street lamps either side cast accusing pools of light on the beer cans, cigarette ends and dog poo that litter the pavement. If we’re in Victoria we’re not in the nice bit.
‘Out.’ Steve reaches across me and opens my door. ‘Get out of my car!’
‘No.’ I pull the door shut.
‘What do you fucking mean no?’ His face is inches from mine. I can see the open pores and broken veins around his nose and smell the champagne and curry on his breath.
‘I’m not getting out until you tell me what happened.’
‘When?’
‘When Charlotte and Alex Henri went to the toilets together.’
‘You’re asking the wrong man, darling, because I wasn’t there.’
‘Then I suggest you find out.’
‘I should, should I?’ His top lip curls into a sneer. ‘You’re not going to the press, you’ve already admitted as much.’
‘No, but I could go to the police.’ The sneer instantly disappears. ‘My fifteen-year-old daughter is in a coma and I have every reason to believe that what happened with your client may have put her there.’
‘Woah!’ He raises his hands, palms out. ‘Who said anything about a coma?’
‘I did, just now.’
‘What the fuck?’ He catches the driver looking at him and waves a hand for him to start the engine. A few seconds later we pull away.
Steve leans towards me and lowers his voice. ‘If you’re accusing my client of harming your daughter you’d better have bloody good evidence because—’
‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just want to know what happened when they met.’
He sits back in his seat. ‘I told you, I wasn’t there. I was in New York on business.’
The car turns a corner and there’s a sign for Victoria station. I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes until the last train leaves.
I look back at Steve. ‘Can you arrange for me to speak to Alex to ask him what happened?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you?’
‘Actually I’d—’
‘Here,’ he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out his mobile. He hands it to me. ‘Put your number in. I’ll speak to Alex. I’ll give you a ring afterwards.’
I key in my mobile number even though I have no idea whether I can trust him or not. He makes his living from painting his clients in the most flattering light so if Alex does reveal something unsavoury he’s unlikely to share it with me. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he rang to say that he’d denied all knowledge of meeting Charlotte. If he even calls at all.
‘All good?’ He glances at the entry then tucks the mobile back in his jacket.
The car swings round a corner and then slows to a stop.
‘Victoria,’ the driver says.
Steve leans across the divide between us and holds out a hand. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he says as I shake it. The tiniest of frowns crosses his brow, then he sits back in his seat and pulls out his BlackBerry. I open the car door.
Friday 23rd October 1992
James kept me captive for six weeks, only leaving to visit his mother in hospital. Before he left he’d disconnect the phone and make sure that every door and window was locked. After a week, Val, my supervisor at Tescos called, asking to speak to me. I listened from the sofa as James told her I’d moved back to York because Mum’s health had taken a turn for the worse. No one else called.
I realized then that James could kill me any time he wanted and no one would miss me. It became my aim each morning just to make it through the day alive. Not that James touched me again – well, apart from the time he caught me waving from the spare bedroom window, trying to catch the attention of an old lady hobbling along the street below – he beat me black and blue for that. Instead he ordered me about – telling me to sit here, stand there, get out of his way, cook his food or else completely ignored me. He wouldn’t let me read a book, watch a film or tidy my sewing room. I was only allowed to do household chores or sit silently in the middle of the hallway where he could see me from the sofa in the lounge.
Three weeks after James raped me I told him I needed to go to the chemist. He laughed in my face and said I should have worried about the clap before I slept with Steve.