Wounds Of Passion. CHARLOTTE LAMB

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ unhappy, and her uncle later told her about your broken engagement. So she followed you, down to the beach, with some idea, I suppose, of talking to you, comforting you. She saw the trail of your footsteps along the sand and followed them, fitting her own feet into them, she said; it was some sort of game, I gathered.’ The brigadier looked faintly indulgent. ‘She is very young. And then suddenly someone jumped out at her from behind a boat; she caught a brief impression by moonlight of a face, light brown hair, a T-shirt, jeans. She thought it was you, playing a trick on her; she began to laugh.’

      ‘It wasn’t me; I never saw her on the beach!’ Patrick said.

      The brigadier just watched him, then went on, ‘Then something hit her on the head, and she lost consciousness. She doesn’t know how long she was out, but when she came round she had been gagged with sticky tape; she couldn’t scream, and her attacker had taped her eyes, too, so she couldn’t see him, but he spoke to her, she said. In English; it was an English accent. She said it sounded like your voice.’

      ‘I only spoke to her once; I said one sentence to her! How could she possibly know what I sound like from that?’

      ‘You were on the beach, Mr Ogilvie?’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘Your clothes were covered in sand and salt water.’

      ‘I sat down on the sand for a long time, but I didn’t see that girl, and I did not attack her!’

      ‘Tell me again why you went down to the beach, Mr Ogilvie,’ the brigadier began again, and Patrick felt as if his head was going to explode.

      ‘I’m tired; I need sleep,’ he said wearily. ‘You can’t keep me here all this time without letting me see a lawyer. I insist you let me make a phone call to the British consul.’

      ‘We have telephoned a lawyer on your behalf and he will be coming to see you quite soon,’ the brigadier promised. ‘And the British consul will see you in the morning. After the identity parade.’

      Patrick froze. ‘Identity parade?’

      ‘Miss Cabot is in hospital tonight, but I’m told she is prepared to see if she can identify you in a line-up tomorrow. She is a very brave girl.’

      * * *

      Patrick saw an Italian lawyer, small, thin, dark, and red-eyed from being woken up in the middle of the night, who had a thick summer cold, which made him sneeze constantly and depressed him.

      ‘The girl’s evidence is bad news, Signor Ogilvie. She identifies you almost certainly, by sight, and by sound, places you on the spot at that time, as do a number of other witnesses, and you yourself admit you were there on the beach at that time. Nobody else from the party was down there on that part of the beach. They all have alibis; they were all with other people at the relevant time. And you had recently broken up with your fiancée, which makes the police feel they can prove motive as well as opportunity.’

      ‘I didn’t do it!’ Patrick hoarsely said.

      ‘Of course,’ the lawyer said, smiling indifferently. ‘They haven’t yet got the forensic results—the various tests on you and the girl. They will come in tomorrow or the next day. The problem is...the attacker was scared off before he actually raped the girl; apparently he heard voices, people coming towards them, and ran off, and then the girl ripped off the tape on her mouth and eyes, and crawled into the sea—’

      ‘Why on earth did she do that?’

      The lawyer looked coolly at him. ‘Common behaviour pattern in these cases. She felt dirty; she wanted to wash herself clean; the sea was the nearest place. She says she swam for some time. She may have been feeling suicidal, of course. The police didn’t mention that, but I’d say it was on her mind.’

      Patrick leaned forward, feeling sick, dropping his head into his hands. ‘And I thought I had problems,’ he muttered. ‘God, what a mess.’

      His lawyer said quietly, ‘Unfortunately, she practically wiped out most of the forensic evidence—which would be good, if you were guilty, because it would mean they couldn’t prove it, but as it is our case that you are innocent it makes our job harder as we can’t prove you didn’t!’

      ‘Are you saying it’s hopeless?’ asked Patrick, and the lawyer shook his head.

      ‘Of course not. No, but let’s hope she doesn’t pick you out at the identity parade.’

      ‘She will,’ Patrick said with grim certainty.

      ‘Be careful—that sounds like a confession,’ his lawyer quickly said.

      ‘I can’t help what it sounds like—I can only keep telling you, I didn’t do it. But she thinks I did. I told you what happened at the party. I wouldn’t dance with her; I turned my back on her and walked away. She’ll pick me out.’

      The lawyer looked shocked. ‘Are you saying that she lied to the police? That she knows it was not you, but has accused you of it, deliberately, just because you wouldn’t dance with her? I find that very hard to believe, Mr Ogilvie, and so will the police.’

      ‘Women do unbelievable things,’ said Patrick bitterly. ‘You can’t trust them or rely on them. She’ll pick me out, you’ll see.’

      She did.

      Patrick stood in a line of other men of roughly his build and height and colouring, staring straight ahead. First of all, the girl must have looked at them through a two-way mirror on the wall opposite—then after a few moments some policemen and two policewomen came out of a door, and she was with them, walking slowly, unsteadily.

      Partrick kept his eyes ahead, as he had been ordered to do; she walked along the line and looked at the men one by one. Patrick’s heart began to beat hard and thickly as she came nearer, then she was in front of him and he looked straight at her.

      She was deathly pale, her gold hair tied back starkly from her face, dark glasses on her nose, hiding her eyes. But he saw the evidence of what had been done to her, and his stomach clenched in sickness. There were bruises like blue stains on her cheekbones, under her eyes, around her puffy, discoloured lips, and bite-marks on her neck above the high-collared cotton sweater she wore.

      There was a heavy silence; the policemen all looked at Patrick. She looked at him, too, her eyes hidden by the dark glass shielding them.

      Then she put out a hand that shook visibly, almost touched his shoulder, then turned away so fast that she almost fell over. A policewoman put an arm around her and helped her out, her body limp and trembling.

      ‘I didn’t do it!’ Patrick called out after her; but he was grabbed, hustled back to the cells, and locked in until the brigadier was ready to talk to him again.

      Patrick spent another day in custody, of relentless questioning, while they waited for the forensic evidence to be analysed. Halfway through the long, long evening, when his eyes were drooping and he was shaking with exhaustion, the brigadier was called out to take a phone call.

      He came back looking shaken. He stood in front of Patrick, staring at him, very pale, while Patrick, even paler with nervous dread by then, stared back at him.

      ‘What?’ he broke out. ‘What’s happened now?’

СКАЧАТЬ