The first witness called that December morning was Simone Taylor. She was examined by her own barrister and cross-examined by Terence’s. She maintained her story stubbornly and palely in her little-girl voice: ‘Terence Blue came to the Dorchester after the reunion for a drink, everyone saw us come in. Everyone saw us having a meal in one of the restaurants. After the meal he came to my room, we ordered a bottle of whisky from room service; the room service waiter saw him there. Suddenly he jumped on me, ripped my dress. I screamed out, and he hit me, hit me and bit me on my breasts. I have never been so frightened in my life, he forced me to lie there. He raped me, several times. And then he left. Everyone saw him go.’

The defendant Terence Blue stared at her impassively. He was not guilty, his lawyer said over and over again. He did not rape Simone Taylor.

The lady judge, in her short white wig that made it difficult to tell her age, wrote things down in longhand in a big book. Sometimes, coughing slightly, reaching for another pastille, she would say pause please while she bent over her pages.

During the prosecution’s case, as witnesses came and went, bits of Simone Taylor’s and Terence Blue’s anatomy were discussed by the court. Photos of the bruises on Simone’s breasts were shown to the jury. Diagrams from an extremely respected woman gynaecologist were also handed to the jury; a drawing of Simone’s damaged vagina had been photocopied seven times so that the judge could have one copy and the jury could have one copy between two. A young Indian woman on the jury frowned, then giggled slightly in deep embarrassment.

The case slowly, and often boringly, proceeded: one day, two days, three. BLUE RAPE LATEST said the newspaper headlines every night and every morning. Slowly some facts emerged from all the speculation. There was no doubt that Terence Blue had arrived at the Dorchester with Simone Taylor and had a meal with her there. There was no doubt he’d gone to her room. There was no doubt that Simone Taylor had had violent sexual intercourse and suffered physical damage. But she had bathed several times after the attack, the sheets had been thrown into the bath, she had not reported the rape for almost a day, the rapist had used a condom. It had not been possible to ascertain forensically that her attacker was Terence Blue. But hairs from his head (and no one else’s except Simone Taylor’s) had been found on the white sofa in the suite on the top floor of the Dorchester.

Day by day, painstakingly, the trial went on.

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