‘I woke up,’ said Simone, blankly, expressionless, ‘and he had his trousers off and was pushing inside me he smelt of garlic he hurt me and bit me and then he did it and – he kept hitting my breasts and biting them, even afterwards he kept doing it. He kept hitting them and punching them, my breasts. He said he was in the mafia and he would make sure I was killed if I told anyone, that no one could ever ever prove it was him. He said they would all think it was Terence.’

‘Who was it Simone?’

‘I love Terence. I’ve loved him all my life.’

‘Who was it Simone?’

‘Terence Blue could never be impotent, never, I don’t believe that, they’re just saying that to upset me.’

‘Who was it Simone?’

After a long silence she said, ‘The one who was Italian who brought the whisky. He came back. He smelt of garlic.’

And then almost asleep, in her little girl’s voice, she said, as if it explained everything, ‘I could only think about it if I pretended it was Terence.’

*

Later in the afternoon the judge sat once more with her throat pastilles in the reconvened court, an empty seat where Simone Taylor had been sitting during the trial. More snow, driven by the wind, lifted along the road and fell on the pavements outside the courts as the judge directed the jury that the complainant had withdrawn her accusation against the defendant and that because of certain evidence that had arisen they must now find Terence Blue not guilty.

The rest was shambles.

Outside the Old Bailey, despite the atrocious weather, a huge media posse had gathered. Film and television cameras, radio cars, microphones, foreign press, tourists, passers-by – they stretched right down into Fleet Street and extra police were called in to control the crowds. Discreet to the last, Elvira quickly disappeared in a taxi. Neither Simone Taylor the complainant, nor Pauline O’Brien whose evidence had first turned the trial around, were anywhere to be seen.

Terence Blue emerged at last into the dusk ignoring the falling snow, and smiling broadly; waved with his right hand to photographers, journalists, tourists, well-wishers as lights flashed and people shouted; even accepted a kiss from one of the group of women across the road who had, in front of a camera, ripped up the banner that said RAPIST. Terence, snow in his hair and on his coat, disappeared at last into a taxi accompanied only by one unknown man; press cars gave hot pursuit.

But George Washington, Anthony Bonham’s agent, gave a roar of anger as, watching the six o’clock television news, he saw who that one unknown man was, and suddenly everything fell into place. The man with Terence Blue was Joseph Wain, Executive Producer on The Immoralists.

*