“Not disappointed. You’d have to have expected something to feel that, and I suppose, deep down, I didn’t. Expect anything, I mean. And the whole thing was frightening for a young girl, talking to the police and all that. I couldn’t imagine being in a courtroom in front of all those serious old people in their wigs and gowns answering questions about what happened to me. I was shy. I had an overactive imagination, even then. But the main feeling was as if I didn’t count. As if what had happened to me didn’t matter. I was a nobody. You have to remember, I was just a kid from a working-class background, and we never expected much from the ruling classes. I mean, I couldn’t have articulated it that way back then, but that’s what it amounted to. Money and privilege ruled. Still do, for that matter, whatever the clever southerners try to tell you. I’m sorry, there’s me on one of my hobbyhorses again.”

“No matter,” said Banks. “Did anyone ever pursue the matter beyond that?”

“Not that I know of. There seemed no point. We’d had our shot, and we missed. What were we to do? Start a campaign? My parents . . . you have to understand, something like that, it wasn’t something they could talk about. They’d both had strict upbringings. Sex wasn’t something we discussed in our house. My father in particular. Which was why we never told him. If he ever thought anything was wrong, he probably just wrote it off as some sort of ‘female’ problem. Time of the month. If he noticed at all. I suppose he would have found out if anything had come of it, but it didn’t. And he died two months ago. Maybe that’s another reason I feel I can talk now. Need to talk now. He can never know.”

“What about your mother?”