This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(67)

By the beginning of her second year at art school, Jessica was conducting two lives. Neither of them in the real world. This might well have continued if she hadn’t bumped into Lady Virginia Fenwick.

Jessica was standing at the bar of Annabel’s when she turned at the same moment as an elderly lady with her back to her and spilled some champagne on her sleeve.

‘What are the young coming to?’ said Virginia, when Jessica didn’t even bother to apologize.

‘And it’s not just the young,’ said the duke. ‘One of those new life peers Thatcher has just appointed had the nerve to address me by my Christian name.’

‘Whatever next, Perry?’ said Virginia as the ma?tre d’ guided them to their usual table. ‘Mario, do you by any chance know who that young lady is standing at the bar?’

‘Her name is Jessica Clifton, my lady.’

‘Is it indeed? And the young man she’s with?’

‘Mr Paulo Reinaldo, one of our regular customers.’

For the next few minutes Virginia made only monosyllabic replies to anything the duke said. Her gaze rarely left a table on the far side of the room.

Eventually she got up, telling the duke she needed to go to the loo, then took Mario to one side and slipped him a ten-pound note. As Lady Virginia wasn’t known for her generosity, Mario assumed this could not be for services rendered, but for services about to be rendered. By the time her ladyship returned to the duke and suggested it was time to go home, she knew everything she needed to know about Paulo Reinaldo, and the only thing she needed to know about Jessica Clifton.





When Paulo took Jessica to Annabel’s to celebrate her nineteenth birthday, neither of them noticed the elderly couple seated in an alcove.

Virginia and the duke usually left the club around eleven, but not tonight. In fact the duke dozed off after a third Courvoisier even though he had suggested on more than one occasion that perhaps they should go home.

‘Not yet, darling,’ Virginia kept saying, without explanation.

The moment Paulo called for the bill, Virginia shot out of the stalls and made her way quickly across to the private phone booth discreetly located in the corridor. She already had a telephone number and the name of an officer she had been assured would be on duty. She dialled the number slowly and the phone was answered almost immediately.

‘Chief Inspector Mullins.’

‘Chief inspector, my name is Lady Virginia Fenwick, and I wish to report a dangerous driving incident. I think the driver must be drunk, because he almost hit our Rolls-Royce as he overtook us on the inside.’

‘Can you describe the car, madam?’

‘It was a yellow Ferrari, and I’m fairly sure the driver wasn’t English.’

‘You didn’t by any chance get the registration number?’

Virginia checked a slip of paper in her hand. ‘A786 CLC.’

‘And where did the incident take place?’

‘My chauffeur was driving around Berkeley Square when the Ferrari turned right down Piccadilly and drove off towards Chelsea.’

‘Thank you, madam. I’ll look into it immediately.’

Virginia put the phone down just as Paulo and Jessica passed her in the corridor. She remained in the shadows as the young couple made their way up the stairs and out on Berkeley Square. A liveried doorman handed Paulo his car key in exchange for a five-pound note. Paulo jumped into the driver’s seat, eased the gear lever into first and accelerated away as if he was in pole position on the starting grid at Monte Carlo. He’d only gone a few hundred yards when he spotted a police car in his rear-view mirror.

‘Lose them,’ said Jessica. ‘It’s only a clapped-out Sierra.’

Paulo moved into third and began to dodge in and out of slow-moving traffic. Jessica was screaming obscenities and cheering him on, until she heard the siren. She looked back to see the traffic moving aside to allow the police car through.

Paulo glanced in his rear-view mirror as the traffic light in front of him turned red. He shot through it, turned right and narrowly missed a bus as he careered down Piccadilly. By the time he reached Hyde Park Corner, two police cars were in pursuit and Jessica was clinging on to the dashboard, wishing she’d never encouraged him.

As he swerved around Hyde Park Corner and on to the Brompton Road, he ran another red light, only to see a third police car heading towards him. He threw on the brakes and skidded to a halt, but was too late to avoid crashing head on into the squad car.

Jessica didn’t spend her nineteenth birthday in the arms of her lover in his luxury Knightsbridge apartment, but alone on a thin, urine-stained foam mattress in cell number three of Savile Row police station.





27


SAMANTHA WAS WOKEN just before seven the following morning by a telephone call from Chief Inspector Mullins. She didn’t need to wake Seb, who was in the bathroom shaving. When he heard his wife’s anxious voice, he put down his razor and walked quickly back into the bedroom. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Sam crying.

A cab pulled up outside Savile Row police station just after 7.30 a.m. Sebastian and Sam stepped out, to be met by flashing bulbs and shouted questions, which reminded Seb of when Hakim was on trial at the Old Bailey. What he couldn’t understand was who could have alerted the press at that time in the morning.