This Was A Man (32 page)

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.

S
AMANTHA 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.

‘Is your daughter a drug addict?’ shouted one.

‘Was she driving?’ Another.

‘Did she take part in an orgy?’ Yet another.

Seb recalled Giles’s golden rule when facing a pack of hacks: if you’ve got nothing to say, say nothing.

Inside the police station, Seb gave the duty sergeant at the front desk his name.

‘Take Mr and Mrs Clifton down to cell number three,’ the sergeant instructed a young constable, ‘and I’ll let the chief inspector know they’ve arrived.’

The constable led them along a corridor and down some steep steps into the basement. He inserted a large key into a heavy door and pulled it open, then stepped aside to allow them to enter the
cell.

Sebastian stared at the dishevelled girl hunched up on the corner of the bed, her face smeared with mascara from crying. It took him a few moments to realize it was his daughter. Samantha
crossed the room quickly, sat down beside Jessica and wrapped her arms around her.

‘It’s all right, my darling, we’re both here.’

Although Jessica had sobered up, the smell of stale alcohol and marijuana still lingered on her breath. A few moments later they were joined by the case officer, who introduced himself as Chief
Inspector Mullins and explained why their daughter had spent the night in a police cell. He then asked if either of them knew a Mr Paulo Reinaldo.

‘No,’ they both said without hesitation.

‘Your daughter was with Mr Reinaldo when we arrested him this morning. We’ve already charged him with drink-driving, and possession of three ounces of marijuana.’

Seb tried to remain calm. ‘And my daughter, chief inspector, has she also been charged?’

‘No, sir, although she was drunk at the time and we suspect had been smoking marijuana and later assaulted a police officer, we will not be pressing charges.’ He paused. ‘On
this occasion.’

‘I’m most grateful,’ said Samantha.

‘Where is the young man?’ asked Sebastian.

‘He will appear before Bow Street magistrates later this morning.’

‘Is my daughter free to leave, chief inspector?’ Samantha asked quietly.

‘Yes she is, Mrs Clifton. I’m sorry about the press. Someone must have tipped them off, but I can assure you it wasn’t us.’

Seb took Jessica gently by the arm and led her from the cell, up a well-trodden staircase and out of the police station into Savile Row, where they were once again greeted by flashing bulbs and
hollered questions. He bundled his wife and daughter into the back of a taxi, pulled the door closed and told the cabbie to get moving.

Jessica sat cowering between her parents, and didn’t raise her head even after the cab had turned the corner and the press were no longer to be seen.

When they arrived back home in Lennox Gardens, they were met by another group of photographers and journalists. The same questions, but still no answers. Once they were safely
inside, Seb accompanied Jessica into the living room, and before she had a chance to sit down, he demanded the truth, and nothing less.

‘And don’t spare us, because I’ve no doubt we’ll read every lurid detail in the
Evening Standard
later today.’

The self-assured young woman who’d left Annabel’s after celebrating her birthday had been replaced by a stammering, tearful nineteen-year-old, who replied to their questions in a
quivering, uncertain voice that neither of her parents had ever experienced before. Between embarrassed silences, Jessica described how she’d first met Paulo and became infatuated by his
charm, his sophistication and, most of all, she admitted, the endless flow of cash. Although she told her parents everything, she never placed any blame on her lover, and even asked if she might be
allowed to see him one more time.

‘For what purpose?’ asked Sebastian.

‘To say goodbye.’ She hesitated. ‘And to thank him.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise, while the press will be dogging his every step and hoping you’ll do just that. But if you write him a letter, I’ll make sure he gets
it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Jessie, you have to face the fact that you’ve let us both down badly. However, one thing’s for sure, nothing will be gained by raking over it. It’s now in the past, and
only you can decide what you want to do about your future.’

Jessica looked up at her parents, but didn’t speak.

‘In my opinion, you have two choices,’ said Seb. ‘You can come back home and find out if it’s possible to pick up the pieces, or you can leave, and return to your other
life.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Jessica, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I know what I did was unforgivable. I don’t want to go back, and I promise I’ll do everything
I can to make it up to both of you if you’ll just give me another chance.’

‘Of course we will,’ said Samantha, ‘but I can’t speak for the Slade.’

Sebastian left the flat a couple of hours later to pick up an early edition of the
Evening Standard
. The headline screamed out at him from a poster long before
he’d reached the newsagent:

He read the article as he walked slowly back home. It included almost all of the details Jessie had volunteered earlier. A night spent in a police cell, champagne, marijuana, two bottles of
expensive wine followed by brandy Alexanders consumed at Annabel’s in Mayfair. A police chase that ended up with a £100,000 Ferrari crashing head on into a squad car, and even the
suggestion of four in a bed.

Mr Paulo Reinaldo warranted only a passing mention, but then the reporter was far more interested in making sure the Baroness Emma Clifton, Under Secretary of State for Health, Sir Harry
Clifton, popular author and civil rights campaigner, Lord Barrington, former leader of the House of Lords, and Sebastian Clifton, chairman of a leading city bank, all got a mention, despite the
fact that they were all fast asleep at the time Jessica Clifton was arrested.

Sebastian let out a deep sigh. He could only hope that his beloved daughter would eventually be able to chalk this down to experience and, given time, not only fully recover but be stronger for
it. It wasn’t until he reached the last paragraph that he realized that wasn’t going to be possible.

Virginia also purchased an early edition of the
Evening Standard
, and couldn’t stop smiling as she read the ‘exclusive’ word for word. Ten pounds well
spent, she thought to herself. Her only disappointment was that Paulo Reinaldo had pleaded guilty, and received a fine of £500 after assuring the judge he would be returning to Brazil in the
next few days.

However, the smile reappeared on Virginia’s face when she came to the last paragraph of the article. Mr Gerald Knight, the principal of the Slade School of Fine Art, told the reporter he
had been left with no choice but to expel both Mr Reinaldo and Miss Jessica Clifton from the college. He added that he had done so reluctantly in the case of Miss Clifton, as she was an extremely
gifted student.