The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [66]
He watched me for a moment. “Obviously you know your own trade better than I do,” he said carefully, “but you seem to be taking the most pessimistic view of how you’re going be treated.”
I felt a spurt of irritation at his complacency. “You would, too, if one of your old ladies died, and her relatives said you were responsible. Supposing Madeleine decided to accuse you of neglecting Lily? Then it’d be you being deconstructed on the inside pages…divorce, affairs and all…on the basis that your mind wasn’t on the job.”
But he wouldn’t accept that I’d be “outed” in that way, and argued patiently that however bad the press was—and “gutter” was the adjective he used to describe it—UK newspapers always protected victims. If the sexual secrets of politicians and celebrities were exposed, it was because they were fair game. They controlled publicity to advance their careers, and only objected when the control was wrested from them.
“You’re not in that category, Connie. On the one occasion when you might have milked publicity to advance your career, you deliberately avoided it. Why should your colleagues destroy you now?”
I appreciated what he was trying to do—chop away at the paranoid struts that supported the logic of my hiding under an assumed name for the rest of my life—but he was naïve and he spoke in clichés. “Because the public has a right to know about MacKenzie.” I sighed. “And I agree with that. The public does have a right to know. If MacKenzie starts killing women over here, it’ll be my fault.”
“But that’s not true,” he protested. “From what you said this morning, you’ve done everything you can to bring him to police attention. If he’s caught, it’ll be down to your efforts.”
“Which is when I get to be in the newspapers,” I said with a twisted smile. “Life’s a bitch. If he goes on trial, I’ll have to give evidence.”
“You won’t be named, Connie. Rape victims are granted automatic anonymity in this country.”
“I didn’t say he raped me,” I said curtly. “I didn’t say anything about what he did.”
Peter let a beat of silence pass. “You described him as a rapist this morning. You called him a serial rapist and murderer of women.”
I couldn’t remember what I’d said now. “It won’t make any difference. It’s not just names that identify people. If I were writing it, it would go something like this: ‘Yesterday, at London’s Old Bailey, a 36-year-old newswire journalist sensationally revealed details of her Baghdad kidnap. Far from the lucky-to-be-alive version she gave at the time of her release, it was a three-day ordeal of torture and sadism that persuaded her to change her name and go into hiding. Claiming to be deeply scarred and still in fear of her life, the blonde Zimbabwean named the defendant, Keith MacKenzie, as her attacker. She described how she was held blindfolded in a cellar for seventy-two hours. Asked by defence counsel if she’d ever seen her assailant—’ ” I broke off abruptly.
“Did you?”
“No…so it’ll all be for nothing because he won’t be convicted.”
Peter propped his chin on his hands. “As a matter of interest, how many other versions of that report have you rehearsed in your head? Have you tried one that doesn’t reveal who you are? Or better still…paints you in a good light?”
“How about ‘In detailing the effect this traumatic experience has had on her life, the attractive blonde, 36, explained how she sought refuge in the West Country. She spoke of her gratitude to the local GP, 45. “Without his tireless support,” she said, “I wouldn’t have had the courage to testify.” ’ ” I made a beckoning gesture with my fingers. “Give me your best shot. What will you tell them when they shove a microphone in your face?”
“How will they know it’s me?”
“If I’m still living here, I’ll be asked to give my address. If not, someone will work it out. Probably Madeleine. It doesn’t take Einstein to put blonde writer, Zimbabwean accent and West