The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters [68]
“Because I didn’t report it at the time.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s usually a delay before a victim can talk about what’s happened. You may find that document difficult in places—particularly where it refers to physical incapacitation and disintegration of the victim’s personality—but the more you inform yourself about how evidence is taken in conjunction with testimony, the more confident you will feel about being believed.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, I’d say you’re stronger than most people—certainly mentally stronger—which is why you’ve managed to keep this bottled up for so long.”
“That’s not strength,” I said bleakly. “I’m scared stiff. I thought if I didn’t talk about it and no one knew where I was, I’d be OK…and now I wish I hadn’t called Jess. I’ve been jumping at shadows all morning. It’s the old saying, three can keep a secret as long as two of them are dead.”
“What about the inspector in Manchester?”
“He only knows bits.”
“So which secret are we talking about? Your location…or what happened to you?”
I didn’t answer, and Peter watched me with a concerned frown as I hunched deeper in my chair.
“I’m sure you’ve worked out a hundred reasons why keeping the details to yourself is better than speaking out,” he went on carefully, “but not being believed is the least convincing. I’m assuming you’ve told us only half of what happened…less than half perhaps…but Jess and I aren’t doubting you. Nor are we”—he sought for a word—“condemning you. Whatever you did, you were forced to do…but being ashamed of that simply reinforces this man’s right to control your life.”
Simply? What was simple about shame? How many times had Peter woken up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and reliving every minute of humiliation? It was worse not being able to remember it properly, or even have a picture in my mind of what it might look like to a third party. In my imagination, my capitulations were eager and extravagant, my actions degrading and repulsive, and my body something to mock.
“He made a video of me. I keep checking the net to see if he’s posted it somewhere. If he’s arrested…and still has it…it’ll be shown in court.”
“Not necessarily.”
“It’s the only proof of what he did. Of course it’ll be shown.”
Peter was too perceptive. “But you’re more concerned that it’s proof of what you did?” He paused, waiting for a reply. “Do you mind if I say that you’re very optimistic to assume that no one else down here has put blonde Zimbabwean and writer together? At the time, you were headline news, and you haven’t changed that much from the photograph that was used. There was a lot made of your parents being forced from their farm, and you’ve been quite honest about that part of your history.”
I felt goosebumps crawl up my arms. “Does Madeleine know?”
“It doesn’t matter if she does, there’s no mileage to be made out of you. A small community like this is bound to be curious about a new arrival, but there’s no interest anywhere else. The last mention I could find was a brief reference to you when Adelina Bianca was released.”
He was so naïve. I could picture Madeleine dropping my name all over London. Do you remember Connie Burns? The Reuters correspondent who was taken hostage but never told her story? She’s rented my mother’s house in Dorset for six months in order to write a book. We’re such good friends.
“In that respect, you’ve achieved what you set out to achieve, Connie. Your kidnap wasn’t”—he echoed the word I’d used earlier—“sensational enough to make it worth anyone’s while to track you down, otherwise the phone calls and the doorstepping would have started long ago.” He made a reassuring gesture with his hand. “You understand the point I’m making? If anyone thought you had a story to tell, you’d have been put under pressure already…but you haven’t. So it’s up to you how much you want to reveal, or whether you want to reveal it at all. No one’s going to force you.”
I felt like throwing his psychological pap back in his face. It’s my genetic link to my father, this