This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)
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: