Wounds Of Passion. CHARLOTTE LAMB

      ‘Women do unbelievable things,’ said Patrick bitterly. ‘You can’t trust them or rely on them. She’ll pick me out, you’ll see.’

      She did.

      Patrick stood in a line of other men of roughly his build and height and colouring, staring straight ahead. First of all, the girl must have looked at them through a two-way mirror on the wall opposite—then after a few moments some policemen and two policewomen came out of a door, and she was with them, walking slowly, unsteadily.

      Partrick kept his eyes ahead, as he had been ordered to do; she walked along the line and looked at the men one by one. Patrick’s heart began to beat hard and thickly as she came nearer, then she was in front of him and he looked straight at her.

      She was deathly pale, her gold hair tied back starkly from her face, dark glasses on her nose, hiding her eyes. But he saw the evidence of what had been done to her, and his stomach clenched in sickness. There were bruises like blue stains on her cheekbones, under her eyes, around her puffy, discoloured lips, and bite-marks on her neck above the high-collared cotton sweater she wore.

      There was a heavy silence; the policemen all looked at Patrick. She looked at him, too, her eyes hidden by the dark glass shielding them.

      Then she put out a hand that shook visibly, almost touched his shoulder, then turned away so fast that she almost fell over. A policewoman put an arm around her and helped her out, her body limp and trembling.

      ‘I didn’t do it!’ Patrick called out after her; but he was grabbed, hustled back to the cells, and locked in until the brigadier was ready to talk to him again.

      Patrick spent another day in custody, of relentless questioning, while they waited for the forensic evidence to be analysed. Halfway through the long, long evening, when his eyes were drooping and he was shaking with exhaustion, the brigadier was called out to take a phone call.

      He came back looking shaken. He stood in front of Patrick, staring at him, very pale, while Patrick, even paler with nervous dread by then, stared back at him.

      ‘What?’ he broke out. ‘What’s happened now?’

      The brigadier took a deep breath and said rather stiffly, ‘Mr Ogilvie, it is my duty to offer you a most sincere apology on behalf of myself and this company of Carabinieri. We accept your innocence of the charge, and you are entirely free to leave.’

      Patrick was so tired that for a minute he didn’t understand. ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘You are free to go, Mr Ogilvie,’ repeated the brigadier. ‘The man who attacked Miss Cabot is in custody in San Remo—he raped another girl, there, last night, and was caught, and, during interrogation, confessed to having tried to rape Miss Cabot. When his hotel room was searched certain objects were found, which had been taken from Miss Cabot during the attack; a ring and some underwear. There is no doubt—he was the man.’

      Patrick sat as if turned to stone. ‘Was he English?’

      The brigadier nodded. ‘I gather he does have a superficial resemblance to you, too. The same colouring, build, height. That must have been what deceived Miss Cabot into believing it was you.’

      Patrick did not believe that. She had described him to the police because she had resented the way he walked away from her after she asked him to dance. Oh, it might have been an unconscious response; but Patrick did not believe it was pure coincidence.

      ‘We will be happy to drive you back to the villa in a police car, right away,’ the brigadier said.

      Patrick shook his head. ‘Am I free to leave Italy? I would rather return to my hotel in Nice immediately, if that is OK with you. I don’t want to go back to the Holtner villa. Could my belongings left there be sent on to me? Could you arrange that? I don’t want to see any of those people again. If you need my evidence later, of course, I’ll come back, any time.’

      The brigadier was eager to cooperate, to do as he wished. A car took Patrick over the border that night, back to his hotel in Nice. He stayed there a few more days, mostly alone in his room, lying on his bed, sleeping and waking, obsessed with the events of those days and nights.

      They never did call him to give evidence; Patrick read about the case later, in the Italian papers, and discovered that the arrested man had been convicted of a series of rapes along that coast that summer. Antonia Cabot’s name was only one among many and she had not even been called to give evidence.

      Rae came to see Patrick in Nice a few days later. She had rung first, found him out, and left a message to say she was coming. He was waiting.

      They went for a walk through the narrow, labyrinthine streets of the old town, with its medieval houses and street markets, crumbling plaster on walls, geraniums tumbling down from pots on balconies and ancient shutters with cracked and blistered paint, and made their way up alleys and through tiny cobbled squares.

      ‘I don’t know what to say; it’s been terrible. It must have been a nightmare for you,’ Rae told him, giving him uncertain, nervous sideways looks.

      ‘Yes,’ said Patrick grimly, unsmiling.

      ‘They questioned me about you for hours,’ Rae said.

      He had guessed that, guessed where the brigadier was getting all his inside information from, who was giving them clues about his mental condition, his possible motive for attacking a woman. There was only one person who knew all about Laura, all about Patrick’s moods since his engagement was broken off.

      Rae stared at his hard profile, burst out, ‘Oh, Patrick, I’m sorry. I feel so badly about this. I never thought you did it; I know you better than that! But...but...they seemed so sure; they said she had identified you, and you were in such a strange mood, you were angry over Laura, you were upset—I didn’t know what to think.’

      He stopped, his hands driven deep into the pockets of a black linen jacket he was wearing over black jeans, and stared broodingly over the steep streets of old Nice falling away below them.

      ‘What do you want me to say, Rae? That I understand? That I forgive you for believing I could have tried to rape a young girl?’

      ‘I didn’t believe it, Patrick!’

      He turned and looked at her directly, his face bleak. ‘Oh, yes, you did, Rae. I saw your face when they were driving you away. That girl identified me, God knows why. You believed her, although you’ve known me pretty well for a long time, and you fed the police with the sort of evidence they needed to convince them I had a motive, too. If it wasn’t for sheer damned luck I might be waiting trial now, on that charge, with very little hope of getting off. So if you’re expecting me to say I forgive you and it doesn’t matter that you believed I was a vicious rapist, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.’

      She bit her lip, very pale. ‘Of course I know how you must feel—’

      ‘I doubt it! A month ago I would have described myself as a very happy man—I was about to marry the woman I loved, I was doing work I found exciting, I had friends I thought liked me, cared about me. And then it all fell apart. I found myself in a police cell, my engagement off, Laura gone, being accused of attempted rape, and finding myself suddenly without any friends, not even you, Rae. No, I don’t believe you have a clue how I feel.’

      Rae looked uneasily at him. ‘You’ll get over this; work is what you need to help you forget. Maybe you should start work on the next set of illustrations sooner than we planned?’

      ‘No,’ Patrick said with force. ‘I’m not working with you any more, Rae.’

      ‘Don’t be too hasty about this; you’ll feel differently when you’ve had a few weeks to get over the shock.’ Rae was still trying to tell him what he felt, what he thought.

      He looked coolly at her. ‘No, Rae. I have made up my mind.’

      She went red then, angry and flustered. ‘You can’t break our contract, Patrick! The publishers wouldn’t let you walk