Felix Francis - Crisis

‘How about Tony?’ I said. ‘Didn’t he stick up for his sister?’

‘I think he was influenced by his brothers. It was difficult for him.’

Another thunderflash time.

‘So when did you first realise that the boys were sexually abusing her?’

A look of shock came over Yvonne’s face, but it didn’t quite wash. There was something about her eyes that gave her away.

‘Sexual abuse?’ She spat out the words as if they were somehow unclean and contaminated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘And Oliver was doing it too, wasn’t he?’

Now the shock did reach her eyes.

‘No, of course not.’

Perhaps that bit wasn’t true, or maybe she just didn’t know.

‘But Oliver definitely knew what was happening and kept quiet about it, which is almost as bad. And you did too. Why was that, Yvonne?’

‘It was our family,’ she said, almost crying.

‘And family always came first?’

‘Of course.’

‘How about Zoe?’ I said. ‘She was your family too and you betrayed her. What must she have thought when her parents did nothing to protect her?’

‘We didn’t do nothing ,’ she said indignantly. ‘We spoke to them all.’

‘Was that before or after you found out about the abortion?’

‘Before. Long before. And Zoe was as much to blame as the boys. She would always be climbing into their beds. She’d done it ever since she was able to walk. She was simply trying to make them like her.’

Yet all they were doing was using and abusing her, taking advantage, and damaging her for life in the process.

‘Oh no,’ I said to Yvonne. ‘I’ll not let you absolve yourself of guilt by blaming the victim. You and Oliver were Zoe’s parents. You could and should have stopped it. And Ryan is eleven years older than her. He, at least, must have known that it was wrong.’

Yvonne was visibly upset and, at this point, our discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Tony, back from riding out. He came in through the front door, slamming it shut behind him with a bang.

‘Whose is that black Mercedes outside?’ he called out as he walked down to the kitchen. Then he saw me. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ he asked with a high degree of aggression in his tone.

In spite of me being a good six inches taller than him, the last thing I wanted was a fight.

I knew jockeys were small but they were also strong and wiry. I was no pushover myself. I was a regular at the Neasden gym and prided myself on keeping fairly fit. Perhaps we’d be evenly matched, but I still didn’t fancy putting it to the test.

‘Your mother and I have been having a little chat.’ I said it with a smile but it didn’t seem to help, mostly because Yvonne was still clearly very distressed.

‘Have you been upsetting my mother?’ he asked angrily.

I felt like saying that it wasn’t my doing — facing the truth had been the cause — but I thought better of it.

‘So it would appear,’ I said.

‘What have you been saying to her?’ he asked.

‘You’d better ask her that.’

Yvonne now really did burst into full-blown tears.

‘Get out!’ Tony shouted at me, taking a step forward.

‘Okay, okay,’ I said, taking one back. ‘I’m going.’

I edged past him without ever taking my eyes off his hands, then I walked down the hall and out of the front door, closing it behind me.

I sighed.

I had inserted all my thunderflashes.

I’d now just have to wait for any fallout from the explosions.

ASW called me as I was getting into the Mercedes.

‘The research team have had only limited success with your request,’ he said.

‘In what way?’ I asked.

‘After much persuasion, the director has finally agreed to speak with you but won’t promise to give you any information.’

‘Well, that’s a start,’ I said. ‘It could have been a pointblank refusal. I’ll go there right now.’

‘Ask for Dr Sylvester.’

‘Will do. Anything else?’

‘Not at present,’ he said. ‘How about at your end?’

‘Several fuses lit,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Good. Keep your tin hat on.’

We disconnected.

‘Where to?’ asked the driver.

‘Cambridge,’ I said. ‘Bell Street in Cambridge.’

‘Okey-dokey,’ he said, and we set off.

A mile down the road we had to wait at a level crossing as the gates were closed manually in front of us by a man on foot.

‘This is Dullingham Station,’ said the driver. He pointed to our left. The station was, in fact, just a platform and a signal box from which the man had obviously emerged to close the gates.

‘I thought all level-crossing gates were now automatic,’ I said.

The driver laughed. ‘Not in these parts, clearly.’

A two-carriage train passed in front of us and stopped at the platform. No one appeared to get off or on.

‘Which line is this?’ I asked.

‘Ipswich to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘Runs every hour.’

The man opened the gates and we continued on our way.

Next I called Kate at work.

‘Can you do me a favour if you have a minute?’ I asked her.

‘Of course.’

‘I’d like you to ask Janie something. Better if you do it. I’m not sure she really trusts me.’

‘What is it?’ she asked.

I explained what I needed.

‘I’ll do it straight away.’

‘I’d rather she didn’t mention anything about it to Ryan or Oliver.’

‘Not much chance of that,’ Kate said. ‘Ryan sent her a text this morning asking her to go back but at the same reduced rate as before. Fair to say that Janie wasn’t very impressed.’

The Healthy Woman Centre in Bell Street, Cambridge, did not look like an abortion clinic, but what does one of those actually look like?

I suppose I had expected a modern, single-storey building with large windows, perhaps discreetly frosted for privacy. Instead it was a Victorian red-brick mid-terrace house with five steps up to the front door.

There was no brass plaque, nor any name at all, just a modern doorbell incorporated into a plastic intercom box that also contained a small camera, its lens staring out at me like an unblinking eye.

I pushed the bell.

‘Yes?’ said a tinny voice through the speaker. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m expected,’ I said, facing the camera. ‘My name is Harrison Foster. From Simpson White. I was told to ask for Dr Sylvester.’

‘Please wait,’ said the voice.

Presently, I heard a bolt being drawn back and the door was opened by a smart woman in a suit who I took to be in her late forties or early fifties.

‘I’m Dr Sylvester,’ she said. ‘Director of the Centre. Sorry about the security measures, but there are some strange people about and what we do here can be somewhat controversial. We’ve had the occasional protest in the past.’

She stepped to one side and allowed me in. Then she closed and rebolted the door. ‘We can’t be too careful. We used to have one of those remote openers but someone forced it, so now we use the bolt.’

She led me into a small meeting room and we sat down at the table.

‘Now, how can I help you, Mr Foster?’ she said.

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

‘Me or the clinic?’

‘Both.’

‘I joined the team here six years ago. I was appointed as director. I’d previously worked at clinics in Liverpool and Manchester. But the centre has been here much longer. In fact, this was the first such specialist clinic outside London. The Abortion Act came into effect in April 1968 and we opened about a year after that. And a damn good thing, too. Took abortion away from the unregistered and illegal back-street abortionists, who were little more than quacks and butchers, killing women by the score.’ Dr Sylvester was clearly very passionate about her work but I felt it was a speech she’d made often before.