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Part Three: A Shocking Revelation

Once Fletcher was gone, Foyle turned his eyes to his wife. They stared at each other for a long moment."Christopher," she murmured, letting the air out of her lungs in a long shaking breath. "Thank you."

He covered the space between them in a few strides. "You all right?" he asked, taking hold of her gently by the upper arms. He could feel a faint tremor.

"I'm … I'm fine. Absolutely furious, but fine."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, really. He just … he presumed on an old acquaintance, that's all."

Foyle shook his head. "No, not tonight. Before. He made a pass at you?"

Her eyes widened. "You heard that?"

"Most of it. When was this?

"Oh, years ago. In Plymouth." She put a hand to her face.

"Katherine. What did he do?" Anxiety made his voice sharp.

She gestured toward the open kitchen window a few feet away, through which they could hear the rattle of dishes and water flowing from the tap. "Please, not here. Dorothy and Charles …"

He grimaced in frustration, thinking she was trying to evade the question, but guided her down the flagstone steps to the lawn, out of earshot of the house. "Tell me," he demanded, turning her to face him. It was his tone of command, the unbending voice of authority that cowed suspects and kept the machinery of law enforcement under his stern control. He had never before used it with Katherine, but it asserted itself quite naturally now.

She quailed a little at his forceful tone. "Nothing drastic, Christopher! He just … got fresh!" His penetrating gaze told her that this would not satisfy. "You want the details?"

"Yes!" It was almost a bark.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! It was a few days after – after we got word … about the Whirlwind. I kept breaking down … Rupert tried to comfort me. Once I'd calmed down a bit he – he pushed me against the wall and kissed me and – and – sort of pawed at me, tried to put his hand up my – up my skirt ..." her voice caught, unable to conceal her revulsion.

Oh, God. This was worse than he had feared, much worse. A wave of cold terror constricted Christopher's chest, tightening like a vise. Thirty years of ugly images from the job crowded into his mind: broken, traumatised women, victims of assault, of battery, of rape … No, please, not that! "And?" he prompted thickly.

"And … nothing. That's all."

"What did you do?"

"Well, what do you think? I pushed him off me and threw him out! End of story. The whole thing lasted about sixty seconds."

He realised his head was pounding and let go her arms to rub at his brow, trying to take it in. Thank God it hadn't been worse … all the same, the image of that piece of filth manhandling her, of her struggling to free herself from his violating hands and mouth, was seared into his brain. And just after she'd lost her husband, when she would have been at her most vulnerable. Bastard, he thought savagely. Should've punched him when I had the chance ...

He drew in a deep breath. Justice. There had to be punishment for such a man, some kind of retribution. Hadn't he spent his whole life seeking it, working for it? "Please tell me you reported this."

She blinked. "Reported … to whom?"

"The military police. His commanding officer. Anyone!"

"You think they'd have listened to me?" she said incredulously. "Taken my word over his? Oh, please. No, I didn't report it. I packed my bags and took my child and left!"

He bit his lip. He wasn't convinced that the Navy would have ignored such a complaint, but nothing could be done about it now. "Rrrright," he said tightly. "So why have I never heard about this before?"

She blinked. "What?"

"I'm your husband. How is it that in four years you've never thought to mention this?"

"What would have been the point, Christopher? It was years ago! Ancient history!"

The policeman in him wanted to refute this, to point out that there was no statute of limitations on a charge of attempted rape. But even in his current state of agitation he realised that this was too coldly legalistic and moreover, beside the point. "Doesn't matter. You had no business keeping something like this from me. If someone's upset you, hurt you … for God's sake, I have a right to know!"

Katherine's eyebrows went up. "Well, that's a bit rich, coming from you!"

"What?"

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about!" she retorted defensively. "You never talk about the painful things in your past. You've made it very clear that you're not willing to discuss them. And yet you expect me to be an open book? How is that fair?"

He stared at her in the faint moonlight, stung by the accusation. "What are you talking about?" he managed.

"You never talk about your war. You never talk about Rosalind. Even when I've asked, Christopher. You deflect me, or put me off." He could hear tears in her voice again, hovering just below the surface. "And because you don't, I don't feel I can talk about mine. About Stephen. Or about … about my precious Richard …" she broke off with a sob, clapping a hand to her mouth.

He couldn't speak. He wanted to defend himself, to point out that his feelings for Rosalind were in no way comparable to her being assaulted. It was nothing short of ludicrous to try to equate them. But more urgently, he wanted to shake her by the shoulders and demand, "Who the bloody hell is Richard?"

He was quite sure he'd never heard her mention the name before, but clearly this unknown man had meant a great deal to her. An old sweetheart? A former lover? Or ... oh, dear God. A current lover?