spinning not only with the drink, but his words so close to the truth. She raised her hands to her head, blocking her ears. "Stop! Stop, it wasn't like that, I told you he loved me. Grant was gentle, caring. We'd little time; I needed to be home to make the tea in the week."
She stopped, tears were running down her face but Assam urged her on.
"I was doing my exams and had to study at home so I could only get out at weekends and like I said before, he worked. All the time I was torn between Grant and home. I'd have lost him if I'd not agreed. So he'd pick me up in his car and the thirty minutes it normally took to walk home or if I got an afternoon off for study, we'd spend together."
Assam sighed and returned to his seat, telling her to do the same.
"At last, Karen, we're getting the truth. So let's cut the crap and get to the point. What did he have you do on these quick, half hour or so, visits?"
Karen went silent; she'd decided this man was some sort of pervert. Perhaps he liked to talk dirty, got his kicks that way? Should she play his game or leave it at that? She wasn't sure, except if she refused to talk there was always the risk of him using the belt on her again.
"Well, I'm waiting."
She shrugged. "It depended on what time we had and I did tell the truth; often we only had time for coffee. Other times he'd want to take me to bed and we'd make love."
Assam smiled. "That wasn't too difficult, was it, Karen? I think we'll leave your explanation of what you got up to for a few minutes and talk about the other side of Grant Martin."
Karen looked confused. "My Grant isn't Martin, its Johnson."
Assam never replied but pulled open a drawer in the desk and lifted out a large bulky envelope. Karen recognised it as the envelope Frank had given him. She decided it was best not to mention it, so she just watched as he drew out a sheet of paper with a photograph which he placed in front of her on the desk. "Grant Martin, or, as you knew him, Grant Johnson. Is that your Grant in the photo?"
Karen nodded, still bemused with the two names.
Assam continued. "Aged twenty-nine, married with two children, lives in Harlow, Essex, part time barman and other times acts as an escort to people who pay for the privilege."
Karen stared at him, her mouth partly open, unable to reply.
Assam read on. "Hired by a Frank Whittle, he was instructed to attend a wedding in September last year. Am I still on track, Karen?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Assam smiled and looked back at the paper. "Frank Whittle had given explicit instructions for him to meet a girl named Karen Marshall, aged seventeen. He was to spill wine on her then, full of remorse, offer to pay for the cleaning. He was then to deliver it cleaned, to her house, between the hours of four and five thirty, so as not to meet the parents. Are we still with it, Karen?"
She nodded, stunned at his words. It was as if he'd been there.
"I presume that's how the relationship began, is it? He asked you out and you accepted."
Karen was looking down at her hands, unable to answer. This man was talking about someone she loved, a chance meeting, not as he made out, that it had all been a set-up.
"It's all a lie," she blurted out. "Grant's not married, he can't be. I agree he did spill wine over me and he did come round to my house to collect the stained clothes, besides bring them back a couple of days later. That's when he asked me out. But anyone in my class could have told you that. They all thought it romantic. As for twenty-nine and married; my Grant's twenty-one and single."
He smiled softly. "Shall I go on then?"
Karen nodded slowly, frightened by what he may still reveal.
"The instructions were to bed the girl as soon as possible. Push her to the limit and be dominant if she said no. In other words he was to teach you all about sex and I'm not on about the sex between married couples. He was also to make sure you were seen with him, dressed in your school uniform. There's also a
She stopped, tears were running down her face but Assam urged her on.
"I was doing my exams and had to study at home so I could only get out at weekends and like I said before, he worked. All the time I was torn between Grant and home. I'd have lost him if I'd not agreed. So he'd pick me up in his car and the thirty minutes it normally took to walk home or if I got an afternoon off for study, we'd spend together."
Assam sighed and returned to his seat, telling her to do the same.
"At last, Karen, we're getting the truth. So let's cut the crap and get to the point. What did he have you do on these quick, half hour or so, visits?"
Karen went silent; she'd decided this man was some sort of pervert. Perhaps he liked to talk dirty, got his kicks that way? Should she play his game or leave it at that? She wasn't sure, except if she refused to talk there was always the risk of him using the belt on her again.
"Well, I'm waiting."
She shrugged. "It depended on what time we had and I did tell the truth; often we only had time for coffee. Other times he'd want to take me to bed and we'd make love."
Assam smiled. "That wasn't too difficult, was it, Karen? I think we'll leave your explanation of what you got up to for a few minutes and talk about the other side of Grant Martin."
Karen looked confused. "My Grant isn't Martin, its Johnson."
Assam never replied but pulled open a drawer in the desk and lifted out a large bulky envelope. Karen recognised it as the envelope Frank had given him. She decided it was best not to mention it, so she just watched as he drew out a sheet of paper with a photograph which he placed in front of her on the desk. "Grant Martin, or, as you knew him, Grant Johnson. Is that your Grant in the photo?"
Karen nodded, still bemused with the two names.
Assam continued. "Aged twenty-nine, married with two children, lives in Harlow, Essex, part time barman and other times acts as an escort to people who pay for the privilege."
Karen stared at him, her mouth partly open, unable to reply.
Assam read on. "Hired by a Frank Whittle, he was instructed to attend a wedding in September last year. Am I still on track, Karen?"
"Yes," she whispered.
Assam smiled and looked back at the paper. "Frank Whittle had given explicit instructions for him to meet a girl named Karen Marshall, aged seventeen. He was to spill wine on her then, full of remorse, offer to pay for the cleaning. He was then to deliver it cleaned, to her house, between the hours of four and five thirty, so as not to meet the parents. Are we still with it, Karen?"
She nodded, stunned at his words. It was as if he'd been there.
"I presume that's how the relationship began, is it? He asked you out and you accepted."
Karen was looking down at her hands, unable to answer. This man was talking about someone she loved, a chance meeting, not as he made out, that it had all been a set-up.
"It's all a lie," she blurted out. "Grant's not married, he can't be. I agree he did spill wine over me and he did come round to my house to collect the stained clothes, besides bring them back a couple of days later. That's when he asked me out. But anyone in my class could have told you that. They all thought it romantic. As for twenty-nine and married; my Grant's twenty-one and single."
He smiled softly. "Shall I go on then?"
Karen nodded slowly, frightened by what he may still reveal.
"The instructions were to bed the girl as soon as possible. Push her to the limit and be dominant if she said no. In other words he was to teach you all about sex and I'm not on about the sex between married couples. He was also to make sure you were seen with him, dressed in your school uniform. There's also a
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