“Sometimes I think Jess is the most perceptive person I’ve ever met. She always knows when not to be curious.”

“But she’s still a virtual stranger to you, Connie…and you’re not worried what strangers think. Few of us are. Self-image is about how the people we know and love perceive us, not the passing acquaintance whom we’re never going to meet again. For most of us the universe is very small.”

I thought how wrong he was. “Until your life is deconstructed across the pages of a newspaper.”

“Is that what you’re worried about?”

I didn’t answer immediately. His questions reminded me of Chas and Dan in Baghdad-“But you seem distressed, Connie”-“Talk to me”-and I understood why my father lost his temper when well-meaning people poked him with well-meaning sticks. There’s so much arrogance in curiosity. It suggests that nothing can surprise the listener, yet how would Peter have reacted if I’d let out the scream that had been in my head for weeks? How would Dan have reacted?

I hunkered down in my chair. “I keep thinking of all the proverbs to do with retribution. Reap what you sow…live by the sword…an eye for an eye. I wake up in the middle of the night with them churning round and round in my head. It seems so inevitable.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve made a career out of exploiting other people’s anguish. I keep remembering a Sierra Leonean woman who’d watched her family being slaughtered by rebels. By the time I met her she was so disturbed she was raving, but I didn’t think twice about using her for a story.” I paused. “It’ll be an apt punishment if the same thing happens to me.”

“I can’t agree with you.”

“You should. Everyone gets what they deserve in the end. It’ll happen to you, too, Peter. We all get paid in our own coin.”

“What’s yours?”

“Death. Disaster. Other people’s misery. I’m a war correspondent, for Christ’s sake.” I dug my fingers into my eyes. “Not that it makes much difference. It would be the same whatever kind of correspondent I was. There’s no such thing as a ‘good news’ story. Who gives a damn about happiness? It makes readers jealous to learn that someone’s better off than they are. Build ’em up ’n’ cut ’em down…that’s all your average Joe wants. If he can’t make it, why should anyone else?”

“That’s very cynical.”

“But I am cynical. I’ve seen too many innocent people die for nothing. Every tinpot dictator knows that the quickest way to control a country is to whip up hatred and fear of a bogeyman…and how does he do that without using the press? Journalists are for hire, just like anyone else.”

He watched me for a moment. “Obviously you know your own trade better than I do,” he said carefully, “but you seem to be taking the most pessimistic view of how you’re going be treated.”

I felt a spurt of irritation at his complacency. “You would, too, if one of your old ladies died, and her relatives said you were responsible. Supposing Madeleine decided to accuse you of neglecting Lily? Then it’d be you being deconstructed on the inside pages…divorce, affairs and all…on the basis that your mind wasn’t on the job.”

But he wouldn’t accept that I’d be “outed” in that way, and argued patiently that however bad the press was-and “gutter” was the adjective he used to describe it-UK newspapers always protected victims. If the sexual secrets of politicians and celebrities were exposed, it was because they were fair game. They controlled publicity to advance their careers, and only objected when the control was wrested from them.

“You’re not in that category, Connie. On the one occasion when you might have milked publicity to advance your career, you deliberately avoided it. Why should your colleagues destroy you now?”

I appreciated what he was trying to do-chop away at the paranoid struts that supported the logic of my hiding under an assumed name for the rest of my life-but he was naïve and he spoke in clichés. “Because the public has a right to know about MacKenzie.” I sighed. “And I agree with that. The public does have a right to know. If MacKenzie starts killing women over here, it’ll be my fault.”

“But that’s not true,” he protested. “From what you said this morning, you’ve done everything you can to bring him to police attention. If he’s caught, it’ll be down to your efforts.”

“Which is when I get to be in the newspapers,” I said with a twisted smile. “Life’s a bitch. If he goes on trial, I’ll have to give evidence.”

“You won’t be named, Connie. Rape victims are granted automatic anonymity in this country.”

“I didn’t say he raped me,” I said curtly. “I didn’t say anything about what he did.”

Peter let a beat of silence pass. “You described him as a rapist this morning. You called him a serial rapist and murderer of women.”

I couldn’t remember what I’d said now. “It won’t make any difference. It’s not just names that identify people. If I were writing it, it would go something like this: ‘Yesterday, at London’s Old Bailey, a 36-year-old newswire journalist sensationally revealed details of her Baghdad kidnap. Far from the lucky-to-be-alive version she gave at the time of her release, it was a three-day ordeal of torture and sadism that persuaded her to change her name and go into hiding. Claiming to be deeply scarred and still in fear of her life, the blonde Zimbabwean named the defendant, Keith MacKenzie, as her attacker. She described how she was held blindfolded in a cellar for seventy-two hours. Asked by defence counsel if she’d ever seen her assailant-’ ” I broke off abruptly.

“Did you?”

“No…so it’ll all be for nothing because he won’t be convicted.”

Peter propped his chin on his hands. “As a matter of interest, how many other versions of that report have you rehearsed in your head? Have you tried one that doesn’t reveal who you are? Or better still…paints you in a good light?”

“How about ‘In detailing the effect this traumatic experience has had on her life, the attractive blonde, 36, explained how she sought refuge in the West Country. She spoke of her gratitude to the local GP, 45. “Without his tireless support,” she said, “I wouldn’t have had the courage to testify.” ’ ” I made a beckoning gesture with my fingers. “Give me your best shot. What will you tell them when they shove a microphone in your face?”

“How will they know it’s me?”

“If I’m still living here, I’ll be asked to give my address. If not, someone will work it out. Probably Madeleine. It doesn’t take Einstein to put blonde writer, Zimbabwean accent and West Country GP together.”

“There’s not much I can say without breaching patient confidentiality…except to applaud your bravery.”

“Boring. It’s been done already. My boss in Baghdad shouted my courage from the rooftops to disguise the fact that I hadn’t shown as much as Adelina Bianca. They’ll keep pestering you until you give them something new.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever they persuade you to say. How, when, where and why did we meet? ‘Dr. C was called to the terrified woman when she broke down after being surrounded by a pack of dogs. She locked herself in her car and refused to get out. “She was trying to manage her fear by breathing into a paper bag,” he said.’ ”

“What then?”

“Door-stepping. Phone calls. Pictures. They’ll argue that my anonymity’s been blown because anyone with a surf engine will have worked out who I am from the Internet, so I might as well pose for the cameras rather than be taken unawares by a telephoto lens. And that’s before the twenty-four-hour news broadcasters muscle in on the act and force a press conference.”

He let a short silence develop before he said: “Is that it? Or does it get worse?”

“MacKenzie walks away scot-free and I get labelled a sick fantasist. I’ve already been accused of faking the abduction.” I leaned forward, hugging myself. “He didn’t leave any marks, so I can’t prove it happened…and now it’s a bit of a blur. If you can’t see, you don’t seem to record events so well.” I glanced at him. “There’s no way I can give evidence on that basis. I’ll be torn to shreds by any halfway decent barrister.”