Page 167 of Private Lives

‘Was anyone charged with this serious assault?’ asked Collins.

‘No,’ said Bradley, his voice shaking with anger.

‘But you called the police about it, didn’t you? You told them you knew who was behind it.’

His questions had now hardened into statements of fact. Helen could see

the jury sitting forward in their seats, all eyes trained on Dominic Bradley. Slowly he began to speak, as if he had finally decided that it was time to come clean.

‘Balon was my landlord. I was a student, I’d got into arrears, so Balon sent round the heavies. I still couldn’t pay. I sort of became a squatter. A few days later, I was jumped on and attacked when I was walking back from the pub.’

‘And did the police interview Mr Balon?’

‘Apparently,’ said Bradley. ‘But the whole thing went quiet. No evidence, they said.’

‘Even so, you were convinced Mr Balon had ordered the attack on you,’ prompted Collins.

Bradley’s face grew hard.

‘Yes, I was. I asked around, I even spoke to the local newspaper. Everyone said Balon was in with these thugs and that this sort of thing had happened before. Apparently everyone was too scared to challenge him, because of his connection with the Weston family.’

‘So you were angry.’

‘Yes.’

‘You wanted revenge.’

Bradley looked at the barrister sharply.

‘Wouldn’t you?’

Collins didn’t reply; he simply looked over at the jury.

‘Who wouldn’t be angry when something so awful has happened to them?’ he asked. ‘Especially when the person you believe is responsible has escaped prosecution. And who wouldn’t stay angry when they still bear the scar of that attack, reminding them on a daily basis? Wouldn’t you be incensed if you saw the person you regarded as the culprit rising to become a billionaire?’

He turned back to Bradley.

‘They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and that’s exactly what happened, isn’t it, Dominic? You moved to New York, met your journalist girlfriend Deena, all by happy coincidence. But when she needed a story, you saw your opportunity to finally get back at Balon for what you thought he had done to you all those years ago. No wonder you were so keen for this story to run, why you were prepared to bribe Joanne Green with your chi-chi apartment and force her to use your friend to write the article. A smear story against Mr Balon was your way of getting revenge, wasn’t it, Mr Bradley?’

Dominic Bradley looked from Balon to Spencer Reed, his expression one of fear, of a trapped animal. But Helen could see something else there too: triumph. He had finally got his story out, he had finally been listened to. She was fairly sure Spencer Reed would make sure Dominic Bradley never worked in the mainstream media again, but in that moment, she was equally sure Bradley didn’t care.

‘Mr Bradley?’ prompted the judge. ‘Answer the question, please. Did you propose the story to get even with Mr Balon?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Helen held her breath as Nicholas Collins turned to Bradley for the death blow.

‘And your friend Ted Francis, the man who wrote the feature, did he know about your motivation?’

‘Yes,’ said Bradley.

‘And did you ask him to – my apologies again, m’lud – stick the boot in?’

‘This is most irregular, m’lud,’ began Jasper Jenkins, but no one was listening.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Bradley, looking at Jonathon Balon with a satisfied smile. ‘I told him what a thug and a gangster Balon was, and that I wanted him to bury the bastard.’

The court was immediately in uproar, with both sides shouting objections and threats and the judge calling for order.