Cassie didn’t know how big a difference it would have made, but knowing that someone was checking up at random intervals might have curbed her father’s more violent behavior, and also the abuse inflicted by his dreadful girlfriends. Or so she hoped.
What would happen to the Rossi family in this different society?
There was a father in the picture, even though he wasn’t around. The children had been told what Cassie suspected were terrible lies about him, but they had said he was a kind person. Would the father’s custody be an option for these girls? Or would the social workers prefer that the children stayed with their mother, while they supervised the situation at home?
Cassie worried that Ms. Rossi would be able to continue hiding what she did. Bruises under clothing couldn’t be seen, and depriving a child of food wasn’t something that a social worker would know about unless he or she was told.
Physical examinations could be done to check for bruising, but other punishments might go undetected because the children would be too scared to disclose them. Before she left, she would need to spend some time alone with Nina and Venetia, and explain to them the importance of trusting the social worker.
If they were too afraid to cooperate, Cassie wondered what other organizations could assist. She guessed her only other port of call would be the police.
“Miss Cassie Vale?”
A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
Cassie looked up to see a short, slim, dark-haired official waiting in front of her. He was holding a clipboard, and had a security card on a lanyard round his neck.
“Miss Vale, I am the Social Services department manager, Mr. Dellucci. Please, come this way.”
Encouraged that the manager himself was handling her case, Cassie jumped up from the hard bench and followed Mr. Dellucci through the reception area, down a corridor, and into what she guessed was his office. It was cramped and cluttered and overly full. Ranks of shelves were stacked with lever-arch files and cardboard folders, while certificates and printed notices jostled for space on the walls.
“Please sit down.”
He walked to the other side of his compact desk and took out a tape recorder and notepad.
“You are here to report a case of child abuse?”
“That’s right,” Cassie said.
“The receptionist gave me the address. Is this correct?”
He repeated it and she nodded confirmation.
“What is your name, date of birth, and passport number? Please write it down for me here, at the top of this page.”
He passed her the paper.
“Naturally it will remain confidential but we require it for reporting purposes.”
Cassie took her passport out of the bag and copied the number, before writing down the other details. She didn’t feel comfortable doing it, but had no choice.
“Thank you. Now, please tell me the name of the family involved?”
“Rossi,” Cassie said hesitantly.
She knew it was a famous name and feared the manager’s reaction, but he simply nodded, remaining expressionless.
“Please describe to me, in detail, what you have witnessed.”
“Well, it involves both the children. They’re girls, aged eight and nine, Venetia and Nina. Their mother was divorced a few months ago and I get the impression that the abuse has escalated since then.”
Cassie stopped herself, realizing her palms were damp. This was supposition. She must stick to facts.
“I have observed one of the children being forced to go without food for an entire day. I have also witnessed one of the children being confined to a small, cold annex room for an entire day. I have heard one of the children being verbally abused after making a mistake, in a way that is likely to cause severe psychological damage. And I have seen one of the children being forced to hold a water glass out in front of her, and being violently whipped across her back with a belt whenever the water spilled.”
Cassie found herself replaying these macabre scenes in her mind as she related the punishments to the manager. She could hear how her own voice shook—partly because she was nervous, but also because the flood of memories filled her with horror all over again.
“And who was the person or people committing this abuse?” he asked, his tone serious.
“Ms. Rossi. The children’s mother,” Cassie explained, praying that she would be believed.
Now his eyebrows rose.
“The children’s mother? This is a serious matter. Do you have any photographic evidence that this took place?”
“None,” Cassie confessed, feeling ashamed. “I didn’t have time to video the whipping on my phone, unfortunately.”
“No photographs at all? How about voice recordings? Or have the children provided you with any written information?”
“I unfortunately have nothing,” Cassie said, realizing she’d been an idiot. She’d had plenty of time to photograph Nina, sitting in her nightgown and bare feet on that hard, cold floor in the secret room.
“Are you absolutely sure you have no recorded proof of any of this whatsoever?”
Mr. Dellucci laced his hands and placed his elbows on the desk. He looked very serious.
“I don’t. I’m so sorry,” Cassie said, and suddenly she feared that this intervention would not go the way she’d planned it to. It seemed that photographic evidence was practically a requirement for reporting this, and she’d obtained none.
She didn’t understand its importance. There must be many people who were unable to get this concrete proof, especially if they were visitors to someone’s home or had witnessed it in the abuser’s presence. It couldn’t be non-negotiable—could it?
“I could take a photo later and send it to you,” Cassie offered. “Venetia, the
