The Witness Page 12

  Sergeant Andrews started the tape recorder. She had no trouble at first, but her dread grew as the interview progressed. She couldn’t look at them during the final questions, and Mr. Sinclair had to ask her to speak louder so her monosyllabic replies would be recorded. Finally he thanked her, and she heard Sergeant Andrews conclude and stop the machine.

  “As you know, Scott murdered other women,” Sinclair said. “The detectives in charge of those cases have been working under horrific pressure for a long time. Finding you alive was a breakthrough, and we all want the case against Scott to be airtight. It’s a very good day when we get someone like Scott off the streets. Without your help, we couldn’t have done.”

  “How many were there? Other women, I mean.”

  “Six. We believe he killed six.”

  She was quiet, wondering why she had lived.

  “Jenny, this inquiry has affected all of us. During your hospital stay, I was frequently asked to give updates on your condition.” Concern had been expressed at every briefing in the incident room. The release of her statement—containing the facts of her abuse—had increased it.

  “What did you tell them?”

  That she was fearful, fragile, and easily upset. That it had been difficult to establish sufficient trust for the interviews to proceed. That her physical recovery was painful and slow. “That you’re a lovely young woman who will make a very sympathetic witness,” he said aloud. “That you have amazing resilience.”

  “Then why do I feel like a paratrooper whose chute didn’t open?”

  “Because you experienced evil. Evil is powerful and destructive, but you aren’t facing it alone now. You have a very dedicated and powerful police service standing with you.”

  In the silence that followed, Sergeant Andrews thanked her and left, but Mr. Sinclair stayed, giving her a parcel with a Texas postmark. It contained family photos, a book by Anne Perry, one of her favorite mystery writers, and a letter from her parents. “I understand it’s difficult for you to speak about traumatic things.” He handed her a nicely bound journal. “It might be easier to write about them.”

  “Will it be subpoenaed?”

  “It’s for your eyes only,” he assured her. “No one else need ever see it.”

  She gave him her letters to mail, wishing she’d had the nerve to seal the envelopes.

  After he left, she sat quietly by herself in the living room. His questions had unsettled her. She wanted to forget the attack, not remember or record it. Hundreds of times each day something reminded her—pain when she breathed and moved, waking in her unfamiliar room. Even the faces of her protectors made her conscious of her need to be protected. She had not become accustomed to any of it. Write in the journal every day? It would be the diary from hell.

  She was still upset when Casey helped her into the bedroom for her bath. She watched him and thought about the oceans of experience that separated them. “Why are you here? Instead of charging into barricaded buildings or something.”

  “My skills were needed,” he answered in his concise way.

  “Wouldn’t you rather be out catching bad guys?”

  He smiled. “There’ll be some left for me.”

  Even after taking her medicine, she couldn’t relax. Her mystery book was on the nightstand, but she didn’t have the concentration to read it the way she usually did, trying to retain all the details that would figure in the denouement. The journal was there, too, and its pages were still blank. And Mr. Sinclair’s Bible. She was 0-for-3. She remembered her daddy pitching to her; she had swung at every ball with all her might. He’d had to say, “You’ve struck out, Punkin. Let’s try again.” The lines from the baseball poem came to mind: “Mighty Casey has struck out.” No one would ever say that about the sergeant.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sinclair left the protection flat and returned to the Yard with two jobs still to do. First he scanned Jenny’s letters. What he read disturbed him, not because she had broken the rules—she hadn’t—but because her notes bore a greater resemblance to newspaper reporting than personal correspondence. Each was a dry recitation of mundane facts followed by a request for news.

  She wasn’t as cold as these lines suggested. He had seen instances of warmth and humour, and in communicating with friends he would have expected these characteristics to be even more apparent. At the bottom of each letter, she had written, My address is… followed by a blank space and a direct request: Mr. Sinclair, would you please fill this in? He sighed. She was still cross with him. He provided the NSY address and readied the letters for the post. It wasn’t her pique that concerned him as much as her use of “Mr. Sinclair.” He had been unsuccessful in getting her to trust him. They could very well lose her when she was healed enough to go.

  Next, a difficult phone call was in order—to her parents. He should have rung them already on the issue of visitation, and Graves had been puzzled by his dilatory behaviour. “Get it sorted, else they’ll be here,” he’d said, and he was right. They could have their passports soon.

  He dialled the Houston number, wondering how you persuade a victim’s family that their loved one will be safe in the city where she was attacked. “Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries, I want you to know that Jenny’s progress is good. She has begun her physiotherapy exercises, and she’s already stronger.”

  “Yes, she told us,” Mrs. Jeffries responded, “that her trainer—or whatever you call him—was tough but capable. She’s in a hurry to get back on her feet.”

  “She’s adjusting well, but I need to discuss with you both what comes next.”

  “We’ll be taking her home with us,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “I’d like you to reconsider those plans. Any attempt to see her at this time could jeopardise her safety. As loving parents, I’m certain you don’t want that.”

  “Chief Inspector, what are you saying?” Mr. Jeffries said sharply.

  “Sir, we have sound reasons for everything we have done in Jenny’s case.”

  “Spit it out!”

  “The man Jenny identified is an ambassador’s son. He is ruthless and resourceful. She is willing to testify against him, and we are committed to protecting her so that she can.”

  “Does that mean she’s still in danger?” Mrs. Jeffries asked in alarm.

  “I haven’t liked to frighten her. She is secure at the moment, and she is mending.”

  “You want us to stay away? We won’t! Our daughter needs us, and we intend to be with her as soon as we can.”

  “Sir, we have an entire unit of police dedicated to the care and protection of witnesses. We will spare no expense in Jenny’s case. I respectfully request that you not make travel plans without consulting me first.”

  “You can’t expect us to leave her in the company of strangers after what she’s been through,” Mrs. Jeffries cried. “She has no one to support her.”

  “Mrs. Jeffries, your communication with her will not be restricted in any way. If you visit, however, attention will be drawn to the site. Inspector Rawson from our Witness Protection Unit will be contacting you. He will want to involve you in her relocation.”

  “Relocation? For how long?” Mr. Jeffries asked.

  “Her case is a priority, sir. We have quite a large organisation assigned to the investigation, and we will press for the most expeditious prosecution possible. I can tell you that relocation will occur when Jenny’s injuries have healed and she no longer requires medical oversight. Let me also assure you that nothing will be done without her consent.”

  “I don’t know how we’ll tell her,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “Allow me to handle that,” Sinclair said quickly.

  They were packed and ready to depart the minute their passports arrived, but Bill Jeffries didn’t intend to tell the chief inspector. He didn’t want any alteration in his daughter’s care. “You have a charge to keep, Chief Inspector.”

  “Sir, I’m aware of that,” Sinclair assured him. “I’ll speak with you again soon.
Goodnight.”

  He put the phone down, wondering why he didn’t feel relieved. Jenny’s parents had given him the answer he had wanted.

  CHAPTER 10

  At the protection flat, Brian was still gone, so Danny took charge of Sunday lunch. “The sandwich,” he declared, “is a British tradition. Today: egg salad sandwiches!”

  It was the strangest egg salad she had eaten. At home her mother had boiled the eggs, chopped them, and then mixed them with mayonnaise, a little mustard, salt, and vinegar. Danny’s egg salad sandwiches consisted of slices of cooked egg, cucumber, tomato, and seasoning. Different, but tasty.

  The chief inspector came by in the afternoon, interrupting Sullivan’s explanation of English football rules. She asked Mr. Sinclair what sport he had played.

  “I rowed. Eight-man shells.”

  “Casey’s sport was target practice,” Danny teased.

  “Actually, I participated in water sport,” the sergeant replied. “Swimming. Boating.”

  “I need a word with you,” Sinclair told her. “Let’s go in the sitting room.”

  When she turned to ask Sergeant Casey for help, he had disappeared. Danny had, too, so she leaned on Mr. Sinclair as she limped from one room to the other.

  “I’ve spoken with your parents,” he began. “They are willing to entrust you to our care.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They have agreed to postpone their visit.”

  “Postpone? For how long?” Had the sofa shifted? She felt queasy all of a sudden.

  “For the immediate future.”

  It was a blow, almost as physical as when the monster had hit her in the stomach. “They’re going to leave me here? Why would they do that?”

  “Because they love you and care about your safety.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.

  “Jenny, the man who attacked you is still dangerous to you. He has means. That’s why we’ve taken the measures we have.”

  “If they ‘agreed,’ then you asked them not to come, is that right?”

  “Jenny, if they visit you here, you will no longer be secure.”

  She remembered waking in the hospital, seeing his eyes, and thinking that he wouldn’t hurt her. How wrong she had been. “I need Sergeant Casey.”

  Sinclair stood and summoned him.

  “I want to lie down,” she told the sergeant.

  They woke her for dinner, Casey and Danny. It was leftover Chinese, but she spent most of the time just pushing the food around her plate.

  “Would you like to ring your family?” Casey asked at bath time. Sinclair had briefed him—he knew they would not be coming soon.

  She shook her head. “They’ve abandoned me.”

  “Will this help?” He held out his hand. “I know you’re missing them.”

  “Don’t you have a pill for that?”

  “This is it.”

  “Then I’d better take it,” she said.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jenny’s second week at the flat brought change. Monday morning she was able to take her first solo steps. Monday afternoon men arrived to fit the flat with an alarm system. Casey moved her to his room while they worked. “Keep the door shut. Don’t come out.”

  “Isn’t it safe?”

  “This security firm employs retired coppers, but I’d rather they not see you. They’ll place sensors on the lower stairs, the windows in your room and the sitting room, and on the front door. That takes quite a bit of wiring, so they’ll be here several hours, at least. It will all connect to the alarm unit on the wall between my room and the lads’ room.”

  “I’ll sit in your chair and read.” In spite of her interest in her book, the time seemed to pass slowly. She didn’t have a watch, and there was no clock in the sergeant’s room, so she had no way of knowing if the work were nearing completion or not. When she became drowsy, she limped over to Casey’s bed.

  When the work ended and the security men had left, Casey, Sullivan, and Davies found her asleep. “I’ll bet all the girls in Casey’s bed fall asleep,” Sullivan teased in a whisper.

  “No, I usually find a way to keep them awake,” Casey answered.

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  When Sinclair came by after dinner with a job for her, she didn’t want to see him. He was the ringleader in what she privately considered a conspiracy of cruelty. Why did she have to cooperate all the time? Something was rotten in the state of Denmark when someone like Sergeant Casey treated her better than her own family. She sat on her bed and opened her journal. She’d begun to use it to make lists. First she just recorded the things she’d seen Sergeant Casey do with his hands. Then she added general things that she hadn’t seen him do, but knew that he had, like loading his gun. She entered a new heading: Things I Know To Be True. There weren’t many items, and most weren’t positive. Thinking of Mr. Sinclair waiting for her in the other room, she wrote, People betray you.

  Sergeant Casey came to escort her to the dining room. “The boss is waiting for you, Jenny,” he said. “Front and centre.” With his arm around her waist, she had no choice but to go.

  Sinclair took twelve colour photos out of the large brown envelope he carried and spread them on the table. All were pictures of women’s jewellery. “Have you ever seen any of these?”

  She turned one photo face down. “That was mine. I don’t ever want to see it again.”

  “You don’t want it returned to you when the case is over?”

  “No. Give it to charity. Throw it away. I don’t care.” Then she set aside three more pictures: an oval watch with a silver band, a charm bracelet, and another necklace, a gold chain with a rose pendant. “I saw these in the little room. The others I don’t recognize. Did you find my ring? Or my watch?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “Not from you. These pictures will now be shown to the families of the other women.”

  “Oh, those poor people,” she said. “Do they know about me? That I lived? That must make them feel awful.”

  “No, they’re glad. They don’t want another family to experience their grief, and they know justice is possible for their loved ones now.”

  As soon as he left, she regretted her lack of courtesy. His departure meant she could not postpone the dreaded bath. Cleanliness was overrated. “It’s as if the bath were the last straw. It’s not you,” she told the sergeant. “It’s Monday, and it’s been three weeks, and it’s thinking about the other women.”

  “That’s not all,” he said. “It’s the trouble you’re having with your family.” Her mobile rang, three short rings, startling them both. He removed it from his pocket.

  “Don’t answer,” she said.

  “That won’t wash. Best all round to face things.” He pushed the talk button. “Sergeant Casey speaking. Yes, Mrs. Jeffries, she’s here. Talk to your mother, Jenny.” He handed her the phone and left the room.

  At first he couldn’t hear her at all. Perhaps her mum was doing all the talking. Then he heard her begin to cry. It was a small flat, and before long the other men were drawn in. “What’s happening?” Sullivan asked.

  “She’s on the phone with her mum,” Casey answered.

  “It’s not going well,” Davies observed. And it wasn’t—Jenny’s distress was growing, not lessening.

  “I can’t be brave anymore! I need you! How could you agree to leave me here? I was in the hospital, and I needed you! I’m still hurting, and I need you!”

  Sullivan couldn’t listen to her tormented cries. He went to his room and closed the door. The older men stayed, knowing that when the call ended, someone would have to pick up the pieces.

  “Mother, I can hardly walk! I’m all cut up, and I need you!”

  Casey began to wonder if he’d done the right thing. He went to his room and retrieved his kit.

  “Mother, he cut my face! And my body! I’m disfigured,” she s
obbed. “There are scars everywhere!”

  Disfigured—Davies hadn’t known she felt that way. She looked fine to him. He stood and began to pace back and forth between the sitting room and the dining room, his heavy tread the bass accompaniment to Jenny’s shrill treble.

  “I need you,” she wept. “I need you. Now.”

  She couldn’t sustain this much longer, Casey knew; either pain or exhaustion—or both—would end it.

  “It’s hard being here. My whole life has been taken away.”

  There were some spaces now between her phrases. “I’m sorry,” they heard her say. Casey felt a stab of anger: What did she have to be sorry for?

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Mother.” There was a pause. “But I’m not the same! I’m afraid all the time.” Another pause, longer. “I love you, too, Mother.”

  Casey nodded at Davies to let him know he’d go in. He set his kit on the bedside table and sat down on the bed. “Can I help?”

  “She said I have to trust Chief Inspector Sinclair. She said I don’t have any choice.”

  “He knows what to do,” Casey agreed. “He’s an experienced officer.”

  “He has an agenda.”

  “So do you.”

  “My agenda right now is to sleep for a long time. Can you help me do that?”

  “Do you want a jab or a tab?”

  “No shots.”

  Casey opened his kit and called for Davies to bring a glass of milk. Then he waited with her for the medication to take effect.

  Later that evening, he was reminded of her. When he went to bed, he could detect a hint of her perfume on his pillow, a light sweetness, but he knew her spirit wasn’t light. Her physical condition was improving, but not her emotional state.

  He dropped to the floor. Pressups first, then situps, one set for Scott and one for his low-life associates. One set for her family for deserting her, however briefly. One set for Sinclair, who had engineered it.

  He was still angry. More reps would be required tonight for the pressure in his skull to ease. If looking after the Yank affected him this way every day, he would be in good shape when the assignment ended. Very good shape indeed.