The Witness Read online

  After dinner, she took her father to her room, holding his arm and leaning on him a little as they went. Davies removed their plates, and Sinclair leant back in his chair, running his hands through his hair.

  “Did you know he was coming, sir?” Casey asked quietly.

  Sinclair shook his head. “I believe she did, however.”

  Casey agreed. She hadn’t seemed surprised. “Why is he here?”

  “He intends to take her home with him.”

  Her door was open, and they could hear her laughing at something her father had said. Sinclair had heard her laugh, but he hadn’t realised until now how subdued she had been. This laughter was lighter, freer, sweeter, like the sound made when two pieces of fine crystal touch.

  “Sir, can’t you do something?” It was Sullivan.

  “It’s never done, but legally I could detain her—force her to testify. Her father would go to the American embassy and possibly the press. And we would have an uncooperative witness.”

  Davies spoke. “Perhaps she’ll come back for the trial, sir.”

  “If she’s not dead,” Sinclair said. “There’s big money out on her.”

  “And if she doesn’t testify?” Casey asked.

  “If Scott’s defence team can get the DNA evidence suppressed, there will be no case. He will be released, and eventually other women will die.”

  “Can they do that, sir?” Sullivan asked.

  “There’s no accounting for the legal system,” Sinclair replied.

  When Jenny and her father returned, she didn’t notice the men’s solemn faces.

  “Sir, she’s needed here,” Sullivan said. “And we’ll protect her.”

  “I know you will, son,” Mr. Jeffries responded, “but it’s my job to do that now.”

  “Sir—with respect—we’re better qualified,” Davies argued. “Someone’s always on watch here; Casey now, me overnight, and Sullivan in the morning.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ll take it from there.”

  She put her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning, Daddy.”

  “Davies, can you manage a proper English breakfast?” Sinclair asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He and Mr. Jeffries left, and the door was locked behind them.

  “Are you going?” Danny asked. “Are you leaving tomorrow?”

  “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count!”

  “You’ve got to stay,” Danny insisted. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Haven’t I proved that?”

  “The boss will get the push if you go,” Brian told her. “He’ll be struck off.”

  Their concerted appeal surprised her. She turned to Sergeant Casey. “Aren’t you going to put your two cents in?”

  “What will you lose?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If you go, what will you lose?”

  She didn’t know. She shrugged her shoulders and went to her room.

  “I expected you’d talk to her about her mission,” Davies told Casey.

  “If she doesn’t feel it, I can’t make her,” Casey replied.

  Jenny floated through her bedtime ritual. Finally something good had happened to her: Her father had come! How could she not go home with him? It would solve the problem of her placement for Mr. Sinclair. He had been courteous, even gracious, to her father. Surely he wouldn’t lose his job. Then she remembered Sergeant Casey’s question, and he hadn’t even used his “I-will-brook-no-opposition” voice. What made him think she would lose anything? How could she lose anything by going home? She held the soft pastel blanket against her chest throughout the long night.

  CHAPTER 20

  In the morning Davies outdid himself: pancakes, sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and fried bread. “Coffee, sir?” he asked Mr. Jeffries. “Black or white?”

  Mr. Jeffries ate heartily. “Black, thank you.”

  Jenny sipped her tea. Conversation was sporadic. Casey gave her the egg-sized ball to squeeze so she could do a last set of arm exercises.

  Mr. Jeffries thanked Davies for the Texas-sized meal and turned to his daughter. “Are you packed, Punkin?”

  She didn’t answer at first. “No, Daddy,” she said finally.

  “Do you need me to help you?”

  “No, Daddy,” she whispered.

  Something in her tone made Sinclair’s detective’s ears prickle. Then he realised that she wasn’t smiling.

  “We have to be going before long,” Mr. Jeffries reminded her patiently.

  Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “No, Daddy.”

  Davies wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly. Sullivan’s mouth dropped open, and he glanced quickly from Jenny to her father and back again. Dead-on, Casey thought. That was twice the Yank had surprised him. Sinclair wanted to cheer.

  Mr. Jeffries looked at her with the question his lips couldn’t form written all over his face.

  She held the therapy ball in one hand and pressed the other against her chest. “I can’t go. I want to so badly, but I can’t.”

  “Why not, Punkin? This can all be over for you in a few hours. And your mother can hardly wait to see you.”

  She stumbled over the words. “Because you taught me the difference between right and wrong,” she said. “I need her so badly, but if I go, it’ll be wrong.”

  “Aren’t you afraid, Punkin? Let me take you home, where you don’t have to be afraid. You can fly back for the trial.”

  “I’m terribly afraid, Daddy, but I’ll be afraid there, too. I have to do this. Here.”

  “Can’t others do it?”

  “No, Daddy. I’m the only one who lived.”

  Davies took a few steps back. The conversation between Jenny and her father was so intimate, he felt that he was eavesdropping. Sullivan was stunned into silence for a change. Casey was watching her very closely. She was holding the exercise ball in both hands now, and he wasn’t certain it would survive the pressure it was under.

  “Haven’t I always known what was best for you, Punkin?”

  “Daddy, I’m a target. If I come home, you will be, too. You all will. I won’t do that to you.”

  “Did someone convince you to do this? One of these men?”

  She shook her head. “They don’t have that kind of power.”

  “What am I going to tell your mother?” he asked desperately.

  “Tell her—oh, God—tell her I love her,” she cried. She suddenly released the ball, and it rolled off her lap and onto the floor, its smooth motion a stark contrast to the tension that surrounded it. Her fingers were limp, as if her heart had quit trying to force blood through them.

  “Isn’t there any way I can change your mind?”

  “No. If I go, I’ll lose everything—myself, my integrity. If I endanger the people I love, I’ll never be able to hold my head up as long as I live.”

  Casey was still watching Jenny, wondering if she would survive the pressure she was under. An umbilical cord had been cut, a lifeline severed.

  Sinclair thought her action was the purest example of virtue he had ever seen. Milton had said something about virtue, he remembered: that “heaven itself would stoop to her.” “We should be getting on soon, sir,” he said quietly.

  Mr. Jeffries stood and put his hands on her shoulders. “Jenny, I believe ‘the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort or convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.’”

  “Dr. Martin Luther King,” she murmured.

  “I’ve never been more proud of you than I am at this moment.” He embraced her, whispering a prayer in her ear.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she said, clinging to him.

  “I love you, too, Punkin,” Mr. Jeffries breathed. He released her and stepped back. “Gentlemen, you’ll take care of my little girl?”

  Casey moved behind her. “You can count on me, sir.”

  Davies and Sullivan closed
and secured the door behind them.

  She sank to her knees, unable to hold back the sobs.

  Casey knelt down beside her. “Jenny, if you want me to go after them, I need to know now.” He didn’t know if she’d heard him over her cries. He raised his voice. “Yes or no, Jenny! Now!”

  She shook her head.

  “Davies, my kit,” Casey said. “Sullivan, water.” She took the tablet he offered, leaning heavily against him. Gradually her sobs subsided, and she went to bed.

  “I was dead sure she’d take off,” Sullivan said. “She’ll have a rough go of it now, won’t she? We have to do something to put it right.”

  “All we can bloody well do now is wait.” He decided to keep watch in the armchair by her bed. Sedatives brought rest but not peace.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jenny was quiet for some time after she awakened. Casey didn’t break the silence. “Have you ever been in a hurricane, Sergeant?” she asked finally. “In the worst storms, you could be lying on the ground and still be blown away.”

  “I’ll not let that happen.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Time for some of Davies’ soup.”

  Sinclair arrived while he was preparing the tray. “You dodged a bullet, sir,” Casey told him, “but I’m not sure she did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was in a sorry state. I sedated her. She didn’t rouse until a few minutes ago.”

  “Was that necessary?”

  “It was the merciful thing to do.”

  “Right. How is she now?”

  “Subdued. Very.”

  “I’ll take the tray,” Sinclair said.

  “Is he gone?” she asked when she saw him.

  “I drove him to the airport and waited with him until he boarded the plane. He’s very proud of you, and so am I.”

  She pushed herself up. “That soup smells like spaghetti.” It had meatballs in it, with spaghetti noodles and Italian seasonings. When he brought her a second cup, the other men came in with him.

  “I’ve rented a video,” Danny said. “Won’t you join us?”

  “I don’t want to. Maybe later.”

  “But it’s Benny Hill,” he piped up. “My parents always thought he was a riot.”

  “Thanks a lot, Sullivan,” Sinclair grumbled. “I thought he was rather humourous myself.”

  Jenny smiled and trudged into the sitting room, curling up on the sofa with her pastel blanket. Danny hit the play button. She watched thoughtfully at first. “He reminds me of an American comedian my parents used to like: Johnny Carson. This man has the same reasonably attractive and remarkably expressive face.” It was a highlights tape, and she found herself becoming distracted by the outrageous situations. “They also share the total inability to feel embarrassed by anything. Thanks, Danny.”

  “It’s a winner, isn’t it, Sis?” he crowed.

  “Sis?”

  “Yes, we’re going to be your family now,” he declared.

  “I like that, Danny,” she said when she could. “Brian, thanks for the soup. Mr. Sinclair, thank you for being so good to my dad.”

  Casey checked on her at the start of the night watch.

  “Don’t go,” she murmured. She wrapped her fingers around his arm.

  He put her hand inside his instead and rubbed her palm with his thumb. “Today was tough. Nobody could have done it any better. I’m that proud of you.”

  “Tears and all?”

  “Tears and all. But you’ll be needing this more now.” He took her mobile phone out of his pocket and held it out to her. “It’s yours to keep.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Jenny was surprised when Mr. Sinclair came by on Saturday with a big package, and even more surprised by what was for him, informal dress: camel trousers, sports shirt, and burgundy sweater. “I’ve been shopping, and we’re going to have a history lesson and do a bit of decorating.” He handed her the parcel. “History lesson first. Open it.”

  It was the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain. “Our flag is made up of three crosses: the Cross of St. George, the Cross of St. Andrew, and the Cross of St. Patrick. St. George is the patron saint of England, legendary for killing a dragon and saving the king’s daughter. You’re going to slay a dragon when you testify, and we’re going to help get you there. The red cross in the middle—outlined in white—is St. George’s Cross.”

  The other men were curious and had joined them.

  “St. Andrew,” he continued, “is the patron saint of Scotland. His cross is shaped like a white X on a blue background. See how the white extends to each corner of the flag? You have to use your imagination a bit, because the red cross in the middle appears to be in front of it.” He traced the outline with his finger. “There’s one more: the Cross of St. Patrick.”

  “Patron saint of Ireland?”

  Sinclair nodded. “His cross is a red X on a white background, the same shape as St. Andrew’s but slightly smaller. It also appears to be behind the Cross of St. George.”

  “So England’s patron saint has prominence in your flag. That’s appropriate, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” Sinclair agreed. “Now—what can you tell me about St. Patrick?”

  “Isn’t he the one who drove all the snakes into the sea?”

  “That’s the story, but did you know he was kidnapped when he was sixteen and forced into slavery in Ireland?”

  “Kidnapped? He wasn’t Irish? How did he get from slavery to sainthood?”

  “He escaped—with God’s help, he said. He returned to England, studied in monasteries abroad, and was sent, first to evangelise his native country, England, and then to be a missionary to Ireland. Catholic scholars consider his return to Ireland to be tangible illustration of the concept of forgiveness. That’s probably where the sainthood comes in. He died at the ripe old age of seventy-four. You’re doing a service for the Crown, and this flag acknowledges that. Where would you like us to hang it?”

  She glanced quickly around the room. “There.” She pointed to the wall opposite her bed. “It’ll be the first thing I see when I wake up and the last thing before I go to sleep.”

  Sinclair tacked it into place.

  “How’d you learn all that?” Danny asked. “I’m Catholic, and I don’t remember hearing those details at Mass.”

  “It’s called research, Sullivan,” Sinclair answered dryly. “I didn’t get it in church, either. Now for my last piece of trivia. We all know St. Patrick’s Day is March 17, but when is St. George’s Day?”

  “Not a clue,” she said.

  “April 23,” Sinclair reported.

  “Gold star for you,” she teased. “What about St. Andrew?”

  “November 30.”

  “Good for Andrew,” she said, and Casey noticed that Sinclair’s presentation had brightened her face. In fact, the entire room was brighter, the colourful flag a powerful focal point.

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  Davies sent Sullivan for pizza.

  “That’s the fifth food group,” Jenny smiled, “at least for college students. Meat, milk, bread, fruit and vegetable—and pizza.”

  “You’ve got six!” Danny chimed in. “Chocolate!”

  After dinner, she resolved to start one of the Manchester volumes on Churchill which Mr. Sinclair had loaned her. She read until bath time. When Casey came in, she looked at the flag and felt inexplicably stronger. “Are you on watch?”

  “Until six a.m.”

  He heard a muffled cry during the midwatch and went in to her. Her eyes were wide, and her breathing was shallow and rapid: another of her spells.

  “Don’t you ever panic?” she gasped. In the daytime she could usually push her thoughts away. At night what was beneath the surface rose up.

  “I was trained not to.”

  “That’s no help,” she said. “Talk to me. About anything.” She wanted to be distracted from all her fears, the rational as well as the irra
tional. She still hadn’t started her period. She cried too easily, but there were no other signs that anything was wrong.

  He told her about long summer days and teaching his brother to bait his first hook, and gradually her fear receded, leaving her calm but spent. She slept, and he made a cup of tea for himself and wondered if her family knew about her precarious psychological state. He thought not. If her father had known, he wouldn’t have left without her, no matter what her choice had been.

  CHAPTER 23

  Brian made lamb chops for Sunday dinner, with tiny little peas and salad. And potatoes—always potatoes! He watched her every time she took a bite of peas. “Peas are okay,” she assured him. “It’s just Brussels sprouts I don’t like. Even fresh ones smell like they’re not.”

  After the meal, Sergeant Casey told her he’d be taking some leave, and she was surprised to discover that she missed him. He was still formidable but not tough through and through, the way she had thought at first. Lately he had been gentle with her, and she found that almost more difficult to bear. The monster had taught her in a tangible way that men were capable of extreme violence. Tenderness struck a chord of longing that she must extinguish. She’d become accustomed to the sergeant’s firm approach; she always knew where she stood with him. She wanted her relationships with men to be well defined.

  Monday morning when she woke, Brian was gone. “Is he coming back?” she asked Casey. “Is this it? Am I moving?” Casey assured her it was only for twenty-four hours. When Davies returned, Sullivan would take off.

  That night after dinner, Mr. Sinclair gave her another postcard tour. The last time he had brought postcards, he had asked her to address him by his first name. What was his agenda tonight? Would it be rude to ask?