The Witness: A Novel (14 page)

“Cursed with a paucity of evidence,” Graves grumbled.

“Nothing from Scott?” an officer inquired.

“No, the family solicitor was summoned immediately and has been present at every interview.”

“How were the bodies disposed of?” a second officer asked.

“Not in Scott’s car,” a forensic tech replied. “It was clean. Neither Stark nor Michalopolous own vehicles.”

“In some sections of our fair city, they could have used public transport and no one would have noticed,” another officer lamented.

Sinclair stood. “The ambassador and his wife are on their way back to London. Scott himself has travelled extensively. Not just to Europe and the sites of his father’s postings but also frequently to the States. We believe that’s where he met Stark. Both may have considerable contacts there.”

Graves gave him a sharp look. “That doesn’t bode well for our witness.”

Sinclair agreed. Jenny’s Texas home was half a world away from the site of her attack but an easy destination for anyone accustomed to international travel.

“How are you getting on with her parents?” Graves asked.

“Every conversation is difficult.”

“Still awaiting passports?” He saw Sinclair’s nod. “Good. That gives us time to take permanent charge of her protection.”

“She’s expecting to return home with her family when she’s well enough.”

“Return to the States, where every weapon known to man is readily available? For her own safety, we can’t allow it. Not until this thing is concluded. Have a word with her parents. Arrange for someone from the witness protection unit to meet with her. Let’s get it done.”

W
hile Sinclair was receiving Graves’ instruction, Jenny was beginning her first set of exercises with Sergeant Casey. He wanted her to be on her feet more to improve strength and circulation, particularly in her left leg, where the contusions had been the most severe. First he asked her to stand up straight, putting her weight on both legs equally.

“I’ll fall,” she objected.

“You’ll not fall. Your leg will hurt, but it will support you.” He nodded to Davies to stand next to her. “Tense the muscles in your left leg and then relax them.” To be sure she was following his instructions, he knelt down beside her and slid his hands under the caftan, resting one on her calf and one on her thigh.

She gasped and pulled away.

Casey looked up. “Sorry,” he said. “Let’s try it again.”

She watched him place his hands on top of the fabric. She held onto Brian, squeezing his arm reflexively each time she felt the pain from tensing her leg.

“Now put a bit more weight on your left leg.”

She responded.

“That’s it,” Casey said. “Can you tell now that it isn’t going to give way?”

“No, the only thing I’m sure of is that Brian isn’t going to give way.”

Casey smiled. He directed her through the routine over and over, monitoring her leg but not noticing how pale her face was becoming.

“Time out,” she panted. Her legs went rubbery, and she sagged against Brian, who lowered her to the sofa. “How’d you become the world expert on legs anyway?” she asked Casey.

He didn’t answer, just sat down and pushed his camouflage fatigues above his right knee. When she was able to tear her eyes away from the knife strapped to his calf, she saw a wide scar that ran from the middle of his thigh to the kneecap. She felt a sudden kinship with him. “You’re scarred, too! And you run in the mornings? How do you do that?”

“The same way you will, when I get through with you.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Bit of both. Now I’ll do the work for you. Gather your dress above your knees.”

She hesitated. He was not going to tolerate insubordination, but her
legs looked like they’d been trampled by a bull.

Casey saw the direction of her gaze. Jog pants would help her; he’d ask the boss. He held first one foot, then the other, and asked her to push against his hand gently, then more firmly. It was easier at the beginning than supporting her own weight, but as he increased his pressure, she had to clench her teeth against the pain.

“Whoa!” she cried.

“That’ll do then,” he said. “Now for the ankle exercises.” After a few minutes he sat beside her on the sofa. “Now the shoulder.” The cast was heavy, but she had done shoulder exercises with the physical therapist in the hospital, and they weren’t as uncomfortable as the leg exercises had been.

“You have to keep your joints moving,” Casey explained, “or they’ll stiffen.”

“Good cover story.” She leaned her head back on the sofa. “Actually, it’s the Genghis Khan approach to fitness—exercise until it hurts.”

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W
hen Sinclair’s long day at the Yard concluded, he stopped by the protection flat.

“Jenny’s fast off,” Davies told him. “Casey’s exercises wore her out.”

“I’ll wake her.” He knocked lightly on her door.

She stirred and opened her eyes.

“Are you up to a bit of police business?” He handed her the collections of photos which included Stark and Michalopolous’s. “Do you recognise anyone?”

“This one,” she said. “The others on this page don’t look as menacing.”

She had identified Michalopolous. It took her longer to isolate Stark. “The other man—his eyes were the only small thing about him.”

Sinclair felt a rush of relief. The arrest of these two and subsequent search of their flats could strengthen their case. He sat down. “I spoke with your mother this afternoon. They’re expecting their passports any day now.”

“She called me. Sergeant Casey brought me the phone, but when I was through, he took it away. ‘I’ll have it back now,’ was how he put it. Why can’t I keep it?”

“I want an officer screening any incoming calls on your line.”

“Can’t I call my friends?”

“I’d prefer it if you corresponded with your friends. There are a few rules I’d like you to follow when you do—don’t mention the men’s names, and don’t seal the envelopes.”

“You’re going to read my mail? Isn’t that a crime?”

Sinclair aimed for a light tone. “Jenny, if we allowed you to reveal details, it would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not fair! What gives you the right to know everything about me? Even the thoughts I express to friends?”

“Jenny, I am responsible for your life. I don’t intend to take any chances with it.” He discarded the idea of telling her now they wanted to
keep her until after Scott’s trial. He collected the photos and departed.

The men were quiet during dinner. They were concentrating on their food, and she became curious about their use of utensils. They held the fork in their left hand and the knife in their right. The fork was always upside down. Sometimes they used the knife to mash the food onto the fork. “Do you all eat like that?” she asked. She had switched her fork to her right hand and was using it to scoop up the potatoes.

“We like to get on with it,” Brian answered.

“Changing hands all the time like you do would slow us down,” Danny added.

She looked at her plate. They did eat faster. Brian cleared the table, Danny began to wash up, and Casey helped her to the bedroom.

He removed the sutures from her chest tube. “The surgeon did nice work.”

“He left me another scar.”

“He left you breathing.” Then he began her bath, using the same format as the night before.

It was still frightening, but this time she didn’t have to be told twice when it was her turn to do the washing. She cried when she saw him return.

Rita had cried when he left on missions. Jenny was the first woman he’d known who cried when she saw him coming. When she was settled and he’d put the bath items away, he sat down next to the bed. “How can you tell if someone’s a threat, Jenny?”

His voice was as sharp as his knife.

“Watch the hands, always the hands. Tell me what you’ve seen my hands do, in hospital and here.”

She thought back. “You undid my hospital gown, right after I met you.”

“No, Dr. Adams did that. I covered you.”

“You gave me a shot I didn’t want.”

He nodded. “It was necessary.”

She remembered the first morning she’d wakened in this bed. It already seemed a long time ago. “You helped me sit up. You gave me my medicine. You held my waist so I could walk.” Her voice shook a little at the memory. “You washed me. You cut my nightshirt. You wiped my tears.” She stopped. Unshed tears were now constricting her throat.

“That’ll do,” he said. “Now repeat after me: A man proves himself through his actions.”

She managed to force the words out.

He administered her bedtime medicine, removed the extra pillows from behind her so she could lie down, and adjusted the pillows she still needed under her left limbs.

She watched his hands.

E
very morning’s activities were the same: medicine, breakfast, and exercises. Breathing hard still made her ribs hurt, but by Friday Jenny was beginning to feel more confident about her ability to stay on her feet. Her left leg did support her, as Sergeant Casey had said it would.

Saturday brought monotony, magnified by Danny’s absence. He had been given a little time off. After lunch Brian found some sport on TV, but she stayed in her room to write letters. Laura, Alison, Mandy, Diane—Emily first.
Something bad happened to me in London, and I can’t come home for a while.
She stopped. The things that weighed most heavily on her mind, she didn’t want to write down. What could she say? That her physical therapist was an ex-Marine? No, she wasn’t supposed to write about the men.

She could describe British TV. It would be a long letter if she related everything that they were allowed to broadcast—obscene language, sexual references, nudity—or a short letter if she mentioned the weather, which she didn’t experience since she couldn’t go out and didn’t understand because the temperatures weren’t given in Fahrenheit.

In the end, she wrote only a few lines. She was too tired to focus.

It was the distinctive aroma of Chinese spices that greeted her when she woke. Danny had returned with what he called takeaway food: appetizers—what the men called starters—chicken, beef, and pork entrees, and both steamed and fried rice. Their biggest consumer, Brian, had been given a day off. The meal was accompanied by English tea, of which she was becoming increasingly fond. Her fortune was enigmatic:
Interesting adventures await you,
it read. “If you define ‘adventures’ loosely, that might even be true,” she said.

After dinner Sinclair and Sergeant Andrews stopped by. “Good news. We’ve arrested Scott’s accomplices,” Andrews said. He and Mr. Sinclair took another statement from her. “I’ll make it as easy for you as I can,” Sinclair said. “I’d simply like you to confirm exactly what events took place when you were in the little room. Every vile act Scott committed needs to be on record.” He saw her bite her lip. “Jenny, I’ll not ask you to describe anything, and I’ll use yes-or-no questions.”

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.