by Naomi Kryske
She did her best to clean her front. Even with no one present, it was mortifying, but at least the worst part was over. She pulled the sheet over herself and waited.
“I’ll take your dirty clothes away.”
She didn’t move.
“Where are they?”
“I’m wearing them,” she said, clutching the sheet tighter.
“You’re still wearing your knickers? Did you wash?”
“Above the waist,” she whispered. “I didn’t take my panties off. I didn’t want to be naked.”
He thought for a moment. “What would you like to sleep in?”
“The nightshirt,” she answered, but she couldn’t get it on. The cast on her left arm wouldn’t fit through the sleeve.
While she struggled with it, he bent down. When he straightened, he had a vicious-looking knife in his hand.
“What are you going to do with that?” she gasped.
“Help you dress,” he said and sliced through the shoulder seam of the nightshirt. He replaced the knife in its calf holster and helped her adjust the nightshirt. “You’re not naked now. It’s time to finish the job. One of us has bloody well got to do it. Who’s it going to be, Jenny?”
She decided she didn’t like it when he said her name. It was his way of telling her that he meant business.
“I’m back in ten,” he said. He handed her the face cloth and left.
She cried as she wriggled out of her panties. She had heard the or else he hadn’t said aloud. She thought of him waiting outside her door, knowing what she was doing, and her whole body shook. What if he didn’t believe she’d done it? What then? She was still trembling when he came back in.
He put the bath items and clothes away. He replaced the sling and adjusted her pillows. His mobile rang. He stepped outside her room and spoke to the chief inspector. “She didn’t do well, sir.”
“I’m on my way,” Sinclair answered. When Davies and Sullivan let him in, he went straight to her room.
“I’m surprised he checks on her so much,” Sullivan said.
“Don’t be fooled,” Davies warned. “He’s checking on more than Jenny.”
Casey stood when Sinclair knocked and entered her room.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Sinclair saw her red eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What happened to your nightshirt?” Her left shoulder was bare.
He didn’t sound mad—just curious—but she was afraid that if she mentioned the knife, he and Casey would both be angry. “Sergeant Casey fixed it so I could get it over my cast.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“He—everything he does is frightening, but he didn’t hurt me. The—the monster—hurt me, and I’m afraid I’ll never be the person I was.”
She was right. Experiencing violence—particularly rape—changed a person, but he didn’t intend to tell her that. “I admit I don’t know what you were like before all this happened, but I’m rather impressed with what I see now. Under your tears are determination and courage.”
“There’s no courage,” she said. “It’s all fear.”
“I disagree. Fear may be what you’re feeling, but courage is what you’re doing. You’re here because you’re planning to do a very courageous thing. From the time I met you in hospital, you’ve done one courageous thing after another. You trusted me, you identified Scott, and you agreed to testify. You sit and walk in spite of the pain. When these tears have washed the dust off your wheels, you’re really going to get moving. None of us will be able to keep up with you.”
In spite of herself she had to smile.
“I’ll tell you something else I’ve learnt about you. You have very high expectations of yourself. That’s good, but there are times in life when you have to accept the help of others. It’s not weakness to do that; it’s a matter of perspective, of knowing when that extra boost will give you the edge you need.” He wanted very badly to retain her cooperation. He recalled a tactic a previous chief had used when he wanted to keep a witness sweet. “Would you do something for me? I’d like you to consider calling me Colin.”
“C-O-L-L-I-N?” she spelled.
“One L,” he corrected, “but it’s pronounced as if there were two.”
“I haven’t known what to call you,” she admitted.
“Detective Chief Inspector is a mouthful, isn’t it? Hearing ‘Mr. Sinclair’ makes me feel ancient. And there are plenty of sergeants and constables to call me sir. Will you give it a go?”
She looked at him and wondered if she could. His face wasn’t lined. Was it his air of authority that made him seem older, or his immaculate, tailored style of dress? She came from the land of denim—jeans, jackets, skirts—she even had a denim dress at home.
“Everything’s so impersonal,” she said slowly. “I wear a lot of labels—a patient, a witness—a pain in the neck, I think—I don’t feel like I belong to myself any more.”
He smiled. A sense of humour in the wake of despair was a good sign. “Perhaps our being on a first-name basis will help.”
CHAPTER 6
The incident room was crowded. Investigative teams on the cases of the six murdered women were present, the detectives in charge as well as the scores of officers tasked with detailing the criminal histories and recent movements of Leonard Stark and Anthony Michalopolous, more familiarly called the S&M duo. The news was not good. Both had kept low profiles since entering the UK. Stark had not been in the country when the first two murders were committed. CCTV footage from cameras near Jenny’s kidnap site had yielded nothing of use. Without her ident, there were not sufficient grounds for arrest. Sinclair planned to show her the photo arrays that evening. Further, it was unlikely that either would be remanded unless they could prove they had a larger role in Jenny’s assault or could be linked to the deaths of any of the other women.
“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.”
CHAPTER 7
While 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 hu
rt, 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.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
When 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.
CHAPTER 8
Every 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.”