The Witness: A Novel

by Naomi Kryske

  She read further. “Frail Travellers,” Sassoon had called butterflies. “A man wrote these lines—how fragile we all are, and how fleeting life is!”

  “Men can have tender feelings, Jenny, although we generally don’t advertise them.”

  She looked up from the printed page. He didn’t look fragile. Where did his vulnerability lie?

  “We’d best make the most of today, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “How can I do that, locked in this flat?”

  “Your thoughts and feelings aren’t locked in, are they?”

  “Is that the nature of freedom? Being able to look past the limitations of your body to see a vista of what is possible?”

  “That’s the challenge of every age, isn’t it? From the child to the elderly adult? And of every circumstance—none of us are what we wish to be.”

  “But you’re healthy and capable—you have an important job—you can choose where you go and what you do.”

  “Policing requires an inordinate amount of time. I live an unbalanced life. When I was your age, I thought I’d have my own family by now.”

  She was aware of the men coming into the kitchen occasionally, but none of them interrupted the conversation taking place in the sitting room. Colin insisted that marriage was no less holy an institution because his had not survived. “Love lasts. My parents weren’t unhappy with their lifetime commitment. My mother followed my father all over the world, and she still loves him, even though he’s been gone over six years. I was wrong in my priorities, that’s all.”

  They were not touching. Colin was sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, and her outstretched legs did not reach him. “Your mother’s love made her more susceptible to grief.”

  “And gave her greater remembered joy.” His face was gentle.

  The wine had warmed her face and chest. “I missed you this week,” she said.

  The flat was quiet, except for the radio in her room and the soft whoosh of the heater when it came on. He stood and held out his hand. “Come here to me, Jenny,” he whispered.

  His eyes were intensely blue, and he looked particularly strong standing. She remembered his embrace—feeling safe in it, feeling alive. Her stomach turned over, and his kiss did nothing to settle it. Afterward he held her close, his lips against her hair, and she tried to catch her breath. Then he stepped back and called for the men to see him out.

  CHAPTER 19

  Monday: Colin had said that the case would go to the jury on Monday. All afternoon Jenny pestered the men to go for the evening newspapers. The late editions would precede the nightly newscasts on TV, and she wanted to know how the testimonial phase of the trial had concluded. She didn’t retreat until Hunt threw up his hands and threatened to charge her with harassment.

  In the end the reports did nothing to settle her. Prosecuting counsel, Mr. Benjamin, titled his summation “Beauty versus the Beast” and began with a broad overview of good versus evil. He referred to the defendant as a “sadistic and depraved individual” whose “total disregard for suffering and human life” had finally been discovered, following a valiant act of identification by a surviving witness. Then he reiterated each piece of specific evidence that tied the cases of the seven victims together. “I am often asked,” he said, “what justice looks like. It is a wall, built brick by brick in a court of law, constructed of courage, held together by truth, and reinforced with scientific and medical data. It is a wall tall enough and strong enough to contain a monster. Your verdict, guilty on all the counts that have been presented to you, will make it a lasting wall.”

  Mr. Alford had spoken for the defence, disputing the evidence and citing the “character (reprehensible), calumny, and consent” of the primary prosecution witness. He had spoken of her with contempt, condemning her irresponsible conduct. “My client never claimed to be celibate,” he argued, “but no man with his heritage, resources, and attractiveness has to force his attentions on members of the opposite sex. With no shortage of opportunities for mutual sexual enjoyment, what possible motive could he have for doing so?” Alford had then returned to the issue of consent, and Jenny finally understood why, after her tearful statement to Colin and Barry in the hospital, Colin had asked if she’d given her consent. “A wall?” Alford had scoffed. “Rubbish. Rubble.”

  Judge Thomas’s instructions to the jury were not recorded in the newspapers, but they had evidently been lengthy, because several reporters had filed their stories before he had completed them. The waiting game began, and she was not very good at it.

  Tuesday came and went, with Jenny preoccupied. What could the jury be thinking? Why wasn’t it a slam dunk? Hadn’t they believed her? What about all the other evidence that had been given? He is guilty. All they had to do was say it. Why didn’t they?

  Hunt was the first beneficiary of her short fuse. On Wednesday he needled her about the university logo on her sweatshirt: Prescott Pumas. “What the hell’s a puma?”

  “A wildcat.”

  “Your mascot was a pussy?” Hunt elbowed Casey, whose mouth twitched suspiciously.

  “No, they’re big cats,” she said, blushing. “Aggressive. Fierce. They pounce on their prey from great heights.”

  Hunt slapped his knee and roared with laughter. “Every bloke’s dream—being attacked by a wild pussy!”

  Casey made a choking sound in his throat and turned away.

  “Damn it, Hunt, do you have to be so crude?” she yelled.

  “You’ve got to learn to take it, Little Bit,” Hunt said, still chuckling. “The Prescott Pussies—wait ‘til I tell Davies.”

  Later during her exercises she erupted at Sergeant Casey. “What am I doing this for? So I can sit down the rest of the day? Who cares if I stay in shape?”

  When he counselled using her anger to complete an additional set, she became even more irate. He held out the pillow, but she batted it away. “I don’t want to hit that, I want to hit you!”

  Casey laughed softly. He held out his hands and beckoned to her with his fingers. “Come on then.”

  She went for him, but he took one diagonal step back, easily deflecting her frontal attack, and she had forgotten to watch his hands. Damn his efficiency! One minute she was on her feet attacking, and the next, he was behind her. Her knees buckled, and she fell against his thigh. Her position on the floor was discouraging, but maybe she could use it to her advantage. She went limp. When she felt his grip relax, she aimed again, but she was no more successful.

  “Don’t give up, Little Bit!”

  Sergeant Casey’s face was close to hers. Was he restraining a smile? Damn him! She lurched at him with her chin but succeeded only in grazing his cheek with her lips. She couldn’t think of anything else to try. “I’m through,” she said. “No lie.”

  He helped her sit up. Her head bowed, she hugged her knees and waited for The Voice. Instead she felt his hands massaging her shoulders. She was so tense that even his gentle pressure hurt. “I’ve been in this flat over six months. Except for my Paul Revere midnight run, I’ve never gone anywhere that didn’t have some medical or legal purpose. Tomorrow I’m going out. Would you like to pick the place?”

  Casey didn’t answer, but the massage stopped.

  “Can’t I go somewhere that’s so crowded that nobody would notice me? Or so deserted that no one would see me?” She scooted over to the sofa and leaned against it. “Don’t you understand? I want to see the light. The little room was dark. The courtroom had artificial light—no windows. There are windows here, but they’re shrouded, and I’m not allowed to look through them.” Brian was still sleeping from the night watch, so she turned to her only ally. “Hunt, help me here. I know I’m locked in, but I can call Colin and raise a ruckus. Or call the police—regular police—and scream when they come to the door until you let them in.”

  Casey smiled at her determination. “What address will you give when you ring?”

  “I’ll tell them I’m being held against my will in Detective C
hief Inspector Sinclair’s building.”

  Hunt laughed aloud.

  There’s my girl. “We’ll get it sorted, love. Best not to call in fire on your own position.”

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  In the morning Brian fed her marmalade and toast for elevenses, and they all trooped downstairs to wait for the car Sergeant Casey had summoned. The men wore coats to conceal their firearms, and she wore a sweater under her raincoat. It was brisk and cool, and the sky was strewn with heavy clouds.

  “Hyde Park Corner,” Casey told the driver, and her adventure began.

  They hadn’t been in the park long when men on horseback rode by, colourful tunics across their chests and plumes on their helmets. “From the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace,” Brian said. “Their barracks are nearby.” Casey had explained that they wouldn’t stop anywhere for long, so she kept walking, although she couldn’t resist a backward glance.

  Ahead of her lay vast open grassy fields with groves of trees in the distance and to her left, Serpentine Lake. They strolled alongside it and crossed the bridge into Kensington Gardens. The flowers here had been expertly planted, with an eye toward variety in color, height, and type of blossom. Everything looked a little bedraggled, but the colors were no less bright for the drops of rain that clung to the petals. She saw tulips in every shade of the artist’s palette, daffodils, iris, and many florals she didn’t recognize. Delicate yellows, the palest peach, lavender, hot pink, and royal purple. Why, she wondered, was the word “royal” used to describe the most intense hue? She would have called all these colors royal—the pastels were no less glorious than the others. Her enjoyment progressed from muted to vibrant, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  They did not enter any of the structures they passed, even the visitor centre near the Albert Memorial. Sometimes Sergeant Casey walked beside her and sometimes Hunt, but evidently they felt the difference between her height and Brian’s would attract attention, so he was usually at least a few feet away.

  She liked the gentle little primroses the best, aptly named since the true roses would not be at their peak until warmer and drier weather arrived. Many had star-shaped yellow centers, but the colors that surrounded them ran the full spectrum: There were lovely lavender blossoms, shades of rouge from the softest pink to the deepest red, and petals of pristine white. She could smell the moisture in the light breeze. They were far from being the only visitors, but the natural show was such a feast for the eyes that she didn’t think anyone in the park was paying attention to anything else. The flat was subdued, and many times her feelings had matched it. She did not want to go back, either to the site or the frame of mind. “How much time do we have?” she asked Sergeant Casey.

  “The car won’t collect us until I ring.”

  So she walked on, wanting to skip but knowing she shouldn’t. She knew she was deceiving herself, but the air smelled like freedom, fresh and clean. Sergeant Casey kept a discreet distance between the two of them and other groups, but his caution didn’t diminish her pleasure. When she began to feel hungry, she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to do anything to spoil the sensation, not of being tired—she wasn’t exerting herself—but of being relaxed. For the first time in months, her movements were unrestricted, not choreographed by someone else. What a joy, not to be on her way somewhere but just to be going, strolling, having no purpose except enjoying the moment! She put her arm around Sergeant Casey’s. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His eyes left the path ahead of them for a minute, and she saw him smile.

  Her stomach felt empty now, and she was sure the men were ready to eat, but none of them had hurried her. She took a deep breath and held it, wanting to keep some part of the experience with her as long as she could, because it was time to go. “I’m ready,” she told Sergeant Casey, trying to keep her voice from breaking. She heard him speak quietly into his phone.

  CHAPTER 20

  Jenny slept through the night, with no dreams to disturb her. She did her exercises dutifully and then settled in for what promised to be another slow day. The air in the flat seemed stale after the freshness of the outdoors. She wished they could open a window.

  After lunch Casey startled her out of her reverie. “Boss rang. He’s on his way.”

  “Is there a verdict? Did he say?”

  “He wants to tell you himself.”

  “Why? If it’s good news, wouldn’t he have told you?”

  Casey didn’t reply.

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  “If he hasn’t given it up yet, he’s not going to,” Hunt said.

  That was true. Sergeant Casey had two modes: direct and silent. His infernal military training.

  “How far away is he?” she asked. “Sergeant Casey, shouldn’t you have your key ready?”

  “Not yet, Jenny.”

  She slipped on her shoes and went into the sitting room. “Did you hear footsteps?” she asked Brian. “Was that his knock?”

  “Take it easy, JJ.”

  “How? I’ve waited so long for this! What if it isn’t the right verdict? If the monster gets out, he’ll come after me—he heard me say all that stuff in court!” She sank down on the sofa. “Why isn’t Colin here yet? Where is he?” she wailed.

  “Deep breaths, Jenny.”

  When Sinclair’s knock came, she jumped up, wanting to see his face. Surely she’d know when she saw his face—he wouldn’t even have to say anything!

  He was beaming. “Guilty! Of serial murder—serial rape—and a host of other charges.”

  She burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace. “Sshh. It’s over now. Well done. Benjamin sends his congratulations.”

  Hunt punched Davies on the shoulder.

  In a moment she released him, her face flushed with relief. “Colin, I thought the verdict would never come! I know they had to get through the rest of the dog and pony show, but it made me wonder if I’d made a difference, if what I’d been through counted for anything.”

  “It’s an important victory. You’ve served the cause of justice.”

  “What was his sentence?”

  “Sentencing will take place after counsel on both sides have prepared their briefs.”

  “That’s okay. I’m still happy. I want to give my parents the news.”

  Casey had spoken to Sinclair on the phone. He withheld his question until Jenny had left the room. “Guilty of everything?”

  “Guilty of the rape and murder of the six other women. In Jenny’s case he was convicted of two counts of rape, false imprisonment, and attempt to cause grievous bodily harm with intent.”

  “Not attempted murder?” Hunt asked.

  “That’s a difficult offence to prove. Intent to kill has to be demonstrated. Evidence of careful and calculated planning. For example, that a deadly weapon was chosen and used. Threats—uttered aloud and taken seriously—are considered evidence also of intent. It helps if the length of the attack can be established, and if the accused acknowledges some pertinent information, however slight.”

  Bloody bastard, Casey thought. There’d been no weapon. According to Jenny’s statement, Scott hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t been able to give investigators any clues about how long the attack had lasted. “Sir, is there more?”

  Sinclair nodded and lowered his voice. “Scott threatened her. When the judge said, ‘Take him down!’ Scott turned to the prosecutor and screamed, ‘This is war! Tell that Yank bitch I’ll get her yet! I’ll find her—she’ll never be safe!’ I don’t mind telling you, it made my blood run cold. His rough, guttural tone—it must have been a sample of what she heard. I’m inclined to take him seriously.”

  “What can we do, sir?” Davies was concerned.

  “Keep the TV off, and censor the newspapers for the next day or so. Distract her, if you can.”

  “You’re not telling her?” Hunt asked.

  “Let’s not spoil he
r mood,” Sinclair said. “She’s safe. Let her enjoy her success.”

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  Colin came by briefly on the Sunday evening. The visits scheduled for the upcoming week by day police had been cancelled due to a bombing in Brixton, south London. No casualties, but scores had been wounded.

  “Do I have to go anywhere soon?” Jenny asked.

  “You’ll have a bit of a breather. The other trials won’t begin until after Scott is sentenced.”

  She couldn’t convince him to take the time to sit.

  “We need to track down the bomber before he plants another.”

  Another bomb—a terrifying thought. She had felt like a human pincushion in the hospital, but each prick of the needle had been part of her medical program, intended for healing, not hurt. The nails in the bomb had become projectiles when it exploded. So many people had been injured! She respected what policemen had to do, but she missed Colin the man, who brought wine and wore casual clothes and a smile.

  CHAPTER 21

  When Jenny saw Colin late Tuesday, he was still dressed for work, but he did sit down with her in the living room. “Jenny, the families of the women whom Scott murdered want to meet with you. They’ve been ringing the officers who were their contacts on the case. I’ve had coppers in and out of my office all day yesterday and today wanting to know if it would be possible. If you could be made available. If you’d be willing.”

  “What do they want with me?”

  “To thank you, I believe. They were present during the trial, and they know how difficult it was for you.”

  “Would I have to say anything?”

  He smiled. “No speeches, no.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “It’s down to you, Jen. They know you’re being protected. If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell them you’re not accessible.”

  “They’ll know that’s not true. I was accessible for court.”

  He waited.

  “How many handkerchiefs do you have?”