The Witness: A Novel

by Naomi Kryske

  She saw his fist clench and relax. His wrists were bare. What had happened to his cufflinks? At dinner he’d worn a pair with the Union Jack symbol on them, and she’d teased him about wearing her flag. The champagne had unleashed his charm, and he’d expounded again on the meaning of the three crosses, this time personalizing the analogy of the saints in a way that both pleased and embarrassed her. “My little St. George,” he called her. “You’ve slain more dragons than he ever did. St. Andrew was a witness until death, and you’re as loving and courageous as he was. And now I can anoint you St. Patrick, because you have chosen to live in the land where you were abused, as he did.”

  She’d demurred. “I’m no saint,” she’d laughed. And she wasn’t—but the flag and the God who had inspired it had journeyed with her through difficult seas. There had been times when it had seemed menacing, with bars holding her in, but on other occasions it had fortified her, keeping the storms at bay. In her mind she saw the flag with its bold colors and thought it had a bold message, too: My arms are open, My love is unending, My heart is yours.

  Colin had given her his heart. He had made her hope real. He had gone down on one knee when he proposed to her, making her cry, of course. She had wished for some eloquent response but could only murmur “Yes,” and then he had kissed her and she couldn’t speak at all. “My mother wants you to have her engagement ring,” he’d said later. “She’s waiting for me to collect it. Violet never wore it—it wasn’t offered to her.” They’d decided to wait until it was official before sharing the news with anyone else.

  She felt stiff. She stood and stretched. When the nurse came in to check on Colin, Jenny was already standing by the bed, holding his hand. He didn’t need the physical contact; she did. The nurse woke him, and Jenny thought what a strange practice it was, disturbing the sleep of patients when rest was what they needed most. Colin was groggy but managed to swallow the medication, smiling when he felt Jenny’s lips on his cheek. She sat down again.

  “Tea, love?” It was Simon, her rock, her anchor.

  “Simon, they would have killed us. When I close my eyes, I see them coming at us.”

  “I know, love. That’s why I’m here. But they didn’t succeed, did they?” He bent his head down and rested his cheek briefly against her hair. Sinclair would send her away; he’d have to. He didn’t know when he’d see her again.

  The tea was hot and sweet, just the way she liked it. “It’s my fault.”

  “It bloody well isn’t,” The Voice said.

  He might put sugar in her cup, but he never sugarcoated anything else. She watched him step outside. She felt safe with him there. She loved him, too, in a way she didn’t understand. How many cups of tea had they shared? How many late-night discussions? He had kept her on course so many times when she had thought her soul would break. She went into the hall to thank him. He was leaning back in the chair with his head against the wall, but his eyes were alert. “I’ll miss you,” she said and went back in.

  Her soul—that reminded her of the phrases she’d wanted to quote to Colin, about loving him to the “depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach,” as Elizabeth Barrett Browning had written. She could not love him purely—that had been taken from her—but most of the other verses were appropriate. “I love thee with the passion put to use / In my old griefs”—Colin knew what those were. And the poem contained the promise she wanted to make to him: “I love thee with the breath / Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

  Death—she had hoped the threat was past, that the monster’s anger would abate or his influence wane. She thought ruefully that Inspector Rawson had been right: She did need protection even after the legal process ended. She was still glad that she had not chosen to be anonymous, however. She would have missed so much. But it did seem like a merciless twist of fate for yet another menace to burst forth just when she was on the cusp of an exciting new future.

  Everything hinged on how much the bad guys knew. If her association with Colin had been discovered, he would be in danger whether she were present or not. And she could not go to Kent—hazard would follow her like iron filings to a magnet. With morning would come the discussion she dreaded. She didn’t want to be separated from this man; yet even as she thought the words, she knew that love would dictate that she go willingly wherever he asked. Choose life, Colin had commanded long ago. And she had chosen it, not once but many times. She had moved forward and she had succeeded, not because she was strong but because those around her were. Simon had taught her to face life head-on, and when the new day dawned, she would. It would not be easy—Colin would be making another proposal to her, one that might keep them apart for who knows how long, when the proposal she wanted to think about was the one that would unite them forever.

  Colin woke, feeling stiff and sore, to find her asleep in the hospital chair. She had rung Casey. Was he still outside? Was it feeling for her or loyalty to him as a fellow copper that held him there? It didn’t matter now. She had stayed all night. She knew his condition wasn’t serious, yet she had kept a vigil by his bed. She was here. She was his. She loved him.

  When he had first seen her, her eyes had been closed. They had awakened with pain. He wanted to see the love in them now, but he would not wake her. A few more moments of peace were all he could give her today.

  CHAPTER 43

  Brighton: seaside city, holiday destination, but Jenny was a refugee, not a vacationer. Colin had wanted her out of Hampstead before Chase and Dodd conducted their follow-on interviews, so she left the same day he came home from the hospital. Sergeant Andrews had taken her by tube to Victoria Station, where he had put her on the train south.

  John Ogilvie met her train in Brighton and escorted her to a hotel. He was a detective superintendent, a colleague of Colin’s, a tall, lean man with an air of importance and a confident stride. His easygoing manner was deceptive, barely concealing a quick and astute mind. She was sure he noticed her bare ring finger. “Colin tells me you’ve a bit of a situation and need to disappear for a few weeks. I’m glad he chose Brighton for you—we’ve got a sizeable population of foreign students here. You’ll blend in.”

  When her luggage was stowed, he gave her a brief tour of the area. There were numerous sights to see, many within walking distance of the hotel. He left her with a map, a tourist guide, and his card. “Your room is in my name,” he said. “Feel free to eat either inside or outside the hotel. Browse in the outlet stores, or anywhere else you like, but make cash purchases only. If you need more money, ring me. Colin will wire it to me.”

  “Are you my handler?”

  “Nothing as formal as that.”

  It was an attractive room, not as nicely furnished as the Hotel La Place but larger and with a sea view. When the door closed behind D/S Ogilvie, she felt more isolated than at any time since the monster’s attack. The walls of her room were a deeper blue than Colin’s eyes but sufficient to remind her of him. There was a small desk with a straight chair, but she could not write him. Nothing must appear at his flat with her name, her address. Two armchairs with a round table between them looked out over the water, but only one of them would receive any use during her stay. And the bed was a double, with room enough for him beside her, but he would not be there. This trip was a cruel blow, because she knew what she was missing in her separation from him.

  The hotel provided a complementary full English breakfast and had a restaurant that served light fare throughout the afternoon and evening, but she ate every meal alone. Her only interaction with people was the courtesy shown to strangers, the cashier at the bookstore already smiling at the next customer before she had stepped away.

  It was too cool for any beach activities that involved the water, but the weather was beautiful—not one drop of rain since she’d arrived. She walked along the beach and contemplated the millions of grains of sand beneath her feet. She looked out at the English Channel. At night she cou
ldn’t tell where the sea ended and the sky began—it was all dark, dead dark. In contrast, Brighton glowed, like a huge organism with a radioactive substance pulsing through its veins.

  Colin kept her apprised of the investigation. The second knifer was in police custody, and both men were being questioned about their employer and the scope of their assignment. They were reticent about the details so far, but Graves had arranged for two interview teams instead of one in the hope that extensive questioning and different approaches would wear them down. Colin minimised the pain from his wounds, admitting only to discomfort. He was well enough for Andrews to drive him to the Yard, he insisted, and yes, he elevated his leg when he got there. He loved her. He missed her.

  As the days passed, Jenny tired of her tourist status. She received no genuine smiles, no flashes of recognition as she trekked up and down the streets. The Mexican restaurant where she ate made her homesick for Texas, and the Italian restaurant—although more informal than her favorite in Hampstead—made her ache inside for the happy times she and Colin had shared there. She began to see the people she knew in the people she saw—a woman with her mother’s haircut, a man with Simon’s mouth, a thin pimply-faced teenager with Colin’s eyes. Each time she felt an irrational surge of hunger born out of her longing for contact, some personal contact. Her nightly talks with Colin—and occasional ones with Simon and her family—were all she had.

  No one could visit her, Colin said. Not even Hunt, because they were all connected to her and that connection must remain unknown. Talk to God, he suggested, so she did. At first her conversations were full of what Simon would call whingeing—get me out of Brighton, I don’t like it here, I miss Colin, I’m lonely—and she was sure that God tired of hearing it. Then she tried to reason with God, explaining over and over why she and Colin should be together. She bargained, promising to do every good thing she could think of if He would just let her go home. God was silent, but the process did relieve some of her tension, and it kept her from thinking she was going crazy. She wasn’t talking to herself, after all.

  Ogilvie was always relaxed when she saw him. He chided her gently about her impatience, and she wondered why older people weren’t even more hurried. Each time he asked only a question or two about her, never writing anything down, but she realized that gradually he was acquiring a wealth of information. Finally she asked him directly: “What do you know about me?”

  “Not enough; in this business, never enough,” he answered.

  He could have been Colin, fifteen years or so into the future, his desire to know having escalated, not moderated.

  She did not ask Colin how much longer she’d be exiled. She did ask whether the two men who had attacked them knew where she lived and what her relationship with him was. He answered “yes” to the former and “it’s unconfirmed” to the latter question, emphasising that it was essential as a result for them to discover who had sent them. Her life with Colin depended on that.

  She had plenty of time to think about him, but it was too painful to daydream about being his wife when her identity had led to his injuries. She had accepted his marriage proposal, but she could not honor it if it put him in danger. She still saw them being attacked, the two men coming at them, Colin bleeding. She still felt her helplessness. In the dark of night she cried about the sacrifice she feared she would have to make. In the daylight she worried about everything else—how long she’d have to be in Brighton; whether she’d have to move to another location; what her future prospects would be. She was surprised when Ogilvie brought her a package. It had his name on it, but the New Scotland Yard return address told her it was from Colin. It contained the blanket he had given her so many months ago. It had warmed her during witness protection, its colors reminding her of the Texas heat.

  Her days dragged. She couldn’t even take a class. She had asked Ogilvie, thinking that it would be fun to learn more Italian. Perhaps she and Colin could go to Italy and she could impress him with her fluency in the language. Or first aid, a practical skill. She could be useful to someone. Somewhere. Sometime.

  Ogilvie had become very still, abandoning his casual manner. “Even if it were possible for you to register under an assumed name, regular contact with the same group of persons would not be wise. And people talk—particularly when they don’t know they’re not meant to and when they have a subject to discuss like a lovely young woman with an appealing accent, an unusual watch, and—distinguishing marks.”

  The purple hearts were striking; she probably shouldn’t have worn the watch outside the hotel. Frustrated, she’d asked what difference it made now—at least here if danger came, no one else would be hurt.

  “We both know someone to whom it would make a significant difference,” he had said. “Someone who would be deeply hurt if anything happened to you.”

  That was true. She was feeling sorry for herself, and she mustn’t. Following that talk she didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone, lest they ask her to introduce herself. She had no Colin, no Simon, no Esther Hollister. Inspector Rawson had finally gotten his wish—that she would no longer exist as Jennifer Jeffries—because even though she had not lost her name, she couldn’t use it and thus was just as anonymous. She wondered if other witnesses felt haunted after their legal obligations had been met. If they visited the same store two days in a row, did they take a different route home the second time? Were they spooked when the sun began to set and shadows dotted the landscape? Did they sit behind securely locked and latched doors and wait to hear if the voices in the corridor stopped or passed by?

  Between dusk and dawn time stood still. Colin continued to call every night with words of love and reassurance, and when they hung up she tried to remember what his body had felt like, whether they had really made love or if it had only been a dream. She did not dream in Brighton, not in the daytime or at night. During her waking hours she was watchful, and in the evening she was tired from being on guard all day. Other people’s laughter exhausted her, as did D/S Ogilvie’s gentle concern. She no longer cried. Grief shared was grief halved, but grieving alone was like falling but never hitting bottom.

  She bought a blank journal and spent an entire afternoon wondering why, when she had nothing to enter on the pages. Was she a blank book, too? Brian thought she was a fighter. Simon had called her a soldier. She was a survivor, she knew that much. And a daughter and a sister. What she wanted to be was Colin’s wife.

  Her parents were appalled by the whole situation. Her mother felt she had been a burden on Colin long enough and begged her to come back to Texas. Unlike Brighton, there would be some familiar faces in Houston, and perhaps she could get a job, put down some roots. Perhaps it would be different this time, she argued silently with Simon. She wouldn’t have the same expectations. Several days after she reported those thoughts to Colin, another package arrived via Ogilvie—her British flag, with a message from Colin: Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Wait for me.

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  When the pain came early in the morning, she knew what it was but was unprepared to treat it. She’d packed quickly for Brighton, and she hadn’t thought she’d be gone long enough to need sanitary napkins or prescription pain medication. She rang Ogilvie and asked him to send a policewoman as soon as he could. The WPC assessed the situation and brought the supplies Jenny needed and the strongest over-the-counter medication available, but she called her Ma’am, and for some reason that hurt. She was only twenty-four! Had her pain aged her? Or was it the contrast between the constable’s optimistic face and her despairing one?

  “Shall I ask Detective Superintendent Ogilvie to call by later?”

  “No. God, no.” She didn’t want Ogilvie. She wanted Simon, with the medicine that didn’t quit and The Voice that wouldn’t let her quit either. It hadn’t been this bad since that first time in the witness protection flat. Since then she’d been able to treat it early, with meds that knocked out the pain and her too. T
he WPC had done her best, but the nonprescription pills didn’t ease the sharp pangs significantly, and there would be no more help coming.

  She went back to bed. She wanted Colin, who called her scars wrinkles and considered her body beautiful in spite of them. When she had first slept in this room, she’d reached out in the dark for him, having become accustomed very quickly to sharing his bed. As the days and then the weeks had passed, her isolation had deepened, and she had stopped expecting to find him next to her.

  Now, however, alone and in pain, she cried for him, and the tears she had disciplined herself not to shed would not be withheld. As the knots in her belly twisted, she sobbed his name, but there was no one to hear.

  The first time her mobile rang, she was crying too hard to answer it; the second time, too. It was too early for Colin’s call. It had to be Ogilvie, but the third time she didn’t care that she couldn’t be brave anymore in front of him. But it was Colin, and in tortured phrases she asked him all the questions she had suppressed. “How much longer do I have to stay away? If you love me, how can you leave me here? Why can’t I see you, for a day, a night, an hour? Why can’t I come home? I want to hold you. I want to make love to you. Why did our time together have to be so short? When do I get to have a life? Why does the monster always win? I reached out for happiness, and he slapped my hand.”

  When her sobs subsided, he did not tell her how thorough and painstaking every police investigation had to be. He did not describe the legal constraints, the rights of accused persons, the endless checking and rechecking of facts that were involved.

  He did not tell her how many nights he went to bed with his hands throbbing, because he had pounded them against the shower walls, cursing his inability to help the woman he loved. What use was it, being a copper? Had anyone’s life been made better by his work? Vi had left him, and he had had to send Jenny away. He did not tell her how empty his bed seemed, how lifeless his flat was without her.