by Naomi Kryske
It was an American flag.
CHAPTER 2
The next days passed in a blur, Jenny unable to tear herself away from the September 11 news coverage for very long but desperate at the same time to escape it. The horror of the news was matched by her hunger for it, because she feared another attack could be imminent.
Meanwhile she wanted to do something, anything, to alleviate her feeling of helplessness. She inquired about donating blood but was told that her travel outside the UK and her insufficient weight made her ineligible. Frustrated, she went to the library to learn how Londoners had survived the Blitz in World War II. Southern England, she discovered, had been the principal target for German bombers. People had used the subway stations for shelter. Hampstead was the deepest in the underground network, reaching 192 feet below the surface. That alone would have been daunting, but “Keep calm and carry on” had been the watchwords then and seemed just as appropriate now.
Colin had taught her how to use the subway – what he called the tube – system. Although she had loved the open roads in Texas, she had been tentative about driving in the UK, and the ease and efficiency of public transportation meant that driving was not a necessity.
“Each train is identified by its end point. Simply check to be sure your stop is on the way to the final destination. If you need to change trains, follow the Way Out signs after you deboard the first. You’ll be directed to the next line and platform.”
The British were extremely well-organized, and after a while it all made sense. She felt like a native and even liked the genteel reminders to “Mind the gap between the train and the platform” and the posh female voice that announced each stop beforehand by directing the passengers to “alight.”
“At Hampstead you’ll always take the lift down to the platforms,” he had continued.
She had laughed. “Shouldn’t lifts always go up?”
He had teased back. “Elevators go both up and down, don’t they?”
The lift was unusual. People entered on one side and exited the other. Jenny learned to use her Oyster card, a prepaid travel debit card, and to stand on the right side of the escalators that negotiated the levels between platforms. If a tube station closed without warning, however, she couldn’t change trains where she had planned. In that case she gave up and took a cab home.
Always she thought about the nineteen men who had hijacked the planes. They had apparently come disguised as normal people, their dark skin not remarkable in a country that prided itself on being a melting pot. Through their actions they had stepped into every living room in America, their teeth bared in malevolent snarls. Colin acknowledged that these terrorists were a new breed: IRA bombers had wanted to live to fight another day. Most had not chosen to die with their victims.
When Simon called on Friday, the anniversary of the assault on her in central London, she felt that only a single thread separated her from the traumas of her past. “I wasn’t crushed by imploding buildings or consumed by jet fuel,” she told him, “but this attack brought back memories of my experience – the shock, the terror.”
“It’s been three years, love.”
“Sometimes it seems like it was yesterday.”
“You overcame it then. You can do it now.”
His confidence cheered her a little, and she smiled. He and the rest of her witness protection officers had continually encouraged her to believe in herself, to move forward. “Thanks for remembering. Have you been busier than usual?”
“A big one came off today. It had been in the works for some time; we had to wait until the suits were sure of their intel.”
“Were they terrorists?”
“No, love. Just ordinary criminals who didn’t take a holiday.”
“Simon, your work is so dangerous. Is everybody okay?” She knew that Brian, her friend Beth’s husband, was on Simon’s team.
“We were awake and alert. They weren’t. That’s why we go early. And it didn’t hurt that they’d been drinking the night before. Arrests made, firearms and drugs confiscated. A good result all round.”
He rang off, and she returned to her musings. She usually paid scant attention to British politics, but she noticed and applauded Prime Minister Tony Blair’s show of support for President Bush. In addition, the Queen had ordered that the American national anthem be played at Buckingham Palace, and there was a memorial service scheduled at St. Paul’s. Jenny immersed herself in British history, reading about how Winston Churchill’s warnings of a German menace had fallen on deaf ears. But America hadn’t had a Churchill to wake her from her naïve sleep. Instead, she had been preoccupied with prosperity and had ignored the growing peril. The ’93 bombing at the World Trade Center hadn’t changed her outlook; the bombings at the U.S. embassies in Africa in 1998 hadn’t; the attack on the USS Cole in 2000 hadn’t either.
When Colin came home from work, she was still pensive and somewhat surprised when he suggested that they visit the Hampstead restaurant where they had celebrated their engagement. Now, as they sat across the table from each other at La Gaffe sipping wine and waiting for their rocket salads to be delivered, she smiled at his gentle questions.
“Jenny, why did you rearrange the furniture?”
That was kind. She had taken all the pictures down, too, and rehung them in different places. “Because 9/11 has made me feel different. I thought the flat should reflect that. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. And your new hairdo?”
She had pulled her long hair into a ponytail, exposing instead of concealing the scar she still wore on her right cheek. “My country has been scarred. I’m proud of where I’m from, so I don’t care if my scar shows.”
“I’d hoped we could focus tonight on life, not loss.”
She smiled at his way of reminding her that their lovemaking had an added purpose. Not long after their marriage, Colin had spoken to her about children. They’d made love and were still holding each other when he introduced the subject. He didn’t want to pressure her, he said. Being a father was important to him, but she would carry the child in her body, and she had to be willing to accept all the changes that would result. He’d asked her to have a think on it. “I’d like to focus on life, too. Colin, we’ve been trying for quite a while, but I haven’t gotten pregnant. That’s the life I want to focus on – having another Sinclair to love. I want to see your sister’s doctor, her gynecologist.”
The excitement that welled up inside him was tempered with concern. “Brilliant, Jenny! But are you certain? I expect that sort of exam won’t be easy for you.” The severe abuse she had suffered during her sexual assault, combined with her small size, had engendered a host of protective feelings in him from their first meeting. The only surviving victim of a serial killer, her information had been critical to the Met’s investigation. During the interviews he had been charmed by her Texas drawl and the fact that she was educated, a recent university graduate. Establishing rapport with her, important to do with potential witnesses, had been easy, and he had discovered that rapport was a two way street. Laughter was a precious commodity in policing, and she had made him laugh.
As the investigation progressed, he had admired her courage and determination, and it had been increasingly difficult to keep his personal feelings in check. By the time her role as a witness ended, he had known he was in love with her. She had gone home to Texas, and the light had gone out of his life until he had persuaded her to return to London. Now she sat before him with a new commitment to making the love in their life grow. He raised his wine glass, realising as he did so that he would have felt light headed even without the wine.
She finished her salad and inhaled the aroma of the braised lamb the waiter had just set in front of her. “I’m a little nervous about the examination – well, more than a little – so I wondered if you would go with me. I feel safer when you’re around.” At 6’2”, he was a foot taller than she. His embraces enveloped her.
“Yes. Jenny, yes.
”
“Colin, you haven’t touched your Dover sole.”
He set his fork down. “I’ve lost my appetite for anything but you.” He hailed the waiter. “We’ll take our food with us.”
She laughed softly and prepared to leave.
CHAPTER 3
Originally proposed by the Home Secretary, Project Sapphire was the Met’s attempt to remedy the way sexual offences were investigated and to improve the care of victims. Colin Sinclair was pleased when he was tapped to lead the day-to-day operations of the new unit. From his office, he could see a lamppost on the tree-lined Victoria Embankment and beyond, the calm waters of the Thames. These were tangible symbols of what he wished all rape victims could experience: light and peace, understanding and healing.
His deep commitment was not shared by all officers, however, and he faced an uphill battle in implementing the programme. Many considered rape a low priority. According to studies, only one in ten victims reported the crime. Others were afraid to do so, fearing that the police would not believe them or that they would be made to feel that the attack was their fault. Rape victims were psychologically fragile; even a raised eyebrow by an officer could cause a woman to change her mind about continuing the interview. A substantial number of those who did contact police were not willing to go through the legal process, frightened of what the court experience would be. Fear was the common thread – fear when the crime occurred and fear of everything that followed. Less than five percent of rape allegations were successfully prosecuted.
Another complicating factor was the frequent lack of forensic evidence. Some rapes were downgraded to less serious offences, and many defendants were acquitted because physical injuries did not exist in their victims. Sinclair understood the seriousness of the charge and the need to eliminate reasonable doubt, but psychological injuries, though more difficult to demonstrate, were often more lasting and severe. How could juries not recognise rape for the assault that it was? Others considered only stranger rape to be “real rape” and discounted sexual assaults by anyone known to the victim. In Sinclair’s experience, the traumas from both were deep and enduring, and some victims were affected for the rest of their lives.
Other legal problems existed. Prosecutors had to resort to plea bargains in cases where the victim would not make a credible witness, denying individuals their day in court. In no other crime was the credibility of the victim assessed first, but in an overwhelming majority of cases, acquaintance rape pitted one person’s word against another’s. Investigators needed to look for ways to prove or disprove a victim’s account of the event and particularly for evidence prosecutors could use beyond DNA.
In many boroughs Criminal Investigation Department (CID) officers dealt with robbery and burglary as well as rape. Each borough needed a dedicated Sapphire unit, a full complement of specialist officers trained to interview victims of sexual assault. In addition, emergency operators and front desk staff needed to have training since they were the first to have contact with victims. Sapphire was a strategic team. They had no powers of enforcement, nor could they mandate any new policy. Borough chief superintendents had to be won over to the Sapphire policies.
Sinclair was indebted to his junior officers and passed on “well dones” to them whenever he could. His sergeants were energetic, capable, and creative, focussed on the result and more concerned with getting others on board than with receiving credit. Indeed, they were often able to set out policy in such a way that the borough officers they visited ended up believing they had thought of it themselves.
Sinclair’s experience with Jenny’s case had given him a unique understanding of the issues rape victims faced. He wanted to furnish as non-threatening an environment as possible for the interview and medical procedures, ensure that the victims were treated with gentleness and respect, and offer them continuing support and reassurance. These factors had first been established at The Haven in Camberwell, a clinic which had opened in June the previous year. Forensic examinations were given there, medical care was provided, and counselling was offered, ending the customary long periods of waiting in police medical suites or hospital emergency rooms. Often the victim was accompanied by a specialist officer who gave the doctor the details of the offence so the victim didn’t have to do. A crisis worker, a nurse, obtained the victim’s consent for the procedure and described what to expect. A curtain hid the examination table from view while the doctor took the patient’s medical history. When the examination did take place, only one part of the body was viewed at a time. Shower facilities were supplied. Victims were always encouraged to return for aftercare and support services through a separate entrance and waiting room.
Sinclair glanced at his watch. Visitors from Canada were due to arrive soon. Indeed, Sapphire’s international reputation had brought law enforcement officers and prosecutors from around the world to meet with him. Everyone expressed curiosity at the name, smiling when he quipped that they’d thought of designating their unit “Amethyst,” but no one could spell it. Their intent had been to adopt a name that didn’t use the word “rape” and thus maintained the private nature of the calls they received. He’d been told that the title was appropriate: Sapphires symbolised truth, sincerity, and good health, which he hoped all victims would regain.
Jenny had progressed a great deal in recovering from her trauma. He’d never forget the first time he had seen her, how small and defenceless she had looked in the hospital bed, unable to breathe without assistance, unable to speak. She’d had a long and difficult recovery. Her life had been in jeopardy, and on more than one occasion he had feared he’d lose her. After the villain who assaulted her had been convicted, her personal trials had continued. Love, counselling, and her own determination to overcome her fears had been the keys to her recovery. She had eventually trusted him enough to enter into an intimate relationship. She had become his wife. And recently she had taken an even bigger step, consulting a doctor regarding their struggle to conceive.
She was still a bit tentative when meeting people for the first time, so he had accompanied her on the first visit. Knowing that questions would be asked concerning her medical history, he had brought a copy of her record. It detailed the violence of her attack, the severity of her injuries, and the surgeries that had been required to preserve her life. He would have been uncomfortable verbalising such personal information, and she would have been acutely embarrassed if he had done. Also, the medical record would spare her from having to explain her multiple scars.
Dr. Hannaford had seemed to take it in stride. He had informed Jenny that he’d be making a brief preliminary examination and had allowed Sinclair to wait in his office. Sinclair had paced the room, too concerned to think of anything but his powerlessness to protect her from the invasive nature of the examinations that lay ahead. When she returned, pale but struggling to smile, he had been too overcome with pride, love, and relief to speak. He had hugged her on the spot, and she had returned his gesture with an equally tight hug of her own and then reported the doctor’s initial advice: “Take your temperature to determine time of ovulation, select a position that will use gravity to assist the process, and spend more intimate time together. And we’ll need to test your husband, of course.”
If she conceived soon, he would not be a young father at age thirty-nine, but the zest and humour she possessed at twenty-six made him feel young. On a recent trip to his mother’s home in Kent, she had stripped off her shoes and socks, rolled up her jeans, and waded into the duck pond. “Don’t you want to feel the mud between your toes?” she had asked, holding out her hand to him. He hadn’t done that since he was a boy, but that day he had joined her. The water and the mud had been cool, but the embrace his petite, dark-haired wife had given him had been warm.
A crisp knock on his door brought him back to the present.
“Sir, your visitors have arrived,” Sergeant Bridges informed him. He took a last sip of Sapphire’s substandard tea and made a stab at organising
the many piles on his desk. Lack of time, lack of space, and lack of manpower characterised policing everywhere. Their only surfeit was paperwork because records had to be kept of everything. In his unit, of particular import were the statistics concerning how many victims came to the Haven, the disposition of their cases, and the unit’s progress with cold cases. He stood and welcomed the opportunity to discuss Sapphire’s mission, procedures, and success with his Canadian counterparts.
CHAPTER 4
The briefing rooms used by the Met’s specialist firearms officers were devoid of windows. Instead, filing cabinets and whiteboards crowded the walls. All designed to keep their minds focussed on the upcoming ops, PC Brian Davies thought. When team leader Sergeant Simon Casey suspended the briefing, Davies and the other officers sighed in frustration. A few uttered quiet but choice expletives. Not only was there nothing to occupy them while they waited, new intelligence could require looking yet again at their planned manoeuvres and possibly revising or even delaying them. Davies knew that Casey was as eager to get on with it as the next man, but his unusual discipline would never allow his face to reveal it. The one thing his discipline could not tame was his love for Jenny.
Of course, when they had first met her, it had been their responsibility to protect her. Six other women had been raped and murdered. Somehow Jenny had survived, and the Met was determined to hear her testify against the villain who had done it. She’d had a rough go of it. She’d come to depend on them during the rough patches, and Davies had liked that. It was clear evidence that they were helping.
She was a pretty little thing. Eye candy, one of the officers had called her, and he hadn’t been wrong, but Davies thought it was her ability to overcome the trauma and setbacks in the recovery process that had caused Casey to take notice. During the witness protection assignment, Davies had begun to suspect that Casey’s feelings for her were more serious than he let on, but all junior officers knew that becoming entangled with a witness you had been tasked to protect would not be forgiven. Casey was a sergeant, but it had been clear that the supervising officer, DCI Sinclair, fancied her as well. Casey had set his feelings aside, contenting himself with maintaining a close but platonic friendship with her. Still, Davies thought that Casey’s subsequent women were divided into two groups: Jenny and all the others, whom Davies lumped together as, “Not Jenny.”