by Naomi Kryske
The knock on the door startled her. The FLO answered it, and when Jenny saw the anguish on Joanne’s face, she sobbed so hard she thought she would choke. Was it her imagination, or were the streaks of gray in her mother-inlaw’s hair more prominent now? Joanne was the first to regain control, thanking Father Goodwyn for his presence. After accepting a cup of tea, she spoke to Simon and then conversed with the FLO in tones so subdued that Jenny could not hear them.
“I’m cold,” she said to Simon. “I can’t get warm.” He wrapped a blanket around her. She rested her head against his rough cheek and felt his pulse throbbing in his neck. Colin’s pulse was silent. Was he cold? In a brief moment of lucidity, she recalled Dante’s concept of hell as cold. But Colin wasn’t there. She was.
CHAPTER 4
On Sunday, February 25, The London Daily Telegraph read:
Metropolitan Police
Detective Colin Sinclair
Colin Thomas Dowding Sinclair, who died on 23 February at age 39, acted heroically on that date in his effort to deter a suicide bomber, thereby saving the lives of many civilians near the Bond Street, London, tube station. Detective Chief Inspector Sinclair, although authorised to carry a firearm, was unarmed at the time he confronted the attacker. After identifying himself as a police officer, DCI Sinclair attempted to calm the agitated individual whilst simultaneously warning shoppers and pedestrians of the potential peril. DCI Sinclair stood his ground, suffering injuries from the explosion that proved fatal.
Sinclair’s action caps an illustrious police career, which began 17 years ago after his graduation from Cambridge and Hendon Police College. Early assignments included Bromley, where he was initially sent to patrol streets. Showing an early interest in and aptitude for detective work, at each stage he passed the detective courses and requisite examinations. He maintained a steady rise in rank from Sergeant to Detective Sergeant at Bexley, Detective Inspector at Southwark, and Detective Chief Inspector at Islington.
From Islington he was seconded in 1998 to New Scotland Yard, where he joined Operation No Mercy. His involvement in the celebrated “Carpet Killer” case led to the apprehension and conviction of serial rapist and murderer William Cecil Crighton Scott. Following this case, he was placed in charge of the newly created Sapphire Unit of the Metropolitan Police Service, a unit dedicated entirely to improving the treatment of rape victims and the conviction rate of rapists in the London area.
He was born at Ashford, Kent, UK, on March 20, 1962, the eldest of two children of Cameron James Rhys Sinclair, a foreign service officer. In 1986 he married Violet Ashleigh Dalton. After six years of marriage, he and his first wife divorced, and in 1999 he married, secondly, Jennifer Catherine Jeffries, of Houston, Texas, USA. He is survived by his wife, his mother, Joanne Sheffield Sinclair, his sister and brother-in-law, Jillian and Derek Horne, and his niece and nephew, Rebecca and Malcolm Horne.
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The Sunday Telegraph printed a picture of Colin next to the article. His name was beneath it: Colin Thomas Dowding Sinclair, 1962 – 2002. His knowledge, his commitment, his values, his love, his smile, his touch, his whole life, reduced to a dash. Jenny’s tears made the newsprint run.
CHAPTER 5
Alcina recognised Sinclair’s face: He had testified at Tony’s trial. She scanned the paragraphs. The newspaper had highlighted the case of Cecil Scott – Tony’s employer – but hadn’t deemed Tony’s worthy even of a mention. She ripped out the page, intending to destroy it, but another name jumped out at her: Jennifer Catherine Jeffries. Sinclair’s wife? She had been single when she was called as a witness at the trial. She had married a police detective. No wonder she had testified against Tony! Now she was a widow. Scott had been killed in prison. This policeman had been killed in the street. Perhaps those who had wronged her Tony were being struck down.
And he had been wronged. She’d never forget the morning when they had come for him. They had entered the flat before daylight, their voices deafening, jarring Tony and herself from sleep. They had come into the bedroom where she was clinging in fright to Tony and wrenched him from her arms. They had been rough with him and barely civil to her while they cuffed him and bundled him into their car. That had been their last embrace, hers and Tony’s.
His arrest had only been the beginning. She had been certain he would be vindicated, but he had been charged, tried, convicted, and incarcerated, each step driving nails further into her heart. Where had justice been? She would never forgive them.
Tony would want to know about Sinclair’s death. Instead of discarding the article, she folded it carefully and set it aside. She would show it to Tony on her next visit to the prison.
CHAPTER 6
Police Commissioner Hugh Peterson was accompanied by Chief Superintendent Stuart Higham. “My deepest sympathy for your loss,” Peterson said to Jenny. He nodded briefly at PC Compton, who closed the door after them. Peterson had thinning hair and a myriad of fine lines around his eyes. Thick braid nearly covered the brim of his hat, his epaulettes and lapels were heavy with the symbols of his rank and achievements, and his stature seemed twice hers. “May we come through?”
Jenny felt tongue tied in front of London’s top cop, and she wished she’d followed Joanne’s recommendation to change into less wrinkled clothes, because her attire seemed dismal and drab next to the heavily-adorned senior officer. She gestured for both men to make themselves comfortable and sat down in one of the armchairs across from them. “I make a terrible cup of tea,” she stammered, looking pleadingly at Colin’s mother.
“Tea would be very welcome,” Peterson said
“I’ll make it,” Compton, the Family Liaison officer, said. She headed toward the kitchen while Joanne found a place to sit near Jenny.
“Jenny – may I call you Jenny?” Peterson continued. “We are devoting every resource to the investigation of the case which claimed your husband’s life, and based on witness statements and CCTV footage, we believe we have a fairly clear picture of the events that took place on Friday last.” Peterson paused. “First, however, I’d like to reassure you that everything was done to save your husband. After a bomb explosion, our first priority is not to seal the scene but to preserve life. Your husband was attended to and removed in an emergency vehicle before any investigative steps were taken.”
Higham looked steadily at Jenny but did not speak.
“Once the members of the emergency services had ascertained that your husband was the only victim, a bomb-scene manager was designated from the Anti-Terrorist Branch. No two bomb scenes are exactly the same, and our purpose is to recover as much evidence as possible as quickly and as thoroughly as we can. That involves the establishment of inner and outer cordons, the services of a police photographer, the resources of a large forensic team, and the formation of a communications network. Of course all officers are required to wear protective clothing, not only as a form of identification but also to ensure that the scene is not contaminated in any way.”
Colin was the one who had needed the protective clothing, Jenny thought. “I want to know what happened,” she said.
“Of course,” the Commissioner nodded. “Witnesses report seeing a semitic-looking individual on Davies Street near the small entrance to the Bond Street station. He was clutching his coat closed, not unusual behaviour on a cold day, but we believe that his agitation – he was continually looking about, with a wild expression – aroused your husband’s suspicion. Your husband was closer to the station entrance than the suspect, and he identified himself as a police officer and requested a word. When the suspect backed away, hugging his coat more tightly, your husband began to wave people away and again tried to engage the suspect.” He paused. “I’d like to emphasise – it was evident that your husband endeavoured to establish a dialogue with the suspect.”
Of course he did, Jenny thought. He was a negotiator.
Higham appeared to listen attentively to the Commission
er’s recitation.
“Your husband acknowledged the suspect’s nervousness and asked if he could be of assistance. In response, the suspect became even more agitated. Your husband implored him to stay calm. He then ordered the suspect to keep his hands away from his chest. At that moment the suspect screamed a foreign phrase and ignited the device. Fortunately Davies Street is narrow and not nearly as crowded as the main entrance on Oxford Street. The cold weather caused patrons to forgo the outdoor tables at the Hog in the Pound, just across the way, and eat indoors, thus keeping them out of range of the explosion. ”
PC Compton had waited for the Commissioner to finish speaking. She now served the tea. Jenny accepted a cup, wishing Simon were there to add brandy to it. Compton poured her own cup last and settled just outside the circle.
“The mechanism was rather crude,” Peterson continued. “A home-made explosive perhaps, certainly not a very sophisticated one.”
Jenny found her voice. “It was effective enough!”
Higham looked pained.
“I’m afraid so,” Peterson agreed. “The bomber, a Mr. – ”
“No!” Jenny exclaimed. “Not his name. I don’t want to know his name.”
Higham and Peterson exchanged glances. “As you wish,” Peterson said. “I can tell you, however, that he was British born. Mixed parentage. He may have thought he had to prove himself.” He sipped his tea. “The investigation will continue until we have either satisfied ourselves that he acted alone or have identified his co-conspirators.”
The shock waves from 9/11 have reached us, Jenny thought, and she felt a sudden kinship with the September 11 families. She knew now how it felt to have a loved one ripped from your life in an abrupt and totally unforeseen act of violence. Had Colin known he was going to die? Had he been afraid? “Did he suffer?” she asked.
“He never regained consciousness,” Higham answered, speaking for the first time. “I reached the hospital shortly after the ambulance, and the attendants assured me that he did not.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Jenny objected. “The bomber was probably killed instantly, but Colin may not have been. Did he know he was going to die?”
Joanne stepped forward and rested her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. Jenny grasped it.
“Mrs. Sinclair – ” Higham began.
Interesting. To the Commissioner, she was Jenny. To Higham, she was Mrs. Sinclair. The Commissioner must want something.
“Witnesses tell us – and indeed, the cameras confirm – that events transpired very rapidly. Your husband could not have known – or felt – except for the briefest time.”
That question had haunted her. “Thank you,” she told Higham.
“It is our considered opinion,” Peterson resumed, “that your husband lost his life in the line of duty, and I can therefore report that I am recommending that you receive his death-in-service benefit plus pension for life.”
Jenny blinked. PC Compton hadn’t mentioned any formal compensation when she discussed Colin’s finances.
“Jenny, your husband had no weapon, no radio, no backup. His was an extraordinarily courageous action. Had he not intervened, many, many more would have been killed.” Peterson paused. “He is a hero. As a result, we would like your indulgence on a very important matter. Would you allow us to hold a memorial service in his honour here in the capital? Chief Superintendent Higham would be at your disposal, to assist you in any way with the planning of the event.”
“I’ll be available to help also,” Compton added.
Jenny had forgotten that the liaison officer was present. Now she looked at her earnest face and then at her mother-in-law’s. Joanne had predicted that the Met would want to use Colin’s sacrifice as a way to bolster their image and had helped her decide what her response would be. “That would be a media circus,” she said. “A spectacle. I really think that Colin has given you enough of himself.”
“Jenny, I beg you to reconsider. Your husband deserves the accolades he will receive.”
Jenny suddenly felt very tired. “That’s true, but memorial services are meant for the living, not for the dead. It is my intention to take my husband home. The service will be held in Kent. You’re welcome to come. I would like a Force flag to be draped over his coffin. I’ll liaise with Chief Superintendent Higham, but my mother-in-law and I will plan his service. I mean no disrespect – I appreciate your visit very much – but that is all I can bear to face today. I’m sorry.”
Both men stood when she stood.
“I’ll be honoured to attend,” Peterson said.
With appropriate farewells, Joanne showed them out.
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That night Jenny dreamed about Colin for the first time. They’d planned to meet for lunch, and when she neared the restaurant, she saw him remonstrating with a man in the street, a shadowy figure in a bulging coat. Colin, however, was in high definition, his blue eyes unusually bright, the extra wrinkle on the left side of his mouth contracting and relaxing as he spoke. His arm was outstretched, and at first she thought he was welcoming her, but then she realized that he wanted her to stay back. Out of nowhere uniformed policemen surrounded the shadowy man, and Colin came forward and smiled at her. “All clear,” he said. “All clear.” She felt his arms around her, felt secure, felt loved. A husband, not a hero.
When she woke, her initial thought was that the dream was real and her other life – and Colin’s death – were a cruel, misleading vision. But she was alone in her bed. Joanne had suggested that she sleep on Colin’s side, that she use his pillow. And that was proof positive that the nightmare was real.
CHAPTER 7
Jenny sat between her family and Colin’s, listening to the organist’s prelude and remembering the last time their families had gathered in St. Albans. It had been on Christmas Eve, when the warmth of their Christmas joy had mitigated the winter cold. At Christmas, however, they hadn’t been seated in the front rows; Jillian’s children had been present; and Colin had been next to her, holding her hand. No reporters and cameramen had waited for them outside, and the pews had not been crowded with uniformed policemen, their uniforms such a dark blue that they looked black. St. Albans, the first British Christian martyr, had died on A.D. 283. At Christmas they had gathered in his church to celebrate a birth; death had brought them together on this day.
Jenny had hoped for at least a semiprivate time with family and friends at the memorial service honoring Colin, but the presence of Commissioner Peterson, although as an attendee only, had eliminated that. Other senior officers were there, too: Detective Superintendent Graves, Colin’s boss when he worked at New Scotland Yard, still tense and spare; Detective Chief Superintendent Woulson, next in the chain of command, his jowls giving him a truly mournful look; and Colin’s current supervisor, Stuart Higham, who had given her a small black box containing Colin’s personal effects. Several of them had spoken of Colin, as had officers who had served with him earlier in his career. Jenny was hungry to hear his name spoken, and she devoured every word. Gordon Harvey, who had been Colin’s supervising officer when he was a rookie, was now heading toward the pulpit. He’d put on weight since the last time he’d worn his uniform, and his uniform appeared to be protesting. She focused on his round, ruddy face as he spoke.
“Sinclair. Well. I remember one call we made – after he’d settled in – to check on an elderly woman. Her neighbours hadn’t seen her about, you see. We made Sinclair force the door to the flat, because we wanted to see if he’d developed any muscle at university, and we found the woman deceased. It was the first body Sinclair had dealt with, and his eyes were streaming. We all thought he’d gone soft already, and we set about preparing a few choice nicknames for him, but it was the cats. Allergic to them, he was! As it turned out, the deceased had kept seventeen of them.” He paused. “He was educated, Sinclair was, that was clear from the off. Some of us were a bit put off by it at first, but he only ever treat
ed us as equals. He had a way with people. Got more from witnesses than the rest of us ever did. I always thought he’d go far.” He looked at Jenny. “Things just shouldn’t have ended for him the way they did. My respects, ma’am.”
Another of Colin’s favorite hymns followed, the sonorous bass notes of the organ providing an undercurrent of grief in the music. Jenny hadn’t known which were his favorites or which colleagues should be asked to say a few words. Joanne had guided her through all the preparations. She had stayed with Jenny, cleaned the flat, gone to the market, done the laundry, and selected clothes for her when she stood paralyzed in front of the closet unable to decide what to wear. When Jenny’s family arrived, she visited every day, often sending Jenny’s brothers on errands to relieve them of the awkwardness they felt in the flat and with the liaison officer. Simon had come daily, too, looking tired, staying only briefly, but hugging her each time before he left. Men’s hugs were so different from women’s: Women’s hugs gave comfort, but men’s spoke of strength. Jenny needed both at this time in her life. She had implored Simon to sit with them at the service, but he had not agreed. “You have your family, love.”
The next speaker was Sergeant Roger Fulford, a chunky man with prominent brows and a dark mustache but no beard to hide his extra chin. “He had a temper,” he began. “I know, because I was on the receiving end a few times, with good reason, I’m sorry to say. ‘I’ll not tolerate sloppy or incomplete policing.’ That’s what DCI Sinclair said at the start of every investigation, and he meant it. I learnt a good deal from him.” He paused briefly. “He well and truly believed that coppers should be held to the highest standard of integrity. Anything less was a betrayal of his trust and the public trust and deserving of ire. It’s fair to say that any officer who broke the law ceased to be an officer in his mind. He became a criminal, and DCI Sinclair had no difficulty pursuing evidence against criminals.