The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  “I’m sorry,” Sinclair said. “Consent is a legal issue.”

  She looked at him. He was wearing cufflinks, silver rectangles with a stone in the center that matched his tie. Her father wore cufflinks sometimes. The memory made the pain in her chest almost palpable. Her father wouldn’t have treated her the way Mr. Sinclair had, law or no law. “Go away,” she said.

  CHAPTER 14

  “That was rough, sir,” Bridges commented to Sinclair in the corridor. “The hospital environment hasn’t been kind to her, and having no family with her—I’m surprised she’s doing as well as she is.”

  Sinclair’s focus was on the case. “DNA evidence will be important. Scott may ditch his shoes, but he’ll never get it off his ring, no matter how he washes it. And if he left some inside Jenny, the way he did with the others, the rape kit will tell us.”

  “Sir, why would he leave evidence like that behind?”

  “Arrogance, according to the psychological profile.”

  “It’s going to give some prosecutor a conviction on a silver platter.”

  “Let’s hope we get that far,” Sinclair replied. “I’m off to the Yard. Scott’s been placed under surveillance, his arrest warrant is in, and we have some planning to do.”

  “I’ll stay on here for a bit.”

  Jenny looked up but didn’t smile when Bridges returned. “Is he gone?”

  “Back to his office. His work on the case is ongoing.”

  “Are you going to defend him?”

  “No, he can look after himself. My job is to look after you.”

  “I just want to go home.”

  “Home’s the best place for you. It’s good to have loved ones close. Give your body time to heal. Trust us to keep you safe when you come back.”

  “So you can get justice?” she asked bitterly.

  “Justice is good,” Bridges said. “I believe in it. I work for it. But in my experience victims are usually motivated by something more personal. I think you’ll agree to testify because you need to do it—to fight back, to keep other women from suffering—however you define it, that need won’t go away, even when you go home.” He paused. “Jenny, my son’s the goalkeeper on his football team. If he’s been scored on quite a bit in a game, he loses confidence. I put him up front for a while to give him a chance to take the offensive. That’s what I want for you—after a long halftime at home, to finish strong.”

  CHAPTER 15

  By nine o’clock in the evening most of the hospital visitors had left, and the passages were quiet. The two policemen outside Jenny’s room had been on duty since four with only routine responsibilities. A balding, heavyset man approached them, wearing tan trousers, a blue shirt, and a dark tie under his white coat. His hospital ID card was pinned to his pocket, and his stethoscope draped around his neck. He stopped in front of the PCs and gave them his name, telling them in an overly hearty voice that he was a psychiatrist and had been asked to stop in. Neither man had seen him before, but his name was on their list, so they permitted him to enter her room.

  PC Sullivan had a strange feeling about the man that he couldn’t explain, so he followed the psychiatrist into the room and rested his hand on his truncheon. When the psychiatrist turned toward him and told him to step outside, he didn’t. Most doctors didn’t like their authority questioned, but Sullivan was uneasy. He planned to wait where he was until he was sure Jenny was comfortable with the session. So far she wasn’t.

  “I have something here that will help you relax,” the doctor said. Jenny screamed as he took something out of his trouser pocket, something that looked small in his thick fingers. Sullivan was young, and his reflexes were quick. He stepped forward, swinging his truncheon as hard as he could at the arm that held the syringe. There was a loud crack as the truncheon connected with his elbow, the doctor bellowed with pain, and the syringe fell from his fingers and slid across the floor.

  The doctor lunged at her with his good arm, and she felt his thumb and index finger around her throat, squeezing. The weight was crushing, forcing her head into the pillow and strangling her second scream. It was sudden, and it took her a moment to react. She put her hand on his hand, but there was no strength in her grip, and she couldn’t pry his hand away. His face loomed over her, not slack and affable now. She could see the young officer behind him, his arm around the man’s neck. He was yelling for his partner. Sudden pinpoints of light burst before her eyes, and she thought the tiny sparklers and a man’s contorted face would be the last things she would ever see.

  In the meantime the PC outside had heard the commotion. Together he and Sullivan tackled the man, who cursed loudly and struggled wildly against them. “You’ve broken my arm!” he howled. Privately Sullivan hoped so. Because of the man’s frantic resistance, it took both of them to pin him to the floor and handcuff him.

  “Are you all right, Miss?” asked Sullivan, as soon as he could catch his breath. She was gasping and coughing.

  PC Wilson dragged the assailant outside the room and called a nurse for Jenny.

  Sullivan radioed for backup and then for the Chief Inspector.

  Jenny was sobbing and shaking.

  “Try to take it easy,” Sullivan told her.

  In a few minutes they could hear other voices outside. When the door opened, Jenny inhaled sharply, but it was PC Wilson notifying them that the additional police had arrived.

  In the meantime the nurse returned with Dr. Patel, the doctor on call. She found Jenny’s pulse elevated and deep bruises already appearing on her neck, but no physical injuries that required treatment.

  Sinclair arrived and held up his warrant card. “What’s going on here?”

  “She needs a sedative, but she’s too distressed to swallow it. When I ordered an injection, she became more upset. And your policeman won’t allow me to give it.”

  “Is she physically all right?”

  “Yes,” reported Dr. Patel, “but she needs something to calm her down.”

  “Not until she’s spoken with the Chief Inspector,” Sullivan insisted.

  “Doctor, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but could you give us a few minutes, please?”

  “Certainly,” said the doctor.

  Sinclair nodded at Sullivan, and he stepped out as well.

  “I thought I was in a cocoon,” she sobbed. “I wasn’t—I’m a sitting duck. What am I going to do?”

  Sinclair put a hand on her shoulder. “Jenny, stay with me. I know you’re frightened, but I need to know what happened. Can you do this for me?”

  “A man—a doctor!—tried to kill me.”

  “How?” Sinclair didn’t relax his grip on her shoulder.

  “He had a syringe. I saw it. Then he grabbed my neck.” She tried to clear her throat, but it didn’t help. “He said he was a psychiatrist, but he came too close, and I screamed, and one of your men was here, and he saved my life.”

  “Jenny, I want you to know that you’re safe now.” He released her shoulder. “I’ll be just outside. Wilson!”

  “Sir?”

  “Stay with Miss Jeffries while I have a word with Sullivan.”

  Sullivan was waiting to be interviewed.

  “Tell me what happened here,” ordered Sinclair.

  “Sir, the man’s name was on the list. He had a hospital ID, but I had a bad feeling about him so I followed him into Miss Jeffries’ room. I thought I’d back off a bit when I could see that they were getting on okay. When he took the syringe out of his pocket, I hit him with my truncheon.”

  “Sullivan, what was odd about a doctor with a syringe?”

  “Sir—maybe it was the stethoscope. Why would a shrink need a stethoscope? And why would a doctor carry a syringe in his trouser pocket?”

  “Did Miss Jeffries see the syringe? Is that why she screamed?”

  “No, sir, she screamed first. I don’t think she saw the syringe until after I did. Of course, Will heard her from outside and was with me straightaway, which was a good t
hing, because it took both of us to bring him down. We slammed him down pretty hard, sir.”

  Good. “Did he touch anything in the room?”

  “No, sir, not that I saw.”

  “So you saw the syringe and hit him. Why does Miss Jeffries have bruises on her neck?”

  “Because he lunged at her with his other arm. Sir, she couldn’t get away, and she only ever had the one hand to defend herself with.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “We wrestled him to the floor and cuffed him. Will called the nurse, and she paged the doctor. I radioed for backup and then for you. That’s it, sir.”

  “Where is the syringe?”

  “In the corner of her room, on the floor. We didn’t touch it.”

  “We’ll wait for the SOCOs to bag it,” Sinclair nodded. “We’ll need a formal statement from you later. For now, relieve Wilson inside.”

  When PC Wilson came outside, Sinclair took his initial statement. It corroborated Sullivan’s. He had heard Miss Jeffries’ screams and Sullivan’s shout and had entered her room immediately to assist. “The scum’s being x-rayed downstairs, sir. He’ll be taken to the custody cells at Paddington Green.”

  Sinclair stepped back inside. “Thank you, Sullivan,” he said. As he left, Sinclair brought Jenny a glass of water and watched while she took a sip. “PC Sullivan said that you screamed before he hit the man with his truncheon. Why was that?”

  “I saw his eyes,” she said in a pinched voice. “They were cold.” She coughed and then swallowed. “I didn’t think a psychiatrist would have cold eyes.” She touched her neck gingerly. “I didn’t see the syringe at first. I wasn’t looking at his hands until he moved. Then the policeman knocked it out of his hand.”

  A shiver went down Sinclair’s spine. Had Scott intended to have her killed before she gave her statement to police? If so, he had nearly succeeded. He stepped outside. He asked Dr. Patel if Jenny could be given the oral sedative when the investigation in her room was complete. In spite of her less troubled demeanor, he wanted her to receive something strong enough to help her sleep. The doctor concurred.

  When the Scenes-of-Crime Officers arrived, Sinclair accompanied them into her room. They were clad in white overalls, and the bulges from the clothes they wore underneath made them look to Jenny like white inner tubes in varying degrees of inflation. The one with the round face, who most resembled the Michelin man, approached the bed. “If you’ll permit me,” he said. The bedside rail was then dusted for fingerprints, although she couldn’t remember the strangler touching it, and the hospital blanket was removed from the top of her bed.

  The photographer was there. “With your permission, Miss,” he said, and she realized that he wanted to take pictures of her neck. Very gently he positioned her chin. She covered her scarred cheek with her hand and closed her eyes against the camera’s prying one.

  She heard Mr. Sinclair’s voice. “They’ll want to examine your fingernails, Jenny.” She didn’t know why—she hadn’t clawed at her attacker. She should have, but she hadn’t thought of it. She had wanted only to pull his hand away from her throat. She lowered her hand from her cheek and watched while scrapings were taken and each nail was carefully trimmed.

  The syringe had been collected and bagged. With a nod to Sinclair, the forensic officers withdrew. Sinclair then spoke to her. “Much as I’d like to,” he said, “I can’t stay. I’d like you to take the medicine the doctor has for you. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  Her chest was tight, and she was weak with exhaustion. She looked down and started to cry. “I wish I’d never come here! I’m in a hospital in a foreign country. I’m not safe anywhere. I should never have let my guard down. I shouldn’t have hoped.”

  He watched the tears roll over the adhesive strips on her cheek and down her neck, dampening the hospital gown she wore. It was a cry for help. Not a commitment to testify but perhaps his response to the one could lead to the other. “I’ll have PC Sullivan sit with you until you fall asleep.” He summoned the young constable, then stopped by the nurses’ station to report that they could give Jenny the sedative the doctor had prescribed. He also asked for a description of the real hospital psychiatrist and told the SOCOs to check his office. Then, while the nurses were away from their post, he rang the D/S. “Sir,” he said, “there’s been an attack on our witness.”

  “Is she alive?” Graves asked sharply.

  “She survived, yes, and we have the assailant in custody, but we need to move her straightaway.”

  “Witness Protection should handle it,” Graves said.

  “Sir, we can’t wait for their careful planning. She’s a soft target as long as she’s in hospital. We have an obligation to remove her ASAP. A duty of care.”

  “A hotel then.”

  “A hotel will require a larger team and be less covert. She needs to drop off the radar screen. A flat has just been vacated in my block. I don’t know if it’ll suit, but I’ll find out in the morning. We still need access to her.”

  “Colin, that’s amateurish,” Graves objected. “It’s not the way we do it.”

  “Sir, I know it’s irregular, but it’s an emergency, and it’s temporary,” Sinclair argued.

  “Then place her in a safe house with a WPC and a panic button.”

  “She needs medical assistance. She’s still too badly injured to look after herself.”

  “Then get her a nurse!”

  “Sir, I’ll not ask civilians to place themselves at risk. Don’t we have anyone who’s been a paramedic? I want round-the-clock protection. Just three men to start—the fewer officers involved, the less chance of discovery.”

  “You mean, three per shift—two teams with changeover every twelve hours is standard.”

  “Sir, I want one small, stable team. She’s in a bad way. She can’t handle anything more.”

  “Colin, we can’t ask for a twenty-four hour commitment from our men.”

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir—we bloody well can, on a short-term basis at least. Are you willing to lose this witness? Scott will never confess, and without Miss Jeffries’ testimony, we can’t link any forensic evidence to him. The more control we have over her, the better it is for us. And sir—I want these officers to be armed.”

  “Armed officers? Is that necessary?”

  “Sir, Scott is determined and desperate. I believe his methods will escalate.”

  “Recruiting’s down on the specialist units. Don’t know if I can get support from them, but a smaller team may be an easier sell. Anything else?”

  “A young PC here—Sullivan—was on the spot tonight. If he’s firearms qualified, he should be considered.”

  “What’s your timeline?”

  “Forty-eight hours, if I can convince the doctor to discharge her.”

  “We’ll need to brief the team tomorrow then,” Graves concluded. “Give us a bell in the morning.” He put the phone down.

  Sinclair breathed a sigh of relief. He had seen to Jenny’s immediate safety. He notified Bridges of the incident then rang Andrews at home and told him to meet him at Paddington Green. He hadn’t even left the hospital when the SOCOs called him back. They’d found a man unconscious in the psychiatrist’s office who matched the description given by the nurses. Sinclair headed downstairs at the double.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thursday night stretched into Friday morning. Marcus Bates, the hospital assailant, required medical treatment, causing the preliminary interview to be delayed. When Sinclair saw him, however, he didn’t think that Bates’ pale face and nervous manner were the result of his injury. Cecil Scott was the only man Sinclair knew who wanted Jenny dead, and this man, Bates, had failed in his effort to please his employer. An attempted killer in pain with a cast like Jenny’s—to Sinclair’s eyes it was a welcome sight. Mr. Bates’ request for a brief was not.

  He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his forehead in a futile attempt to settle his thoughts. The attack on
Jenny in hospital changed everything. He had known from the outset that Scott had the money to go after her. Bates was proof that Scott had the intent.

  He snatched only a few hours’ sleep before accompanying Graves and uniformed police to Scott’s flat. No one responded well to an early morning arrest, but Sinclair was still surprised that Scott’s breeding did not moderate his outrage. He cursed at the intrusion and at the officers watching him dress, not heeding their courteous warnings to watch his language. He cursed Sinclair when he recognised him and threatened legal action against all of them. When the handcuffs were applied, Sinclair saw his own grim satisfaction reflected on Graves’ face.

  The detectives on the cases of the six murdered women—and there were scores of them—had a wealth of forensic data, but contrary to the popular view of crime solving, scientific evidence didn’t generally break a case. It took old-fashioned policing: thorough, painstaking, often tedious work. Yet despite their best efforts, they had been unable to locate any witnesses or find a common thread amongst the victims. Deposition sites had varied, and there were no CCTV cameras in the areas where the bodies had been found. Appeals to the public had yielded nothing of use. Jenny’s identification of Scott had been the breakthrough they’d needed to breathe new life into their investigations, and they had been elated. Copies of her initial statement had them all champing at the bit, but they had been ordered to temper their eagerness. Impatience could tip off the very individual they planned to arrest. Now that Scott was in police custody, there would be plenty of time to gather supporting evidence of his guilt in the other crimes.

  He rang the lease agent as early as he dared and was informed that the flat wasn’t ready for occupancy, having not been refitted after the departure of the last tenant. He pulled rank and made a late morning appointment to tour the premises anyway.