The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  CHAPTER 12

  “I’m from the Met’s Witness Protection Unit,” Inspector Rawson began. “Chief Inspector Sinclair tells me you’re doing well, and that you’ll be healed sufficiently for a new placement in a few weeks.”

  It was late Tuesday afternoon, and Sinclair had brought Rawson to meet with Jenny at the flat. He was Sinclair’s height, but his slim frame made him look taller. There was more gray in his hair than the lines on his face would account for.

  “We’d like to relocate you,” Rawson continued, “somewhere so safe that no one will be able to find you. You won’t have to be guarded round the clock. You can go shopping, eat in restaurants, whatever you choose. You can have a normal lifestyle.”

  He was so soft spoken that she had to strain to hear him. Were all his conversations so secret that he had lost the habit of speaking out loud? Did he yell at sporting events? She resisted the urge to whisper herself. “Why are we talking about this? My parents aren’t coming to me, so I’m going to them—when I’m better.”

  “Jenny, the man who hurt you is guilty of a massively serious offence. We want to continue to protect you. Inspector Rawson’s recommendations are the result of our assessment of your risk.”

  “We have several locations in mind, places where a young American like you won’t stand out.”

  “I won’t stand out in Texas.”

  “We’ll find you a flat, even provide you with an allowance until you have a job.”

  “In Texas?”

  “No, Miss Jeffries. I’m afraid that’s not part of the equation.”

  “Are you offering to protect me until my testimony is over?”

  Rawson’s voice oozed on. “In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m offering you a new life. We’ll bring you back to London for your court appearances, of course. Afterward, you’ll return to your new life. I am familiar with the facts in your case. I am recommending a permanent relocation.”

  “Permanent?”

  “You’ll have a new name, a new personal history. Jennifer Jeffries will be untraceable; she will no longer exist.”

  She shivered. He was talking about her in the third person.

  “But the monster is in jail,” she said, turning to Sinclair. “When I’m well enough to travel, why can’t I go home? I’m not under arrest, am I?”

  “Jenny, when you were attacked in hospital, Scott didn’t come himself. He sent someone else. If these measures seem extreme, it’s because we are taking your safety very seriously.”

  “Miss Jeffries,” Rawson added, “I assure you, we are the best in the world at what we do. We can guarantee your safety. All we need is your cooperation.”

  First Mr. Sinclair convinced her parents not to come. Now Inspector Rawson wanted her to go. They had reasonable expressions on their faces, and she wanted to scream.

  “We are offering you sanctuary,” Rawson said softly. “We’ll need two weeks, possibly more, to make the arrangements. And then you will disappear.” He saw the colour leave her face. Most of the witnesses he placed were criminals who had agreed to testify against other criminals. They were eager for a new identity and change of scene. “It’s a shock, I know,” he said gently, “hearing this for the first time. Take a day or two to get used to the idea, and we’ll talk again.”

  She did not speak. She watched the two men rise, managed to nod at Mr. Sinclair’s good-bye, and heard him call for Casey and Davies to lock up.

  She limped haltingly into her room. She couldn’t think of a logical way to evaluate Rawson’s proposal. He was offering her a safe future. Why did she feel like he was hammering nails into her coffin? Disappear: What a concept. A new name, Rawson had said. He can do what the monster couldn’t, she thought: Erase her.

  “Dinner’s ready.” Sergeant Casey was at the door.

  “My name is Jennifer Jeffries. Jennifer Catherine Jeffries.”

  He frowned, not sure how to respond.

  “I’m not hungry. You guys go ahead without me.”

  She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. No matter where she went, the scar on her face was going with her. The problem was, she didn’t want the new life Rawson talked about. She wanted her old life—but that wasn’t one of the choices. And they didn’t want to keep her here.

  She hobbled back into the bedroom and sat down in the big armchair next to the bed. She wanted out, out of everything. Out of her commitment to testify. Out of living with police. Out with cooperating. Out with letting other people make decisions for her. Out, out, out, echoed in her brain.

  She pulled her suitcase from the closet and opened it. She had no purse, but she had her passport. The money she’d kept in her suitcase as backup was still there. Well, it should be: A policeman had unpacked it. She didn’t have many clothes to pack. The slacks she chose rubbed against her tender bruises, but she’d have to tough it out. She willed her tears to stop—she didn’t want to make any noise. She took several deep breaths—ouch—and added the toiletries from the bathroom. And her teddy bear—she couldn’t leave him behind. She zipped up the suitcase. Heavy, but it had wheels. She’d have to pull it with her right hand; she still had the cast on her left arm, and she was limping on her left leg. She couldn’t go fast, but she could go. All she had to do tonight was find a place to stay. After that—que será, será. Whatever happened, she was going to be in charge of her own life.

  She should eat something first, though. She put her rolling bag back in the closet and closed the door. There was no one in the kitchen, but Brian came in to show her the meal they’d set aside for her. She thanked him, then ate slowly and silently. Brian was quiet, too, just offering to wash up for her when she finished.

  She shuffled back to her room. Now was as good a time as any. She should start before she was too tired. She took her suitcase from the closet and peeked out her bedroom door. No one was in the living or dining room. Good. She headed slowly for the front door. She’d watched the men unlock it often enough to know that no key was required. She opened it, hopped into the hall, and closed the door quietly behind her. Stairs. There wasn’t an elevator. Well, that didn’t change anything; everything in life was accomplished one step at a time. She started down slowly, the suitcase thudding along beside her.

  She heard a door open and a familiar voice say, “Cover me,” but felt Casey’s arms around her even before the sound of his feet had registered in her mind. She struggled, but she was locked in a vise, her arms pinned to her sides. Her ribs hurt, and she bit her lip but still couldn’t keep from crying out. “Bloody hell!” he swore in her ear. “What’s this about?” She looked up. Brian was at the top of the stairs, his pistol aimed high, Danny behind him. God, Brian looked gigantic! If he and Casey were both angry with her, she was done for.

  “My name is Jennifer Jeffries,” she insisted. “I was born in Houston, Texas, in 1975. I have a driver’s license, and a social security number, and a passport, and they all say, ‘Jennifer Jeffries.’”

  The Vise had picked her up. When he reached the top of the stairs, Sullivan retrieved her suitcase. “Man the door,” Casey told him when they were inside. “Davies, ring the boss.” He sat her down on the sofa. “Do I have to cuff you?” he asked.

  She raised her chin defiantly. “Yes,” she said through her tears.

  Damn! It had been a bluff. He didn’t have any cuffs with him; none of them did. “Sullivan, your belt,” he said.

  “No, not the belt!” She struck out at him with her right arm, an impotent gesture, but one that caused the muscles around her rib cage to stretch and hurt.

  He caught her wrist easily, as if she had merely extended it for him to restrain, wrapped the belt snugly around it, and then tied it to the one immobilised by her cast. “You little Yank fool,” he said under his breath, “but I’m a bigger one for not keeping an eye on you.”

  Danny must have been listening for Mr. Sinclair, because she never heard the doorbell. He came in with no coat or tie, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the ne
ck. “Jenny, what’s this?” he began, stopping when he saw her hands bound on her chest and her tear-streaked face. “Casey?”

  “I’d put her over my knee if I didn’t think it would be counterproductive. Sir.”

  Sinclair drew a chair close to her and unwound the belt. “Jenny, talk to me.”

  “My name is Jennifer Catherine Jeffries, and I want out,” she answered, her chin still high.

  “I see that,” he said. “Why?”

  “I won’t give up my name. I won’t! It’s all I have left—the monster took everything else.” Her chin started to tremble. “I don’t look the same. I don’t feel the same. Only my name is the same.” She whispered it. “I won’t give it up.” Her voice was trembling now. She clenched her teeth, hoping that would restore her firm tone.

  Sullivan stood by the door, dumbfounded. Casey’s face was hard, and Davies’ was taut with tension. She started to get up, but Sinclair restrained her. “Let me go,” she cried, frustrated because the tears were coming again. She did not want them to soften her resolve. “You said I couldn’t stay here. I have to take care of myself. There’s nothing else left.”

  “Jenny,” Sinclair said calmly, “you don’t have to run away from me. We’ll sort this out together.”

  “We can’t. I have to get away. You’re not on my side.”

  “I want to work with you, Jenny. We all do. Don’t you know you’re not alone?”

  Mr. Sinclair’s voice was soft. It fed the lump in her throat, and she began to sob.

  “Jenny, you are very important to us. You must know that. Your testimony against Scott is critical. We are asking you to do something none of us has had to do—face the enemy—with the exception of Sergeant Casey, and he was trained and armed. I can’t tell you that I know how you feel, because I don’t. I can tell you that we will spare no resource, no expense, to ensure your safety. What sort of coppers would we be if we took any chances with you?”

  He was being gentle with her. Davies didn’t think he’d be gentle with them.

  “I can’t do what Inspector Rawson wants me to,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I understand that much,” Sinclair answered with a wry smile. He handed her his handkerchief. “Davies, Jenny could do with some tea.”

  Brian brought cups for both of them. She sipped the warm liquid, sweetened just the way she liked it. It soothed the tightness in her chest. She looked at Sinclair. There was no anger in his blue eyes.

  “Jenny, I think the best decisions are informed decisions, don’t you? That means information has to come first, so I’d like to tell you why we’ve taken the actions we have.” He stretched out his legs as if he had all the time in the world. “The protection we provided you in hospital was truly a precaution. We felt that an attempt on your life was a possibility but not a likelihood. Placing you in this flat was an emergency response to a critical situation. The Witness Protection Unit was not involved. I am not trained in witness protection. I am a detective. I direct and participate in criminal investigations.”

  Casey recognised the facts-of-life speech.

  “This flat is suitable on a temporary basis because it was available when we needed it and because it allows me to have access to you. Although your formal interviews were completed in hospital, I knew there would be follow-on questions from time to time.

  “The officers in the Witness Protection Unit plan very carefully. They do not advertise their methods. They have placed witnesses in countries all over the world, people who have used their fresh start to put down new roots. Their success rate is second to none.

  “The WPU would consider this flat unsuitable—unsafe—for several reasons. First, it is in London. That is simply too close to Scott and his area of influence. If he has further actions planned against you, and we believe he does, he will look in London first. Indeed, he is already looking. Hospital security at one location evicted a man they considered an intruder. He had no weapon, but he could not provide a reasonable explanation for his continued presence in the corridors. Other hospitals have reported an excessive number of telephone enquiries about young adult female patients.” He noted her tense, pale face. “Would you like another cup of tea? I would.”

  “I think I’m going to need something stronger,” she answered.

  Sinclair smiled. This time Davies brought biscuits as well as tea. The other men had settled in the dining room, well within hearing but removed from the immediate circle. Sullivan was mesmerised by the calm, logical way this senior officer was handling the crisis.

  “Shall I go on?” Sinclair asked. “If you’re tired or in pain, I can continue at another time.”

  “I am, but I need to know these things.”

  “I agree. Let’s see—ah, the reasons the WPU wouldn’t like this location. It’s in a quiet neighbourhood. That’s why you have a small team. Regular shift changes involving more officers could be noticed, so Casey, Davies, and Sullivan have to be on duty all the time. That’s asking more of our men than we like to do, even on a short assignment. Also, for your own safety, you are confined. That means you are limited to the medical care Sergeant Casey can give, unless an emergency arises. Psychotherapy is recommended for all victims of violent crime, but that cannot be provided for you here. None of this is beneficial to you on a long-term basis.

  “If you were living in another city—perhaps in another country—you would have freedom of movement. A policeman, called a handler, would be assigned to you. He or she would be responsible for dealing with any problems you might encounter as well as being the intermediary when your presence was required in court. You would then be returned to London and housed in a hotel, with several teams of policemen to protect you, monitor hotel entrances and exits, plan and execute safe transportation to and from the courthouse, and so forth. But I digress.” He finished his tea. “Do you have any questions?”

  “What is going to happen to me?”

  “We’re not going to decide that tonight,” he answered. “In the meantime, I have some questions, if you’re up to them.” He leant forward in his chair. “What were you planning to do after you left the flat?”

  “Find a place to stay for the night,” she said. “Think about the next step in the morning.”

  “Would you turn left or right when you exited the building?”

  She was silent.

  “How far is it from here to a hotel?”

  She shrugged.

  “Assuming you found one, how would you pay for your room?”

  “I have some cash in my suitcase.”

  “Were you going to register in your own name?”

  “I guess so, because my passport is my only identification.”

  “And when you needed more money?”

  “I’d call my parents collect and ask them to wire me some.”

  “That would leave a lovely paper trail for someone to follow. Were you planning to return to Texas?”

  “No, not at first.”

  “Jenny, we have never found your handbag. We must assume that Scott had it, at least for a time, and that he knows your name, your family’s address, and other pertinent information about you. It would not be difficult for him to have you tracked down, even in the States.”

  “Oh, God,” she said, her shoulders slumping.

  “Jenny, if no one is protecting you, you’ll be a soft target wherever you are.”

  Hearing his words hurt.

  “The man who attacked you in hospital did not use a firearm. In another venue, however, a firearm could be the weapon of choice. If so, it’s unlikely that it would be a sniper’s weapon. To ensure success, an assassin would probably prefer a spray of bullets. Others could be caught in the line of fire.”

  Her chin drooped.

  “Fortunately, the alarm alerted Casey and the others that security had been breached.” He paused. “I have another question. After hearing your description of Scott’s attack, do you know what single impression stayed with me?�
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  She did not answer.

  “His rage. He may be mentally unbalanced; I don’t know. I do know that a very high level of protection is necessary for you. Jenny, I see what people go through, what violent crime does to them. It’s one of the reasons I am so committed to what I do. ‘The evil that men do lives after them…’”

  “‘The good is oft interred with their bones,’” she said, finishing the quotation. “Will the good I want to do die with me?”

  “If you leave this flat unescorted, yes, because Scott’s men will find you. And I don’t think you could survive another assault. Refusing to testify is another course available to you. I hope you won’t make that choice. ‘All that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men’—or women—‘do nothing.’ I believe that to be true.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Are you willing, then, to work with me to put that bastard away? In your heart you know he is guilty of serial murder.”

  She nodded.

  “Will you agree to stay here for the time being? We won’t plan to move you without your foreknowledge and consent, as well as Sergeant Casey’s judgement that medical oversight is no longer needed.”

  “What about Inspector Rawson?”

  Sinclair gave a sharp laugh. “I’ll keep him away from you,” he promised. “And I’ll give a fair hearing to anything you want to do, as long as you’ll allow me to present the safety considerations I think are important. Have we accomplished enough for now?”

  “Yes,” she said, relief flooding her face.

  “Casey,” Sinclair said, “it’s Jenny’s bedtime. Can you give her something to ensure a good night’s sleep? Jenny, I don’t want you worrying about anything tonight. We have several weeks to find a solution that is agreeable to both of us.”

  Sinclair watched them go. Jenny’s gait was sluggish. He sighed, then stood slowly, his face sombre. “Stand by,” he told Davies and Sullivan.

  The younger men rose to their feet as well. They were apprehensive, Sullivan fidgeting slightly and Davies examining his boots. They heard a cry of refusal from her followed by Casey’s even tone. Another negative, less emphatic, then an outburst: “Give it to Mr. Sinclair!” Finally Casey returned to the sitting room.