The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  “She wouldn’t accept the stronger sedative, sir,” he reported. “I didn’t think it wise to force her.”

  There was a tense silence, then Sinclair levelled his gaze at them. “It has not escaped my attention,” he said grimly, “that if the alarm system hadn’t been fitted yesterday, she might have got away. Then, possibly within a few days, I’d have to identify her body. I’d like to hear what additional security measures you plan to take.”

  “Sir,” Casey answered, “I’d like to add a key lock on the inside of the door, as well as a camera on the stairs and at the front and back doors of the block.”

  “Her exit from the flat was hardly stealthy,” Sinclair said between his teeth. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. From now on, the man on watch will monitor her whereabouts. We’ll keep her door open, and the public rooms of the flat won’t be unattended again.”

  “She’s terrified of Scott, and she went anyway. Is there anything I need to know about what is going on here?”

  Casey’s jaw tightened in anger. Sullivan and Davies had the good grace to look offended. Casey answered for all three of them. “No, sir. Nothing.”

  “You’ll be notified when the work will be done. Carry on.” They locked the door behind him.

  Sullivan bowed his head in relief. Davies caught Casey’s eye and nodded his thanks. Jenny’s attempted flight had occurred on his watch, but the sergeant had not offered him up to Sinclair. Casey returned to her room. He had treated her pain, but shock and despair were beyond the reach of the medications Dr. Adams had prescribed.

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  Sinclair entered his flat, poured himself a generous amount of cognac, and settled on the sofa in his dark sitting room. He was angry at the protection team for not being more vigilant, but if he’d rounded on them—which they deserved—Jenny would have heard, and she was already unhinged by Rawson’s proposal.

  Damned sods! They’d been caught unawares by her action. The security measures Casey had recommended would reinforce the flat, but that didn’t mean they were home and dry. If she truly wanted to go, none of them could force her to stay. And that was the crux of the problem.

  She had tried to run away. In spite of pain and fatigue. Her judgement had been appalling, but he could not bring himself to be exasperated with her. She had been desperate, and that was before he had given her the complete picture. Well, almost complete—he had not disclosed that her protection was conditional. They would not protect her unless she agreed to testify, but without protection, she would not survive to testify. He took another sip of cognac. The only way he could ensure her testimony—and her safety—was in keeping her on witness protection provided by the Met. Would he be able to persuade her to accept it? Would she be able to follow it through to trial? Her case called for a different approach. He’d have to have a word with Rawson in the morning.

  CHAPTER 13

  Casey was ready to be rid of this assignment. All day Jenny had lashed out at them without cause. Then she’d accused them of stalking her, which in a way was true. They were keeping a close watch. Outbursts: “All I did wrong was live!” “I didn’t ask for any of this!” Sudden tears. None of them knew what to do with her.

  She flatly refused to be bathed. He sent Sullivan to sit with her and left the flat. He needed a night run to clear his head and temper his frustration.

  He took the quickest route to the Heath, counting on the cool night air in the park and the strenuous exercise to drain his anger. He was always conscious of his surroundings, alert for any unexpected sound or motion, but when he reached the path by the ponds, he found a rhythm in his stride that allowed him to reflect. He revisited his actions and decided he shouldn’t have reacted to her lack of trust. Sullivan was the only one of them who had proved himself, saving her life in hospital. What had he, Casey, done? Bound her with a belt after she tried to go AWOL. At the time reestablishing his authority had been foremost in his mind, but the military model may have been inappropriate for someone not in service.

  Damn it, the military approach was what he knew best. What had initially been learnt reflexes were second nature now. Were there any parallels between his experience and hers? She was young to be facing a death threat. He had been young, just twenty-three, when he was sent to the Persian Gulf prior to Desert Storm. Nervous as well. He’d had some second thoughts—no, uncertainty—although he’d not have admitted it to anyone.

  They had expected the Republican Guard to be formidable opponents. His life had depended on his preparation, a sixth sense that warned of imminent danger, and his mates. She had no mates, only Davies, Sullivan, and himself. Would their support make a difference? Not likely—their assignment would end soon.

  His military participation had been covert. Jenny’s role, when it came, would be public, every word recorded and no doubt disputed by defence counsel. Her integrity, her character, would be questioned. How would she deal with that? She had questioned his, and that was one of the reasons he was running now.

  Her identity was known. When his role in the Gulf conflict ended, no one had traced him back to England. Someone had already tried to assassinate her, and if Sinclair and Rawson could be believed, more attempts would be made. Fear can affect your reasoning. He’d seen injured, exhausted men lose courage. No wonder she had done. He should have been more patient. Indiscriminate attacks were a sign of desperation. If she lashed out at him, he shouldn’t blame her.

  He had covered enough ground. On the way back he recognised that his physical discipline had served its purpose, but Jenny’s emotions needed to be defused. The bathing that she dreaded—she was strong enough to manage it herself now. A garbage bag tied around her cast would stop it getting soggy. And an exercise regimen could mitigate the stress she felt. He would have to get her moving again.

  CHAPTER 14

  In the morning Jenny suffered through her exercises. It seemed that Sergeant Casey pushed her even harder than he usually did. She was tired of him, of features so cold he could have been the fifth face on Mt. Rushmore. She was tired of Mr. Sinclair, who didn’t look menacing but was. She was tired of hurting from injuries that had yet to heal. She was tired of being afraid. She felt like a ping pong ball, bounced from the London hotel to the little room to the hospital to the apartment. Next Mr. Sinclair—or Inspector Rawson—would smash her off the table into the unknown.

  When the men coaxed her out of her room to play poker with them, her hands began to shake so badly that she couldn’t hold the cards.

  “You must have been dealt a terrible hand,” Danny joked.

  “No,” she gasped. It was all she could do not to cry out. One minute stretched into two, then more. Her heart was pounding. She wasn’t in the little room, but she felt as if she were.

  “Jenny.” Casey’s tone was unyielding. “Take my hand.”

  When he used her name instead of the colloquial love, it was like hearing her mother call her Jennifer Catherine. She knew she had come up against an immovable object. She unfurled one fist, and Casey took it. Brian pushed his chair away from the table, startling her. “Time for tea,” he said.

  She returned to her room. “Truth doesn’t change just because you look away from it,” her father would say. She remembered his corollary: “The opposite of truth is not falsehood, but cowardice.” She wished she were home in Houston filling out her travel diary, but clearly wishes weren’t fulfilled in this new life. She opened her journal. In the past writing her feelings down had helped her to clarify them. She titled the page, My Choices. She could think of only four:

  1. Go home. Don’t testify. Be in danger.

  2. Go home. Come back to testify. Be in danger.

  3. Don’t go home until after testimony has been given. Be protected.

  4. Don’t ever go home. Be protected through loss of identity.

  Two things were immediately clear: there was no protection at home and no freedom in protection. The protect
ion offered in options three and four came with strings.

  Mr. Sinclair had made her realize just how powerless she was. She would be an easy target in Texas, and her presence there would place others at risk. She had done nothing to deserve the monster’s anger or attack, but his actions had defined hers ever since. He was in custody, but he could pay others to pursue her. “Choose life,” the chaplain at the hospital had said. That ruled out the first two choices, but none of the choices guaranteed life. In spite of herself, she began to cry.

  Inspector Rawson had argued for anonymity. If she didn’t give up her name, she could be found. Her four choices had been reduced to one: If she wanted to live as Jennifer Jeffries, item three was the only viable one. Her tears fell on the page, smearing the ink but not obscuring the path she had to take.

  In practical terms staying away from home until she had appeared in court would be very difficult. It meant accepting a move to an as-yet-unknown site and adjusting to a new set of circumstances and faces. It meant—oh God—not seeing her family. What had Mr. Sinclair said? That if her parents visited, attention would be drawn to her location? If that were true now, wouldn’t that same caution apply wherever they hid her?

  She sobbed in despair. She needed her family. She had had the usual teenage skirmishes with them and had been glad for the freedom and independence that college offered, but she had always known that she was welcome at home. Now, when she most needed a refuge, the one place where she could be completely herself was denied her.

  The Alamo had been a mission, a refuge of sorts, before Texas’ war for independence from Mexico. Colonel Travis had drawn a line in the sand and invited all those who were willing to stay and fight to step across it. None had survived. Mr. Sinclair—Colonel Sinclair—had drawn a line in the sand for her. Would she die if she did the right thing? According to her father’s words, there could be no compromise.

  She threw the journal across the room. She’d been in London a month. Thirty days confined to a hospital room and then a small flat seemed like a long time, but legal preparations for the monster’s trial would take months. Months before she saw her family, months before she could go home! The sergeant’s voice startled her.

  “Are you all right?” He took in her red eyes and pinched face. “Sounded like something fell.”

  She gestured with a nod. “My journal.”

  On the floor on the opposite side of the room. He retrieved it for her. She looked brittle, as if she’d been struck but the bruises had yet to appear.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the sound of retreating footsteps. Who would tell her parents that she wasn’t coming? She couldn’t. It would break her mother’s heart. Mr. Sinclair would have to do it. He was good at giving bad news. Mr. Sinclair—she shivered in spite of the blanket. He had been relaxed, detached even, when he spelled out the dangers she faced. She felt empty now. Like the dolls she used to play with when she was a little girl, her arms and legs moved, her eyes opened and closed, and she cried, but she had no stout heart inside to warm her. Her dolls had been very much alive in her make-believe world, with individual voices and likes and dislikes, and she had been too young to understand that they were not living beings. She had cut Annabelle’s hair—butchered it, her mother had said in exasperation—with a pair of sewing scissors, not realizing that she could never outgrow the lopsided style. Annabelle didn’t mind, she told her mother, pointing to the doll’s fixed smile. And her mother’s expression had softened, not wanting to dispel her daughter’s innocence.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Dinner’s on.” Sergeant Casey was at her door again. Was the man omnipresent?

  After dinner she continued to make additions to her book of lists. Brian’s Recipes. Good, but he always put too much on her plate. Danny’s Jokes. In her current mood, she couldn’t recall a single one. Then she began Things I’ve Missed or Will Be Missing. The World Series would be starting soon. In Texas the fall would bring cooler temperatures, but the leaves on the trees wouldn’t change color and drop until November. She would miss it all, as well as the family holidays that filled the autumn calendar. Family. No, she mustn’t focus on what she could not have.

  She would miss Emily Mitchell’s wedding, she thought with a start. It was scheduled for late October, and she had been fitted for her bridesmaid’s dress just before she left for England. Many of her college friends would be there. She wondered which one would take her place. She tried to think of something else, besides people laughing and Emily in her new husband’s arms, welcoming his touch.

  Things I’ve Missed. Her period. How long had it been since her last one? Five weeks? More? She’d been late before sometimes, though, when she was under stress.

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  At the week’s end, Sinclair had a positive report for the investigative team. “It’s a match! Scott’s DNA. For all seven. We’ve got him bang to rights!”

  “And his accomplices?” someone asked when the celebratory buzz had quieted.

  “We’ve searched their flats but still can’t implicate either of them in any of the assaults. Both have been bailed.”

  “How’s our witness?” The question came from DI Haas, the spare, solemn man with dark circles under his eyes who had led the investigation into Barbara Bennett’s death. She had been Scott’s first victim, and he had felt very keenly his failure to apprehend her killer in time to prevent subsequent deaths from occurring.

  “Rawson’s recommendation for long-term protection upset her,” Sinclair answered. “Security’s been improved at her current location, but I have some fences to mend if she’s to stay on board.”

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  On Sinclair’s way home he resolved to rebuild Jenny’s trust before initiating any discussion of future placement. When he arrived at the flat, he found her in her room. “There’s good news on the case—forensic tests confirmed that it was Scott’s DNA in all the victims, including you. We’re standing on firm ground legally.”

  She was appalled. The monster hadn’t worn a condom after all. “Will I get AIDS?”

  “No, he’s clear of all that.”

  But she wasn’t clear of anything. This news made her late period more ominous.

  He saw her tremble. “I’ve brought something for you.” He handed her a parcel from Texas.

  She thought idly about collecting the U.S. stamps; she’d taken them for granted before. Her mother had sent Jenny’s Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, several books, and a box of notepaper.

  The next box was plain, the cardboard flaps folded closed. It was filled with chocolate treats. “From the officers at the Yard,” he explained. “Andrews let it slip that you liked chocolate.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they do this?”

  “Jenny, your case—it has an impact on everyone who works on it. This is the copper’s version of Newton’s Law: Counter each violent act with a decent one.”

  The last box was glossy, with a wide ribbon tied into a bow. She hesitated.

  “Jenny, I’d like you to open it. There’s no obligation involved.”

  “Mr. Sinclair, you shouldn’t be bringing me gifts.”

  “I should, actually,” he said, not understanding why she seemed distant still. “Your mother gave me carte blanche to spoil you.”

  She untied the bow. Inside the box she found a pastel blanket. The colors, aqua and pale blue, reminded her of summer days at home, when the sun was so strong and the heat so withering that it bleached the landscape. The tag said “silk fleece,” but to Jenny it felt soft as cashmere and as warm. She wrapped it around her shoulders, feeling a wave of homesickness. “It has fringe,” she said, her voice breaking. “That’s so feminine.” Why was he being so nice? Would there be a new set of policemen soon? In a new place? “Mr. Sinclair, is this my life?” she asked. “This room?”

  “Only for a season, Jenny.”

  “It’s autumn. Will
things be over that quickly?”

  “I was speaking metaphorically. It’s your winter—but ‘if winter comes, can spring be far behind?’”

  “Shelley,” she said, recognizing the quote. “But I think Shakespeare said it better: It’s the ‘winter of my discontent.’”

  CHAPTER 16

  Saturday passed quietly, the men occupied with cleaning chores. None of them seemed to mind, Brian acknowledging that there was housekeeping of some sort in every job. The sad thing was, she couldn’t tell the difference between before and after—the flat looked just as bedraggled. Why did the British call their apartments flats? Was it because the people that lived in them had a deflated existence like she did? She’d have to start a new list: Odd English Words. She noticed, however, that no matter when she left her room, someone was in the living room, dining room, or kitchen, perpetual as the plague.

  On Sunday Brian served the traditional British meal of roast beef with Yorkshire pudding. She loved the beef, but held her nose over the Brussels sprouts, accusing him of breaking his pledge to protect her.

  Later in the day she watched Sergeant Casey unlock the door to the flat with a key to admit Sinclair. Brian was standing by. “Do I get a key?” she asked the sergeant.

  “No key, no surprises.”

  “Am I in custody, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “No, Jenny. I’ll have a key made for you if you like.” He had brought a four pack of some kind of beer for the men. He opened a bottle for himself and invited her to join him at the dining room table. “I’ve something to show you,” he said, spreading out a series of postcards. “I’m going to take you armchair travelling. Every week we’ll have a new destination.”