She tried to listen between the lines. Destination?
“When you’re able to visit some of these places, you’ll be well informed. Tonight we’re going to the British Museum, since your trip there was disrupted.”
That was a kind way to put it.
“This is the façade. Typical classical design.”
It looked like the Lincoln Memorial, because of all the columns, but it was not a three-dimensional tour. What was the Lincoln Memorial without the battle scars etched in Lincoln’s face? And the sight of his massive marble hands powerless to heal his divided nation?
“Inside,” he continued, “are ninety-four separate galleries. It’s the oldest museum in the world, I think, and covers almost two million years of culture. There are thousands of items displayed, many more than you could see in a day’s visit.”
She broke her silence. “Well, no wonder! Your navy ruled the waves, and your empire dominated the world. I never could remember all the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century explorers that sailed from here.”
“Captain Cook was one of them,” he mentioned, relieved that she was finally participating.
“No, that’s Brian,” she corrected. “He’s Captain Cook, and Sergeant Casey is Mr. Clean.”
Sinclair smiled and pointed to cards showing the Rosetta Stone, a mummified cat from Egypt, and others. “Works of art, archaeological finds, coins, drawings, manuscripts, they’re all there.”
“Thank you for showing them to me.”
“Jenny, they’re yours to use as you please. However, there’s one more thing I’d like to do with them.” He leant two of the postcards together, then, separating the two slightly at the top, placed a third card across them. Two more cards were set on top of the flat card, and yet another across their top. The third level was not stable, and all the cards ended up in a pile. “Trust is like that, isn’t it? It’s easy to topple if you’re not careful.” He caught her eye. “I’d like you to accept, if possible, that there’s a difference between a man and his job.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did your father ever have to give low marks to a student? Perhaps to a student he liked? It may have been necessary, but I don’t imagine he enjoyed doing it.” His voice was very soft. “I don’t like having to tell a husband that he’ll never again be able to embrace his beloved, because someone has murdered her; or a parent, that his child will never see adulthood. I don’t like telling a father and mother that they shouldn’t visit their frightened, injured daughter or telling the daughter that her loneliness and isolation will continue. At times like that, justice seems a very cold mistress indeed.”
She felt a warm flush come over her cheeks. She couldn’t look at him.
He continued in the same gentle tone. “The mistress of justice is often shown blindfolded, to demonstrate her impartiality, I suppose. However, the blindfold also keeps her from seeing the heartbreak that the pursuit of her ideal sometimes causes. Jenny, violent crime leaves no winners in its wake. That is one of the reasons I am so angered by it and so dedicated to its eradication.”
“I’ve been blaming the messenger for the message,” she confessed. “I should know better. I’m sorry.”
“Look at me, Jenny. My name is Colin Thomas Dowding Sinclair.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s a lot of names.”
“Only one more than Jennifer Catherine Jeffries,” he pointed out. “And I’m only asking you to use one of them, if you will, and to be in composition with me, not opposition to me.”
Then she chose: Sinclair. “Are you talking about my next placement?”
“Jenny, that’s only one of the issues we’ll have to face in the days ahead. I’m simply suggesting that there is no conflict of interest between us. We both value honesty, is that correct?”
She nodded.
“You want very much to be safe, and I want to keep you that way.”
She was silent.
“I believe justice is precious. We don’t see it in every case. And it’s worth fighting for, in spite of the cost.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but it’s hard.”
“It’s easier when you’re not alone.”
“I will be. I could be.”
“Jenny, I’m in charge of your case. You’ll always be able to reach me.”
Lincoln’s hands rested on the arms of his chair. Mr. Sinclair’s hand was open, outstretched—smaller than Lincoln’s but perhaps more able to mend the rift between them. She placed her hand across his and watched his fingers close over hers. “I’m sorry—Colin,” she forced herself to say.
He smiled. “Well done.”
Later, when she thought about their conversation, she realized that he’d essentially called her a spoiled brat, but he had done it with gentleness and eloquence. She had been unfair to him, and he had responded by assuming that she had a better nature and appealing to it. She started a new list in her mind, My Shortcomings, and envisioned the first entry: Rudeness to Mr. Sinclair. No, Colin. He was asking her to act as a mature adult—not an unreasonable request—and he had done it with grace and not anger.
CHAPTER 17
Still concerned about Jenny’s frame of mind, Sinclair decided to consult a psychiatrist. He had just arrived at the well-furnished reception room when a tall, slim man in his fifties opened an interior door and invited him in. “Mr. Sinclair? I’m Theodore Knowles.”
Sinclair gave him the file he had brought. It contained a copy of Jenny’s fact sheet, formal statement, and medical record, with her name blacked out everywhere it had appeared. “I’m a detective chief inspector with the Metropolitan Police. The file you’re holding belongs to the key witness in the Crown’s case against Cecil Scott. Dr. Gerald West at the Yard referred me to you.”
“Gerry won’t be seeing her?”
“He’s contracted to treat the police community, not civilians.”
“Then I trust she has not received any psychological counselling so far?”
“That’s correct,” Sinclair said.
“You’ll give me a few minutes to familiarise myself with this material?”
Sinclair nodded.
Shock and sorrow crossed Knowles’ face as he read. “He stripped her of her clothes, her defences, her sexual innocence—and in his final act, of her femininity, by raping her the second time the way a man rapes a man. He broke her, and then he discarded her.” He sighed, leaning forward to return the file to Sinclair. “I’ve just made a few notes—medications prescribed, details of injuries that could have a psychological consequence, that sort of thing. May I know her name for the purpose of our discussion? I understand that security is a concern; I won’t record it.”
“Jennifer Jeffries. We call her Jenny. She is currently in our protection.”
“Who is providing her medical care?”
“One of our officers received medical training from the Royal Marines.”
“Let me see if I understand the situation so far,” Knowles said. “A young woman, viciously attacked in a foreign country, isolated from her family, and with substantial physical and psychological injuries, is being guarded by police.”
Knowles’ summary made Jenny’s distress seem reasonable.
“How may I help you?”
“She’s having trouble,” Sinclair admitted. “For security reasons, I had to ask her parents not to come to London for a time. That was a significant blow for her, and she is now suspicious of my motives. In addition, she had a meeting with an officer from our Witness Protection Unit. He meant to be reassuring, but his suggestion that she disappear—with a new name—was a source of upheaval as well. Indeed, later that evening she packed her bag and tried to leave.”
“Could she have taken care of herself?”
“No. Either she didn’t consider her physical condition or she overestimated her strength. It was a powerful demonstration, however, of her determination to maintain her identity.”
Knowles nodded. “Her name—her ‘sel
f’—is all she has.”
“That’s what she said. And since then, the men have reported that she’s having nightmares as well as spontaneous episodes of fear in the daytime.”
“Panic attacks,” Knowles confirmed. “Her trauma is beginning to manifest itself.”
“That makes my job even more difficult, because we will need to move her soon.”
“If you do, you’ll be taking a terrible risk with her mental health and stability.”
“Even if she’s willing?”
“And you believe her? Clearly her judgement of what she can do is inaccurate.”
“Damn,” he muttered.
“How is she getting on with the officers protecting her now?”
“She’s beginning to trust them.”
“Let me summarise. Your witness was brutalised by a violent man. Since the attack, she has suffered several serious psychological blows. Your intention is to remove her from the only stable environment she has known since her arrival and require her to start all over again, adjusting to a new situation. Following this disruption, you expect her to focus on her role as a witness and testify clearly and effectively in a court of law.”
“Even if she is determined to testify?”
“Her determination is not the issue,” Knowles argued. “Her ability is the issue. You are expecting her to stay on her feet while you pull the rug out from under her. That’s just not realistic. She is still emotionally vulnerable. You must understand—all her reference points are gone. Nothing is familiar to her, including herself. She needs a stable, predictable environment. You may be most comfortable with proven procedures, but in this case you must evaluate how your procedures will impact your witness. I’m suggesting you consider Jenny’s surroundings, schedule, and relationships.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sinclair returned to the Yard with a distinct feeling of unease. Since his involvement in the case began, he had considered mainly how Jenny’s actions would affect someone else, her statement in identifying her attacker and her eventual testimony in convicting him. Aside from recognising the painful nature of her recovery and the difficulty she would experience when she faced Scott in court, he had not stopped to consider the effect their procedures would have on her. Rawson had a record of success in keeping witnesses safe, but Knowles was advising that he depart from it. He required second-source confirmation, from someone who had at least met her. He rang Bridges.
“How’s Jenny doing?” the SOIT officer asked.
“Her injuries are gradually healing, but she’s having difficulty psychologically. The visit by our witness protection officer upset her. She didn’t respond well to his proposal that she have a new identity.”
“Sever all ties to her past?” Bridges echoed, making the brief silence that followed more obvious. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Granted.”
“That’s too great an adjustment for her to contemplate. She was essentially anonymous when she arrived here, and Scott got hold of her. A new name won’t mean a thing. From her point of view, it’s the same situation. She’d be looking over her shoulder all the time.”
“She’d have freedom of movement. She’d be able to work, make friends, have activities off the job.”
“Sir, she’s had a deeply troubling experience. Freedom—lack of police supervision—means vulnerability. At this stage safety is far more important to her than freedom. Has she adjusted well to her current location?”
“Quite well, actually.”
“Traumatised persons don’t adapt well to change.”
This time the silence on the line was Sinclair’s.
“Sir? I visited her in hospital several times following her statement. She knew the names of some of the men who were stationed outside her room. She was reassured by their presence. I think she’d like her protection to be visible.”
CHAPTER 18
Sinclair’s phone at the Yard rang. “Sir, there’s a Mr. Jeffries here, insists on having a word with you,” a constable from reception reported. Cursing under his breath, Sinclair grabbed his coat and headed down to Back Hall. He saw a lean, lanky man in his late forties or early fifties standing in front of the glass cases that memorialised police officers and civilian staff members killed since the formation of the force. An eternal flame accompanied the roll of honour book that recorded the circumstances in which each life had been lost.
Sinclair’s visitor had specks of gray in his hair. He wore navy blue trousers, a khaki corduroy jacket, and a white shirt, open at the neck. His tan face looked tired. He met Sinclair’s extended hand with a firm grip and said, “I’m Bill Jeffries. I’ve come to take my little girl home.”
Sinclair recognised Jenny’s dark eyes and the now familiar, slow drawl. The corridors weren’t crowded, but police departments have eyes and ears, so he escorted him upstairs as quickly as he could. When Mr. Jeffries was seated in his office and Andrews had been sent to the canteen for tea, Sinclair brought his own chair from behind the desk and sat down next to him.
“Sir, I’d like very much to change your mind.”
Mr. Jeffries had been quietly absorbing the untidy surroundings, files piled high on the desk and filing cabinets and charts of various kinds lining the walls. “That’s not possible, son.”
Sinclair tried anyway, outlining the safety procedures they had instituted for Jenny’s protection and the qualifications of the men who were guarding her.
Mr. Jeffries listened patiently.
Next Sinclair explained the importance of the case and Jenny’s role in it, stopping only when Andrews returned with the tea.
“Very impressive,” Mr. Jeffries responded, but it didn’t sound like a concession to Sinclair.
He knew that as an historian, Mr. Jeffries would have studied the influence men can have on events. He pointed out that very few people have the opportunity to impact lives the way Jenny would with her testimony. He mentioned the families of the other victims, who were now hoping that justice would be done for those they had lost.
Mr. Jeffries sipped his tea and regarded Sinclair with a slow smile. “Take me to my daughter, please.”
“Sir, she’s at very high risk. If she doesn’t testify—if Scott isn’t convicted—she will never be free of danger.”
“As we say in cattle country, you’ve got something foul on your boots, son,” Mr. Jeffries replied. “She’ll be a far sight safer in Texas than she has been here. We know that someone came after her in the hospital.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
“She told us,” Mr. Jeffries answered with a steady gaze. “She was telling us why she liked Constable Sullivan.”
“Sir, my men did their jobs. She wasn’t harmed.”
“Chief Inspector, do you have children?” He had only seen photographs of what appeared to be Sinclair’s professional family in his office.
“No, sir. I’m sorry to say, I don’t.”
Mr. Jeffries did not break the silence that followed.
“How long have you been planning this trip?” Sinclair finally asked.
“I was always coming for her,” Mr. Jeffries acknowledged. “I was just waiting for my passport to arrive and her health to improve. I was taught never to telegraph my punches.”
Sinclair had met his match. “When are you scheduled to fly home?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. I have a hotel room reserved for tonight.”
“Sir, I’d prefer it if your name weren’t registered anywhere. I’ll have my sergeant take you to collect your luggage. You’ll stay with me, and I’ll take you to see Jenny.”
Mr. Jeffries nodded and rose to his feet. He was easily Sinclair’s height. When he had left with Andrews, Sinclair called Casey. “We have a visitor. Command performance. Uniforms. Tell Davies to cook something special. We’ll be arriving for a late dinner.” He rang off.
While he waited for Andrews and Mr. Jeffries to return, he brooded over the roller-
coaster nature of the case. For a long time they’d had nothing; then Jenny’s identification had given them everything they needed to proceed against Scott and the others. Now, potentially, it could all be lost, and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.
CHAPTER 19
Andrews was a good driver, but negotiating London traffic was difficult at best. However, it gave Sinclair time to brief Jenny’s father about her appearance. “The bruises on her face have completely faded. There’s a small scar on her right cheek, but we hardly notice it. She’s still got a cast on her left arm. She’ll be limping slightly, but—sir—she’s made great progress.”
Sinclair had expected to field all sorts of questions from Mr. Jeffries, but instead the American sat quietly, letting Sinclair shoulder the bulk of the conversation. He looked weary but alert, as if he’d found his second wind.
They finally reached Sinclair’s block. There were trees and lots of leafy shrubs and hedges, but some of the brick exteriors were worn, and the houses were close to each other. Would his guest regard it as stately or crowded? He took Mr. Jeffries up to the flat.
Casey and Sullivan answered the door and were introduced to Jenny’s father. Mr. Jeffries eyed the pistol on Casey’s belt.
“Daddy! Daddy!” she cried.
Mr. Jeffries’ long strides took him to her side in seconds. “Howdy, Punkin,” he said, enveloping her in his embrace.
Davies came out of the kitchen and laid two places on one end of the dining room table.
“We ate already,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Did you meet everybody?”
Davies stepped forward and extended his hand. “PC Davies, sir. Pleasure to meet you.”
“You, too, son,” Mr. Jeffries replied. “Jenny tells me you’re quite the hand at the chuckwagon.”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that, sir,” Davies answered. “We’ll have your dinner warmed through soon.”
Sinclair took the opportunity to show Mr. Jeffries about the flat, emphasising the security procedures and privacy afforded to her.
Davies had made what he called Quick Coq au Vin. He served it with rosemary potatoes and asparagus with olive oil, lemon, and parmesan cheese. As they ate, Sinclair could see the pain in Mr. Jeffries’ eyes when he looked at his daughter. He didn’t let it affect his words or actions, but Sinclair realised that what looked like improvement to him would be fathoms from normal for her father. Sinclair had first seen her in hospital, her body covered with bandages and invaded with tubes, but Mr. Jeffries would remember a flawless gem, with light in her eyes and colour in her face, not this pale, haunted expression that she couldn’t conceal no matter how hard she tried.
The Witness Page 15