The Witness: A Novel

Shakespeare

CHAPTER 1

The room was dim, but the pain was not. The woman without a name remembered the pain, and she felt it now, as sharp, constant, and deep as her fear, commanding her attention and making it difficult to think. My God, there was something in her throat! She reached for it, her shoulder throbbing, and heard a man’s voice say, That must be uncomfortable, but you need it just now. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t even make a sound. She struggled against the firm hand restraining her weak, slow one. When he moved into her field of view, she saw a wide face drawn in fatigue. The eyes above the mask were startlingly blue.

Don’t be afraid, he said. You’re in hospital.

Curtains instead of walls. Sheets covering her. Light pulsing across a screen. She could hear the bleep of a monitor. Other buzzes and clicks. Was he a doctor? He had dark brown hair, mussed as if he had run his hand through it one time too many, but—a tweed coat? Was he a minister? Was she dying?

You’re safe now.

She would never be safe.

I’m a policeman. I’m here to help. Are you in pain?

She dipped her chin. Even that motion hurt, and tears she couldn’t wipe welled up.

He took her hand. I’m Colin Sinclair. I want very much to know your name. He put a pen in her fingers and held a small notebook against them.

She wrote Jenny before her grip weakened and the pen fell. She closed her eyes.

Very quietly he retrieved his pen. She knew who she was, so she had memory. That was positive for the investigation but perhaps not merciful for her. On his way out he reported her brief period of consciousness to the nurses.

CHAPTER 2

Saturday morning a nurse woke Jenny. She’d just received her pain medication when a doctor came in, holding her chin still while he shone his light in her eyes. Then he suctioned her mouth and the tube in her throat. A second nurse pushed her upright, causing a stabbing pain in her ribs. The first nurse said something, but her accent was thick, and Jenny couldn’t understand her. Her heart pounded.

Breathe out, the doctor said.

It hurt to do that! Didn’t they know?

Harder! the nurse behind her said.

The tube was long, and its movement made her gag.

All done now, the doctor said briskly.

Jenny coughed, the pain from her ribs making her dizzy. One of the nurses slipped an oxygen mask over her nose briefly.

Hurts, Jenny said in a voice so raspy that she didn’t recognize it.

Silly cow, the nurse said, not unkindly. Sore throat’s normal after extubation. Some water will soothe it and your dry mouth. You can rest then.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On Saturday evening, Sinclair checked in at the nurses’ station before heading to Jenny’s space. She had a rough time today, he was told. She’s breathing on her own now, but it’s painful, and she’s exhausted. You’ll have better luck tomorrow if you want to have a word with her. Still, he felt compelled to look in. Her breathing was laboured and shallow without the help of the ventilator, but he was relieved to see that the tube had been removed from her throat. He couldn’t imagine how helpless and frightened she must have felt, with something foreign inside her body. Tonight only the light on the headboard was illuminated; subdued light for a subdued spirit. He took her hand and squeezed gently, but unlike the cinema, she did not squeeze back. Taking the nurse’s advice, he headed home.

When he arrived at the hospital on Sunday afternoon, a nurse was holding Jenny in a sitting position. Jenny’s right arm was around the nurse’s shoulders, and her legs were dangling over the edge of the bed. Her head was bowed, and tears were streaming down her cheeks. He found himself unable to watch, so he waited outside with the officer on duty until the nurse finished.

Jenny, he said, I’m a detective with New Scotland Yard. Colin Sinclair. He opened a black leather-bound folder and held out his warrant card.

He was tall, lanky. Sans the accent, he could have been a Texan. She gripped the blanket, trying to regulate her breathing to control the pain.

I need to know your full name.

She breathed out slowly. Her hoarse whisper was weak. Jennifer Catherine Jeffries.

The young woman reported missing by the Hotel La Place—they had insisted that they knew their guests, and they had been correct. He’d send a policewoman round to collect her things. You’re an American?

Yes. Texas.

Her fist was still clenched. Perhaps if he used a more formal form of address, she’d relax a bit. Miss Jeffries, I know this is hard. Can you give me just a few more minutes? Do you know what happened to you?

She made a writing motion in the air with her fingers. He took out his notebook and pen and held them for her.

Hurting. Stop.

Respecting a victim’s wishes was critically important. Further questions would have to wait. Sorry, he said. I’ll let you rest.

When he came back in the evening, he used a gentler approach. I want to have a word with you, but I’ll stop whenever you want me to do. I need to notify your next of kin. Can you write the information down for me? He handed her his notebook and pen.

Bill and Peggy Jeffries, he read. Houston, Texas. There was a series of numbers. Your parents?

She nodded.

Thank you. I’ll ring them tonight. He wanted desperately to know the Who, What, When, and Where, but he was constrained by the lack of privacy in the intensive care unit. He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. Miss Jeffries, why were you in London? Were you on holiday?

Graduate school, she wrote.

Are you a student?

Not yet, she penned.

How old are you?

23.

No more questions for now. You’ve done very well. I want you to know that you’re safe here. We have a PC just outside.

Her brows furrowed.

A police constable, he explained. Round the clock. You don’t have to be afraid. Do you have any questions for me?

How did I get here?

He waited until she looked up at him. By ambulance. You were found in an alley, wrapped in a rug.

Her face crumpled, and her penmanship deteriorated. He threw me away

Who, Miss Jeffries? Can you tell me who did that to you?

Tears came, but they were silent, and she was still. She had learnt to cry without moving. It made him angry that she couldn’t even cry without pain.

Sorry, he said. I’m meant to be answering your questions. He collected his notebook. You’re going to be all right, you know. It will take some time, but you’re going to be all right. I’ll tell your parents that when I speak with them.

Wait—

Her voice was so faint he wasn’t certain she’d spoken.

Don’t—tell—

What don’t you want them to know?

Not—

He followed the direction of her eyes. I understand. I won’t mention the sexual assault.

He went back to the Yard to bring his partner up to date. Perhaps if he waited until later in the evening to ring the Jeffries, he’d find the words he needed. He dreaded the news he’d have to give them, but Jenny was lucky: She was alive.

CHAPTER 3

Sinclair waited until it was almost 1 a.m. London time before dialling the numbers Jenny had given him. He had returned to the Yard earlier in the evening, only to find his desk littered with the latest editions of the newspapers, all with headlines concerning what they called the Carpet Killer cases. He didn’t read them, though he was sure Andrews had.

Fortunately Jenny was insulated from the media frenzy while she was in hospital. The officers on duty had been briefed; they would keep even the most persistent reporters away. But there was so much she needed protecting from! The attack had been invasive; the emergency treatment also invasive; and the interview questions—when she was able to handle them—would be invasive as well. It was a distasteful process, asking distressed strangers to disclose so much painful, personal information.

And police interviews were only the first step: Jenny would have to deal with legal counsel, a solicitor pretrial and barristers on both sides of the case when her testimony began. It was no wonder that so many victims lost their resolve to see it through. Justice could be cruel, even to those who least deserved cruelty. He shook his head at himself. He could not ring Jenny’s parents while he was in this mood.

He decided to pay a visit to the Tank. Having a gym on the premises of the Yard offered a more constructive way for officers to deal with their stress than drinking at the bar it had previously been. He worked himself to exhaustion on the rowing machine. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he headed back to his office. He hoped Mr. Jeffries would be at home. In his experience it was easier breaking bad news to fathers than to mothers, although only marginally so.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was a difficult phone call. Mr. Jeffries had been frantic for news about his daughter but faltered upon hearing that she had been assaulted and was in intensive care. No matter how clear and simple the words, a parent’s initial reaction was confusion and disbelief. In a perverse sort of reassurance, Sinclair repeated the information and heard the transition from shock to horror. He had heard it before, in the voices of other parents, and the long distance connection only made the sound more poignant. It was rare for a crime to affect the victim only; most had families and friends who felt the repercussions as well. Hence Sinclair preferred to notify loved ones in person with a family liaison officer present, but that was not possible in this case.

Unfortunately it would be some time before Jenny’s parents could travel to London: Their passports weren’t current. In the face of Mr. Jeffries’ agitation, Sinclair kept his voice calm. He had learnt early in his career to do nothing that would escalate a situation. He assured Mr. Jeffries that Jenny was safe and receiving the best medical care. He promised to ring again in the next day or two. It had not been difficult to avoid disclosing the exact nature of her attack.

CHAPTER 4

Monday morning found Sinclair on his way back to the hospital. He had just greeted Jenny when Dr. Walsh pushed the curtain aside. I’d like to have a look at you, he told her.

Feeling a traitor, Sinclair stepped outside. In a few minutes he heard a rasping cry. The privacy provided by the curtain didn’t seem sufficient. There were several more cries, muffled, a few minutes apart. How did doctors continue their treatment when what they did was hurting someone? The same way coppers did, he guessed: by focussing on the outcome. In Jenny’s case, that would mean taking a very long term view indeed.

When Dr. Walsh came out, he was smiling. I removed the chest tube and the sutures the plastic surgeon put in. Miss Jeffries is healing beautifully. You can go in now.

I heard her cry out.

There’s a sharp pain when the chest tube is removed, Dr. Walsh explained. And the incision site will be tender for some time. But she’s doing well, and we’ll be transferring her out of intensive care this afternoon.

Not to a ward, Sinclair said quickly. And not on the ground floor.

Dr. Walsh thought for a moment. I’ll see if there’s a barrier nursing room available. That’s an isolation area—it should suit.

Sinclair spoke with the PC on duty before rejoining Jenny. She’s going to be moved. Stay with her. I’ll have backup for you by the start of the next shift. The curtain was partly open, and he could see the nurse arranging Jenny’s bed. Jenny was lying flat, and she was taking careful, shallow breaths, her face tight with pain. The bandages had been removed from her face, and the intravenous drip was out also.

Miss Jeffries, I have some good news for you. I rang your parents last night and had a word with your father. He asked me to give you a message. He recited the lines. It’s a bit cryptic.

No, they’re lines from a poem by Robert Frost. ‘But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep...’ He’s coming; I bet both of them are coming. She tried unsuccessfully to clear her throat.

Miss Jeffries, Dr. Walsh says you’re healing beautifully.

He was so austere in his dark three-piece suit and tie, and the stilted way he spoke—and his clipped speech—seemed to belie his comforting words. That’s just an expression doctors use, she whispered. There can’t be anything beautiful about it.

They did their best for you. A plastic surgeon put the stitches in your cheek. Didn’t they show you?

Is that supposed to be a good thing? That I had a plastic surgeon?

The hoarseness in her voice made it sound like there was something broken inside. It’s not bad at all, he told her. It’s like a wrinkle, a pink wrinkle. There’s a clear adhesive strip over it.

She searched his face for signs of revulsion but found none.

You’ll be pleasantly surprised, he insisted. And what you see now will fade and improve over time.

She was quiet. She wanted more than speeches. She wanted the endless succession of interruptions by strangers to stop. She wanted the pain to stop. She wanted her sentence in this beneficent prison to be over.

And there’s more, he added. You’re going to be moved out of intensive care this afternoon. When I see you later today, you’ll be in your own room.

No, she thought after he left, it wouldn’t be her room. Her room was in a house in Houston, with faces she knew and voices she recognized, a place where her privacy was respected and she could shut everyone out if she wanted to.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was late afternoon before Sinclair and Andrews made their way to Middlesex Hospital, where they introduced themselves to Jenny’s new doctor, Dr. Adams, a neat trim man with a pepper-and-salt beard. Then they located her room. Sinclair was glad to see that the backup had arrived: There were now two PCs seated outside, one of them female. You know the drill, he said. Check IDs on all medical personnel until you know them. I’ll be supplying you with a list of approved providers. Until then, err on the side of caution. I don’t care if someone’s offended. This girl has been through too much already for us to take any sort of chance.

Sir, the move from UCH was hard on her, the WPC reported.

I expected that, Sinclair replied. He knocked lightly, and he and Andrews entered. Miss Jeffries, he began, I’d like you to meet David Andrews. He’s a detective sergeant and will be working with me on your case.

Sergeant Andrews opened his warrant card. He was broad, even without a uniform. Despite his friendly face, she was glad when he chose to sit in the background, letting the taller man—what was his name?—Mr. Sinclair?—take the chair next to the bed.

Congratulations on your new address, he said. Are you able to answer a few preliminary questions for us? He knew from her medical report what had happened to her; he also had a general idea of when, based on her admission to hospital. He decided to enquire only about the Who and the Where.

She saw the sergeant take out his notebook.

We know that someone hurt you, Sinclair said gently. Do you know who it was?

She shook her head.

Can you give us a description?

Her voice was still hoarse. He was tall and slim. I don’t know how tall. I was on the floor, and he was standing. A shadow crossed her face.

What else?

Blond hair. Cheekbones—high. Nose—long and narrow. Lips—thin. She stole a quick glance at the young sergeant. He was recording everything. He looked up at her, an attentive expression on his face.

Can you tell us anything more? Sinclair wasn’t using his notebook.

He had a gaunt, weathered face. Ranchers in Texas look like that, because they’ve spent so much time in the sun. And crow’s feet, maybe from squinting at the sun.

What colour were his eyes?

Gray. She shivered. When I close mine, I can still see him.

Miss Jeffries, was he alone?

Yes—no—there were two other men, she stammered, but they weren’t—I mean—they didn’t—

Not a single assailant then. Until this moment no one had known how many evildoers they were seeking. Forensic had been able to demonstrate the involvement of just one, but detectives had wondered how a single individual had managed to dispose of the bodies. Miss Jeffries, I know this is upsetting. I’d like to hear about those men, but I’m willing to do this at your pace. I don’t want you to feel any undue pressure.

Are you kidding? It’s all pressure. You want me to remember, and all I want to do is go home and forget.

Miss Jeffries, speaking with us does not obligate you in any way, although I do hope you’ll continue to help us.

She stared at him. Didn’t he know how out of control she felt? No matter how courteously he spoke, she was still at his mercy—at the mercy of whoever walked through her door. What did you ask?

Can you describe the other men?

I only saw them for a couple minutes. One man was stocky. Muscular. No neck. Shaved head. The other was taller and thinner.

Sinclair saw her wince as she tried to shift her weight. The shorter man: What was his ethnicity?

She matched his politically-correct language. Caucasian.

What was he wearing?

A tight t-shirt and dark pants.

And the man with him?

I can’t remember his clothes. Just his face—thick black eyebrows and mustache. Hair slicked back.

Accents of any kind?

They didn’t say anything.

Did they injure you in any way?

She was so tired. I couldn’t get away.

Miss Jeffries, you have to help us here. What did they do?

"They—they were there. When the light went on. Near the door. Just a few feet away. They locked me in. Isn’t that enough?"

Where?

She shook her head. Her voice was giving out.

Miss Jeffries, Sinclair said, I have just one more question. When you were admitted to hospital, forensic samples were collected that could provide important evidence in your case. Do we have your permission to process this material?

I don’t understand. Why are you asking me?

Miss Jeffries, the samples were taken from your body. Had you been conscious, we would have asked your permission to procure them. Your consent is very important to us.

Consent: What a concept. The monster didn’t ask for her consent. Even the doctors and nurses didn’t. Amazing that the police did. Yes.

There was a knock on the door. One of the PCs pushed it open. A nurse was bringing Jenny’s dinner. Time to sit up, lamb, she said.

What’s on the menu tonight? Sinclair asked. There wasn’t a plate on the tray. Everything was in polystyrene cups.

Chicken bouillon, gelatin, apple juice, and tea, the nurse answered. And pain medication prescribed by Dr. Adams.

Yum, Jenny said. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the pills.

CHAPTER 5

Sinclair had asked the police sketch artist to meet Andrews and himself outside Jenny’s room on Tuesday. As usual, Sinclair was early and impatient for the others to arrive.

Quiet night, sir, one of the PCs reported.

Andrews arrived next. Sinclair checked his watch. It was late, even for Sutton. He saw a slim young man with a boyish face and curly black hair hurrying down the passage. Sorry, sir, he said. I’ve never liked coming to hospital. Are you sure you need me to go in? Couldn’t I wait outside while you get the details? Hearing them from you would do just as well, wouldn’t it?

I’ll let him know what to expect, sir, Andrews said.

Sutton couldn’t seem to stand still; he transferred his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

When Sinclair entered, Jenny turned toward him.

Are you up to a chat? He stood beside the bed. The description you gave me of your attacker was a good one. Do you think you could add to it if you saw it on paper?

I’ll try.

Andrews, he called. The sergeant pushed the door open and stepped inside, Sutton hanging back behind him, clutching his sketch pad to his chest like a shield.

Miss Jeffries, do you remember my partner, Sergeant Andrews? And this is Jamie Sutton. He’s a sketch artist. Sutton, show Miss Jeffries what you have so far.

Sutton opened his pad. At Sinclair’s insistence, he came a bit closer. The drawing was life size, light pencil strokes marking the features she had described.

How old a man was your attacker? Sinclair asked.

Jenny shrugged. I don’t really know, she said. How old are you?

Thirty-six.

A little older, she concluded. Rugged looking.

Is his face the right shape? Sutton asked.

Long and thin face, she remembered.

The artist drew quickly then turned the pad in her direction.

His hair fell part way over his forehead. It was wavy, like Sergeant Andrews’. His eyes were more recessed.

Sinclair watched and listened. Sutton didn’t have the rapport with witnesses that he would have liked. Still uncomfortable himself, he had made no attempt to put Jenny at ease. He was, however, skilled at eliciting descriptive details, adjusting the size of the attacker’s eyes, nose, and mouth as she directed.

Any facial hair? Sutton asked.

No, she said slowly. She considered the picture. The eyebrows aren’t quite right.

I can do long—thin—full—heavy, Sutton said, demonstrating each type. He was more comfortable looking at his work than at her.

They weren’t thin, she said, but he was blond, so they didn’t dominate.

Any distinguishing marks? Sutton asked. Moles, blemishes, maybe a scar? Oh, sorry! I shouldn’t have said—I didn’t mean—

Her eyes filled, and she put her hand over her cheek. "It is a distinguishing mark, isn’t it? I knew it—it looks bad, doesn’t it?"

It’s not bad at all, Miss, Andrews responded, feeling the need to cut through Sutton’s distress and his boss’ displeasure.

What’s left? Sinclair asked Sutton.

Just the chin, I think, Sutton said quickly. Rounded? Pointed? Or square, like this?

Square, she answered.

Again the artist corrected his drawing.

Not—cruel enough, she faltered. More lines of cruelty around the mouth. When the artist had added the final details, she began to cry. That’s him.

A look passed between Sinclair and Andrews. The face bore a striking resemblance to someone they both recognised. Out, Sinclair said. Cover that picture. Wait for me. Sutton was out of the room in a flash. Andrews followed.

Miss Jeffries, thank you. Our combined efforts can accomplish a good deal.

The phone rang, startling both of them. I’ll answer for you, he said, knowing she couldn’t reach it. He heard a female voice, American, ask for Jenny. He had just transmitted the number to the Jeffries the evening before. What time was it in Texas? Jenny’s mother must have risen early. Stand by, he said, handing the receiver to Jenny.

Jenny’s eyes were eager with anticipation, but when she heard her mother’s words, she looked shocked and then broke down. Sinclair could hear Mrs. Jeffries assuring her daughter that they’d be there as soon as they could, and they were so, so sorry for the delay. Jenny was sobbing. He took the phone from her. Mrs. Jeffries? DCI Sinclair here, he said. Yes, Jenny’s all right, she’s just happy to hear your voice. Let me see if I can help her settle a bit. Hold on, please. He sat down on the bed.

Miss Jeffries, focus on something neutral, he suggested.

She looked at his tie—stripes of silver alternating with several shades of blue. Was that supposed to help? Her parents weren’t coming soon; she was stuck here. Nothing was going to help.

Mrs. Jeffries? We’re not making much progress here. I know this is upsetting, but she’s really all right. He listened for a moment. I’ll do that, he said. Give my regards to your husband. He ended the call. Miss Jeffries, your family loves you. They’ll ring again.

He held out his handkerchief, but she gripped his hand instead. He was surprised and strangely touched. Sshh, he soothed. I know it’s difficult for you to be separated from your family right now, but you’re not alone.

He had a deep resonant voice that reminded her slightly of her father’s, but he was not her father. He wasn’t any part of her family. She realized that she was still holding his hand. She dropped it quickly, embarrassed that a stranger had witnessed her distress.

CHAPTER 6

Detective Superintendent Jeremy Graves was a spare, restless man with a seemingly endless reserve of nervous energy. Sinclair had worked with him before, when the Regional Crime Squad was investigating a case with Islington connections. Most coppers were accustomed to pressure on the Job, but Graves never ran out of expectations. He pressed hard—sometimes too hard, Sinclair thought—for a good result.

How’s our witness? Graves asked. Feeling any better?

Still weak and in significant pain, sir, but we do have a description of her attacker. He held out the drawing.

When Graves saw the artist’s sketch of the suspect, he snapped, Damn! Looks like Cecil Scott.

That’s what I thought, sir.

Colin, is this witness credible? Coherent? Do you believe her?

That was typical of the D/S; he never fired just one shot. She’s intelligent, sir. Her description was clear and to the point.

Does he have form? Have you checked?

Sinclair knew Graves was thinking of the psychological profile. According to the psychologist, sadistic killers didn’t develop overnight. Scott should have previous offences, escalating in severity. He’s clean, sir, but he has travelled extensively.

Graves nodded: possible victims in other countries. Do you know this man socially? Personally?

No, sir. We’ve met once or twice but not recently, and I wouldn’t say that I know him personally at all.

Impressions?

Superficially charming. Impatient. Unusually self-centred. The sort of man who’s used to getting what he wants.

That fit the profile. Any evidence of previous anti-social behaviour?

No, sir.

The D/S frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. I take it our witness can’t appear at an identity parade? Then it’ll have to be photographic. Don’t make it easy! Make each snap as similar as possible in dress as well as in appearance. We have to be certain. If she identifies Scott, proceed as you would in any other case. Keep me informed. Does she have protection?

Yes, sir. And I doubled the detail when she came out of intensive care.

Graves leant forward. Colin, will she follow it through? It’s your job to ensure that she does.

Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.

Family here?

There’s been a delay, but they’ll want to take her home.

Can’t blame them, but we’ll have to move quickly then. Tell her the full resources of this force are with her. Until now we’ve been at least one step behind this bastard. I’d rather be one step ahead.

She’s been cooperative so far. She’s given her approval for the forensics to be tested. Could you prod the lab for us?

Consider it done. And his accomplices?

We have insufficient information for an ID.

The artist understands his role in this?

Yes, sir.

You’ll control Andrews? As of yet this ident is unconfirmed.

Sinclair smiled. Yes, sir.

Carry on.

Sinclair headed to his office to find someone to prepare the photo array. Andrews would be at the hospital, assisting Hartley in her interview of Jenny. Both were delicate assignments. The Sexual Offences Investigative Training officer would need to treat Jenny with kid gloves, and Scott was an ambassador’s son. The rules might be the same for all suspects regardless of heritage, but in his case they would be more politely applied.

CHAPTER 7

Sergeant Andrews and the SOIT officer, Sergeant Hartley, identified themselves to the officers on duty. There’s a physiotherapist in there, they were told. Jenny was sitting up, and the therapist was replacing the sling over her neck. They saw relief come over her face when her shoulder didn’t have to bear the weight of the cast.

I’m Sergeant Hartley, the female officer said, extending her warrant card for Jenny to see. Sergeant Summer Hartley. She smiled at Jenny’s expression. It’s okay; everyone’s curious about my name. May I sit down?

Jenny nodded at the chair next to the bed. She thought the officer’s name fit her—her hair was the hue of summer wheat, and Jenny could picture her walking outside, the wind rippling through it and the sun spotlighting her fresh face. Jenny couldn’t see any evidence of makeup, yet her complexion was smooth and clean. She wasn’t wearing a uniform; her clothes were varying shades of autumn browns and golds. Jenny felt drab in her hospital gown.

Hartley was trying not to react to Jenny’s battered appearance. She’d been told what her medical condition was, but seeing such extensive injuries firsthand was difficult. She felt a bit queasy and was glad she was seated. I was a summer baby, she continued, and since my parents’ lifestyle was unconventional, to say the least, they decided that I would be a remembrance of the season.

Is there such a thing as summer in England? Jenny asked.

Hartley gave what she hoped was a relaxed laugh. I know we’ve got nothing that compares to your Texas temperatures, but the mercury only has to rise a bit, and we’re outdoors making the most of it. She smiled again. Do you have any brothers or sisters?

Two brothers, both younger.

I have a younger sister, Hartley said. When she was born, my parents were in their spiritual phase—her name is Grace.

Hartley’s hair was long enough for a pony tail, but she wore it loose. Jenny wished she’d at least been able to wash hers.

Sergeant Andrews and I want to have a chat about what happened to you, she said. You needn’t be afraid; we can stop at any time. Our goal is to achieve the best evidence we can, but we’re not going to do anything without your consent. We’d like you to use your own words. Do you have any objection to being taped?

Jenny hadn’t seen a camera. It’s not a video, is it?

No, Sergeant Andrews has brought a tape recorder.

Interview with Jennifer Jeffries, Middlesex Hospital, London. Sergeants David Andrews and Summer Hartley present. Andrews gave the date and time. Your statement is really important to us, he said. It will help in our investigation and provide the basis for legal prosecution later, should you decide to participate in the criminal justice process.

Do I really have a choice? Jenny asked, surprised.

Jenny, Hartley responded, this interview is just the first step. And we will not proceed with it unless we have your permission. At each stage you are the one who will determine if we go on.

I don’t understand, Jenny said, her voice rising. I described somebody. You have a drawing. Didn’t the other detective tell you? Haven’t you identified him?

Jenny, Hartley said patiently, there are a large number of people working on this investigation. Each of us will play his or her part. We have many avenues to pursue, and we follow established procedures.

Oh, God, Jenny cried, you have to find him and arrest him. He’ll do this to someone else if you don’t! You can’t let that happen!

Andrews and Hartley exchanged glances.

You don’t even know how badly it hurt! Jenny continued, her sobs distorting her words. And it still does! You have to help me!

Hartley stood up. That’s just what we’re going to do. Sergeant Andrews is going to call the nurse, and we’re going to make sure she looks after you. You don’t have to do this when you’re so upset.

Andrews spoke into the machine, reporting the time the interview was suspended.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

During the afternoon interview, Jenny was frustrated with the small talk and impatient with Sergeant Hartley’s careful adherence to procedure. She hurried through the background questions Hartley asked and tried to ignore the neutral expression the trim sergeant wore. Jenny hadn’t forgotten the shock Hartley had struggled to conceal in the morning, and it made her wonder how her mother would react when she saw her.

Hartley’s skin was flawless, and she was graceful, crossing her legs with unconscious ease. Jenny’s left leg still throbbed from the vicious kicks it had received. In fact, her whole body looked and felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. Her throat was tight, but the tape recorder was running, so she tried to focus on describing the sights she had seen her first few days in London.

Her last glimpse of her normal self had been in the mirror in the hotel lobby. She had given a carefree wave to the manager and headed toward the bus stop, her feet light on the sidewalk, her heart full of anticipation for the day’s events: touring as many galleries of the British Museum as she could.

There had been no gallery tours, no examination of relics, art, or literary works. She had been taken, stripped, beaten. She remembered the monster’s hand striking her cheek and his body poised to impale her. The tightness in her throat spread to her chest. She couldn’t possibly detail the monster’s actions to the sergeant with the pristine features. Hartley’s reassurance didn’t assuage her dismay, and she began to cry.

She heard Andrews’ voice: Interview with Jennifer Jeffries terminated.

CHAPTER 8

At the Yard Andrews and Hartley were reporting their two failed attempts to interview Jenny. Sir, I don’t know how to explain it, Hartley said. In the morning we stopped when she became upset. Often that happens, but usually it’s better the second time round. In the afternoon she seemed determined to talk to us, but she just couldn’t do. Perhaps the trauma is still too recent, or the absence of her family makes the attack too difficult to discuss.

Sergeant Hartley did it by the book, Andrews added, but Jenny lost control long before we reached any sensitive areas.

Is it worth another go? Sinclair asked.

Not by me, Hartley said.

Can’t you set your feelings aside?

Of course, sir, but my feelings aren’t the issue. Hers are. She knows her appearance has been compromised. She kept staring at me. I think she’d do better with a different officer.

He dismissed Andrews and Hartley and then settled back to listen to the tape. Pain may have been a factor, but he thought that fear was the reason the first interview had failed. She knew her attacker was still at large, and remembering the attack resurrected the fear.

He listened to the second session twice but came no closer to understanding what had gone wrong. However, Hartley had acquitted herself well. Terminating the interview had been the only course. And her appraisal of Jenny was probably correct. He closed his office for the night.

On his way home he stopped by the hospital. There was a stillness in Jenny’s room he couldn’t identify. Her eyes were red and puffy. More tears then. God knew she had a right to them. You had a rough time today. Care to tell me about it?

She looked at him, wondering what was wrong with her. She’d been glad at first that the police were there, but now she just wanted them to go away and take their questions with them. No, she said. I’ll cry, and it hurts to cry.

Take a deep breath and steady yourself, he suggested. Then talk to me.

She shook her head slowly. It hurts to breathe.

Do you need medication for pain? I’ll get the nurse for you.

I’ve had it already, she whispered. There’s nothing they can do.

Miss Jeffries, I’m just a policeman, and I understand that you don’t know me very well, but I’m not going to desert you. How can I help?

The doctors and nurses call me ‘Miss Jeffries,’ and then they do things that hurt. Could—could you please call me ‘Jenny’?

Jenny, what hurt you today?

I’m scarred. It’s awful! They’re everywhere! I should have died!

Of course. According to the nurses, Jenny hadn’t watched the doctor remove her chest tube. This morning, however, before the first interview, they had cleansed the sutures and changed the dressing. She had seen the surgical incision and more. He stepped closer to the bed. The only scar I see isn’t awful at all, he said softly.

She gave no sign of acknowledgement.

You’ve still not seen the one on your face?

She shook her head.

Shearson! he called.

Sir? The constable pushed the door open slightly.

Borrow a mirror from one of the nurses and bring it to me. He saw what little colour there was in Jenny’s face drain away. We’re partners, he told her. That means we look out for each other, trust each other. And this is the first step. Thank you, Shearson, he said when the mirror was provided. I’m not going to make you look, Jenny, but you’re going to feel better when you do. Knowing is always better than not knowing.

She held the mirror face down in her lap. There was a long silence.

You’re still pretty, Jenny. All Scott’s victims had been pretty. He had seen snaps of them, keepsakes their families treasured, pictures of special occasions when everyone was smiling.

I’ve seen enough scars for one day, she whispered. I just can’t do it. Please don’t be mad.

Mad? Oh—culture gap: She means angry. A scar is a sign of healing, he pointed out.

Not to me.

You’re going to get better, Jenny. It’s early days yet.

Is it bad? Will people stare, like they do at crippled people?

Not a chance, he assured her.

It’s not like having freckles, she insisted. This is different—you know it is.

No, Jenny, it’s not. We’re all more than a single feature. He changed the subject. About today—

I lost it today, Jenny whispered. I wish I didn’t remember what happened to me. Then I wouldn’t disappoint anybody.

You didn’t disappoint, he said quietly. Nothing of the sort. May I prove it to you? He held out his hand. You don’t have to take it. My feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t. All the books say I shouldn’t offer it. But sometimes human need goes beyond words.

She did take his hand. His long, slim fingers swallowed hers. Will you give me another chance?

Dozens of them, he assured her. We’ll all start with a clean slate tomorrow.

CHAPTER 9

Sinclair hadn’t visited anyone in the hospital on such a frequent basis since his father’s illness. It struck him how vastly different the two experiences were, his father with a negative prognosis, Jenny with a positive one. But his father had not been isolated. His mother had been with him almost round the clock. He had visited regularly, his sister had, and there had been other family members and friends. Jenny’s family was still an ocean away.

They had kept his father company, adjusted his pillows, refilled his water, brought treats. They had encouraged him, entertained him, reminisced with him, been with him when the doctors made their rounds. Jenny had no visitors except medical personnel and police. When the doctor’s treatments were painful, there was no one to lend support. He and Andrews came with questions, not comfort.

Over time, his mother had brought things from home to cheer his father: family photos, a favourite book, music that soothed and relaxed him. Near the end, she had read to him, short humourous pieces, poetry, verses from the Bible. He could still recall her light, expressive voice. It had distracted his father temporarily from the deteriorating condition of his body and the rest of them from their impending loss.

Jenny’s room was bare, but he could do something about that. Perhaps flowers could help bridge the gap until her parents arrived. He managed to talk the florist out of a formal arrangement with lilies, thinking her samples looked funereal, and selected instead miniature roses, sweet peas, and the delicate de rigeur baby’s breath. He didn’t know what would appeal to a young wounded Texan, but the gentle colours pleased him.

She looked up and smiled when she saw the flowers. Is there a card?

I’m the card, he told her. They’re from me. I thought you could use a bit of encouragement.

They’re beautiful. Thank you. My parents called last night after you left, she continued. I cried, so my dad did most of the talking at first. When I calmed down, my mom had questions—how was I feeling, what was the hospital like, did I like my doctor—parent stuff. I never thought that parent stuff would sound so good, but it did. I didn’t want to hang up.

Jenny, they’re lovely people. I’ve spoken with them several times. He realised that it was the first time he’d heard her speak without tension. There was warmth in her voice. He’d heard other Americans speak, so it must be the Texas accent that broadened her vowels and softened her consonants. His voice must sound cold. She was used to hearing a slow drawl.

The food on her breakfast tray was virtually untouched. I see you’re not sold on our British cuisine, he said.

She tried to respond to his lighter tone. What is British cuisine, exactly?

Why, we have very upmarket items, he told her. You haven’t experienced the wonders of fish and chips, or bangers and mash, or spaghetti on toast?

No, I have been culturally deprived, she said, and I’m not sure I want to assimilate. Didn’t George Bernard Shaw say that we were ‘two people separated by a common language’? I think we’re separated by lots more than the way we speak.

Our legal systems differ also, but there are many common factors. In both our countries police depend on the willingness and goodwill of witnesses to help them stem the tide of crime.

Are you asking me if I’m willing to be a witness?

For now I’d just like you to think about your readiness to participate in the interview process, he said. If the events are still too traumatic for you to speak of, I need to know.

Will Sergeant Hartley be coming back?

No, I’ll be assigning another officer, either a male or a female, whichever you prefer.

Why do I have to do this at all? You’ll have scientific evidence.

Jenny, we have only your description of the man who assaulted you. We need to identify him and locate him. And before we interrogate him, we need to know from you everything that happened.

It’s hard to think about telling everything to a stranger, she said slowly.

Victims of sexual violence were usually interviewed by specialists, but it wasn’t easy to establish rapport with people who were frightened or in pain. Jenny was both. How long would it take a new officer to gain her trust? A witness had to have confidence in the police. They were the first representatives of the criminal justice system they encountered.

Then talk to me, he said.

Now?

No, after lunch. I’ll bring another officer with me, and we’ll make an official record of what you say.

She felt cornered. She hadn’t been able to get away from the monster, and now it appeared she couldn’t get away from the police. But maybe if she gave them the information they wanted, they’d leave her alone for a while. After lunch, she confirmed.

CHAPTER 10

Sinclair returned to the hospital in early afternoon to show Jenny the photo display that included Scott’s picture. As you know, we have a sketch based on your description of your attacker. We’ve tried to match the sketch with photographs. We need to see if you can identify your attacker’s photograph when compared with other similar ones. If his picture isn’t here, please say so. We want to be certain before we arrest someone.

He handed her twelve photos. It had taken some time to compile them, since the only photographs they had of the man they suspected showed him in evening wear or some other type of specialised clothing. Sinclair didn’t want her choice to be affected by differences in dress. Facial features alone needed to be the determining factor.

He’s the one, she said shakily when she saw the twelfth picture. Seeing her attacker—even smiling, as he was in the photo she held—made her dizzy with fear. There’s no doubt.

She had pointed to the photo of Cecil Scott. Are you willing to testify in court to that effect? he asked, trying to conceal the excitement he felt.

Testify? I can’t face that! I can hardly stand up.

Jenny, he needs to be in prison, and you can help us accomplish that. May I count on your cooperation?

What do you think I’ve been doing?

I’d like to encourage you to consider taking a further step.

Why? Why do I have to be the one?

Because there’s no one else. Are you aware that there were other victims? What you may not know is that none of them survived.

Into the valley of death rode the six hundred, she said bitterly.

He recognised the Tennyson quote. Jenny, this isn’t a suicide mission. The Metropolitan Police have a world-wide reputation for excellence and integrity, and we can protect you from any threat. We’ve provided protection for you since you were found, one officer while you were in intensive care and now two. I understand that it’s difficult for you to trust anyone just now, but that’s rather compelling evidence of our commitment to you.

But—my family—I want to go home. I want to see London in my rear-view mirror.

Each case, each witness is different. We are more than capable of responding to your individual needs. He decided not to appeal to her sense of civic duty. London wasn’t her city. In the short time since they’d met, he’d seen fear, pain, and despair cross her face. Occasionally she’d expressed frustration, but not anger. Some victims wanted revenge; fuel their anger a bit and they’d agree to testify to anything. He didn’t see that in Jenny. He’d been struck by her helplessness, so he decided to emphasise the empowering nature of what he was asking her to do. Jenny, there’s power in speaking the truth. I know your feelings overwhelm you sometimes, but you seem to right yourself. It takes a special sort of strength to face someone who has hurt you, and I believe you have it. He smiled. You’re the spark that will ignite this case.

No, I’m the kindling. I’ll be consumed.

It’s your choice to make, Jenny.

Do I have to decide now?

No, although I’d like to suggest that you’ll feel more at peace when you do. Jenny, I’m offering you the opportunity to take back the part of your life that your attacker took away. Asserting yourself will make you feel stronger.

She looked down. The suspect photos were still on her lap, the one of Scott on top. Her strength had bled out of her; the surgeon had stitched up an empty shell.

He collected the photos. I’ll be back shortly, he said.

Andrews and the new SOIT officer were approaching. Sinclair gave Andrews the envelope of suspect snaps. We’ve got him! he said. Take this back to Graves. The high-profile nature of this case has just escalated. And Andrews—the fewer people who know about this, the better.

CHAPTER 11

At the sound of the knock, Jenny turned toward the door. Mr. Sinclair had a tape recorder in his hand, and there was someone with him, a man with sandy-colored hair receding slightly at the temples and a boyish, easy smile. He was wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt under a pullover sweater. He reminded her of her brother, Matt, who was lean and wiry and wished he were taller.

Jenny, this is PC Bridges. He didn’t mention Bridges’ specialist training.

She blinked. You don’t look like a policeman.

Bridges laughed. I’ll take that as a compliment, but the name’s Barry. His eyes twinkled. I’m afraid to ask—what do I look like?

A teenager.

My wife would agree that I act like one sometimes, Bridges smiled, but I’ve seen sweet sixteen twice. He and Sinclair pulled chairs next to the bed and sat down.

Jenny realized that the side of her face with the scar was next to him, and she covered her cheek quickly.

You needn’t do that, Jenny. May I call you Jenny? We all have scars. Want to see mine? He stood up, propped his foot on the bed, and pushed his sock down.

I can hardly see anything, she said.

That’s just what people are going to say about you before long.

How did it happen?

Poor quality shin guard. He rearranged his sock and sat down.

What can I tell people about my scar?

Tell them it’s from a sport injury, Bridges joked.

Do you play soccer? she asked Bridges.

Football, we call it, he answered. I used to. Now I coach it—seven-and eight-year-olds.

Sinclair was enjoying this exchange. He’d wondered what Bridges would do. Many SOIT officers watched popular TV shows to help them develop rapport with a victim, but Jenny was from a different culture and wouldn’t have been familiar with British fare.

Both my brothers play, she said. When they started, their coaches had a terrible time getting them to do the drills. How do you get kids that young to do them?

I participate with them, and sometimes I even give one of them the whistle so he can start and stop the play. And I’m going to do the same thing with you, when you’re ready.

She turned to Sinclair. I thought you were going to question me.

You seem to be getting on with Bridges.

I like helping people, Bridges said. I want to help the investigation, of course, but more important, I want to help you. If you can trust me enough to tell me what happened, you’ll have made an important first step. Like other SOIT officers, he had been trained to place the needs of the victim first. Doing so not only yielded better evidence but also established a strong relationship that encouraged victims to follow through.

She looked down at her lap. Talking about it makes it seem like it’s happening all over again.

Then it’s time you left the defence to us. We have the best defence in the world right outside your door. He stood and summoned the two uniformed police. We’re having show and tell, gentlemen. Please introduce yourselves.

PC Denton, Miss, the first man said. He looked like an NFL linebacker, broad and solid, but he was not armed.

PC Bolton, the second, slimmer man said.

This is not my area of expertise, Bridges continued, so we won’t cover everything. However, even I know that you have radios, in case you need backup. And clearly you both carry truncheons. Would you like to tell us why you’re here?

To protect this young lady, Denton answered. He looked in Jenny’s direction.

How can you do that without guns? she asked.

We don’t need firearms to protect you, Miss. If you need us, all you have to do is call. He nodded at the DCI.

As Denton and Bolton left, Bridges continued. They check everyone’s identification, Jenny, every time. When the Chief Inspector and I arrived this afternoon, we both had to show our warrant cards. They have a list of approved medical personnel. DCI Sinclair has given very specific instructions to ensure your safety.

She was seeing only a small part of the picture. Will you help me? she asked Bridges. Yesterday I was—offsides.

Bridges smiled. My kids do that when they’re trying to win the game all by themselves. You don’t have to. With your permission, we’ll record what you say so you won’t have to relate everything more than once. We may have follow-on questions, but those can be asked at a later time.

I didn’t do anything wrong, Jenny said in a strained voice. She watched Bridges’ face very carefully, but there was no sign of censure in his expression when he replied.

"Of course you didn’t. The man who hurt you was