The Witness: A Novel (12 page)

Sinclair shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Jenny,” he said gently, “we would be remiss if we didn’t prepare for every sort of threat.”

Davies straightened and stepped back.

“Serial murder is rare in England,” Sinclair continued. “This is a big case, and there is enormous pressure to get things done. Your testimony against Scott is the most powerful evidence we will have. All I’m asking of you is to give these men a chance to prove they are trustworthy.”

She was tired already. Her chin drooped.

Sinclair gestured to Casey to take her back to her room.

She paled. And strained to keep her eyes open until Casey had settled her in bed and left.

W
hen Sergeant Casey looked in on Jenny, she was already awake. The men brought her lunch on a tray. Hot soup. More tea. Danny was the most outgoing, and he kept the conversation lively, even from his position on the floor. “Rank has its privileges—and so does size,” he joked as Casey and Davies took the chairs. They all had some rank—someone had acknowledged their value. In the hospital she’d been the “fractured ribs” or the “police patient” or worse. What was she now?

A coward. She didn’t want to know these men; she wanted to hide. And to sleep—the smallest movements wore her out.

The flat was very quiet. There had been so much going on at the hospital, nurses or other personnel in and out of her room day and night. She hadn’t thought she’d miss the interruptions, but now her world had been reduced to four beige walls, three strange men, and one pathetic set of clothes.

Danny escorted her to dinner. The men had laid the table for four people. “Where’s Mr. Sinclair?” she asked.

“He’ll call by later,” Sergeant Casey said. “He’s got a lot on.”

Call by? What did that mean? Was he calling or coming over? “He’s left me with the men in black,” she said despairingly. “If you’re the good guys, shouldn’t you be wearing white?”

“Good film!” Danny responded with a laugh.

Someone had made roast chicken, vegetables, and tossed salad, but her stomach felt unsettled, and she didn’t eat much. After dinner, Brian invited her to watch television with them, but it was hard to stay awake. She wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers over herself, to shut out this alternate universe with its uniformed men and their accented, archaic language.

Sergeant Casey helped her into the bedroom, where he explained that he would be on watch again that night.

“What’s that?” she asked, tensing at a sound.

“The furnace. There’s a click before the air begins to flow.”

My God. She was afraid of the
appliances
.

When he brought her pain tablets, he had some medical supplies on the tray. He removed the steristrips from her cheek. “I’ll cleanse
the sutures from your chest tube and replace the dressing,” he said. “It won’t hurt.” He folded back one side of her hospital gown.

“No—wait—” She tried to cover herself.

No one in the Royal Marines had been shy, and it was a moment before he understood what her concern was. He covered her breast with the top of the gown, but her long abdominal scar was still exposed, and she began to cry, slow, silent tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes and ran down the sides of her face. She knew that she should feel grateful for his care, but she didn’t. She was afraid of him, of his closeness, his hands on her body, the crease between his brows that made him look like he was frowning all the time.

When he finished, he looked up. “You’re going through a rough patch, but you’ll make it.” He reached down and turned off the light by her bed.

The dark—the little room—the monster—fear gripped her like a glove, and she couldn’t keep from crying out. “Sergeant Casey,” she begged, “please don’t leave me in the dark.”

He switched on the lamp. “I’ll not do that.”

“Promise?” she gasped. “You won’t decide I have to sink or swim?”

“No, love. That’s a judgement only you can make. Now, let’s calm you down. Watch me breathe, and breathe with me.” He matched her frantic breaths and then gradually slowed them.

The effort exhausted her. Her eyes were too heavy to focus on the light.

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

W
hen Sinclair arrived, the men reported that they’d hardly seen her during the day. She had stayed in her room except for dinner and a brief stint in the sitting room. She’d slept a good deal. At mealtimes she’d been quiet and hadn’t had much appetite. He went with Casey to her room. “You left the light on?”

“She’s afraid of the dark, sir,” Casey answered.

Sinclair approached the bed. The lamp on the nightstand cast an amber glow on her face but did nothing to mask her bruises. The teddy bear Bridges had given her was next to her. Afraid of the dark—he should have anticipated that. What else had he missed in this precipitous move?

A
fter her medicine and morning tea, Jenny wanted to get dressed, to cover herself with layer upon layer of clothing. The chest of drawers wasn’t far from the bed; she could get there. Big mistake—her legs didn’t support her, and she hit hard, jarring her ribs. She bit back a sob and waited for the pain to subside before opening the drawers. None of her slacks or jeans looked loose enough to fit comfortably over her bruised and sore leg. She hadn’t packed any dresses for her trip abroad, planning to wear slacks, jeans, or skirts with a variety of blouses, and her blouses wouldn’t fit over the cast on her arm.

The bed looked very high. She hadn’t thought about how to get back in it, but now she realized she might as well have tried to climb Mt. Everest. She was useless. “Hello?” she called. “Hello?”

She heard heavy footsteps approaching, and her heart started to pound. It was Constable Davies. Mt. Everest was coming to her.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Did you fall?”

“No, but I can’t get back in bed. Could you call Danny, please?”

“No, I’m here. It’s no bother.”

“No, please,” she pleaded, but he bent down and easily scooped her up.

“Better?”

She nodded so he would not stay.

The morning dragged on. She asked Sergeant Casey how long her cast would have to stay on, and he replied that it would be another four to six weeks. That was a blow. She had only hospital attire. Would she have to dress like an invalid for another month? She couldn’t parade around the apartment in her nightclothes! And how could she get home if she had nothing to wear?

Danny was in the kitchen washing up from the lunch she’d barely touched. She was left with the two silent types, and she wished they were sitting farther away. “People are people, Jennifer. Go the extra mile,” her mother had said when she was shy. She felt a deep ache. It was so awkward. They were strangers—she certainly didn’t want to talk to them about what had happened to her. And they weren’t even American! If she mentioned sports, they wouldn’t know the names of the players. If they told her where they were from, she wouldn’t recognize the places. But she had to try. She was stuck here. “Why did you become a policeman?” she asked Brian.

He leant back in his chair and put his feet on the coffee table. “I grew up on a farm, with a sister and two brothers, but I didn’t want to be a farmer, and I wasn’t clever enough for university. After I took my exams, I worked for a couple years, mostly unskilled labour jobs because of my size.”

His size. She didn’t need reminding of what someone his size could do.

“I wanted to do more than that, so when I was old enough, I applied to the police.”

“Do you like having a gun?” she asked, realizing too late what a stupid question it was.

“I’ve been with the Met almost ten years, and for a good portion of that time I didn’t carry a firearm. And I’ve yet to fire it on a mission.”

She could feel the tension in her chest, but she pushed herself to continue. “What about you, Sergeant Casey?”

“I don’t discuss weapons with civilians.”

“Throttle back, mate,” Brian advised. “She’s not asking that. Tell about your family.”

“There’s just my mum and my brother.”

“Why’d you join the Royal Marines?” Danny asked.

“A judge’s recommendation. I was a bit of a tearaway, and he thought military structure might teach me discipline and respect for authority.”

“Did it?” A disciplined Sergeant Casey was scary enough. She didn’t want to imagine what an undisciplined sergeant would be like.

“Not straightaway,” he admitted. “There was a certain sergeant major who had to teach me the facts of life all by himself.”

Danny chuckled, but Jenny didn’t understand.

“I was supposed to maintain a certain attitude while in uniform,” Casey explained. “Before his instruction, I wasn’t doing it. After his instruction, I was. Let’s just say that his instruction was rather physical.”

“Did he hurt you?” she asked, her voice rising.

Casey paused. “He made his point. He taught me a valuable lesson. I was a better Marine after.”

She paled. “Are you going to do that to me? Teach me a ‘valuable lesson’ so I’ll measure up?”

He could hear the panic. He checked his watch. She was overdue on her pain meds. “Sullivan, my kit. Davies, a glass of milk for the lady.” Fear and pain—a bad combination.

She took the milk and swallowed the tablets quickly.

Brian and Danny were looking on, silent specters, but she could not keep an eye on them and watch Sergeant Casey, too. When the pain eased, she leaned back on the sofa. Her eyes grew heavy, and her breathing slowed.

“We should move her to her room, shouldn’t we?” Sullivan asked quietly.

“I’ll do it,” Davies said. He gathered her up, shaking his head at the multitude of deep bruises he saw. He set her gently on the bed and covered her bare feet and legs with the blanket. He stood for a moment watching her then turned on the light before leaving the room.

A
t the Yard, Sinclair was having a constructive day. Fingerprints at the crime scene had confirmed Scott’s presence and identified two other men. Leonard “The Brute” Stark, 38, was an American, an ex-boxer and bodybuilder whose physical services were now on a different sort of market. The Met’s counterparts in Las Vegas, Nevada, were well acquainted with him, having arrested him several times on suspicion of assault. No convictions had resulted, however. The other fingerprints belonged to Anthony Michalopolous, 43, a petty thief and drugs user. Photo arrays were being prepared for friends and families of the six murder victims to see as well as for Jenny.

On his way home he stopped in at the protection flat. He watched Jenny pick at her food while the men devoured theirs. When the dishes had been cleared away, he had a word with her. “Are you having difficulty here? You’re safe, you know. Only a handful of people have been made aware of this location.”

“You dumped me here with King Kong and the Terminator. I didn’t want to come,” she stammered.

He hadn’t prepared her; that was true. “It’s not easy being in an unfamiliar place, is it? Even for a short period of time. Tell me how I can help.”

Something in his gentle tone touched her, and she began to cry. “I’m a freak. I’m crippled. I can’t do anything. I can’t even get dressed.”

He handed her his handkerchief. “I need to know more, Jenny.”

“None of my clothes will fit over my cast. And I’m scared of your men. I’m defenseless.”

“Have they done anything to frighten you?”

“I’m okay with Danny—he helped me in the hospital, so I don’t think he’d hurt me here, but I don’t know Constable Davies. I don’t want Sergeant Casey, either—I want a real nurse. And I want to go home, and you’re not letting me.”

“Davies won’t harm you, Jenny. He’s the one who took you from the van and brought you up the stairs to this flat.”

She was appalled. “You let him touch me when I was asleep?”

“I allowed him to carry you, yes. Casey, Sullivan, and I were there. You were perfectly safe. Shall I tell you about Sergeant Casey?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“We’d be dead in the water without him. Do you realise what being a combat medic means? He went into combat with a medical kit.”

“He had a gun, too—you can’t tell me he didn’t! He was probably born with one.”

“Jenny, I’m speaking of priorities.”

“But he looks—like a hit man!”

“He was in the special forces. He has seen things no man should have to see.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Yes, but he saw them happening. When a man died, he took the loss personally. I see things after the fact. There’s a big difference, believe me. Jenny, he is a dedicated officer. He will put your needs ahead of his every time.”

Her cheeks burned. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my mistake. I should have briefed you about them.” He paused. “I’ll see what I can do about the clothes problem. And Jenny—about going home—at the moment you’re not well enough for travel. You don’t have the stamina. And you’re not eating enough to regain your strength.” He called for Davies to bring her a sandwich.

Sergeant Casey watched her carefully.

“Are you counting my bites?”

“Something like that.” He watched her head turn, like a startled animal’s. A motorcycle was going down the street, and she had reacted to the noise. “A lad delivering pizza, most likely,” he said.

When Sinclair left, Casey helped her into the bathroom and then into bed. “I’m going to give you a bit of a cleanup. Your sutures.”

“Do you have to? I don’t want you to see.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“But I haven’t!”

“Best to get it over.”

She held her breath and tried to think of something besides what he was doing. “Where did you learn all this?”

“As part of my training, I spent some time each year in the casualty ward of a civilian hospital.”

“You’re overqualified for this job.”

“I expect so.”

“What day is it?”

“28 September.”

“What day of the week?”

“Monday.”