The Witness: A Novel (17 page)

“What is going to happen to me?”

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

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

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

She was silent.

“How far is it from here to a hotel?”

She shrugged.

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

“I have some cash in my suitcase.”

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

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

“And when you needed more money?”

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

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

“No, not at first.”

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

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

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

Hearing his words hurt.

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

Her chin drooped.

“Fortunately, the alarm alerted Casey and the others that security had been breached.” He paused. “I have another question. After hearing your description of Scott’s attack, do you know what single impression stayed with me?”

She did not answer.

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

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

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

“Me, too.”

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

She nodded.

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

“What about Inspector Rawson?”

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

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

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

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

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

“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.

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

S
inclair 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.

C
asey 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.

I
n 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
.

T
wo things were immediately clear: there was no protection at home and no freedom in protection. The protection 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.