The Witness: A Novel (28 page)

It was all Sinclair could do, not to go to her.

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C
asey was still angry after Sinclair took off. Bloody senior officer hadn’t cut her any slack. He’d opened her wounds and left them to deal with the mess. Even after she’d calmed, she’d wanted to hold onto somebody. Sullivan had obliged.

“Do you want to be reassigned now?” she asked. “Now that you know what a coward I am?”

“Not to worry, Sis.”

“Promise?”

They saw to her as best they could, and Casey wished he’d had a pint or two to help him forget. It had been difficult, hearing her voice thick with remembered pain. Scott had terrorised her psychologically as well as physically. He’d made certain she was incapacitated. He’d stripped Jenny but not himself—bloody bastard had kept his shoes on. He’d broken her arm, several of her ribs. The sound made when a bone broke was unmistakable. She shouldn’t have to know such things.

While she bathed, he stretched, breathed, ran in place. Thought about her helplessness. Her fear. Her mission. Bloody briefs would strip her in court. He didn’t know how to predict her psychological suitability for the witness-box, but she was stronger than she looked. She’d taken everything that bastard Sinclair had dished out and hadn’t quit.

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S
ullivan wanted to break something. “Davies, if that happened to one of my sisters—I wouldn’t give a toss for the law! Scott had no weapon, mate—he didn’t intend to kill her quickly.”

Davies agreed. Having read her statement hadn’t made it easier to hear; he would have stopped it if he could. “That bit about the necklace—she had to know when Scott took it that he meant to kill her. No wonder she doesn’t want it back.”

Both men were quiet for a moment.

“Are your sisters virgins, Sullivan?”

“My oldest isn’t. When her boyfriend broke it off, she thought her world had ended. He was her first.”

Davies recalled his first time. It had been Beth’s, too. He’d fumbled a lot, but he’d got it done. “You remember your first time, Sullivan?”

“Yeah. I was afraid she’d say no.” He paused. “I wish Jenny’d had it off with her bloke in Texas.”

“Wish he hadn’t been killed.”

“She’d never have come here then.”

“Scott would still be killing.”

“How’s she going to face him?”

“Hard to say.”

“Why’d the boss move away when she finished telling everything?”

“Thinking of the trial, most likely. Besides, his job was done—he got her through it.”

“Cold-hearted bastard, isn’t he?”

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S
inclair’s afternoon at the Yard was less than productive. His relief at Jenny’s cooperation was tempered with concern. She had required so much prompting. Prosecuting counsel would not guide her as gently as he had done. Still, it was a step forward, one they could build on. She had cried, but she had not lost focus. He was proud of her.

Her recitation hadn’t yielded any new material, however. At least, nothing germane to the case. He was surprised that she had disclosed personal information, but he knew now what had given her the strength to send her father home: She had lost someone she had loved. Her grief was deep, and she would not put her family in peril.

His office was quiet. It had been quiet at the protection flat, too, all the times when she had stopped and he had hoped that she would be able to continue. He remembered hearing her radio during those moments, the music punctuating the information she had found so difficult to give.

She had never been fully loved by a man. Saying she was a virgin was more antiseptic, but now she was neither. Even more poignant was the definition of sex her mother had given her: “beautiful if it’s with the right man.”

He had done what he set out to do—maintain his professional reserve in front of the protection team—but there was no satisfaction in it. It had been a harrowing morning for her. She had still been upset when he left. “Nothing’s private,” she had said. “The trial will come, and they will see everything, ask everything.” The men had rallied round her, but he hadn’t. Would she start calling him Mr. Sinclair again?

W
hen Sinclair arrived at the flat after dinner, Jenny was on the phone with her parents, so he took the opportunity to address the men privately. “How’s she doing? Any chat about this morning?”

“Titbits, nothing more,” Casey said. “Told me she wished I’d been there. If I had, she’d be home now—no need for a trial.”

“Anything else?”

“Wanted to know if I’d ever begged for anything. I hadn’t.”

Sinclair frowned. It didn’t sound as if her mood had improved any.

She gave him a cautious smile when she saw him. “My mother was just asking about you.”

“I hope you didn’t tell her what I put you through earlier today.”

“That you made me give my statement again? No. Colin, you didn’t have a tape recorder, and you didn’t take notes, so it wasn’t official. What was it for?”

“In the long run I believe it will help you.”

“To remember? Colin, it just hurts.”

“What did you remember, Jenny?”

Did he
ever
stop being a policeman? “He had a birthmark. The monster did. Below his navel. Red—splotchy—like someone had spilled wine on his stomach.” She shivered. “Aren’t you going to write it down?”

“No, Jenny. You identified him already through other means.” He waited. “Anything you’d like to add?”

“It’s hard—remembering Rob. After he died, I went into remission from life. When I stepped on the scales, the reading hadn’t changed, but I felt heavy, as if I’d put on more weight than my bones could carry.”

He’d felt clumsy, ungainly, after his father’s death. Focussing on work had helped. “What did you do after that?”

“I stayed in school, but it was hard to concentrate. I had to drop a couple classes to keep my grades from falling. I graduated a year behind schedule.”

“And then came to London.”

“There was nothing to keep me in Texas. I was used to making my own decisions, being independent, and I wanted a fresh start. I was planning to visit universities in the U.S., too—in New England, northern
California. Different landscapes. Colder climates. I thought if I went to a new place, I could find a new me. Instead I died, sort of. What you see now is a mirage. I’m that distant spot on the highway that disappears when you get close.”

In his flat downstairs he stood for a long time looking at the family photos on his chest of drawers. The faces in the frames smiled at him, but tonight the snaps didn’t bring solace. His father was dead. His mother now filled her days with a host of community activities. His sister had a husband and children of her own. He had kept no pictures to remind him of his marriage to Violet. The grief and loneliness in Jenny’s voice mirrored what he felt. He had given her a professional, measured response, but in his heart he knew she needed more.

J
enny was puzzled. Colin had brought her a book of prayers,
For Those Who Are Hurting.

“I got it from a friend,” he explained. “A chaplain. I know you’re still struggling, and I want to help. What’s your expression? ‘Covering all the bases’? There’s a spiritual element to us.”

She thumbed through the pages. Each prayer followed a line of Scripture. “You think I need God?”

“He’s the best source of strength I know of.”

“He’s the reason I’m in this mess,” she said bitterly. “He left me.”

“I don’t believe that. God didn’t cause any of this. Things just happen. I don’t know why.”

“I used to believe in Him, but since the attack, I’ve questioned everything. I was always taught that God was faithful, but I haven’t seen that.”

“I beg to differ, Jenny. You didn’t doubt His existence when you were angry with Him. Sometimes our anger—or grief or fear—keeps us from hearing Him. You’ve had your foundations shaken, but you’re still standing. You may not be certain about your belief in God, but don’t give up on Him. I think He believes in you.”

She was stunned and a little embarrassed by the compliment. Instead of replying, she took his hand.

Colin was also silent for a few minutes. He was glad they were holding hands. It made the intimate nature of the conversation more comfortable. “My father was in a lot of pain before he died. My mother and sister were leaning on me. I needed something stronger than myself. God was it. I sat by my father’s hospital bed and asked God to give him one more day. Many times He did.”

“Are you still grieving for your father?”

He was surprised by the question and even more surprised that he didn’t mind answering. He hadn’t spoken much about his father to anyone outside his family. “My father had postings abroad, so there
were long periods when I didn’t see him. The times we did have together were important to me. I was with him on a more consistent basis when he was ill than I had been since childhood. It made his death all the more difficult when it came. I’d say I’m still grieving for him, yes. The longer I live, the more things I’d like to discuss with him.” He remembered telling her long ago something about trust being a two-way street. It had been a copper’s line, calculated to inspire confidence, but it just might be true. Her trust had certainly engendered his.

“It’s hard to believe we’re talking about all this.”

He smiled. “We met under unusual circumstances. You had to tell me personal details from the beginning. It’s not so one-sided now.”

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I
n the morning when Danny brought her tea, she asked if he believed in God.

“I’m Catholic, Sis. Of course I do.”

“Do you think He loves us?”

He was smiling. “He laid down the law, didn’t He? My parents always said it was love when they laid down the law.”

“And now you enforce the law. That’s not love exactly, but it is in people’s best interest. Do you pray?”

This time he laughed. “No, I just feel guilty for not doing it.”

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S
he tackled Brian next, early one evening when she’d felt afraid and had gone into the living room to sit with him. There was a rhythm of nature he’d seen on the farm, in the seasons and the reproductive cycles of the animals and the crops, that made him feel that Someone was in charge. It wasn’t an accident that things happened the way they did. As far as good and bad were concerned, he’d seen too much of the bad during his years with the police to believe that human beings were the source of love—another Being, far greater and wiser, had to be. He confessed that he didn’t pray. “I just hope for things,” he said. “I hope you’ll be okay. I hope we’re helping.”

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L
ater that night she asked Sergeant Casey if they could talk for a little while.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Sergeant, I feel like I’m learning to walk again. Remember when we first came here? I couldn’t do it by myself. I had to lean on you.” Her voice faltered. “I don’t know who I am or what I believe any more. You seem so sure of yourself. You always know what to do.”

“Get onto it, Jenny.”

“I’ve been wondering about—God. Do you think He’s real?”

She’s searching. Not surprising after what’s happened to her. “I’ve seen some things that would make me doubt it.”

“Have you seen anything that would make you believe it?”

“Some things, yes.”

“Like what?”

“Missions when the odds were against us, and we seemed to have supernatural luck. Men who were injured so badly that I couldn’t save them but who lived anyway.”

“I don’t know how I made it.”

“Some things you can’t explain, but they’re no less real. I’ve spent a lot of time outdoors, often at night. The night skies fascinate me. They’re vast, and the orbits of the planets aren’t random. The more I’ve learned about astronomy, the more I’ve wondered myself. About God, that is.”

“Do you pray?”

“Men in combat face danger and uncertainty. Many use meditation and deep breathing to relax and focus. Those who believe in God, pray. Everyone needs to believe in something.”

She smiled. “Sergeant Casey, you are the most unlikely evangelist I ever knew.”

A
s Christmas drew closer, the longing Jenny felt for her family became a continual ache. At home she would have been helping her mother bake Christmas cookies to give to the neighbors. They would have delivered the fresh treats on foot, then headed home for bowls of steaming hot soup and homemade bread. Her father and brothers would have taken the Christmas decorations from the attic so her mother could transform the house into a visual feast. Nothing at the flat dissipated the hurt, not the store-bought cookies or canned soup they consumed, and the tree which had given her enjoyment at first now looked lonely in the corner, its decorations not sufficient to lift her spirits. A number of her friends had sent Christmas cards, with notes shorter than their usual correspondence. They knew her letters were censored—perhaps they were afraid their mail would be read, too.

She wanted very badly to go shopping, to select her family’s gifts herself, but no amount of wheedling would convince Colin to let her, either in his company or with one of the men. He arranged for her to send her mother a British cookbook, her father a book on the American Civil War by Winston Churchill, and sport shirts to her brothers, a Manchester United football jersey for Matt and a Henley Royal Regatta jersey for BJ.

Brian and Danny had taken some candid snaps of her. The one she selected for her parents showed her laughing, with the left side of her face—the unmarked side—toward the camera. It had been taken just after Colin had brought the Christmas tree into the flat. He hadn’t been certain decorating a tree would be a good idea, fearing it might cause her to miss her family more, but she had been glowing with anticipation, and Brian’s photo had captured it.