The Witness: A Novel (3 page)

“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.

S
inclair 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.

D
etective 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.

S
ergeant 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?”