The Witness: A Novel (34 page)

She could feel the new officer looking at her.

“You’re the talk of the town,” he said.

“I hope not.”

“A girl who doesn’t want to be the centre of attention? Not in a million!” His eyes were examining her face. “Why aren’t you proud of it?”

“Proud? When every day it’s a reminder of what he did?”

“Because he had three tries and didn’t score. It’s Yank three, Scott nil.”

The flat seemed smaller. She had put on a tank top to allow Sergeant Casey easier access to her shoulder, but now she wished she weren’t so exposed. She wished the surgical dressing were larger.

“Fancy watch,” he said.

“Danny deserves the purple hearts more than I do,” she responded.

Sinclair decided to put a stop to Hunt’s examination. “Casey’s in
charge here.”

Hunt nodded at Casey. He stood and punched Davies on the shoulder. “Haven’t seen you around Old Street lately. Wondered where you’d got off to! How long have you been here?”

“Since late September.”

“Hardly a peach job—and you haven’t gone completely potty? I’d be climbing the walls!” He turned back to Jenny. He was curious about the little girl with the big file he’d had to plow through at his briefing. “Texas! I thought you’d be bigger.”

Casey saw her raise her chin. “Size isn’t everything,” she said.

“Yes, it is!” Hunt whooped. “By the way—your president still mucking about with the ladies? He ought to keep his trousers zipped!”

Her face paled. There had been numerous headlines in the newspapers about President Clinton’s infidelity. “Stop! Just stop!”

He threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Sorry! Bull in a china shop.”

She stood and left the kitchen. Hunt eyed her up as she went.

“See that you don’t alarm her,” Sinclair warned. He headed back to the Yard.

While Jenny rested, Casey and Davies outlined the ground rules for Hunt. Casey was a bit exasperated with him already. “Weren’t you briefed? Don’t get too close to her. She’s scared enough.”

“Throttle back, mate,” Davies added. “She’s fragile.”

“She looks okay. Why the long faces?”

“She’s been to hell and back,” Casey answered. “Sullivan was shot right in front of her. She’s not fully recovered either. She has nightmares. We wake her.”

“You want me in her bedroom?” Hunt asked.

“Sod it, Hunt, I want you to be a copper first and a man second!”

“What’s the physical layout?”

“Only one entrance to this flat,” answered Davies. “The door’s reinforced, with multiple locks and an alarm. Three remote cameras. The only windows are in Jenny’s room and the sitting room. There’s a radio on all the time in her room, and we have the telly in the sitting room.”

“Why’d she get the windows?”

“It was a privacy issue,” Casey said, “and her room’s farthest from the front door.”

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W
hen Jenny woke from her nap, Sergeant Casey removed the drains from her shoulder and replaced the dressing. Hunt took a quick look round her room before settling in the sitting room with the other two men. She put one of her caftans on and forced herself to join them. “I’m
at a disadvantage, Constable Hunt. You know all about me, and I don’t know anything about you.”

“Don’t hesitate.”

“Can you cook?”

Hunt threw back his head and laughed. “Not as well as I can eat, but we’ll muddle through.”

He was built like a bulldog, thick and solid. “Do you play rugby?”

“Great game! Love contact!”

“What else do you like?”

“Winning.”

“And your family?”

“Full of coppers—my dad, my brother—my sister even married one. They all live in Manchester, where I’m from. But I’m the first to be a bloody bodyguard.”

She lifted her chin. “You don’t have to be one. Take off!”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Hunt retorted.

“No, but Colin is.”

“First-name basis with the guv—how’d you rate that?”

“Got attacked.”

“What would you like to call me?”

“History!”

Hunt was impervious. “Alan’s okay. Anything’s okay. I’ll call you Tex.”

“You will not!”

He was undeterred. “Why’d you change clothes?”

“You don’t converse, you interrogate,” she said.

“Never learnt to walk on eggshells. Saves time to speak my mind.” He gave her an appraising look. “Three of us to protect one of you. The odds are in your favour. What are you afraid of?”

She was dismayed. “Have you ever been shot, Constable Hunt?”

“Not yet.”

“Has someone ever tried to strangle you to death? Or beat you to death?” She saw his surprised expression and didn’t wait for him to answer. “Have you ever been in so much pain you were afraid you
wouldn’t
die? Have you ever been so afraid you—couldn’t—breathe?”

“Christ,” he swore. “What’d I do?”

“Dismissed!” Casey said so sharply that she jumped.

Davies left with Hunt. “He was SBS. Don’t cross him,” he said in a tense whisper. The door to the bedroom closed behind them.

“He’s a bit rough about the edges,” Casey said grimly. “I’ll have a word with him. I’d like you to wait in your room while I do.”

That was the pot calling the kettle black. The men’s voices resounded in the small flat, Casey’s colder and harder than she had ever heard it. It was laced with profanities, one of which appeared and reappeared with frightening frequency. She knew Casey was acting on her behalf, but he sounded out of control. She had never heard any of the men swear like that.

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D
inner was a quiet affair. Hunt was sullen; he knew she had heard his dressing-down. When she told him that she hadn’t been herself and was sorry, he scowled, swore under his breath, and left the table. Casey went after him.

She held her breath, but she didn’t hear anything. “What’s he doing?” she asked Brian.

“Showing Hunt his low and menacing side. And explaining that the wrong person apologised.”

Sinclair made a brief visit after dinner and was told by Casey that Jenny didn’t like Hunt. “We need him,” Sinclair said. “He’s rested. He has to take the watch.”

“I don’t like it, sir. He may be weapons qualified, but he’s a loose cannon. Davies and I had to calibrate him this afternoon. I’d issue an RTU order.”

“Return to unit? Not yet. We have to use him, at least for the time being.”

W
hen Sinclair came by late the next day, Hunt was sleeping in preparation for another night on watch. Sinclair took the opportunity to ask Jenny about him.

“He doesn’t want to babysit me. But if he keeps taking the night shift, I won’t have to see him too much.”

“Anything else you need to tell me?”

She hated to give him more worries. He looked tense as well as tired, and there was a shadow behind his eyes.

“Jen?”

She looked down, and her chin trembled slightly. “I dream about Danny now. I see him fall, and there’s so much blood! I’m afraid for him, and for you, and for all the men, even Hunt. He doesn’t know he could be dead in a few weeks.” They were sitting together on the sofa, and she took his hands and pleaded with him. “I don’t want anyone else hurt. I want you to send them away.”

“That’s just not on, Jen—it’s irrational.”

“I don’t care. I want to go it alone.”

“Jen, you can’t make it through the night without help.”

“I’ll get better. I’ll take a cab to court. It’ll work. It’ll be so unexpected I’ll get away with it.”

He just shook his head at her.

“I’ll fire everybody,” was her next approach.

“You can’t—they don’t work for you. They don’t even work for me. They were assigned by a more senior officer.”

“I don’t want them in danger! I can’t stand this! I nearly got Danny killed!”

He tried for a gentle tone. “Jenny, we’re not going anywhere. Everyone who accepted this assignment accepted the risk. Besides, you still need care.”

“‘Risk’—I hate your politically-correct police words! You should have said, ‘death sentence.’ It isn’t safe for them to be here!”

She was insistent, and he became exasperated. He and Graves were still under investigation for the incident at the courthouse, and he didn’t know whether his role in her case would be reduced. In addition, portions
of the McPherson Report had been leaked to the Sunday Telegraph and printed in the morning edition. The Met had been cited for institutional racism and poor investigative procedures in the Stephen Lawrence murder case. He felt personally slandered—every decent copper did. She knew nothing of this, however, and she was still his responsibility until notified otherwise. He took a deep breath and kept his tone even. “Jenny, their presence is needed more now than ever. Can’t you see that?” Finally he remembered a Texas expression that would make his point clear: “That dog won’t hunt!”

The Texas comment sounded incongruous with his English accent, but it didn’t calm her. The danger was tangible—she had seen it, and she still felt it. Her emotions were heightened, and she began to cry in frustration and fear. It was then that he crossed the line for the first time. He put his arms around her and pressed his lips against her hair, then the tears on her cheeks. When he lifted her face to his, she could taste the salt from her tears on his lips. His kisses were tender and gentle. She didn’t pull away. Against all odds, she felt herself responding. She opened her mouth, and when she felt his tongue enter it, she kissed him back. When they broke apart a few moments later, her heart was pounding.

He rose to his feet and ran his hand through his hair. “Jen—my God—I shouldn’t have done that. You have every right to be upset with me.”

Her heart was still beating rapidly. He had shocked it back into life, and she felt something akin to wonder: A cherished possession believed to be lost forever had been returned.

He saw her blush and was emboldened. “Jen, you’re very important to me. When you were shot, I thought I’d lost you, and all I could think was—I’d never have the chance to tell you how much you mean to me.”

She looked up at him, this gentle, decent, refined man with regret and longing written all over his face, and knew she didn’t want to hurt him. She reached out and touched his hand. “It’s okay, Colin.”

He pulled her to her feet. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” He took her face in his hands and let his thumbs caress her cheeks. Then he tensed, and his hands fell. “I should go,” he said. He had headed for the door and called for Casey to lock up before she had a chance to reply.

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

L
ater, Sinclair berated himself for his actions. He should never have kissed her! She had not pushed him away, but he should not have done it. It could compromise the case and complicate her recovery. He had never before been tempted to behave inappropriately with a witness. But—she had responded.

S
everal days passed. Sergeant Casey changed the dressing on Jenny’s shoulder for the last time. Even the steristrips on her chest would be gone soon. Since Hunt continued to take the night watch and then slept all morning, she found some relief from his cocky, irreverent behavior. She did have to admit that he was lively, although in a far less predictable manner than Danny had been. His card playing, for example—he was noisy in victory and likely to come to blows with the winner if he lost.

She had slept late, but she was still tired. She felt warm and sluggish and didn’t want to get out of bed. It felt even warmer in the kitchen when she went in. “Who turned up the heat?” she asked Casey. “I think I’ll have a cold drink this morning instead of a hot one.”

He frowned. She looked a bit peaky, and she was never warm in the flat. She hadn’t had much appetite at dinner the night before and then had gone to bed early, causing Hunt to grouse about having to keep the sound on the telly low. He’d reported that she’d had a restless night, repeatedly throwing off the comforter. “Don’t drink anything yet.”

His tone startled her. What had she done to deserve The Voice?

He came back with a thermometer. She held it obediently under her tongue until he removed it. “It’s back to bed with you, love. You have a fever. I’ll bring you something to drink in a few minutes.” He looked at his watch. It was almost ten. Damn! She could have been ill for over twelve hours, and none of them had twigged it.

He brought two tablets and a tall glass of cold juice for her. She shivered a little from the juice and slid down in bed to warm up. When he returned an hour later, she had pushed the covers aside. He took her temperature again and offered her another drink.

“Is my fever high?”

“Reading’s in Celsius. Won’t mean much to you. Rest now.”

He went into his room and rang Dr. Gallagher. “Fever’s up.”

Gallagher knew Jenny’s history. She had no spleen. Consequently any fever was cause for concern. “Any sign of infection in the wounds?”

“No, sir.”

“Check her for swelling, tenderness, or any other indication of a fever source. In the meantime, I want a blood sample. I’m prescribing a broad spectrum antibiotic which I’d like you to administer through a drip.” He rang off.

Casey phoned Sinclair and reported Gallagher’s orders.

“I’ll send Andrews straightaway.”

Casey returned to her room. “I need to have a look at you, love.” She had the covers piled high, but she let him remove them. “Tell me if anything feels tender.” Nothing did.

When he came back to take her temperature again, her fever was still rising, and she was restive, wiping the sweat from her face and trying to fan herself with her hand.

He paced the sitting room, willing Andrews to arrive. He took her another glass of juice. “Even my eyes feel hot,” she said. He moistened a face cloth in the bathroom and placed it on her forehead. She squeezed the excess water over her chest, and he watched it bead on her skin. She closed her eyes.

Where the bloody hell was Andrews? He heard her swallow. He ran his fingers down the sides of her neck. No swelling. “Throat sore?”