The Witness: A Novel (45 page)

After the shower she curled up in one of the armchairs in her bedroom, clothed in her roomy blue caftan, her journal on her lap. What kind of list could she make that would distract her? All she could think of were the things she used to be: healthy, productive, active. And do: play tennis, work on the college newspaper, eat out. She remembered going where she wanted, when she wanted—to the mall, movies, museums, plays, lectures, concerts, sporting events, bookstores. Texas had more warm months than cold ones; she’d gone to the beach, lounged by the pool, never worrying what her body looked like, never choosing her clothing to cover her scars. In court she’d had to display the scar on her face. She had a scar on her breast, too. A photo of that injury would have revealed her whole breast to whoever viewed it. Or did the photo show her entire chest? A record of physical evidence, the police would consider it. Mortifying, she called it. Surgeons had left scars on her midriff. The man on the motorcycle had made his marks on her shoulder—evidence for another jury to examine. She had not made one useful entry in her journal. It was time for another shower.

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N
ew day. Same faces in the flat, but one more in her dreams: Rob. She woke up remembering what it felt like to be loved and how it felt to have love torn away. She’d first started saying “piece of cake” when she was
loved, because she was enveloped in a soft cloud that filtered out the sharp edges of life. Mid-term exams? Major paper due? There were no negatives. Piece of cake.

She hadn’t known Rob was dead until she’d seen the headline: “University Student Killed in One Car Collision.” His parents hadn’t notified her because they didn’t know how serious his relationship with her had been; he’d been on his way home to tell them. He’d left on a Friday evening, and she remembered wondering why he hadn’t called when he arrived, or sometime the next day. But she hadn’t been worried—there were so many reasonable explanations, and she loved and trusted him. The black-and-white newsprint had taken all the color out of her life.

He had given her a ring, not an engagement ring but a promise ring, gold with several small pearls. “I, Robert Alan, take thee, Jennifer Catherine,” he had said with a smile. She had been wearing it the morning she had left the hotel for the British Museum. It had never been recovered.

London. She would never have come if he had lived. She would not have flown across the Atlantic with her black and white perspective. But she had come to London, and the monster had colored her red. She had awakened in the hospital, and in that world of sterile white, Colin’s blue eyes had been striking. Then the courthouse. A gray day with Danny’s blood bold against his pale skin and dark hair. Would he die, too? Would Colin tell her, or would the heartless prose of the newspaper announce it?

“J
enny, wake up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You were crying in your sleep, love.”

She touched her cheeks. Yes, she had been. “Rob and Danny—sometimes their faces are so bloody I’m not sure who’s who.”

She’d been alone in the witness-box, separated from the team. Then kept to herself in the flat. Had too many long showers. It was time for the team to reconnect. “Want to go running with us?”

“In the middle of the night?”

“We can’t take you in the daytime. Put on your sweatpants and a shirt if you want to go.”

When she met him in the sitting room, he’d brought his hooded sweatshirt for her to use also. He didn’t trust the darkness alone to guard her features.

“Quiet past the boss’s door,” Brian whispered.

Hunt led the way down the stairs and out the front door. There was no smog or smoke, just the mist from her mouth when she breathed. The air was crisp, clean, fresh. Too cold, and all aroma is paralyzed at birth. Too hot, and even the subtlest scents are suffocating. It was chilly, but she caught a whiff of a faint flowery perfume—even in this winter month, something was in bloom. Trees lined the streets like sentinels. Some of them were bare, but many still bore their foliage. The streetlamps were on, giving an ethereal glow to their excursion. Nothing was moving, except the four of them: Hunt, jogging ahead; Davies, loping effortlessly behind; and Sergeant Casey, his steps synchronized with hers across the uneven sidewalk.

The street was narrow, with funny little cars parked on both sides of it. It had a slight incline, and she realized that she’d never walked outside the flat, except to cars waiting either in front of or behind the building. Indoors Sergeant Casey had made her run in place between exercises, but it had been—flat. They reached an intersection where the road levelled, and she saw Casey signal left and Hunt’s acknowledgement.

They passed one house after another, all of them at least three storeys, silent in sleep. The gabled roofs had chimneys, and there were
bay windows on the lower floors. Brick walls lined the small front yards. She could hear her feet lapping against the ground and her breath, barely audible at first, then discernible, and soon, readily apparent. She stopped and bent over, her hands on her knees, and heard Sergeant Casey’s soft whistle to alert the others. She was panting, he was breathing normally, and it was all very infuriating.

She straightened, and Casey again gestured to Hunt. They turned and ran on, past houses with windows blindfolded against the rising sun and trees cradling the railed porches that designated each doorway. The street dipped, then rose, then dipped again.

She was breathing through her mouth, faster now, and she missed Casey’s direction, trotting a few steps away from him until he caught her elbow and pointed. She had no idea where she was—she’d been so enthralled by the surroundings that she’d looked ahead, not back, not paying any attention to the appearance of the block of flats they had left. It was shrouded in shadow now.

Hunt had stopped, allowing them to draw even with him, so they must be home. Sergeant Casey nodded to her and waved to the others. He hadn’t even begun his run; her circuit had been a preliminary lap for him.

Brian and Hunt waited outside with her until her breathing had quieted. It was still dark. Then the three of them crept up the stairs and back into the flat. Hunt made her a cup of hot chocolate, but even after entering the flat, none of them spoke. This mission hadn’t been on the books.

T
he prosecution rested their case Friday afternoon, marking the end of a very long week for Sinclair. His days in court had been followed by evenings at the Yard, and there had repeatedly been times when the undemanding anonymity of his flat was welcome. Tonight, however, he stopped in at his flat to don a fresh shirt and then went upstairs. It was late, but he never worried about the hour. According to Casey, Jenny still had nightmares and consequently was never eager for the day to end. Knowles had warned him that new traumas revived old ones, and her court experience had been devastating. “I hear you had a difficult week.”

“I feel so useless. I can’t do anything else to convict him. And he’ll have scores of witnesses to say what a great guy he is.”

She had every right to be upset. What losses had he suffered by age twenty-three? Not coming in first in a boat race? “Jenny, that’s window dressing, nothing more. He’ll not be acquitted.” He watched her unfasten the clasp on the amethyst watch he had given her. She held it out to him.

“Colin, I can’t keep this. I didn’t earn it.”

“Jenny, it wasn’t a conditional gift.”

“But I wanted to make a stronger showing—be so persuasive that no one would have any doubt about his guilt.”

He closed her fingers over the watch. “I believe you did. Your testimony was the most powerful thing I ever saw.”

“It was desperation, not courage, with some of Sergeant Casey’s anger mixed in.”

“Courage doesn’t guarantee the result, but I’m confident in this case, and you should be also. He had means and opportunity. No credible alibis for the dates in question. DNA ties him to all of you. And the CPS doesn’t prosecute a case unless they think they can win.”

“Those lawyers crushed me. I’ve been reduced to the lowest common denominator.”

“When we’re under the greatest pressure, we find out who we are. In nature pressure produces precious jewels. I think your lowest common denominator, as you call it, is lovely. Essence of Jenny—a new
fragrance.”

“My essence is—tears. I’m a fountain that always overflows.”

Her tears had spilled over. He wanted to embrace her, but there were three men patrolling in the next room. “Jenny, you cry because you’re all heart—heart of courage in the courtroom, heart of caring for Sullivan, heart of concern for the protection team. I hope there’s some room left in your heart for me.”

He refastened the watch around her wrist and then offered her his hand and his handkerchief. She took both and watched him kiss her fingers.

“These last few weeks have been rather intense. How about a night out? Come to my flat Sunday evening, and we’ll listen to some music and keep all legal topics off the table.”

She smiled suddenly. “Is that a prescription or a subpoena?”

Before he left, he spoke to Casey.

“A run ashore will do her good, sir. With your permission, I’ll let Davies and Hunt take off during the time she’s with you.”

“Sergeant, I suggest you take twenty-four hours yourself. No, make it thirty-six. You were on duty round the clock during Jenny’s court appearances. Davies and Hunt had regular shifts. Let them handle it for a while.”

Hunt had been unable to get a rise out of her all week. He couldn’t resist teasing her now about her date. “You don’t have to get away from here to have fun,” he grinned. “You should have come to me. I’m a helpful bloke.”

“What do you have in mind?” she asked, refusing to be drawn.

“Instead of poker, how about strip poker? I’ll even let you deal the first hand.”

To her surprise, she found she could appreciate his outrageous humor. She knew he didn’t mean anything by it. “It wouldn’t be much fun if you guys were the only ones stripping,” she laughed.

“You wouldn’t play?”

“Not a chance! I’m terrible at it—I lose too often.”

Hunt smiled and snapped his fingers in regret.

“A
twenty-three-year-old with armed chaperones,” Jenny smiled when the men brought her to Colin’s flat.

“Beef cannelloni’s cooking. I picked it up from Sainsbury’s. They have a good bakery, so I bought some rolls. And there’s fresh parmesan in the fridge.” He rolled up his sleeves and began to toss a salad with Italian dressing.

“I’ll do that,” she said. She’d become accustomed to working with men in the kitchen.

When the cannelloni was hot, Colin lit the candles and uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. “To easier times.”

“Do easier times lie ahead, Colin?”

“You should have a nice respite. The CPS will see the Scott trial concluded before prosecuting the others.”

“How much longer will I have to stay upstairs?”

“Until Scott’s case and all related cases have been adjudicated,” he answered, wishing his toast hadn’t reminded her of her legal commitments. “Has Casey resumed your Italian lessons?”

“Si,” she laughed. “We’ve covered money, weather, and travel topics, just to name a few. We all excelled on the food chapter, and he even knows a lot of medical terms. Not much on sports or the arts. Hunt’s a little behind, though, so we’ve been reviewing.” She smiled. “It’s not graduate school, but I’ll also be a better cook when this experience is over, thanks to Brian. And I’ve learned the importance of family. I took them for granted before.”

“I didn’t appreciate my family until I was separated from them, either. My father was in the foreign service, as you know, and when I was twelve, I was sent back to England to boarding school so I’d have the requisite preparation for university examinations. Once or twice a year I’d fly to see them wherever my father was posted. I had fun exploring new places, but none of their residences abroad ever seemed like home.”

There was a bit of wine left. He refilled her glass.

“Boarding school—university—then marriage. Did your wife live here?”

“Too modest for her taste. Now I’m glad—no memories to overcome. Ready for pudding?”

“No room left.”

They put their dishes in the sink, ran water over them, and sat down together in the living room. Colin’s sofa was the color of espresso. “Let’s make coffee,” she said, wanting a distraction.

She stood with him, but he stepped toward her, not the kitchen, and put his arms around her. She thought of the other times he had held her and how safe and comfortable she had been. She felt safe this time, too, but there was a tinge of excitement in her stomach that was completely new. She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

No, the air seemed warm and very close.

He bent his head down and kissed her. There was just a hint of perfume. He couldn’t place the scent, but he liked it. He kissed the gold chain that held her cross and then the skin below the cross. He heard a quick gasp.

“Colin, stop. I’m not on terra
firma
here.”

He took her hand, not wanting to lose the connection he’d felt with her.

“Why am I in your flat? Does Sergeant Casey have an agenda, or do you?”

“I gave the men some leave, yes, but there’s no agenda, Jenny.”

“Colin, I’m in an impossible situation. I can’t pretend I’m not available, and if you make a pass at me just because I’m available—that’s creepy.”

“It’s not like that, Jenny. I have no intention of taking advantage of you.” He had not released her hand.

“Where men are concerned, I have to look out for myself.”

“Are you worried about your safety upstairs?”

“No. They’re good guys. Besides, if one of them stepped out of line, I could call out to the others.”

No competition then. “If you were in Texas, would you be asking these questions?”

“No, but I wouldn’t be in a man’s apartment on the first date. If this is a date. I’d be in a restaurant or at the movies or a ball game. Somewhere public.”