The Witness: A Novel (47 page)

Houston in April would be beautiful, too. Baseball season would be beginning, and all over America people would see the green baseball diamonds and hear the crack of the bat. Wild blackberries would be ripe and sweet. It was too early for Indian paintbrush to bloom—she’d always thought Indian sunset would have been a more apt name because of their fiery orange color—but there would be masses of white, pink, and red azaleas, and the most unusual floral color, blue, would be finding dramatic expression in the bluebonnets along the Texas highways.

None of the day police had ever attended any of the festivals. They’d all walked a beat and didn’t consider walking a festival. Their mums liked the flowers, they said, but their own disinterest was so marked that Jenny felt they wouldn’t have noticed the tulips or daffodils unless someone had dropped dead in them.

She made a list of scenic places she had been and asked Sergeant Howard if he would tell her what his favorite place was.

He thought for a few minutes. Old Street, after a successful mission. The crack between a woman’s thighs. He could not speak of those. “No, sorry,” he said.

She gave up on Howard, choosing instead to corner Hunt with the World Series videos, which Colin had had converted to the British VCR. “Want to learn a little about baseball?”

“Cue it up!”

As the first game unfolded, she explained. “Baseball’s a game of statistics. They record everything you do, good and bad. Good things are getting a hit, batting someone in, stealing a base, catching a fly ball. Errors are when you mess up.”

Hunt thought the pace of play was a bit slow. “Why’d that bloke
get on first? He didn’t do anything.”

“Poor pitching. It’s like life—in some cases you benefit from someone else’s mistakes.”

The game progressed.

“What sort of pitch was that?”

“Curve ball,” she said. “They’re really hard to hit.”

“What else do I need to know?”

“Individual stats are important, but sometimes a player will sacrifice himself for the good of the team. Like that guy—he didn’t get on base, but his play allowed the man on first to advance to second.”

It was not a concept that appealed to Hunt. In a rare philosophical moment, he asked, “Do you ever wonder why so many games are about balls?”

He was lively—occasionally shocking—but not malicious. “Because they were all invented by guys,” she answered. “Think about the terminology. In football, you make a pass; in baseball, you want to get to first base; and all games are about scoring.”

Hunt’s interest level rose. The ball, the bat, the squeeze play, first base. A home run was “going deep.” He had certainly struck out more than once himself. Baseball began to make sense. It was like life, too right.

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

F
riday evening Colin came by bearing gifts and good news. Cambridge had beaten Oxford in the annual boat race the weekend before—“Light defeats Dark again,” he said—and the defence in the Scott case had rested that very afternoon. Closing arguments were scheduled for the Monday, and following the judge’s instructions to the jury, deliberations would begin.

As he uncorked the bottle of wine—a pinot grigio—she looked through the sheaf of pages he had brought. They were all poems by Siegfried Sassoon, who had written during and after World War I. She tried to remember her world history. England and France had been in a stalemate against Germany, all three countries paralyzed in trench warfare across no-man’s-land. Sassoon’s work was dark, expressing his anger at the senior officers who continued to send young men into battle when nothing was accomplished by their deaths, cynicism for the futility of war in general, and grief for untold friends who had died. “He thought Death was a person,” she said.

“I imagine most soldiers do. And for those who were wounded, Life could be a person as well, in the form of the medic, for example.”

Like Sergeant Casey. “Evil is a person—I encountered him. Do you suppose Good is a person?”

“I know He is.”

She read further. “Frail Travellers,” Sassoon had called butterflies. “A man wrote these lines—how fragile we all are, and how fleeting life is!”

“Men can have tender feelings, Jenny, although we generally don’t advertise them.”

She looked up from the printed page. He didn’t look fragile. Where did his vulnerability lie?

“We’d best make the most of today, wouldn’t you agree?”

“How can I do that, locked in this flat?”

“Your thoughts and feelings aren’t locked in, are they?”

“Is that the nature of freedom? Being able to look past the limitations of your body to see a vista of what is possible?”

“That’s the challenge of every age, isn’t it? From the child to the elderly adult? And of every circumstance—none of us are what we wish to be.”

“But you’re healthy and capable—you have an important job—you can choose where you go and what you do.”

“Policing requires an inordinate amount of time. I live an unbalanced life. When I was your age, I thought I’d have my own family by now.”

She was aware of the men coming into the kitchen occasionally, but none of them interrupted the conversation taking place in the sitting room. Colin insisted that marriage was no less holy an institution because his had not survived. “Love lasts. My parents weren’t unhappy with their lifetime commitment. My mother followed my father all over the world, and she still loves him, even though he’s been gone over six years. I was wrong in my priorities, that’s all.”

They were not touching. Colin was sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, and her outstretched legs did not reach him. “Your mother’s love made her more susceptible to grief.”

“And gave her greater remembered joy.” His face was gentle.

The wine had warmed her face and chest. “I missed you this week,” she said.

The flat was quiet, except for the radio in her room and the soft whoosh of the heater when it came on. He stood and held out his hand. “Come here to me, Jenny,” he whispered.

His eyes were intensely blue, and he looked particularly strong standing. She remembered his embrace—feeling safe in it, feeling alive. Her stomach turned over, and his kiss did nothing to settle it. Afterward he held her close, his lips against her hair, and she tried to catch her breath. Then he stepped back and called for the men to see him out.

M
onday: Colin had said that the case would go to the jury on Monday. All afternoon Jenny pestered the men to go for the evening newspapers. The late editions would precede the nightly newscasts on TV, and she wanted to know how the testimonial phase of the trial had concluded. She didn’t retreat until Hunt threw up his hands and threatened to charge her with harassment.

In the end the reports did nothing to settle her. Prosecuting counsel, Mr. Benjamin, titled his summation “Beauty versus the Beast” and began with a broad overview of good versus evil. He referred to the defendant as a “sadistic and depraved individual” whose “total disregard for suffering and human life” had finally been discovered, following a valiant act of identification by a surviving witness. Then he reiterated each piece of specific evidence that tied the cases of the seven victims together. “I am often asked,” he said, “what justice looks like. It is a wall, built brick by brick in a court of law, constructed of courage, held together by truth, and reinforced with scientific and medical data. It is a wall tall enough and strong enough to contain a monster. Your verdict, guilty on all the counts that have been presented to you, will make it a lasting wall.”

Mr. Alford had spoken for the defence, disputing the evidence and citing the “character (reprehensible), calumny, and consent” of the primary prosecution witness. He had spoken of her with contempt, condemning her irresponsible conduct. “My client never claimed to be celibate,” he argued, “but no man with his heritage, resources, and attractiveness has to force his attentions on members of the opposite sex. With no shortage of opportunities for mutual sexual enjoyment, what possible motive could he have for doing so?” Alford had then returned to the issue of consent, and Jenny finally understood why, after her tearful statement to Colin and Barry in the hospital, Colin had asked if she’d given her consent. “A wall?” Alford had scoffed. “Rubbish. Rubble.”

Judge Thomas’s instructions to the jury were not recorded in the newspapers, but they had evidently been lengthy, because several reporters had filed their stories before he had completed them. The waiting game began, and she was not very good at it.

Tuesday came and went, with Jenny preoccupied. What could the jury be thinking? Why wasn’t it a slam dunk? Hadn’t they believed her?
What about all the other evidence that had been given? He is
guilty
. All they had to do was say it. Why didn’t they?

Hunt was the first beneficiary of her short fuse. On Wednesday he needled her about the university logo on her sweatshirt: Prescott Pumas. “What the hell’s a puma?”

“A wildcat.”

“Your mascot was a pussy?” Hunt elbowed Casey, whose mouth twitched suspiciously.

“No, they’re
big
cats,” she said, blushing. “Aggressive. Fierce. They pounce on their prey from great heights.”

Hunt slapped his knee and roared with laughter. “Every bloke’s dream—being attacked by a wild pussy!”

Casey made a choking sound in his throat and turned away.

“Damn it, Hunt, do you have to be so crude?” she yelled.

“You’ve got to learn to take it, Little Bit,” Hunt said, still chuckling. “The Prescott Pussies—wait ‘til I tell Davies.”

Later during her exercises she erupted at Sergeant Casey. “What am I doing this for? So I can sit down the rest of the day? Who cares if I stay in shape?”

When he counselled using her anger to complete an additional set, she became even more irate. He held out the pillow, but she batted it away. “I don’t want to hit that, I want to hit you!”

Casey laughed softly. He held out his hands and beckoned to her with his fingers. “Come on then.”

She went for him, but he took one diagonal step back, easily deflecting her frontal attack, and she had forgotten to watch his hands. Damn his efficiency! One minute she was on her feet attacking, and the next, he was behind her. Her knees buckled, and she fell against his thigh. Her position on the floor was discouraging, but maybe she could use it to her advantage. She went limp. When she felt his grip relax, she aimed again, but she was no more successful.

“Don’t give up, Little Bit!”

Sergeant Casey’s face was close to hers. Was he restraining a smile? Damn him! She lurched at him with her chin but succeeded only in grazing his cheek with her lips. She couldn’t think of anything else to try. “I’m through,” she said. “No lie.”

He helped her sit up. Her head bowed, she hugged her knees and waited for The Voice. Instead she felt his hands massaging her shoulders. She was so tense that even his gentle pressure hurt. “I’ve been in this flat over six months. Except for my Paul Revere midnight run, I’ve never gone anywhere that didn’t have some medical or legal purpose. Tomorrow I’m going out. Would you like to pick the place?”

Casey didn’t answer, but the massage stopped.

“Can’t I go somewhere that’s so crowded that nobody would notice me? Or so deserted that no one would see me?” She scooted over to the sofa and leaned against it. “Don’t you understand? I want to see the light. The little room was dark. The courtroom had artificial light—no windows. There are windows here, but they’re shrouded, and I’m not allowed to look through them.” Brian was still sleeping from the night
watch, so she turned to her only ally. “Hunt, help me here. I know I’m locked in, but I can call Colin and raise a ruckus. Or call the police—regular police—and scream when they come to the door until you let them in.”

Casey smiled at her determination. “What address will you give when you ring?”

“I’ll tell them I’m being held against my will in Detective Chief Inspector Sinclair’s building.”

Hunt laughed aloud.

There’s my girl. “We’ll get it sorted, love. Best not to call in fire on your own position.”

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

I
n the morning Brian fed her marmalade and toast for elevenses, and they all trooped downstairs to wait for the car Sergeant Casey had summoned. The men wore coats to conceal their firearms, and she wore a sweater under her raincoat. It was brisk and cool, and the sky was strewn with heavy clouds.

“Hyde Park Corner,” Casey told the driver, and her adventure began.

They hadn’t been in the park long when men on horseback rode by, colourful tunics across their chests and plumes on their helmets. “From the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace,” Brian said. “Their barracks are nearby.” Casey had explained that they wouldn’t stop anywhere for long, so she kept walking, although she couldn’t resist a backward glance.

Ahead of her lay vast open grassy fields with groves of trees in the distance and to her left, Serpentine Lake. They strolled alongside it and crossed the bridge into Kensington Gardens. The flowers here had been expertly planted, with an eye toward variety in color, height, and type of blossom. Everything looked a little bedraggled, but the colors were no less bright for the drops of rain that clung to the petals. She saw tulips in every shade of the artist’s palette, daffodils, iris, and many florals she didn’t recognize. Delicate yellows, the palest peach, lavender, hot pink, and royal purple. Why, she wondered, was the word “royal” used to describe the most intense hue? She would have called all these colors royal—the pastels were no less glorious than the others. Her enjoyment progressed from muted to vibrant, and she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

They did not enter any of the structures they passed, even the visitor centre near the Albert Memorial. Sometimes Sergeant Casey walked beside her and sometimes Hunt, but evidently they felt the difference between her height and Brian’s would attract attention, so he was usually at least a few feet away.