The Witness: A Novel (7 page)

“You mentioned a rug,” Bridges reminded her. “Can you describe it?”

“Mostly red, when he was through with me.” She was upset by the memory. “Sorry—that isn’t what you want to know.” She paused. “It was round and braided, with lots of colors. It wasn’t very soft. Think, rug burns. The braids made it lumpy.”

“You said the first blow was a fist to the stomach which knocked you down. Did you fall all the way down?”

“No, I fell to my knees. He hit me on the shoulder next, and I landed on my side.”

“Left or right side?”

“Left.”

“Then what?”

“He kicked me—all over. My arms and legs, my stomach, my chest, my back. I was hurt pretty badly pretty quickly.”

“He used his hands as well, is that correct?” asked Bridges.

“Yes, his fists mostly, but his ring—that sharp ring—that was awful.”

“Left or right hand?” Bridges continued.

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. “Fists—both hands. When he used the back of his hand, it was his right hand. His ring was on his right hand.”

“Did he hit you with anything other than his hands and feet?”

“Like the proverbial blunt object, you mean?” she asked. “No. It was all very personal. At least, it seemed that way.”

“He didn’t have a weapon of any sort?” Sinclair asked.

“
He
was the weapon,” she replied.

“How long did the beating last?”

“Too long.”

“You were lying on your side.”

“Yes. He bent over and pushed me onto my back. That’s why I remember seeing him undo his belt. My left arm hurt too badly, but I put my right arm up to push him away. That’s when he struck me across the face with the back of his hand. It was humiliating. Why did he want to destroy my appearance when he was going to kill me? And it hurt so badly.”

“Because of the ring he wore,” Bridges clarified.

“Yes. Isn’t that stupid? I was bleeding in so many places, more life-threatening ones, and I was trying to protect my face.”

She was tiring, but Sinclair had other questions for her, things he wanted very badly to know before they arrested Scott. “What did he do with your necklace—the one you mentioned with the cross on it?”

She thought for a moment. “He held it in his hand, I think. I don’t remember seeing him put it down anywhere.”

“So when he gripped your thighs, he had it in his hand?” Bridges asked.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

That explained her unusual bruises. Many rape victims had bruises on the inside of their thighs. Jenny had cross-shaped bruises as well. “Jenny, do you have any idea how long the rape lasted?”

“That’s sick!” she cried. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

“To establish a timeline,” explained Bridges.

“Oh. No. It hurt so much that it seemed like it took forever, but I really have no idea how long it was.”

“Did he use a condom?”

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t see—oh my God—unprotected sex—I need to know!”

Bridges looked at Sinclair. You field this one, boss.

“The forensic data should tell us. Let’s move on,” Sinclair said.

“Did he lie down on top of you?” asked Bridges.

“No, thank God; I think I would have suffocated.”

Broken ribs, collapsed lung: It was possible. “Did he caress you in any way?” Sinclair asked.

“All his touches hurt,” she said. “He wanted blood, not affection.”

“Did he want oral sex?”

She recoiled and did not reply.

“For the benefit of the tape, Miss Jeffries answered with a negative gesture,” Bridges said after a minute.

“Jenny,” Sinclair asked quietly, “did he complete the sexual act?”

“He stopped, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did he ejaculate inside you?”

“I don’t know! I’d never had sex before. I don’t know how to tell!”

Sinclair sighed. He didn’t know exactly how to word the next
question. He didn’t know if she would understand the criminal term. He decided against it. “Jenny, I have to ask you very specifically. What was the final act of abuse committed against you?”

She shuddered. “I can’t talk about it,” she whispered. “I can’t. It’s too horrible.”

Finally Bridges spoke. “Let the record show that Miss Jeffries was unable to answer fully,” he said quietly.

“Jenny, I have one more question.” She was crying, and Sinclair waited for her to collect herself slightly. “Did you give your consent?”

That was the end of her even partial composure. “Are you kidding?” she cried. “Consent to
this
?”

“I need an unequivocal answer,” he said heavily. “Yes or no.”

“No!” she screamed. “The answer is no!”

“Interview with Miss Jeffries terminated,” said Bridges in a subdued voice, adding the other pertinent information before stopping the tape. He stood. “Jenny, our purpose isn’t to dispute anything. We weren’t there, that’s all, and we need the clearest picture of what happened in that room.” She still looked upset. “I wish I had half your courage,” he said. “You’re quite a girl, and getting stronger all the time. If that bastard had any idea what he’s up against, he’d chuck in the towel now.”

“I’m sorry,” Sinclair said. “Consent is a legal issue.”

She looked at him. He was wearing cufflinks, silver rectangles with a stone in the center that matched his tie. Her father wore cufflinks sometimes. The memory made the pain in her chest almost palpable. Her father wouldn’t have treated her the way Mr. Sinclair had, law or no law. “Go away,” she said.

“T
hat was rough, sir,” Bridges commented to Sinclair in the corridor. “The hospital environment hasn’t been kind to her, and having no family with her—I’m surprised she’s doing as well as she is.”

Sinclair’s focus was on the case. “DNA evidence will be important. Scott may ditch his shoes, but he’ll never get it off his ring, no matter how he washes it. And if he left some inside Jenny, the way he did with the others, the rape kit will tell us.”

“Sir, why would he leave evidence like that behind?”

“Arrogance, according to the psychological profile.”

“It’s going to give some prosecutor a conviction on a silver platter.”

“Let’s hope we get that far,” Sinclair replied. “I’m off to the Yard. Scott’s been placed under surveillance, his arrest warrant is in, and we have some planning to do.”

“I’ll stay on here for a bit.”

Jenny looked up but didn’t smile when Bridges returned. “Is he gone?”

“Back to his office. His work on the case is ongoing.”

“Are you going to defend him?”

“No, he can look after himself. My job is to look after you.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Home’s the best place for you. It’s good to have loved ones close. Give your body time to heal. Trust us to keep you safe when you come back.”

“So you can get justice?” she asked bitterly.

“Justice is good,” Bridges said. “I believe in it. I work for it. But in my experience victims are usually motivated by something more personal. I think you’ll agree to testify because you need to do it—to fight back, to keep other women from suffering—however you define it, that need won’t go away, even when you go home.” He paused. “Jenny, my son’s the goalkeeper on his football team. If he’s been scored on quite a bit in a game, he loses confidence. I put him up front for a while to give him a chance to take the offensive. That’s what I want for you—after a long halftime at home, to finish strong.”

B
y nine o’clock in the evening most of the hospital visitors had left, and the passages were quiet. The two policemen outside Jenny’s room had been on duty since four with only routine responsibilities. A balding, heavyset man approached them, wearing tan trousers, a blue shirt, and a dark tie under his white coat. His hospital ID card was pinned to his pocket, and his stethoscope draped around his neck. He stopped in front of the PCs and gave them his name, telling them in an overly hearty voice that he was a psychiatrist and had been asked to stop in. Neither man had seen him before, but his name was on their list, so they permitted him to enter her room.

PC Sullivan had a strange feeling about the man that he couldn’t explain, so he followed the psychiatrist into the room and rested his hand on his truncheon. When the psychiatrist turned toward him and told him to step outside, he didn’t. Most doctors didn’t like their authority questioned, but Sullivan was uneasy. He planned to wait where he was until he was sure Jenny was comfortable with the session. So far she wasn’t.

“I have something here that will help you relax,” the doctor said. Jenny screamed as he took something out of his trouser pocket, something that looked small in his thick fingers. Sullivan was young, and his reflexes were quick. He stepped forward, swinging his truncheon as hard as he could at the arm that held the syringe. There was a loud crack as the truncheon connected with his elbow, the doctor bellowed with pain, and the syringe fell from his fingers and slid across the floor.

The doctor lunged at her with his good arm, and she felt his thumb and index finger around her throat, squeezing. The weight was crushing, forcing her head into the pillow and strangling her second scream. It was sudden, and it took her a moment to react. She put her hand on his hand, but there was no strength in her grip, and she couldn’t pry his hand away. His face loomed over her, not slack and affable now. She could see the young officer behind him, his arm around the man’s neck. He was yelling for his partner. Sudden pinpoints of light burst before her eyes, and she thought the tiny sparklers and a man’s contorted face would be the last things she would ever see.

In the meantime the PC outside had heard the commotion. Together he and Sullivan tackled the man, who cursed loudly and struggled wildly against them. “You’ve broken my arm!” he howled. Privately Sullivan hoped so. Because of the man’s frantic resistance, it took both of them to pin him to the floor and handcuff him.

“Are you all right, Miss?” asked Sullivan, as soon as he could catch his breath. She was gasping and coughing.

PC Wilson dragged the assailant outside the room and called a nurse for Jenny.

Sullivan radioed for backup and then for the Chief Inspector.

Jenny was sobbing and shaking.

“Try to take it easy,” Sullivan told her.

In a few minutes they could hear other voices outside. When the door opened, Jenny inhaled sharply, but it was PC Wilson notifying them that the additional police had arrived.

In the meantime the nurse returned with Dr. Patel, the doctor on call. She found Jenny’s pulse elevated and deep bruises already appearing on her neck, but no physical injuries that required treatment.

Sinclair arrived and held up his warrant card. “What’s going on here?”

“She needs a sedative, but she’s too distressed to swallow it. When I ordered an injection, she became more upset. And your policeman won’t allow me to give it.”

“Is she physically all right?”

“Yes,” reported Dr. Patel, “but she needs something to calm her down.”

“Not until she’s spoken with the Chief Inspector,” Sullivan insisted.

“Doctor, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but could you give us a few minutes, please?”

“Certainly,” said the doctor.

Sinclair nodded at Sullivan, and he stepped out as well.

“I thought I was in a cocoon,” she sobbed. “I wasn’t—I’m a sitting duck. What am I going to do?”

Sinclair put a hand on her shoulder. “Jenny, stay with me. I know you’re frightened, but I need to know what happened. Can you do this for me?”

“A man—a doctor!—tried to kill me.”

“How?” Sinclair didn’t relax his grip on her shoulder.

“He had a syringe. I saw it. Then he grabbed my neck.” She tried to clear her throat, but it didn’t help. “He said he was a psychiatrist, but he came too close, and I screamed, and one of your men was here, and he saved my life.”

“Jenny, I want you to know that you’re safe now.” He released her shoulder. “I’ll be just outside. Wilson!”

“Sir?”

“Stay with Miss Jeffries while I have a word with Sullivan.”

Sullivan was waiting to be interviewed.

“Tell me what happened here,” ordered Sinclair.

“Sir, the man’s name was on the list. He had a hospital ID, but I had a bad feeling about him so I followed him into Miss Jeffries’ room. I thought I’d back off a bit when I could see that they were getting on okay. When he took the syringe out of his pocket, I hit him with my truncheon.”

“Sullivan, what was odd about a doctor with a syringe?”

“Sir—maybe it was the stethoscope. Why would a shrink need a stethoscope? And why would a doctor carry a syringe in his trouser pocket?”

“Did Miss Jeffries see the syringe? Is that why she screamed?”

“No, sir, she screamed first. I don’t think she saw the syringe until after I did. Of course, Will heard her from outside and was with me straightaway, which was a good thing, because it took both of us to bring him down. We slammed him down pretty hard, sir.”

Good. “Did he touch anything in the room?”

“No, sir, not that I saw.”

“So you saw the syringe and hit him. Why does Miss Jeffries have bruises on her neck?”

“Because he lunged at her with his other arm. Sir, she couldn’t get away, and she only ever had the one hand to defend herself with.”

“What did you do next?”

“We wrestled him to the floor and cuffed him. Will called the nurse, and she paged the doctor. I radioed for backup and then for you. That’s it, sir.”

“Where is the syringe?”

“In the corner of her room, on the floor. We didn’t touch it.”

“We’ll wait for the SOCOs to bag it,” Sinclair nodded. “We’ll need a formal statement from you later. For now, relieve Wilson inside.”

When PC Wilson came outside, Sinclair took his initial statement. It corroborated Sullivan’s. He had heard Miss Jeffries’ screams and Sullivan’s shout and had entered her room immediately to assist. “The scum’s being x-rayed downstairs, sir. He’ll be taken to the custody cells at Paddington Green.”

Sinclair stepped back inside. “Thank you, Sullivan,” he said. As he left, Sinclair brought Jenny a glass of water and watched while she took a sip. “PC Sullivan said that you screamed before he hit the man with his truncheon. Why was that?”