The Witness: A Novel (70 page)

T
here were two chairs in Colin’s hospital room. Simon took one outside, and Jenny put a blanket around her shoulders and tried to make herself comfortable in the other while she watched him sleep. There was a tightness between his brows now, and she wondered if he were concerned for her, even in rest. That expression had been on his face the first time she’d seen him and many times since. Was it habit, or a manifestation of his subconscious mind?

She saw his fist clench and relax. His wrists were bare. What had happened to his cufflinks? At dinner he’d worn a pair with the Union Jack symbol on them, and she’d teased him about wearing her flag. The champagne had unleashed his charm, and he’d expounded again on the meaning of the three crosses, this time personalizing the analogy of the saints in a way that both pleased and embarrassed her. “My little St. George,” he called her. “You’ve slain more dragons than he ever did. St. Andrew was a witness until death, and you’re as loving and courageous as he was. And now I can anoint you St. Patrick, because you have chosen to live in the land where you were abused, as he did.”

She’d demurred. “I’m no saint,” she’d laughed. And she wasn’t—but the flag and the God who had inspired it had journeyed with her through difficult seas. There had been times when it had seemed menacing, with bars holding her in, but on other occasions it had fortified her, keeping the storms at bay. In her mind she saw the flag with its bold colors and thought it had a bold message, too: My arms are open, My love is unending, My heart is yours.

Colin had given her his heart. He had made her hope real. He had gone down on one knee when he proposed to her, making her cry, of course. She had wished for some eloquent response but could only murmur “Yes,” and then he had kissed her and she couldn’t speak at all. “My mother wants you to have her engagement ring,” he’d said later. “She’s waiting for me to collect it. Violet never wore it—it wasn’t offered to her.” They’d decided to wait until it was official before sharing the news with anyone else.

She felt stiff. She stood and stretched. When the nurse came in to check on Colin, Jenny was already standing by the bed, holding his
hand. He didn’t need the physical contact; she did. The nurse woke him, and Jenny thought what a strange practice it was, disturbing the sleep of patients when rest was what they needed most. Colin was groggy but managed to swallow the medication, smiling when he felt Jenny’s lips on his cheek. She sat down again.

“Tea, love?” It was Simon, her rock, her anchor.

“Simon, they would have killed us. When I close my eyes, I see them coming at us.”

“I know, love. That’s why I’m here. But they didn’t succeed, did they?” He bent his head down and rested his cheek briefly against her hair. Sinclair would send her away; he’d have to. He didn’t know when he’d see her again.

The tea was hot and sweet, just the way she liked it. “It’s my fault.”

“It bloody well isn’t,” The Voice said.

He might put sugar in her cup, but he never sugarcoated anything else. She watched him step outside. She felt safe with him there. She loved him, too, in a way she didn’t understand. How many cups of tea had they shared? How many late-night discussions? He had kept her on course so many times when she had thought her soul would break. She went into the hall to thank him. He was leaning back in the chair with his head against the wall, but his eyes were alert. “I’ll miss you,” she said and went back in.

Her soul—that reminded her of the phrases she’d wanted to quote to Colin, about loving him to the “depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach,” as Elizabeth Barrett Browning had written. She could not love him purely—that had been taken from her—but most of the other verses were appropriate. “I love thee with the passion put to use / In my old griefs”—Colin knew what those were. And the poem contained the promise she wanted to make to him: “I love thee with the breath / Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.”

Death—she had hoped the threat was past, that the monster’s anger would abate or his influence wane. She thought ruefully that Inspector Rawson had been right: She did need protection even after the legal process ended. She was still glad that she had not chosen to be anonymous, however. She would have missed so much. But it did seem like a merciless twist of fate for yet another menace to burst forth just when she was on the cusp of an exciting new future.

Everything hinged on how much the bad guys knew. If her association with Colin had been discovered, he would be in danger whether she were present or not. And she could not go to Kent—hazard would follow her like iron filings to a magnet. With morning would come the discussion she dreaded. She didn’t want to be separated from this man; yet even as she thought the words, she knew that love would dictate that she go willingly wherever he asked. Choose life, Colin had commanded long ago. And she had chosen it, not once but many times. She had moved forward and she had succeeded, not because she was strong but because
those around her were. Simon had taught her to face life head-on, and when the new day dawned, she would. It would not be easy—Colin would be making another proposal to her, one that might keep them apart for who knows how long, when the proposal she wanted to think about was the one that would unite them forever.

Colin woke, feeling stiff and sore, to find her asleep in the hospital chair. She had rung Casey. Was he still outside? Was it feeling for her or loyalty to him as a fellow copper that held him there? It didn’t matter now. She had stayed all night. She knew his condition wasn’t serious, yet she had kept a vigil by his bed. She was here. She was his. She loved him.

When he had first seen her, her eyes had been closed. They had awakened with pain. He wanted to see the love in them now, but he would not wake her. A few more moments of peace were all he could give her today.

B
righton: seaside city, holiday destination, but Jenny was a refugee, not a vacationer. Colin had wanted her out of Hampstead before Chase and Dodd conducted their follow-on interviews, so she left the same day he came home from the hospital. Sergeant Andrews had taken her by tube to Victoria Station, where he had put her on the train south.

John Ogilvie met her train in Brighton and escorted her to a hotel. He was a detective superintendent, a colleague of Colin’s, a tall, lean man with an air of importance and a confident stride. His easygoing manner was deceptive, barely concealing a quick and astute mind. She was sure he noticed her bare ring finger. “Colin tells me you’ve a bit of a situation and need to disappear for a few weeks. I’m glad he chose Brighton for you—we’ve got a sizeable population of foreign students here. You’ll blend in.”

When her luggage was stowed, he gave her a brief tour of the area. There were numerous sights to see, many within walking distance of the hotel. He left her with a map, a tourist guide, and his card. “Your room is in my name,” he said. “Feel free to eat either inside or outside the hotel. Browse in the outlet stores, or anywhere else you like, but make cash purchases only. If you need more money, ring me. Colin will wire it to me.”

“Are you my handler?”

“Nothing as formal as that.”

It was an attractive room, not as nicely furnished as the Hotel La Place but larger and with a sea view. When the door closed behind D/S Ogilvie, she felt more isolated than at any time since the monster’s attack. The walls of her room were a deeper blue than Colin’s eyes but sufficient to remind her of him. There was a small desk with a straight chair, but she could not write him. Nothing must appear at his flat with her name, her address. Two armchairs with a round table between them looked out over the water, but only one of them would receive any use during her stay. And the bed was a double, with room enough for him beside her, but he would not be there. This trip was a cruel blow, because she knew what she was missing in her separation from him.

The hotel provided a complementary full English breakfast and had a restaurant that served light fare throughout the afternoon and evening, but she ate every meal alone. Her only interaction with people
was the courtesy shown to strangers, the cashier at the bookstore already smiling at the next customer before she had stepped away.

It was too cool for any beach activities that involved the water, but the weather was beautiful—not one drop of rain since she’d arrived. She walked along the beach and contemplated the millions of grains of sand beneath her feet. She looked out at the English Channel. At night she couldn’t tell where the sea ended and the sky began—it was all dark, dead dark. In contrast, Brighton glowed, like a huge organism with a radioactive substance pulsing through its veins.

Colin kept her apprised of the investigation. The second knifer was in police custody, and both men were being questioned about their employer and the scope of their assignment. They were reticent about the details so far, but Graves had arranged for two interview teams instead of one in the hope that extensive questioning and different approaches would wear them down. Colin minimised the pain from his wounds, admitting only to discomfort. He was well enough for Andrews to drive him to the Yard, he insisted, and yes, he elevated his leg when he got there. He loved her. He missed her.

As the days passed, Jenny tired of her tourist status. She received no genuine smiles, no flashes of recognition as she trekked up and down the streets. The Mexican restaurant where she ate made her homesick for Texas, and the Italian restaurant—although more informal than her favorite in Hampstead—made her ache inside for the happy times she and Colin had shared there. She began to see the people she knew in the people she saw—a woman with her mother’s haircut, a man with Simon’s mouth, a thin pimply-faced teenager with Colin’s eyes. Each time she felt an irrational surge of hunger born out of her longing for contact, some personal contact. Her nightly talks with Colin—and occasional ones with Simon and her family—were all she had.

No one could visit her, Colin said. Not even Hunt, because they were all connected to her and that connection must remain unknown. Talk to God, he suggested, so she did. At first her conversations were full of what Simon would call whingeing—get me out of Brighton, I don’t like it here, I miss Colin, I’m lonely—and she was sure that God tired of hearing it. Then she tried to reason with God, explaining over and over why she and Colin should be together. She bargained, promising to do every good thing she could think of if He would just let her go home. God was silent, but the process did relieve some of her tension, and it kept her from thinking she was going crazy. She wasn’t talking to herself, after all.

Ogilvie was always relaxed when she saw him. He chided her gently about her impatience, and she wondered why older people weren’t even more hurried. Each time he asked only a question or two about her, never writing anything down, but she realized that gradually he was acquiring a wealth of information. Finally she asked him directly: “What do you know about me?”

“Not enough; in this business, never enough,” he answered.

He could have been Colin, fifteen years or so into the future, his desire to know having escalated, not moderated.

She did not ask Colin how much longer she’d be exiled. She did ask whether the two men who had attacked them knew where she lived and what her relationship with him was. He answered “yes” to the former and “it’s unconfirmed” to the latter question, emphasising that it was essential as a result for them to discover who had sent them. Her life with Colin depended on that.

She had plenty of time to think about him, but it was too painful to daydream about being his wife when her identity had led to his injuries. She had accepted his marriage proposal, but she could not honor it if it put him in danger. She still saw them being attacked, the two men coming at them, Colin bleeding. She still felt her helplessness. In the dark of night she cried about the sacrifice she feared she would have to make. In the daylight she worried about everything else—how long she’d have to be in Brighton; whether she’d have to move to another location; what her future prospects would be. She was surprised when Ogilvie brought her a package. It had his name on it, but the New Scotland Yard return address told her it was from Colin. It contained the blanket he had given her so many months ago. It had warmed her during witness protection, its colors reminding her of the Texas heat.

Her days dragged. She couldn’t even take a class. She had asked Ogilvie, thinking that it would be fun to learn more Italian. Perhaps she and Colin could go to Italy and she could impress him with her fluency in the language. Or first aid, a practical skill. She could be useful to someone. Somewhere. Sometime.

Ogilvie had become very still, abandoning his casual manner. “Even if it were possible for you to register under an assumed name, regular contact with the same group of persons would not be wise. And people talk—particularly when they don’t know they’re not meant to and when they have a subject to discuss like a lovely young woman with an appealing accent, an unusual watch, and—distinguishing marks.”

The purple hearts were striking; she probably shouldn’t have worn the watch outside the hotel. Frustrated, she’d asked what difference it made now—at least here if danger came, no one else would be hurt.

“We both know someone to whom it would make a significant difference,” he had said. “Someone who would be deeply hurt if anything happened to you.”

That was true. She was feeling sorry for herself, and she mustn’t. Following that talk she didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone, lest they ask her to introduce herself. She had no Colin, no Simon, no Esther Hollister. Inspector Rawson had finally gotten his wish—that she would no longer exist as Jennifer Jeffries—because even though she had not lost her name, she couldn’t use it and thus was just as anonymous. She wondered if other witnesses felt haunted after their legal obligations had been met. If they visited the same store two days in a row, did they take a different route home the second time? Were they spooked when the sun began to set and shadows dotted the landscape? Did they sit behind securely locked and latched doors and wait to hear if the voices in the corridor stopped or passed by?