The Witness: A Novel (13 page)

“Two weeks ago today,” she whispered and then couldn’t keep the tears from coming. “Two weeks ago today, I had a life. Now I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand, running his thumb up and down her small, slim fingers. “You’re cold. You should have told me.”

“I wasn’t sure it had anything to do with the temperature.”

She’s sad-on, cold in her soul, he thought.

I
n the morning Casey came in with jog pants and a t-shirt on and a towel around his neck. He was carrying a radio. “Shall I help you up? You can do it yourself, but your ribs will hurt.”

She didn’t want to need this man, but in the alien world that was her new life, she did. She took the glass of milk and her morning medicine. “Have you been exercising?”

“Running. Davies and I go in turn, early, before you wake up.”

“What’s the radio for?”

“To make vibrations against the window so people can’t eavesdrop.” He plugged it in. “It has to stay on all the time.”

“But it will keep me from hearing things,” she argued. “I won’t have any warning.”

“That’s what we’re here for, love.”

Then it was time for the long march to the kitchen. Brian made her a cup of tea and offered his short-order cooking skills, but she wasn’t hungry. “Where’s Danny?”

“Sleeping.” Casey helped her into the sitting room, and she discovered that daytime TV in England was just as bad as daytime TV at home, if not worse. The monster wouldn’t have to shoot her. She’d be assaulted by boredom and die a lingering death. It was all very strange—strange not knowing where she was, strange being with policemen, strange not being able to take care of herself, and strangest of all, hardly recognizing herself, with the landscape of her body altered, as if someone had taken it apart and then put it back together without the directions. Even these thoughts were strange: She’d never been this melancholy. She used to be able to connect with people. She remembered the lines from
Macbeth
and wondered if all the tomorrows she spent here would “creep in this petty pace from day to day.” The rest of that speech was depressing, too. The lines about sound and fury reminded her of the monster, and others implied that life had no meaning.

Danny woke after lunch, made himself a sandwich, and brought her a dish of ice cream. “I’ve got two older sisters,” he told her while they ate. “Samantha’s a hairdresser, and Gemma’s learning to be a secretary. If she can type as fast as she talks, she’ll do fine.” He laughed. “I also
have a younger sister still in secondary school. It’s secondary school, all right—boys are primary!”

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A
fter dinner, the men heard the chief inspector’s knock on the door. When both Danny and Sergeant Casey went, she asked Brian, “Why does it take two of you to answer the door?”

“One to open it and one for backup,” he explained. “We like to err on the side of caution. And the chief always phones ahead so we know when to expect him.”

Sinclair quickly briefed Casey. “You’re in charge of this mobile phone. Jenny’s only authorised calls are to her parents or to me. The numbers are preprogrammed. I don’t expect her to like it.”

“I have some surprises for you,” he told Jenny, holding out two carrier-bags. Andrews’ wife, Susie, had done the shopping.

“I always thought caftans were for older women, but these are gorgeous,” she said, holding up the contents. One was kelly green with gold embroidery around the sleeves, v-neck, and leg slits; the other, a deep blue with white satin trim. They would cover her completely. The nightgown was long, a Lanz with the signature small print and eyelet trim, and it looked warm, as did the nightshirt. The soap had a lavender scent.

Sinclair was relieved. They’d looked like two shapeless dresses to him. He hadn’t realised women wore such things. He took the hospital envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

“My earrings! I wondered what had happened to them.”

He watched her put them on, entirely by feel. “Lovely.”

“Mr. Sinclair, thank you so much. How can I repay you?”

“Tell us about growing up in Texas,” Sullivan prompted.

“Sounds a fair trade to me,” Sinclair said.

She shifted her weight to make herself more comfortable. “I grew up in Houston. My dad’s a college professor. He teaches American history. My mom’s just a mom. I have two younger brothers. I miss all of them.”

She paused and took a deep breath, wincing when her ribs reminded her that they had not healed. “I liked growing up in Texas. I didn’t mind the heat and humidity. And it’s a modern state. Don’t believe the stereotype! There are universities, sports arenas, symphonies, and shopping malls. There aren’t as many ranches as there used to be, but there are still cowboys, and some cities have rodeos in the summer. I can’t remember when the last Indian raid was exactly, but it was much later than you would think—1917 or 1918, maybe. Texas was the biggest state in the U.S. until Alaska came in. Texans swagger, though, as if it’s still the biggest.”

“How far is it from Houston to Dallas?” asked Sullivan. “And who shot J.R.?”

She laughed. “Is that program still showing over here? It’s so fake!
I’ve seen the set, and that swimming pool is tiny. The corral isn’t real, either—no working corral would be that small or that clean.”

“Davies, Sullivan, it’s time I had a word with Jenny,” Sinclair said. “Casey, stand by.”

She watched them leave.

“Jenny, you need to have a wash.”

“A bath?” Was that why he’d brought soap? And she’d thought that having scented soap was such a luxury.

“Yes, the sergeant and I will help you.”

“Two against one isn’t fair.”

“One of us then. It’s your choice.”

“I don’t like those choices,” she said, trying to be brave. “Can I have two more choices?”

That made both men smile, and she noticed that Casey didn’t look quite as fierce when he smiled. It didn’t make any difference, though. She tried another tack. “Mañana!”

Sinclair gave her a questioning look.

“That’s the Spanish word for tomorrow. But sometimes it can be used to mean a tomorrow you hope never comes.”

“Jenny,” Sinclair said softly, “you must let someone help you. You can’t take a real bath or shower until your cast has been removed.”

“It’ll be like last night,” Casey said, “with you in bed. Only more thorough.” She was looking at him like he was the enemy. Damn. This assignment was turning into a hearts-and-minds op. “Jenny.”

It was the first time Casey had used her name, so she paid attention.

“We’ll do it in turn. There are some places I am not going to touch you.”

Her heart pounded, and the dread stretched her muscles tight, making each injury throb with new intensity.

“I’ll deal, sir,” Casey said.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Sinclair said and departed.

Sergeant Casey helped her into the bedroom. He brought a bowl of warm water, a bar of soap, a face cloth, and several bath sheets. He removed the sling from her left arm.

The preparations did nothing to ease her anxiety. “Will Danny and Brian come in?”

“No, they’ve been briefed.”

Was that good or bad? They wouldn’t watch, but what if she needed them? “I wish my mother were here.”

“I don’t want to do this any more than you do,” he said. “Can we agree to make the best of it?”

Her look of despair told him she wouldn’t. He proceeded by degrees, uncovering only one part of her body at a time. She must have worn a bikini in Texas—the strap lines were evident on her tan skin. There were still marks of the attack everywhere as well, and he kept his movements economical, working as quickly as he could. From time to time he brushed the face cloth across her cheeks to clear the tears away.
He cleansed both feet and legs, being particularly careful with the angry contusions on her left leg. She was the shapeliest patient he’d treated; most had been soldiers with legs as hairy as his own, not with this small waist and soft skin. And those same soldiers would think he was playing without a full pack if they saw him now—alone in a bedroom with a half naked woman and not pushing the envelope, not even a little bit. “No totally unnecessary breast examination? I’m disappointed in you, Doc!” But he was on duty, and besides, he didn’t get off on battered women. After he rinsed the face cloth in the bathroom, he handed it to her. “Your turn now. I’ll close your door and give you about ten minutes.”

She did her best to clean her front. Even with no one present, it was mortifying, but at least the worst part was over. She pulled the sheet over herself and waited.

“I’ll take your dirty clothes away.”

She didn’t move.

“Where are they?”

“I’m wearing them,” she said, clutching the sheet tighter.

“You’re still wearing your knickers? Did you wash?”

“Above the waist,” she whispered. “I didn’t take my panties off. I didn’t want to be naked.”

He thought for a moment. “What would you like to sleep in?”

“The nightshirt,” she answered, but she couldn’t get it on. The cast on her left arm wouldn’t fit through the sleeve.

While she struggled with it, he bent down. When he straightened, he had a vicious-looking knife in his hand.

“What are you going to do with that?” she gasped.

“Help you dress,” he said and sliced through the shoulder seam of the nightshirt. He replaced the knife in its calf holster and helped her adjust the nightshirt. “You’re not naked now. It’s time to finish the job. One of us has bloody well got to do it. Who’s it going to be, Jenny?”

She decided she didn’t like it when he said her name. It was his way of telling her that he meant business.

“I’m back in ten,” he said. He handed her the face cloth and left.

She cried as she wriggled out of her panties. She had heard the
or else
he hadn’t said aloud. She thought of him waiting outside her door, knowing what she was doing, and her whole body shook. What if he didn’t believe she’d done it? What then? She was still trembling when he came back in.

He put the bath items and clothes away. He replaced the sling and adjusted her pillows. His mobile rang. He stepped outside her room and spoke to the chief inspector. “She didn’t do well, sir.”

“I’m on my way,” Sinclair answered. When Davies and Sullivan let him in, he went straight to her room.

“I’m surprised he checks on her so much,” Sullivan said.

“Don’t be fooled,” Davies warned. “He’s checking on more than Jenny.”

Casey stood when Sinclair knocked and entered her room.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Sinclair saw her red eyes and sat down on the edge of the bed. “What happened to your nightshirt?” Her left shoulder was bare.

He didn’t sound mad—just curious—but she was afraid that if she mentioned the knife, he and Casey would both be angry. “Sergeant Casey fixed it so I could get it over my cast.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“He—everything he does is frightening, but he didn’t hurt me. The—the monster—hurt me, and I’m afraid I’ll never be the person I was.”

She was right. Experiencing violence—particularly rape—changed a person, but he didn’t intend to tell her that. “I admit I don’t know what you were like before all this happened, but I’m rather impressed with what I see now. Under your tears are determination and courage.”

“There’s no courage,” she said. “It’s all fear.”

“I disagree. Fear may be what you’re feeling, but courage is what you’re doing. You’re here because you’re planning to do a very courageous thing. From the time I met you in hospital, you’ve done one courageous thing after another. You trusted me, you identified Scott, and you agreed to testify. You sit and walk in spite of the pain. When these tears have washed the dust off your wheels, you’re really going to get moving. None of us will be able to keep up with you.”

In spite of herself she had to smile.

“I’ll tell you something else I’ve learnt about you. You have very high expectations of yourself. That’s good, but there are times in life when you have to accept the help of others. It’s not weakness to do that; it’s a matter of perspective, of knowing when that extra boost will give you the edge you need.” He wanted very badly to retain her cooperation. He recalled a tactic a previous chief had used when he wanted to keep a witness sweet. “Would you do something for me? I’d like you to consider calling me Colin.”

“C-O-L-L-I-N?” she spelled.

“One L,” he corrected, “but it’s pronounced as if there were two.”

“I haven’t known what to call you,” she admitted.

“Detective Chief Inspector is a mouthful, isn’t it? Hearing ‘Mr. Sinclair’ makes me feel ancient. And there are plenty of sergeants and constables to call me sir. Will you give it a go?”

She looked at him and wondered if she could. His face wasn’t lined. Was it his air of authority that made him seem older, or his immaculate, tailored style of dress? She came from the land of denim—jeans, jackets, skirts—she even had a denim dress at home.

“Everything’s so impersonal,” she said slowly. “I wear a lot of labels—a patient, a witness—a pain in the neck, I think—I don’t feel like I belong to myself any more.”

He smiled. A sense of humour in the wake of despair was a good sign. “Perhaps our being on a first-name basis will help.”

T
he incident room was crowded. Investigative teams on the cases of the six murdered women were present, the detectives in charge as well as the scores of officers tasked with detailing the criminal histories and recent movements of Leonard Stark and Anthony Michalopolous, more familiarly called the S&M duo. The news was not good. Both had kept low profiles since entering the UK. Stark had not been in the country when the first two murders were committed. CCTV footage from cameras near Jenny’s kidnap site had yielded nothing of use. Without her ident, there were not sufficient grounds for arrest. Sinclair planned to show her the photo arrays that evening. Further, it was unlikely that either would be remanded unless they could prove they had a larger role in Jenny’s assault or could be linked to the deaths of any of the other women.