The Witness: A Novel (33 page)

She gripped his hand. “Do my parents know?”

“The boss took care of that.” He stood. “The next few days are not going to be easy. I want you to have a rest. I’ll be back.”

She couldn’t settle enough to sleep. The attack had been sudden and shocking. She knew it hadn’t been the monster on the motorcycle, but it might as well have been. She could almost hear his snarl and see the cruel set of his mouth. In her mind’s eye she watched his hand fall, sending the cyclist on his way in a desperate attempt to silence her. She tried to breathe out, but it was hard to force the air past the lump in her throat. She tried to breathe in, but it was a sob. Her chest and shoulder ached. The sling didn’t help.

She heard voices outside her room: Colin’s, full and assertive, and someone else’s, raised in frustration. “Oh, Jen,” Colin said when he saw her glistening cheeks. The other man consulted a chart before approaching her.

“I’m Dr. Gallagher.” He reached for her wrist and frowned. Sergeant Casey joined them. They were like stair steps, with Gallagher the first step, Casey the next, and Colin at the top. Gallagher was showing the most dissatisfaction, however, his young face dark with distrust. “Chief Inspector, this won’t do. Her blood pressure and pulse rate are still up. I’m concerned about bleeding. I want to keep her twenty-four hours.” He turned to her. “Miss Jeffries, I am acting in your best interest. I can see you’re upset. Shoulder bothering you? By this time tomorrow you’ll feel much better.”

“The longer we wait, the more danger there will be,” Sinclair insisted. “I am moving her for her own safety. Casey can handle any medical situation that may arise.”

“Miss Jeffries, significant risk exists for you—bleeding and infection are only two of the possible consequences. Post-op recovery time is critical. You are of age. The police cannot act against your wishes.”

Did she have to choose between health and safety? She looked at Colin. His face was grim and worn. “Trust me,” he said.

She blinked hard. “Sergeant Casey?”

“Best all round if you come with us.”

“Miss Jeffries,” Dr. Gallagher began. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out his aggressive tone. “There’s your answer, Chief Inspector—she’s not well enough to make an informed decision.”

“No—wait—” She looked at the doctor and almost felt sorry for him, having pitted himself against Colin and Sergeant Casey. “Someone tried to kill me today. The man who sent him isn’t going to stop. I want to be safe. I’ll take my chances with bleeding and infection.”

Dr. Gallagher shook his head in regret. “How soon?” he asked
Sinclair.

“Within the hour.”

Gallagher acquiesced. “Come with me, Sergeant.” They left the room.

Sinclair stepped beside the bed. “I’m sorry for all this, Jen. Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

“Are the policemen still outside? Could one of them come in until you get back? I’m—”

“I know. Billings!” he called. “Look after Miss Jeffries.” He was gone.

Billings stepped just inside the door. He reminded Jenny of Danny—older and taller, but with the same earnest face. “How can I help, Miss?”

“Just look fierce and be ready to fire,” she answered. “Really. I’m not joking.”

He looked as if he wanted to smile but wasn’t sure if he should.

“Do you have sisters?” She was still thinking about Danny.

“A sister and a brother. I’m the oldest.”

“Me, too. Sometimes I wish I weren’t—fine example I’m setting.”

“You are, Miss. Very fine.”

Her shoulder was throbbing badly when Colin returned with Sergeant Casey and Dr. Gallagher. The only one who looked alert and capable was the doctor. Leaving him probably wasn’t one of her better moves.

Gallagher spoke first. “Miss Jeffries, I have two jabs for you—one for pain and one to help you relax.”

“I only want the one for pain. No sedative.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t you need my permission to medicate me? Well, I’m not giving it.”

“Jenny, you’ll need it. It’s not a short ride,” Sinclair argued.

“I don’t want it! Doesn’t what I want count for anything?”

“Please. I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“He’s going to give me something for pain,” she said, her voice rising.

“You’re already exhausted,” Gallagher said, still holding the tray with the two syringes. “Further fatigue could delay healing.”

“No, no, no, no, no!” she cried. “I don’t want a sedative! Put it away! Don’t you understand? I have to stay awake. If someone comes after me, I want to know. If I go to sleep—and a killer comes—I won’t get to wake up!”

“Jenny.”

Oh, God, it was The Voice.

“You’re agitated. We can’t transport you like this.” The quiet firm voice continued. “Listen to me, Jenny. We’ve sent a decoy to UCH with a police escort. The transfer was reported on the news. We’ll use unmarked vehicles. No one is going to know who you are or where you are. There will be no killing tonight.”

“Promise?”

“On my badge.”

She turned to Colin. “Are you going with me?”

He looked as if he had aged ten years. “For security reasons, it’s best if I don’t.”

Gallagher handed the tray to Casey.

“If I don’t wake up, I’ll kill you,” she sobbed.

“There’s my girl,” Casey said. He administered the injections.

She heard Gallagher’s voice. “We’ll keep the vein open,” he said, leaving the needle in her hand and plugging the outer end. He inspected the drains in her shoulder and gave Casey instructions for their care and removal.

She felt sleepy. Whatever Casey had given her, it was already working. “Is Danny’s family with him?” she asked Colin.

“Yes, they’re all there.”

“Colin, I don’t want him to die.”

“He’s in good hands, Jen.”

He had to lean over to hear her. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered.

Sinclair found that he could not reply.

W
hen Jenny woke in the flat, Sergeant Casey was with her. He used the drip to administer her pain medication as well as the light sedative Gallagher had prescribed for the first twenty-four hours. The doctor wanted to restrict her activity level; Casey wanted to postpone the emotional consequences. He’d seen hardened men suffer anxiety after being shot, and it was inevitable for her.

She stirred slightly when she heard PC Hawkins’ cough, but she didn’t waken. Casey took the offered tray and ate quickly. He returned it to the kitchen and made himself a cup of strong tea. Kirvin was asleep. The young PC had been on the transport team and had had the night watch. He would have to take it tonight as well. Hawkins, a wiry man with the odd patch of grey in his hair and a slight cleft in his chin, was on watch with PC Nicholson.

Casey watched Jenny sleep, managing to change the dressing on her shoulder without waking her. Her wounds were clean and draining well, but infection, if present, would not manifest itself this soon. He slept only for short periods, resting as best he could in the armchair he’d stationed next to her bed.

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

T
he second day Casey removed the drip and discontinued the sedative, giving her oral medication instead. Sinclair and Andrews called by late in the morning to take her statement about the shooting. Neither looked like he’d slept. They reported no change in Sullivan’s condition.

The interview didn’t take long, and Sergeant Andrews recorded everything in his notebook.

“Why isn’t Brian here?”

“He shot a man, Jenny. That means temporary suspension. Every shooting is investigated.”

“But that man shot Danny—and me! Brian did the right thing!”

“Yes, and fortunately for Davies, all the witnesses were coppers.”

“Where are my clothes?” she asked.

“They were collected at hospital as evidence.”

“Was there a photographer? Did you have to photograph me?”

“We did, yes,” Colin answered.

“My shoulder?”

There was a long silence. “And your chest.”

She frowned. Sergeant Casey had folded back the sleeve of her hospital gown to change the dressing on her shoulder. She hadn’t seen her chest. The gown was tied closed in front, and she undid the bow and let it fall open. There was a laceration covered with a steristrip and several cylindrical bruises, wide and red with deep, dark centers, where the bullets had struck her body armor. She held her hand over her chest and began to sob. The gown was still open, and Colin didn’t know what disturbed him more—seeing her lovely breasts exposed to others or the dark tattoos of attempted murder between and above them.

“I’m running out of lives,” she cried. “He’ll get me next time! Oh God—the next time it’ll be my dead body you take pictures of!”

“No, Jen, I won’t let that happen.”

“It’s all wrong—when I didn’t care about dying, I lived, and now that I want to live, I’m going to die!”

Hawkins was in the sitting room. Casey heard his muffled cough.

“Look at me, Jen. We’ll do better next time.”

“How? I have to go back to the same place, don’t I?”

He stood, his recrimination surfacing. “It was my operation and my responsibility. Do you understand? What happened to Sullivan and what happened to you—it’s mine.” He turned to Andrews. “Time to go.”

“I don’t care about justice anymore!” she cried after he left.

“Of course you don’t!” Casey answered. “No one does, when they’re in the thick of it.”

“Those marks on my chest—I should be dead!”

He lifted her chin, wishing her defiance hadn’t been replaced with despair. “Focus, Jenny. Battles are fought one day at a time. Today’s battle—accepting that you’re safe.” Her tears were still coming, and they made her lashes glisten. He’d never been under fire with a woman, much less a civilian. He’d assessed her condition quickly and had reacted appropriately by treating Sullivan first, but now he found himself wanting to protect her from more than gunfire.

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

W
hen she woke, she covered her face with her hand, not wanting Casey to see her upset again. “It’s okay to cry, love,” he said. “Being hit—seeing a mate go down—it’s difficult. We’ve all been affected by it.”

“I’m so scared I feel sick. He’s determined to kill me!”

“Actually, he’s desperate. That’s why the nature of his attacks has escalated. But I know how to assess an enemy. I’ll make sure you’re all right.”

He helped her don a dressing gown. When they went into the dining room, Brian was there. His eyes went to her shoulder. “Oh, JJ,” he said,
the smile sliding off his face as he came toward her. “I wish I’d been in front of you at the courthouse.”

“I’ll have none of that, Davies.”

“I should have been,” Brian insisted. “I’m a bigger target. She’d not have been hit. Nor Sullivan.”

“Now’s not the time, Davies!” Casey said sharply.

She eased into one of the dining room chairs, disturbed by the conflict between Brian and Casey. She needed Danny and his impish grin more than ever, but Brian put his arm around her, and being in the lee of the mountain made the trembling stop.

After dinner she called her family. They wanted her to come home, and she was more tempted to go than she had ever been. “None of you would be in danger anymore,” she told Sergeant Casey.

“That’s back to front,” he answered. “It’s not your job to protect us.” By now he could spot all the signs that she was hurting, no matter how hard she tried to hide them: the tightness in her face, the halting way she spoke, her hunched shoulder, her careful breathing. He went into the kitchen and brought her a glass of milk and an analgesic. She took them without argument, another sign.

“God, I’m tired of all this.” She shifted her left arm and winced. “I feel like the boxer who lost the bout. All that’s missing are the gloves and the sweat. When can I shower?”

“Domani. Tomorrow. If you keep your shoulder dry.”

She nodded. “I don’t have the strength tonight. There’s something I need to do, though.” She punched Colin’s mobile number and hardly recognized the weary voice that answered. “Colin, it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault. The monster’s to blame.”

“Do you want me to call by? I’m still at the Yard, but if you need me, I’ll come straight round.”

“No. I just want you to know—you’re a good man. You have good men here. We have right on our side. We’ll try again.”

“Jen—thank you. More than you know.”

She climbed in bed, fatigued in spite of her nap but with a little less unrest in her spirit. When Sergeant Casey came in and changed the dressing on her shoulder, she encouraged him to rest, too. “I’ll be all right. Please. I worry about you.”

There was a quickening in his eyes, but his voice was even. “Jenny.” It was the tone he used when there was going to be no more discussion. “I’ll be right here.”

B
rian was finishing a late lunch, and Casey and Jenny were still at the table. Her hand shook a little as she reached for her Coke, and Casey watched her press her palm against the table instead of drinking. Good thing he hadn’t reported the news—according to Andrews, Sinclair was in for it. He’d been carpeted, and he and Graves were under review for the shootings. The timing couldn’t have been worse, either for the Met, which desperately needed some positive publicity, or for Jenny, who didn’t need a stranger in charge of her case. Andrews hadn’t known if Sinclair would continue as their operational contact.

“It’ll be the boss,” Brian said when he heard the knock.

Sinclair was accompanied by a stocky, muscular man with thick hands and short, dark curly hair who threw his rucksack against the wall. He was more careful with his gun case.

“Hunt, I’d like you to meet Jennifer Jeffries,” Sinclair said. “Jenny, this is PC Hunt. The super’s assigned him to the protection team.”

“Alan Hunt.” He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.

“You’re putting someone else in harm’s way?” she asked Colin. “How’s Danny?”

“Jenny, there’s been no change.”