The Witness: A Novel (48 page)

She liked the gentle little primroses the best, aptly named since the true roses would not be at their peak until warmer and drier weather arrived. Many had star-shaped yellow centers, but the colors that surrounded them ran the full spectrum: There were lovely lavender blossoms, shades of rouge from the softest pink to the deepest red,
and petals of pristine white. She could smell the moisture in the light breeze. They were far from being the only visitors, but the natural show was such a feast for the eyes that she didn’t think anyone in the park was paying attention to anything else. The flat was subdued, and many times her feelings had matched it. She did not want to go back, either to the site or the frame of mind. “How much time do we have?” she asked Sergeant Casey.

“The car won’t collect us until I ring.”

So she walked on, wanting to skip but knowing she shouldn’t. She knew she was deceiving herself, but the air smelled like freedom, fresh and clean. Sergeant Casey kept a discreet distance between the two of them and other groups, but his caution didn’t diminish her pleasure. When she began to feel hungry, she didn’t say so. She didn’t want to do anything to spoil the sensation, not of being tired—she wasn’t exerting herself—but of being relaxed. For the first time in months, her movements were unrestricted, not choreographed by someone else. What a joy, not to be on her way somewhere but just to be going, strolling, having no purpose except enjoying the moment! She put her arm around Sergeant Casey’s. “Thank you,” she whispered.

His eyes left the path ahead of them for a minute, and she saw him smile.

Her stomach felt empty now, and she was sure the men were ready to eat, but none of them had hurried her. She took a deep breath and held it, wanting to keep some part of the experience with her as long as she could, because it was time to go. “I’m ready,” she told Sergeant Casey, trying to keep her voice from breaking. She heard him speak quietly into his phone.

J
enny slept through the night, with no dreams to disturb her. She did her exercises dutifully and then settled in for what promised to be another slow day. The air in the flat seemed stale after the freshness of the outdoors. She wished they could open a window.

After lunch Casey startled her out of her reverie. “Boss rang. He’s on his way.”

“Is there a verdict? Did he say?”

“He wants to tell you himself.”

“Why? If it’s good news, wouldn’t he have told you?”

Casey didn’t reply.

“Wouldn’t he?”

“If he hasn’t given it up yet, he’s not going to,” Hunt said.

That was true. Sergeant Casey had two modes: direct and silent. His infernal military training.

“How far away is he?” she asked. “Sergeant Casey, shouldn’t you have your key ready?”

“Not yet, Jenny.”

She slipped on her shoes and went into the sitting room. “Did you hear footsteps?” she asked Brian. “Was that his knock?”

“Take it easy, JJ.”

“How? I’ve waited so long for this! What if it isn’t the right verdict? If the monster gets out, he’ll come after me—he heard me say all that stuff in court!” She sank down on the sofa. “Why isn’t Colin here yet? Where is he?” she wailed.

“Deep breaths, Jenny.”

When Sinclair’s knock came, she jumped up, wanting to see his face. Surely she’d know when she saw his face—he wouldn’t even have to say anything!

He was beaming. “Guilty! Of serial murder—serial rape—and a host of other charges.”

She burst into tears and threw her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace. “Sshh. It’s over now. Well done. Benjamin sends his congratulations.”

Hunt punched Davies on the shoulder.

In a moment she released him, her face flushed with relief. “Colin, I thought the verdict would never come! I know they had to get through the rest of the dog and pony show, but it made me wonder if I’d made a difference, if what I’d been through counted for anything.”

“It’s an important victory. You’ve served the cause of justice.”

“What was his sentence?”

“Sentencing will take place after counsel on both sides have prepared their briefs.”

“That’s okay. I’m still happy. I want to give my parents the news.”

Casey had spoken to Sinclair on the phone. He withheld his question until Jenny had left the room. “Guilty of everything?”

“Guilty of the rape and murder of the six other women. In Jenny’s case he was convicted of two counts of rape, false imprisonment, and attempt to cause grievous bodily harm with intent.”

“Not attempted murder?” Hunt asked.

“That’s a difficult offence to prove. Intent to kill has to be demonstrated. Evidence of careful and calculated planning. For example, that a deadly weapon was chosen and used. Threats—uttered aloud and taken seriously—are considered evidence also of intent. It helps if the length of the attack can be established, and if the accused acknowledges some pertinent information, however slight.”

Bloody bastard, Casey thought. There’d been no weapon. According to Jenny’s statement, Scott hadn’t spoken. She hadn’t been able to give investigators any clues about how long the attack had lasted. “Sir, is there more?”

Sinclair nodded and lowered his voice. “Scott threatened her. When the judge said, ‘Take him down!’ Scott turned to the prosecutor and screamed, ‘This is war! Tell that Yank bitch I’ll get her yet! I’ll find her—she’ll never be safe!’ I don’t mind telling you, it made my blood run cold. His rough, guttural tone—it must have been a sample of what she heard. I’m inclined to take him seriously.”

“What can we do, sir?” Davies was concerned.

“Keep the TV off, and censor the newspapers for the next day or so. Distract her, if you can.”

“You’re not telling her?” Hunt asked.

“Let’s not spoil her mood,” Sinclair said. “She’s safe. Let her enjoy her success.”

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

C
olin came by briefly on the Sunday evening. The visits scheduled for the upcoming week by day police had been cancelled due to a bombing in Brixton, south London. No casualties, but scores had been wounded.

“Do I have to go anywhere soon?” Jenny asked.

“You’ll have a bit of a breather. The other trials won’t begin until after Scott is sentenced.”

She couldn’t convince him to take the time to sit.

“We need to track down the bomber before he plants another.”

Another bomb—a terrifying thought. She had felt like a human pincushion in the hospital, but each prick of the needle had been part of her medical program, intended for healing, not hurt. The nails in the bomb had become projectiles when it exploded. So many people had been injured! She respected what policemen had to do, but she missed Colin the man, who brought wine and wore casual clothes and a smile.

W
hen Jenny saw Colin late Tuesday, he was still dressed for work, but he did sit down with her in the living room. “Jenny, the families of the women whom Scott murdered want to meet with you. They’ve been ringing the officers who were their contacts on the case. I’ve had coppers in and out of my office all day yesterday and today wanting to know if it would be possible. If you could be made available. If you’d be willing.”

“What do they want with me?”

“To thank you, I believe. They were present during the trial, and they know how difficult it was for you.”

“Would I have to say anything?”

He smiled. “No speeches, no.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“It’s down to you, Jen. They know you’re being protected. If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell them you’re not accessible.”

“They’ll know that’s not true. I was accessible for court.”

He waited.

“How many handkerchiefs do you have?”

His face relaxed. “I’ll let you know when it’s scheduled.”

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

T
he day, when it came, was an object lesson in the difference between restraint and excess. Cautious as always, Sinclair sent Andrews with an unmarked car to the flat, but instead of proceeding directly to their destination, Andrews exchanged the nondescript vehicle for a police van at the station in Islington before heading out again. Jenny didn’t know where they were going, and she would not have recognized the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police if she hadn’t seen the revolving sign in front and the uniformed guards at the gate around the corner.

She was curious about the glass cases in the lobby, but Colin did not allow her to linger, escorting her to a waiting elevator and then along an empty corridor. The carpet absorbed the sound even of Brian’s feet, and neither Sergeant Casey nor Hunt spoke. They passed closed doors, and she imagined officers behind them, fighting crime quietly.

“Here we are,” Colin said, opening a door into a large conference room. The table and chairs had been pushed against one wall, and all heads turned toward her. She felt suddenly shy. Who were all these people? There were so many men in suits. She had agonized over what to wear, finally rejecting the clothes she’d worn in court in favor of a pair of dark wool slacks and a pale sweater. “Better to be underdressed than overdressed, Jennifer,” her mother always said, but she felt drab and plain.

Colin took her elbow and guided her forward a few steps so the men behind her could enter and close the door. A tall man with graying hair and the slack skin that would eventually become jowls approached her. Did all policemen have that watchful look?

“Miss Jeffries, I presume,” he said. “I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Douglas Woulson. Thank you for coming. Would you care for a refreshment?”

“Yes—no—no, thank you.”

“This is an informal gathering, Miss Jeffries. I hope you’ll alert us if you change your mind.”

She felt a little unsteady on her feet and leaned slightly toward Colin, hoping he wouldn’t release her arm.

“Gentlemen,” Woulson nodded. “I’ll leave it with you.”

Colin introduced her to Detective Superintendent Graves, the man with the thinning hair who had sat next to him in court, and the procession began. She could tell who belonged and who didn’t—those who belonged didn’t have a visitor’s badge.

The detective in charge of Clarissa Hundley’s case introduced himself and Clarissa’s parents. They had brought a picture of their daughter, and they thanked Jenny for coming forward. “You gave us such hope.”

A bald, sombre man introduced Jenny to the Bennetts, Barbara’s mother and father. They praised her testimony.

“I wish you hadn’t had to hear all that,” Jenny said.

“We cried with you,” Mrs. Bennett said.

The next couple was older. “We’re the Saunders,” the man said, not waiting for the officer standing with him to do the honours. “Emma was our only child. We adopted her.”

Jenny felt her heart breaking. They had lost their only child.

“She liked stuffed animals, she did,” Emma’s mother said. “Even after she grew up, she collected them. Wild ones, like the ones she saw when we took her to the zoo.” She held out a small gray elephant to Jenny. It reminded Jenny of the Babar stories she had read to her brothers.

There were three people in the next group, not counting the detective, and the younger man had a different surname. Marilyn Albritton had been married. Her husband must be the one who could not smile. Marilyn’s father rested his hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. Marilyn’s mother squeezed Jenny’s hand.

Sally Coale must have inherited her curly hair from her mother, because her father had very little hair left, just a few straight strands
carefully combed from one side of his head to the other. “Banana loaf,” Mrs. Coale said, handing Jenny a foil-wrapped parcel. “For you to have with your tea. It’s got raisins and nuts and bits of chocolate in it. Just the way Sally liked it.” She smiled at the officer next to her. “I brought him a treat as well. All his hard work.”

The tears had started, and Jenny could not speak. She took the little package and tried to hold it gently.

Patsy Hayes’ family was the last. Detective Chief Something-or-other gave Jenny their names and then stood aside. Patsy’s mother held out a small handkerchief, embroidered in bold colours. “Her gran tried to teach her, but she didn’t like to sit still.” The stitches were uneven and gave the flowery shapes an air of surprise. “Wanted to kick the football with the lads.”

Jenny could imagine Patsy’s plump, childish fingers impatiently pushing the needle through the soft linen, certain that she was missing something much more fun outside. “I can’t accept this.”

“Patsy won’t be needing it now,” her mother said.

That broke the dam. Jenny cried for all these families, who had lost so much more than she had and still had the strength and compassion to reach out to her. She cried for the young women who had died and left these loved ones behind. She cried for the months of isolation from her own family. Her hands were full of the offerings she had been given, and she couldn’t shield her face or wipe her tears away. And no one seemed to know what to do.

Then Emma’s mother stepped forward. She took the things from Jenny’s hands and gave them to Colin. She put her arms around Jenny and held her close. “How long has it been since you saw your family?” she asked. “You miss your mum, don’t you?”

Jenny hugged her back desperately, all control gone.

“It’s like knowing you, you see,” Emma’s mother continued. “Knowing what you went through, like our Emma. But don’t you be crying for us now. Emma liked to look on the bright side—said we were the family she always wanted. She’d want us to do the same.”

Jenny had cried at the flat and been held, sometimes by Sergeant Casey and sometimes by Colin. Their muscular embraces had reassured her, but a woman’s hug—being pressed against soft flesh, smelling another woman’s perfume—was the comfort of home, the maternal acceptance that knew no geographical boundary.

“We’re at peace, we are.” The voice was gentle, and Jenny relaxed a little, taking a quivery breath. “There, there. You’ll have happy times ahead. We want you to. We do.”