The Witness: A Novel (60 page)

“What’s the point?” she asked. “I was raped. What else do I need to know about what a man does?”

Knowles lifted an eyebrow. How does he do it, she wondered—look
concerned but not worried? Do they teach that in shrink school? They probably have a whole course in it: “Facial Expressions Permitted in Psychotherapy.” If so, Dr. Knowles had aced it. She wondered what her facial expression was revealing. Probably exasperation. She didn’t need a biology lesson. She didn’t need to be told why rape hurt. She needed to be told how to forget it. “I want—to get through it,” she said.

“And I want you to give yourself some time. You may choose to allow Colin to touch you anywhere. I would, however, recommend strongly that he remain clothed, at least below the waist. I want you to feel safe enough to experience consistent sexual arousal.”

“Colin, you deserve better than this.”

“Jen, you are thirteen years younger than I am. Do you have any idea how good that is for my ego?”

“Colin,” Knowles asked, “are you willing to participate in a sexual relationship that will be a bit one sided for a time?”

“I am, yes.”

C
olin kept Jenny away from the flat most of the weekend. He took her to a flower show, for an Italian meal, and to an open-air concert. She liked the vistas of the Heath and the fresh smell the breeze brought, particularly after a light shower. She linked her arm with his, confiding that she much preferred their long walks to Simon’s exercises. Sunday brought the final stage of the Tour de France, and she was delighted with the result: Lance Armstrong—an American and a Texan!—won.

In another arena, however, the news was not as good. Bill Jeffries had rung late in the day to report a series of phone calls they’d received, possibly innocuous and unrelated, but all concerning Jenny. He had taken the first, allegedly from a credit card company wanting to extend additional credit to her and asking for her address. He’d told the caller that she didn’t need a higher limit.

He’d thought no more about it even when the second call had come, several days later. Prescott University was engaged in a fund-raising campaign, and each graduating class was competing for the highest percentage of participation. Peggy hadn’t given any information about Jenny to the caller, simply requesting that the donor contribution card be mailed to their Houston home.

Matt had taken the third call. It was a young woman, purporting to be a friend of Jenny’s. Matt had simply said that she’d gone back to London. He didn’t know her address. If she wanted it, she’d have to call back and ask his parents.

“I pressed him, Colin,” Jeffries said. “He swears he said nothing about you, not your name, your profession, your relationship to Jenny, nothing. Then the fourth call came. It may have been the same person. She sounded friendly, but when I told her that I needed her information so Jenny could contact her, she hung up. I have to confess, I’m suspicious.”

“Sir, if someone’s asking after her in Houston, she’s safer with me,” Colin responded. “There is no record of her presence here.”

“She hasn’t used either of her credit cards,” Jeffries noted.

“No, sir. I recommended that they be for emergencies only,” Colin said. “I can’t tell you how many times a paper trail has led us to the person we’re seeking. In Jenny’s case, I don’t want to give any advantage
to an evildoer, however unlikely his existence may be. And sir—thank you for not disclosing this to her.” She had too many worries already. She knew he had to hold back during Theo’s homework. Some nights their sessions ended with her tears. He would have to find ways to reassure her.

“H
ow did your week go?” asked Dr. Knowles at Colin and Jenny’s third therapy session.

“Better than our last appointment,” she answered with an apologetic smile. “I really gave you a hard time. I think the medicine has calmed me down some.”

“Would you be a bit more specific?”

“Colin discovered all the places I’m ticklish. Will that do? No, I guess not.” She glanced at Colin’s hands and blushed, remembering. The little exclamations when he saw her completely nude. The pleasure he took from touching her.

“Did you caress him?”

“Yes, as much as I was allowed.”

Knowles heard the resentment. “Jenny, this extended activity will enrich your relationship later on. I don’t want you to be concerned about being able to satisfy Colin at this time.”

“Of course I’m concerned about being able to satisfy him!” she retorted. “He’s frustrated, and it’s my fault.”

“You are not responsible for his frustration, Jenny,” Knowles insisted.

“Yes, I am! He touches me, and it’s exciting, and then he has to stop. What does that sound like to you?”

“Let me be clear: You are not responsible for
relieving
Colin’s frustration. At this point in your therapy, you are responsible only for
your
feelings.” Jenny’s frown revealed her impatience, but she did not argue aloud. “Now I’d like to discuss one of the issues identified by your description of your attack: anger. Have you ever seen Colin angry?”

“Yes,” she answered, squirming in her chair. “He yelled at me because I went out by myself.”

“Am I missing something here?” Knowles asked. “Colin, why would that make you angry?”

“I made a series of mistakes. When Scott heard the verdict, he threatened her life, and I didn’t disclose it to her. She was still in witness protection, of course, but I didn’t mention it even after she returned to London with me. I didn’t want her to go out by herself, but I didn’t tell
her that, either. Instead I tried to make it unnecessary, by shopping with her when we’d been out for dinner, for example. I came home from work one day, and she was gone. When she came in a bit later with a bottle of wine, I couldn’t believe she’d taken such a risk for a frivolous reason. It was an overreaction on my part, but I did yell at her.”

“Jenny?”

“Talk about going from high to low! I was desolate. It took a couple days and some stern guidance from Simon before we worked it out.”

“He advised the two of you?”

“No, he advised me,” she said.

Knowles looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you have a support system, my dear?”

“Just the guys. Well, Simon, mainly, but they all keep in touch with me. Esther Hollister’s nice—at the bookstore—but she doesn’t know anything about my history.”

“Jenny,” Colin asked, “what was the wine for? You never told me.”

She turned to look at him. “A celebration. I’d realized that day that I loved you, and I was planning to tell you over a glass of wine.”

He was stunned. “Damn, I’m sorry, Jen. I made a real hash out of it, didn’t I?”

“Colin, have there been other times when you were angry at Jenny?”

“Damn,” he repeated softly. “Sorry?”

“Other times,” Knowles prompted.

“No, but I was close once. After the attack at the courthouse where Sullivan was hurt, she was afraid for the other men and didn’t want to be protected any more. Of course that was out of the question.”

“What happened?”

“I found a way to make her smile, and that broke the tension. And then I kissed her. I shouldn’t have done, but I knew by then that I fancied her, and I’d almost lost her before I’d even had the chance to tell her.”

“I remember that,” she whispered. “How amazed I was. The hope I felt.”

“Tell her now,” Knowles said quietly.

Colin pulled his chair closer to her. “In my early years on the Job, I wore a uniform. Uniformed officers are called to deal with all sorts of disturbances, and we all start out wearing a uniform.”

She remembered the photo Colin’s mother had given her: Colin in his constable’s uniform, tall and proud and confident.

“Along with break-ins, burglaries, assaults, and so forth, I saw my share of sudden death. Sometimes it was evident that a death was accidental. Sometimes it wasn’t. Even when there was no Who, I wanted to know Why—even before I became a detective, before it was my job to know. And that’s when the anger began, anger at the waste, the unnecessary loss of life. The rather macabre humour that coppers develop only masks the horror.”

Knowles did not interrupt.

“Later, as a young detective, I was given aspects of a case to investigate. In big cases, the incident room displayed all the avenues of enquiry, but I wasn’t involved in the entire picture. I didn’t often have much contact with the family of the victim. It wasn’t until I became a detective inspector that I played a major role in murder investigations. The families suffer more because so many additional questions are required. Everyone must be looked at, but more questions inflict more pain.

“It’s more difficult for the officers as well. The anger becomes more personal. It’s anger at a person—or persons—who had the gall to act without considering the consequences for someone else. I was a DI when my father died. Before that time I experienced concern, sometimes deep concern for the families, but I could usually remain detached unless there were children or a woman affected.”

He paused for a moment. “After my father died, every case was more difficult, because when I saw a grieving family, I saw myself. No one had killed my father, but the grief was the same, and the loss.”

She knew all about grief: It was stubborn. It stayed with you. Just when you thought you had it under control, it flooded you again.

“Then you were found. One of the uniforms on the spot was a rookie, younger than Sullivan, younger than you, Jenny. He thought you were dead. Fortunately you weren’t, but there were days at the beginning when it was touch-and-go. Jenny, you were in terrible shape. I saw you suffer, and I thought of my father’s suffering. I heard your despair, and I felt my own. You were a witness, and it was my job to interview you, to encourage you to cooperate with us, and to gather all the evidence you could provide. At the same time I wanted to protect you, even from us. I wasn’t prepared for the conflict I felt.”

“You always looked so tired,” she said.

“Many nights I stayed away from the flat where you were. You were recovering, but it was painful for you, and I couldn’t watch it. I knew Casey would keep you moving in the right direction.”

“Did he ever,” she remembered.

“This job means you don’t sleep until you get them—the evildoers. When you’ve got them—charged them—then you rest. You let the victim go.” He took a ragged breath. “If you don’t get them—if you don’t solve it, if you can’t fit all the pieces together, and no arrest is made—then you can’t let go. The murdered person lives inside you.

“You lived, Jenny, and we charged Scott—but there was something different about you. Early on I had trouble letting go.”

“Tell me about the anger,” Knowles said, to set him back on track.

“In Jenny’s case I felt it when I first saw her in hospital. So broken, so alone. I was angry at the monster who was responsible, even before I knew who he was. When Scott was identified, I was outraged. His upbringing hadn’t been different to my own. He was privileged. He had a mandate to care for the less fortunate, and he had disgraced it.”

He turned back to her. “Over the years I learnt that I couldn’t help
the dead, but I believed I could protect the living.”

“Colin, what did you feel before the anger? Can you recall?” Knowles asked.

Colin was silent for a long time. “Something akin to fear,” he finally said. “I was worried that she hadn’t received medical help in time. I feared that our best efforts would fall short, and there would be no justice. I was concerned that other women would die. I wanted to guarantee her safety, but I was afraid that I couldn’t.”

“So you protected her from the truth,” Knowles said, bringing him back to the incident that had triggered Colin’s discourse. “And became angry when she went out.”

She left her chair and put her arms around Colin.

“Jenny, what would have happened if Colin had said he was afraid for you, instead of losing his temper?”

“I would have told him I loved him on the spot,” she answered. “I wouldn’t have needed the wine.”

“Thank you, Jenny.” Knowles sighed. “You’ll both forgive me, I hope, if I make a point here? I am, after all, a psychiatrist.” He saw Colin’s half smile. “Anger’s often a secondary emotion. There’s usually something—fear, for example—that precedes it. Stick with what comes first, and I promise it will make all the difference.”

“Is that our homework for the week?” she asked.

“No, your homework has a physical component. Jenny, would you like to touch Colin more intimately?” She nodded. “Then trade places. This week, Jenny, you are to keep your trousers on. What Colin wears is up to you.”

He paused. “There’s something else. Jenny, I can’t emphasise strongly enough that you are to proceed at your own pace. There is no score card.” He leant forward. “Colin, everything Jenny does must be her choice. It’s entirely possible that seeing your hands on your belt was a psychological trigger. I don’t want that negative visual cue. Jenny, the last time you saw a man’s naked body was in a frightening and painful circumstance. I want you to learn not to be afraid of Colin’s.”

O
n Tuesday Jenny had lunch with Simon at one of the little cafés in Covent Garden, planning to visit some of the bookstores on Charing Cross Road afterward. She’d told Mr. Hollister that she’d be on the lookout for creative book displays or marketing ideas that could be adapted for the Hampstead shop. “Before we head out, I’d like to use the ladies’,” she told Simon.

On her way back, one of the other diners approached her. “Enjoy the food, did you?” he asked, looking at her intently.

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

“Are you a frequent customer?”

“It’s my first visit.” She stepped past him.

“Do you live nearby?”

“No, I don’t.” He was still staring at her, and she felt a little uncomfortable. When she reached her table, Simon was on his feet. “Let’s be going,” he said, a hard edge to his voice.

“Simon, he didn’t do anything.”