The Witness: A Novel (71 page)

Between dusk and dawn time stood still. Colin continued to call every night with words of love and reassurance, and when they hung up she tried to remember what his body had felt like, whether they had really made love or if it had only been a dream. She did not dream in Brighton, not in the daytime or at night. During her waking hours she was watchful, and in the evening she was tired from being on guard all day. Other people’s laughter exhausted her, as did D/S Ogilvie’s gentle concern. She no longer cried. Grief shared was grief halved, but grieving alone was like falling but never hitting bottom.

She bought a blank journal and spent an entire afternoon wondering why, when she had nothing to enter on the pages. Was she a blank book, too? Brian thought she was a fighter. Simon had called her a soldier. She was a survivor, she knew that much. And a daughter and a sister. What she wanted to be was Colin’s wife.

Her parents were appalled by the whole situation. Her mother felt she had been a burden on Colin long enough and begged her to come back to Texas. Unlike Brighton, there would be some familiar faces in Houston, and perhaps she could get a job, put down some roots. Perhaps it would be different this time, she argued silently with Simon. She wouldn’t have the same expectations. Several days after she reported those thoughts to Colin, another package arrived via Ogilvie—her British flag, with a message from Colin: Don’t give up. Don’t give in. Wait for me.

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W
hen the pain came early in the morning, she knew what it was but was unprepared to treat it. She’d packed quickly for Brighton, and she hadn’t thought she’d be gone long enough to need sanitary napkins or prescription pain medication. She rang Ogilvie and asked him to send a policewoman as soon as he could. The WPC assessed the situation and brought the supplies Jenny needed and the strongest over-the-counter medication available, but she called her Ma’am, and for some reason that hurt. She was only twenty-four! Had her pain aged her? Or was it the contrast between the constable’s optimistic face and her despairing one?

“Shall I ask Detective Superintendent Ogilvie to call by later?”

“No. God, no.” She didn’t want Ogilvie. She wanted Simon, with the medicine that didn’t quit and The Voice that wouldn’t let her quit either. It hadn’t been this bad since that first time in the witness protection flat. Since then she’d been able to treat it early, with meds that knocked out the pain and her too. The WPC had done her best, but the nonprescription pills didn’t ease the sharp pangs significantly, and there would be no more help coming.

She went back to bed. She wanted Colin, who called her scars wrinkles and considered her body beautiful in spite of them. When she had first slept in this room, she’d reached out in the dark for him, having become accustomed very quickly to sharing his bed. As the days and then the weeks had passed, her isolation had deepened, and she
had stopped expecting to find him next to her.

Now, however, alone and in pain, she cried for him, and the tears she had disciplined herself not to shed would not be withheld. As the knots in her belly twisted, she sobbed his name, but there was no one to hear.

The first time her mobile rang, she was crying too hard to answer it; the second time, too. It was too early for Colin’s call. It had to be Ogilvie, but the third time she didn’t care that she couldn’t be brave anymore in front of him. But it was Colin, and in tortured phrases she asked him all the questions she had suppressed. “How much longer do I have to stay away? If you love me, how can you leave me here? Why can’t I see you, for a day, a night, an hour? Why can’t I come home? I want to hold you. I want to make love to you. Why did our time together have to be so short? When do I get to have a life? Why does the monster always win? I reached out for happiness, and he slapped my hand.”

When her sobs subsided, he did not tell her how thorough and painstaking every police investigation had to be. He did not describe the legal constraints, the rights of accused persons, the endless checking and rechecking of facts that were involved.

He did not tell her how many nights he went to bed with his hands throbbing, because he had pounded them against the shower walls, cursing his inability to help the woman he loved. What use was it, being a copper? Had anyone’s life been made better by his work? Vi had left him, and he had had to send Jenny away. He did not tell her how empty his bed seemed, how lifeless his flat was without her.

He told her that he loved her, that he would always love her. He told her that a part of him was missing because he was not with her. “Jenny, I’ve been to Kent,” he said. “I have your ring, your engagement ring. It’s waiting for you.
I’m
waiting for you. Progress is being made. I’m confident we’ll be reunited soon. I want a future with you, and this is the only way. Jenny, I’ve seen Goodwyn. He’s praying for us. We may be separated from each other, but we’re not separated from God. God is big enough for this.
God is
!”

When he finally allowed her to hang up, her stomach still throbbed, but her spirit was soothed. She had been a witness in a court of law, but Colin was a witness in a larger forum. He had tried to strengthen her with a power greater than his own. She wished she had his faith: It was stronger than hers. Then pray to have it, he had said, and she would. Only one question remained: Why hadn’t she packed any of his handkerchiefs?

S
everal nights later, long after the sun had gone down, Colin called with good news. “Jenny, it’s over.”

“You’ve arrested someone?”

“Yes, but more than that—it’s
all
over. Scott’s dead, Jen. He was killed in prison. You can come home for good this time.”

Tears of relief and anticipation bubbled over. A new horizon lay ahead of her!

“Ogilvie will take you to the train tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Victoria Station.”

“Then I’ll be in your arms before nightfall! Colin, I was afraid we’d never be able to be together.”

“I know, Jen, but there’s nothing to hold us back now. Come home and marry me.”

When they ended their conversation, Jenny felt her fatigue lift, as if every blood vessel had been infused with a breath of oxygen. She was energized—she would pack tonight.

The monster was dead. It was a stunning report—he had been invincible for so long! Simon would have given her the details she had forgotten to ask Colin. Brian would have said, “Good news, JJ,” with quiet satisfaction. Hunt would have reveled in the exposé, and Danny—he would have laughed and winked the way he did before laying down a winning poker hand: “Game over, Sis!”

No more running! No more hiding! She would have to face herself now, but that no longer seemed as difficult as it once had. She could hear Simon’s voice: “You’re stronger than you think you are, love.” The monster had demolished her concept of who she was, but now she realized that the witness protection team had already helped her begin to reshape it. Simon had challenged her to meet his standards and required her to focus on her commitment. Brian had provided thoughtfulness and generosity. Danny had added encouragement and spontaneity. Hunt’s outspokenness had tempered her. And Colin—he had had a clear vision of her potential, and with grace and patience he had led her into a loving relationship that was more rewarding than she could have imagined.

If those men had built a real bricks-and-mortar house instead of the one where her spirit dwelt, Simon would have installed the security system and then made certain she knew how to activate it. Brian would have had the foundation inspected and arranged for any structural flaws to be corrected. Danny would have been enthusiastic about the fun she’d have living there, and Hunt would have urged her to sign her name on the dotted line and move in before the ink was dry.

If it were a real house, she would want lots of windows to let the light in, to see the clouds coming, and to watch the rains that cleansed the world and made all things new. She would want Colin to carry her across the threshold.

Mrs. Colin Thomas Dowding Sinclair. Would the minister use all Colin’s names when he invited them to recite their vows? Colin would be so elegant and handsome that she wondered if she’d have the breath to repeat them. When the minister asked her to “love, honor, and obey,” would it count if Colin received two of those pledges and Simon the other? What would she wear? Something with sleeves, but only her protection team would know why. Danny would play soccer—football—with her brothers in the back yard. Brian would help her mother in the kitchen. She hoped Hunt would exclude the church service from his irreverent commentary. Yes, she wanted them all to be there—even Hunt.

T
he sun rose, its rays warm enough to burn off the fog by mid-morning. It was a crisp, breezy, glorious day in Brighton, but Jenny hadn’t a single regret about leaving it behind. Detective Superintendent Ogilvie brought her a copy of the morning paper to read on the train, and she was amazed to see the monster’s epitaph reduced to a single column of ten-point type.

C
ECIL
S
COTT
L
ATEST
D
ARTMOOR
D
EATH

WILLIAM CECIL CRIGHTON SCOTT
, 38, of London, popularly known as the “Carpet Killer,” was found dead in his cell, the governor of HMP Dartmoor reported today.

Scott, son of Ambassador Sir Edward Cullen Scott and a member of one of Britain’s most prominent families, was convicted of serial murder and rape and sentenced to life imprisonment earlier this year.

Forensic examination revealed that Scott was the victim of a brutal beating. Bruises around the mouth and wrists indicated that he had been forcibly restrained and silenced while the attack took place. Multiple stab wounds were inflicted but none appeared to have penetrated a major artery. Initial findings suggest that he bled to death over time, but a complete postmortem has been scheduled.

A spokesman for the Scott family described their devastation at the news and threatened to call for a public inquiry into the prison service and staff who permitted the atrocity to occur. “At the least Dartmoor officials were incompetent and at worst they were vengeful and sadistic,” the spokesman said. Evidently Scott had complained about receiving harsh treatment.

Dartmoor houses a high percentage of black prisoners and has long been considered to have an unusually violent prison
population. Scott’s death is not the first incident of brutality to occur at the notorious site. Repeated attempts to close it down, however, have proved unsuccessful, various prison officials requesting a last chance for a facility which appears to offer no chance of betterment for the offenders who are confined there.

Scott’s death is the second tragedy to befall his family in as many weeks. Maurice Owen Blythe, longtime associate of the family, is being held by police on a variety of felony charges. Neither MPS personnel nor Blythe’s solicitor would comment.

An inquiry will be conducted into the circumstances surrounding the decease.

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I
t was a work day for Colin. He was wearing a natty three-piece suit. Jenny was in jeans and a sweater. He was 6’2” tall, easy to spot in the crowded station. She was 5’2”. He had short hair; she had long. His eyes were blue, with crow’s feet at the corners, and they were combing the throng looking for her. Hers were brown, and her skin was unlined except for a small stripe on one cheek. He carried no luggage. She was overencumbered with two carryon cases and a shopping bag to hold the overflow. His face was anxious with anticipation; hers was radiant when their eyes met. They looked mismatched in every way, but when he put his arms around her, they were both crying.

THE END

M
y book is entitled
The Witness
because a number of the main characters are witnesses: Jenny, who recovers from her injuries and trauma and testifies against her attacker in a court of law; Sergeant Simon Casey, whose life illustrates the importance of honor; Detective Chief Inspector Colin Sinclair, who testifies to the power of love; Dr. Theodore Knowles, who believes that healing is possible; and Reverend Neil Goodwyn, who testifies in a spiritual forum.

Writing the book required me to relive my own hurricane trauma and thus was a trial of sorts. Among my expert witnesses were: Dewey Lane, M.D., who gave clear and patient explanations of medical conditions; Marjorie A. Husbands, LPC, who assisted with psychological issues; Jason French-Williams, Solicitor-Advocate, who provided legal advice; Hal and Gulshan Jaffer, who answered odd questions and did a bit of sleuthing for me; Dr. James E. Auer, CDR, USN (Retired), for unfailing support; and John-Edward Alley, for connecting me with invaluable resources in the UK.

From London’s Metropolitan Police Service (also known as New Scotland Yard): Phillip Hagon QPM, Commander (Retired), for his astute mind and generous spirit; Bill Tillbrook, Chief Superintendent (Retired) for gracious assistance; Detective Inspector Heather Toulson, for insight into the work of SOIT officers; and DC Clare A. Knowles. From the Specialist Firearms Unit of the Met: PC Gary Willis, “C” Relief, 1999-2005; and PC Ian Chadwick, 1982-2007 (previous service with Her Majesty’s Corps of Royal Marines). Last but not least: the two anonymous Metropolitan Police armed officers who did not arrest me for taking pictures of New Scotland Yard in November, 2005 (“suspicious use of camera in sensitive area?”). Any errors, whether intended or not, belong to me and not to any of them.

Among those who read the “transcript” and provided constructive feedback were: my husband, Larry, who for some reason thought it fun to have new chapters read aloud to him and was my biggest cheerleader and best researcher; my son, Jeff, who read Parts One and Two and had to wait three months for me to write the remainder; my son, Paul, who corrected my poker terms; and my daughter-in-law, Jennifer, whose enthusiasm touched me (she stayed up half the night because
she couldn’t stop reading).