The Witness: A Novel Page 3

  “That’s what I thought, sir.”

  “Colin, is this witness credible? Coherent? Do you believe her?”

  That was typical of the D/S; he never fired just one shot. “She’s intelligent, sir. Her description was clear and to the point.”

  “Does he have form? Have you checked?”

  Sinclair knew Graves was thinking of the psychological profile. According to the psychologist, sadistic killers didn’t develop overnight. Scott should have previous offences, escalating in severity. “He’s clean, sir, but he has travelled extensively.”

  Graves nodded: possible victims in other countries. “Do you know this man socially? Personally?”

  “No, sir. We’ve met once or twice but not recently, and I wouldn’t say that I know him personally at all.”

  “Impressions?”

  “Superficially charming. Impatient. Unusually self-centred. The sort of man who’s used to getting what he wants.”

  That fit the profile. “Any evidence of previous anti-social behaviour?”

  “No, sir.”

  The D/S frowned and drummed his fingers on the desk. “I take it our witness can’t appear at an identity parade? Then it’ll have to be photographic. Don’t make it easy! Make each snap as similar as possible in dress as well as in appearance. We have to be certain. If she identifies Scott, proceed as you would in any other case. Keep me informed. Does she have protection?”

  “Yes, sir. And I doubled the detail when she came out of intensive care.”

  Graves leant forward. “Colin, will she follow it through? It’s your job to ensure that she does.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  “Family here?”

  “There’s been a delay, but they’ll want to take her home.”

  “Can’t blame them, but we’ll have to move quickly then. Tell her the full resources of this force are with her. Until now we’ve been at least one step behind this bastard. I’d rather be one step ahead.”

  “She’s been cooperative so far. She’s given her approval for the forensics to be tested. Could you prod the lab for us?”

  “Consider it done. And his accomplices?”

  “We have insufficient information for an ID.”

  “The artist understands his role in this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll control Andrews? As of yet this ident is unconfirmed.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on.”

  Sinclair headed to his office to find someone to prepare the photo array. Andrews would be at the hospital, assisting Hartley in her interview of Jenny. Both were delicate assignments. The Sexual Offences Investigative Training officer would need to treat Jenny with kid gloves, and Scott was an ambassador’s son. The rules might be the same for all suspects regardless of heritage, but in his case they would be more politely applied.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sergeant Andrews and the SOIT officer, Sergeant Hartley, identified themselves to the officers on duty. “There’s a physiotherapist in there,” they were told. Jenny was sitting up, and the therapist was replacing the sling over her neck. They saw relief come over her face when her shoulder didn’t have to bear the weight of the cast.

  “I’m Sergeant Hartley,” the female officer said, extending her warrant card for Jenny to see. “Sergeant Summer Hartley.” She smiled at Jenny’s expression. “It’s okay; everyone’s curious about my name. May I sit down?”

  Jenny nodded at the chair next to the bed. She thought the officer’s name fit her—her hair was the hue of summer wheat, and Jenny could picture her walking outside, the wind rippling through it and the sun spotlighting her fresh face. Jenny couldn’t see any evidence of makeup, yet her complexion was smooth and clean. She wasn’t wearing a uniform; her clothes were varying shades of autumn browns and golds. Jenny felt drab in her hospital gown.

  Hartley was trying not to react to Jenny’s battered appearance. She’d been told what her medical condition was, but seeing such extensive injuries firsthand was difficult. She felt a bit queasy and was glad she was seated. “I was a summer baby,” she continued, “and since my parents’ lifestyle was unconventional, to say the least, they decided that I would be a remembrance of the season.”

  “Is there such a thing as summer in England?” Jenny asked.

  Hartley gave what she hoped was a relaxed laugh. “I know we’ve got nothing that compares to your Texas temperatures, but the mercury only has to rise a bit, and we’re outdoors making the most of it.” She smiled again. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Two brothers, both younger.”

  “I have a younger sister,” Hartley said. “When she was born, my parents were in their spiritual phase—her name is Grace.”

  Hartley’s hair was long enough for a pony tail, but she wore it loose. Jenny wished she’d at least been able to wash hers.

  “Sergeant Andrews and I want to have a chat about what happened to you,” she said. “You needn’t be afraid; we can stop at any time. Our goal is to achieve the best evidence we can, but we’re not going to do anything without your consent. We’d like you to use your own words. Do you have any objection to being taped?”

  Jenny hadn’t seen a camera. “It’s not a video, is it?”

  “No, Sergeant Andrews has brought a tape recorder.”

  “Interview with Jennifer Jeffries, Middlesex Hospital, London. Sergeants David Andrews and Summer Hartley present.” Andrews gave the date and time. “Your statement is really important to us,” he said. “It will help in our investigation and provide the basis for legal prosecution later, should you decide to participate in the criminal justice process.”

  “Do I really have a choice?” Jenny asked, surprised.

  “Jenny,” Hartley responded, “this interview is just the first step. And we will not proceed with it unless we have your permission. At each stage you are the one who will determine if we go on.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jenny said, her voice rising. “I described somebody. You have a drawing. Didn’t the other detective tell you? Haven’t you identified him?”

  “Jenny,” Hartley said patiently, “there are a large number of people working on this investigation. Each of us will play his or her part. We have many avenues to pursue, and we follow established procedures.”

  “Oh, God,” Jenny cried, “you have to find him and arrest him. He’ll do this to someone else if you don’t! You can’t let that happen!”

  Andrews and Hartley exchanged glances.

  “You don’t even know how badly it hurt!” Jenny continued, her sobs distorting her words. “And it still does! You have to help me!”

  Hartley stood up. “That’s just what we’re going to do. Sergeant Andrews is going to call the nurse, and we’re going to make sure she looks after you. You don’t have to do this when you’re so upset.”

  Andrews spoke into the machine, reporting the time the interview was suspended.

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

  During the afternoon interview, Jenny was frustrated with the small talk and impatient with Sergeant Hartley’s careful adherence to procedure. She hurried through the background questions Hartley asked and tried to ignore the neutral expression the trim sergeant wore. Jenny hadn’t forgotten the shock Hartley had struggled to conceal in the morning, and it made her wonder how her mother would react when she saw her.

  Hartley’s skin was flawless, and she was graceful, crossing her legs with unconscious ease. Jenny’s left leg still throbbed from the vicious kicks it had received. In fact, her whole body looked and felt like someone had taken a jackhammer to it. Her throat was tight, but the tape recorder was running, so she tried to focus on describing the sights she had seen her first few days in London.

  Her last glimpse of her normal self had been in the mirror in the hotel lobby. She had given a carefree wave to the manager and headed toward the bus stop, her feet light on the sidewalk, her heart fu
ll of anticipation for the day’s events: touring as many galleries of the British Museum as she could.

  There had been no gallery tours, no examination of relics, art, or literary works. She had been taken, stripped, beaten. She remembered the monster’s hand striking her cheek and his body poised to impale her. The tightness in her throat spread to her chest. She couldn’t possibly detail the monster’s actions to the sergeant with the pristine features. Hartley’s reassurance didn’t assuage her dismay, and she began to cry.

  She heard Andrews’ voice: “Interview with Jennifer Jeffries terminated.”

  CHAPTER 8

  At the Yard Andrews and Hartley were reporting their two failed attempts to interview Jenny. “Sir, I don’t know how to explain it,” Hartley said. “In the morning we stopped when she became upset. Often that happens, but usually it’s better the second time round. In the afternoon she seemed determined to talk to us, but she just couldn’t do. Perhaps the trauma is still too recent, or the absence of her family makes the attack too difficult to discuss.”

  “Sergeant Hartley did it by the book,” Andrews added, “but Jenny lost control long before we reached any sensitive areas.”

  “Is it worth another go?” Sinclair asked.

  “Not by me,” Hartley said.

  “Can’t you set your feelings aside?”

  “Of course, sir, but my feelings aren’t the issue. Hers are. She knows her appearance has been compromised. She kept staring at me. I think she’d do better with a different officer.”

  He dismissed Andrews and Hartley and then settled back to listen to the tape. Pain may have been a factor, but he thought that fear was the reason the first interview had failed. She knew her attacker was still at large, and remembering the attack resurrected the fear.

  He listened to the second session twice but came no closer to understanding what had gone wrong. However, Hartley had acquitted herself well. Terminating the interview had been the only course. And her appraisal of Jenny was probably correct. He closed his office for the night.

  On his way home he stopped by the hospital. There was a stillness in Jenny’s room he couldn’t identify. Her eyes were red and puffy. More tears then. God knew she had a right to them. “You had a rough time today. Care to tell me about it?”

  She looked at him, wondering what was wrong with her. She’d been glad at first that the police were there, but now she just wanted them to go away and take their questions with them. “No,” she said. “I’ll cry, and it hurts to cry.”

  “Take a deep breath and steady yourself,” he suggested. “Then talk to me.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It hurts to breathe.”

  “Do you need medication for pain? I’ll get the nurse for you.”

  “I’ve had it already,” she whispered. “There’s nothing they can do.”

  “Miss Jeffries, I’m just a policeman, and I understand that you don’t know me very well, but I’m not going to desert you. How can I help?”

  “The doctors and nurses call me ‘Miss Jeffries,’ and then they do things that hurt. Could—could you please call me ‘Jenny’?”

  “Jenny, what hurt you today?”

  “I’m scarred. It’s awful! They’re everywhere! I should have died!”

  Of course. According to the nurses, Jenny hadn’t watched the doctor remove her chest tube. This morning, however, before the first interview, they had cleansed the sutures and changed the dressing. She had seen the surgical incision and more. He stepped closer to the bed. “The only scar I see isn’t awful at all,” he said softly.

  She gave no sign of acknowledgement.

  “You’ve still not seen the one on your face?”

  She shook her head.

  “Shearson!” he called.

  “Sir?” The constable pushed the door open slightly.

  “Borrow a mirror from one of the nurses and bring it to me.” He saw what little colour there was in Jenny’s face drain away. “We’re partners,” he told her. “That means we look out for each other, trust each other. And this is the first step. Thank you, Shearson,” he said when the mirror was provided. “I’m not going to make you look, Jenny, but you’re going to feel better when you do. Knowing is always better than not knowing.”

  She held the mirror face down in her lap. There was a long silence.

  “You’re still pretty, Jenny.” All Scott’s victims had been pretty. He had seen snaps of them, keepsakes their families treasured, pictures of special occasions when everyone was smiling.

  “I’ve seen enough scars for one day,” she whispered. “I just can’t do it. Please don’t be mad.”

  Mad? Oh—culture gap: She means angry. “A scar is a sign of healing,” he pointed out.

  “Not to me.”

  “You’re going to get better, Jenny. It’s early days yet.”

  “Is it bad? Will people stare, like they do at crippled people?”

  “Not a chance,” he assured her.

  “It’s not like having freckles,” she insisted. “This is different—you know it is.”

  “No, Jenny, it’s not. We’re all more than a single feature.” He changed the subject. “About today—”

  “I lost it today,” Jenny whispered. “I wish I didn’t remember what happened to me. Then I wouldn’t disappoint anybody.”

  “You didn’t disappoint,” he said quietly. “Nothing of the sort. May I prove it to you?” He held out his hand. “You don’t have to take it. My feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t. All the books say I shouldn’t offer it. But sometimes human need goes beyond words.”

  She did take his hand. His long, slim fingers swallowed hers. “Will you give me another chance?”

  “Dozens of them,” he assured her. “We’ll all start with a clean slate tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sinclair hadn’t visited anyone in the hospital on such a frequent basis since his father’s illness. It struck him how vastly different the two experiences were, his father with a negative prognosis, Jenny with a positive one. But his father had not been isolated. His mother had been with him almost round the clock. He had visited regularly, his sister had, and there had been other family members and friends. Jenny’s family was still an ocean away.

  They had kept his father company, adjusted his pillows, refilled his water, brought treats. They had encouraged him, entertained him, reminisced with him, been with him when the doctors made their rounds. Jenny had no visitors except medical personnel and police. When the doctor’s treatments were painful, there was no one to lend support. He and Andrews came with questions, not comfort.

  Over time, his mother had brought things from home to cheer his father: family photos, a favourite book, music that soothed and relaxed him. Near the end, she had read to him, short humourous pieces, poetry, verses from the Bible. He could still recall her light, expressive voice. It had distracted his father temporarily from the deteriorating condition of his body and the rest of them from their impending loss.

  Jenny’s room was bare, but he could do something about that. Perhaps flowers could help bridge the gap until her parents arrived. He managed to talk the florist out of a formal arrangement with lilies, thinking her samples looked funereal, and selected instead miniature roses, sweet peas, and the delicate de rigeur baby’s breath. He didn’t know what would appeal to a young wounded Texan, but the gentle colours pleased him.

  She looked up and smiled when she saw the flowers. “Is there a card?”

  “I’m the card,” he told her. “They’re from me. I thought you could use a bit of encouragement.”

  “They’re beautiful. Thank you. My parents called last night after you left,” she continued. “I cried, so my dad did most of the talking at first. When I calmed down, my mom had questions—how was I feeling, what was the hospital like, did I like my doctor—parent stuff. I never thought that parent stuff would sound so good, but it did. I didn’t want to hang up.”

  “Jenny, they’re lovely people. I�
�ve spoken with them several times.” He realised that it was the first time he’d heard her speak without tension. There was warmth in her voice. He’d heard other Americans speak, so it must be the Texas accent that broadened her vowels and softened her consonants. His voice must sound cold. She was used to hearing a slow drawl.

  The food on her breakfast tray was virtually untouched. “I see you’re not sold on our British cuisine,” he said.

  She tried to respond to his lighter tone. “What is British cuisine, exactly?”

  “Why, we have very upmarket items,” he told her. “You haven’t experienced the wonders of fish and chips, or bangers and mash, or spaghetti on toast?”

  “No, I have been culturally deprived,” she said, “and I’m not sure I want to assimilate. Didn’t George Bernard Shaw say that we were ‘two people separated by a common language’? I think we’re separated by lots more than the way we speak.”

  “Our legal systems differ also, but there are many common factors. In both our countries police depend on the willingness and goodwill of witnesses to help them stem the tide of crime.”

  “Are you asking me if I’m willing to be a witness?”

  “For now I’d just like you to think about your readiness to participate in the interview process,” he said. “If the events are still too traumatic for you to speak of, I need to know.”

  “Will Sergeant Hartley be coming back?”

  “No, I’ll be assigning another officer, either a male or a female, whichever you prefer.”

  “Why do I have to do this at all? You’ll have scientific evidence.”

  “Jenny, we have only your description of the man who assaulted you. We need to identify him and locate him. And before we interrogate him, we need to know from you everything that happened.”

  “It’s hard to think about telling everything to a stranger,” she said slowly.

  Victims of sexual violence were usually interviewed by specialists, but it wasn’t easy to establish rapport with people who were frightened or in pain. Jenny was both. How long would it take a new officer to gain her trust? A witness had to have confidence in the police. They were the first representatives of the criminal justice system they encountered.