by Naomi Kryske
And police interviews were only the first step: Jenny would have to deal with legal counsel, a solicitor pretrial and barristers on both sides of the case when her testimony began. It was no wonder that so many victims lost their resolve to see it through. Justice could be cruel, even to those who least deserved cruelty. He shook his head at himself. He could not ring Jenny’s parents while he was in this mood.
He decided to pay a visit to the Tank. Having a gym on the premises of the Yard offered a more constructive way for officers to deal with their stress than drinking at the bar it had previously been. He worked himself to exhaustion on the rowing machine. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he headed back to his office. He hoped Mr. Jeffries would be at home. In his experience it was easier breaking bad news to fathers than to mothers, although only marginally so.
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It was a difficult phone call. Mr. Jeffries had been frantic for news about his daughter but faltered upon hearing that she had been assaulted and was in intensive care. No matter how clear and simple the words, a parent’s initial reaction was confusion and disbelief. In a perverse sort of reassurance, Sinclair repeated the information and heard the transition from shock to horror. He had heard it before, in the voices of other parents, and the long distance connection only made the sound more poignant. It was rare for a crime to affect the victim only; most had families and friends who felt the repercussions as well. Hence Sinclair preferred to notify loved ones in person with a family liaison officer present, but that was not possible in this case.
Unfortunately it would be some time before Jenny’s parents could travel to London: Their passports weren’t current. In the face of Mr. Jeffries’ agitation, Sinclair kept his voice calm. He had learnt early in his career to do nothing that would escalate a situation. He assured Mr. Jeffries that Jenny was safe and receiving the best medical care. He promised to ring again in the next day or two. It had not been difficult to avoid disclosing the exact nature of her attack.
CHAPTER 4
Monday morning found Sinclair on his way back to the hospital. He had just greeted Jenny when Dr. Walsh pushed the curtain aside. “I’d like to have a look at you,” he told her.
Feeling a traitor, Sinclair stepped outside. In a few minutes he heard a rasping cry. The privacy provided by the curtain didn’t seem sufficient. There were several more cries, muffled, a few minutes apart. How did doctors continue their treatment when what they did was hurting someone? The same way coppers did, he guessed: by focussing on the outcome. In Jenny’s case, that would mean taking a very long term view indeed.
When Dr. Walsh came out, he was smiling. “I removed the chest tube and the sutures the plastic surgeon put in. Miss Jeffries is healing beautifully. You can go in now.”
“I heard her cry out.”
“There’s a sharp pain when the chest tube is removed,” Dr. Walsh explained. “And the incision site will be tender for some time. But she’s doing well, and we’ll be transferring her out of intensive care this afternoon.”
“Not to a ward,” Sinclair said quickly. “And not on the ground floor.”
Dr. Walsh thought for a moment. “I’ll see if there’s a barrier nursing room available. That’s an isolation area—it should suit.”
Sinclair spoke with the PC on duty before rejoining Jenny. “She’s going to be moved. Stay with her. I’ll have backup for you by the start of the next shift.” The curtain was partly open, and he could see the nurse arranging Jenny’s bed. Jenny was lying flat, and she was taking careful, shallow breaths, her face tight with pain. The bandages had been removed from her face, and the intravenous drip was out also.
“Miss Jeffries, I have some good news for you. I rang your parents last night and had a word with your father. He asked me to give you a message.” He recited the lines. “It’s a bit cryptic.”
“No, they’re lines from a poem by Robert Frost. ‘But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep...’ He’s coming; I bet both of them are coming.” She tried unsuccessfully to clear her throat.
“Miss Jeffries, Dr. Walsh says you’re healing beautifully.”
He was so austere in his dark three-piece suit and tie, and the stilted way he spoke—and his clipped speech—seemed to belie his comforting words. “That’s just an expression doctors use,” she whispered. “There can’t be anything beautiful about it.”
“They did their best for you. A plastic surgeon put the stitches in your cheek. Didn’t they show you?”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing? That I had a plastic surgeon?”
The hoarseness in her voice made it sound like there was something broken inside. “It’s not bad at all,” he told her. “It’s like a wrinkle, a pink wrinkle. There’s a clear adhesive strip over it.”
She searched his face for signs of revulsion but found none.
“You’ll be pleasantly surprised,” he insisted. “And what you see now will fade and improve over time.”
She was quiet. She wanted more than speeches. She wanted the endless succession of interruptions by strangers to stop. She wanted the pain to stop. She wanted her sentence in this beneficent prison to be over.
“And there’s more,” he added. “You’re going to be moved out of intensive care this afternoon. When I see you later today, you’ll be in your own room.”
No, she thought after he left, it wouldn’t be her room. Her room was in a house in Houston, with faces she knew and voices she recognized, a place where her privacy was respected and she could shut everyone out if she wanted to.
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It was late afternoon before Sinclair and Andrews made their way to Middlesex Hospital, where they introduced themselves to Jenny’s new doctor, Dr. Adams, a neat trim man with a pepper-and-salt beard. Then they located her room. Sinclair was glad to see that the backup had arrived: There were now two PCs seated outside, one of them female. “You know the drill,” he said. “Check IDs on all medical personnel until you know them. I’ll be supplying you with a list of approved providers. Until then, err on the side of caution. I don’t care if someone’s offended. This girl has been through too much already for us to take any sort of chance.”
“Sir, the move from UCH was hard on her,” the WPC reported.
“I expected that,” Sinclair replied. He knocked lightly, and he and Andrews entered. “Miss Jeffries,” he began, “I’d like you to meet David Andrews. He’s a detective sergeant and will be working with me on your case.”
Sergeant Andrews opened his warrant card. He was broad, even without a uniform. Despite his friendly face, she was glad when he chose to sit in the background, letting the taller man—what was his name?—Mr. Sinclair?—take the chair next to the bed.
“Congratulations on your new address,” he said. “Are you able to answer a few preliminary questions for us?” He knew from her medical report what had happened to her; he also had a general idea of when, based on her admission to hospital. He decided to enquire only about the Who and the Where.
She saw the sergeant take out his notebook.
“We know that someone hurt you,” Sinclair said gently. “Do you know who it was?”
She shook her head.
“Can you give us a description?”
Her voice was still hoarse. “He was tall and slim. I don’t know how tall. I was on the floor, and he was standing.” A shadow crossed her face.
“What else?”
“Blond hair. Cheekbones—high. Nose—long and narrow. Lips—thin.” She stole a quick glance at the young sergeant. He was recording everything. He looked up at her, an attentive expression on his face.
“Can you tell us anything more?” Sinclair wasn’t using his notebook.
“He had a gaunt, weathered face. Ranchers in Texas look like that, because they’ve spent so much time in the sun. And crow’s feet, maybe from squinting at the sun.”
“What c
olour were his eyes?”
“Gray.” She shivered. “When I close mine, I can still see him.”
“Miss Jeffries, was he alone?”
“Yes—no—there were two other men,” she stammered, “but they weren’t—I mean—they didn’t—”
Not a single assailant then. Until this moment no one had known how many evildoers they were seeking. Forensic had been able to demonstrate the involvement of just one, but detectives had wondered how a single individual had managed to dispose of the bodies. “Miss Jeffries, I know this is upsetting. I’d like to hear about those men, but I’m willing to do this at your pace. I don’t want you to feel any undue pressure.”
“Are you kidding? It’s all pressure. You want me to remember, and all I want to do is go home and forget.”
“Miss Jeffries, speaking with us does not obligate you in any way, although I do hope you’ll continue to help us.”
She stared at him. Didn’t he know how out of control she felt? No matter how courteously he spoke, she was still at his mercy—at the mercy of whoever walked through her door. “What did you ask?”
“Can you describe the other men?”
“I only saw them for a couple minutes. One man was stocky. Muscular. No neck. Shaved head. The other was taller and thinner.”
Sinclair saw her wince as she tried to shift her weight. “The shorter man: What was his ethnicity?”
She matched his politically-correct language. “Caucasian.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A tight t-shirt and dark pants.”
“And the man with him?”
“I can’t remember his clothes. Just his face—thick black eyebrows and mustache. Hair slicked back.”
“Accents of any kind?”
“They didn’t say anything.”
“Did they injure you in any way?”
She was so tired. “I couldn’t get away.”
“Miss Jeffries, you have to help us here. What did they do?”
“They—they were there. When the light went on. Near the door. Just a few feet away. They locked me in. Isn’t that enough?”
“Where?”
She shook her head. Her voice was giving out.
“Miss Jeffries,” Sinclair said, “I have just one more question. When you were admitted to hospital, forensic samples were collected that could provide important evidence in your case. Do we have your permission to process this material?”
“I don’t understand. Why are you asking me?”
“Miss Jeffries, the samples were taken from your body. Had you been conscious, we would have asked your permission to procure them. Your consent is very important to us.”
Consent: What a concept. The monster didn’t ask for her consent. Even the doctors and nurses didn’t. Amazing that the police did. “Yes.”
There was a knock on the door. One of the PCs pushed it open. A nurse was bringing Jenny’s dinner. “Time to sit up, lamb,” she said.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Sinclair asked. There wasn’t a plate on the tray. Everything was in polystyrene cups.
“Chicken bouillon, gelatin, apple juice, and tea,” the nurse answered. “And pain medication prescribed by Dr. Adams.”
“Yum,” Jenny said. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the pills.
CHAPTER 5
Sinclair had asked the police sketch artist to meet Andrews and himself outside Jenny’s room on Tuesday. As usual, Sinclair was early and impatient for the others to arrive.
“Quiet night, sir,” one of the PCs reported.
Andrews arrived next. Sinclair checked his watch. It was late, even for Sutton. He saw a slim young man with a boyish face and curly black hair hurrying down the passage. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I’ve never liked coming to hospital. Are you sure you need me to go in? Couldn’t I wait outside while you get the details? Hearing them from you would do just as well, wouldn’t it?”
“I’ll let him know what to expect, sir,” Andrews said.
Sutton couldn’t seem to stand still; he transferred his weight from one foot to the other and back again.
When Sinclair entered, Jenny turned toward him.
“Are you up to a chat?” He stood beside the bed. “The description you gave me of your attacker was a good one. Do you think you could add to it if you saw it on paper?”
“I’ll try.”
“Andrews,” he called. The sergeant pushed the door open and stepped inside, Sutton hanging back behind him, clutching his sketch pad to his chest like a shield.
“Miss Jeffries, do you remember my partner, Sergeant Andrews? And this is Jamie Sutton. He’s a sketch artist. Sutton, show Miss Jeffries what you have so far.”
Sutton opened his pad. At Sinclair’s insistence, he came a bit closer. The drawing was life size, light pencil strokes marking the features she had described.
“How old a man was your attacker?” Sinclair asked.
Jenny shrugged. “I don’t really know,” she said. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“A little older,” she concluded. “Rugged looking.”
“Is his face the right shape?” Sutton asked.
“Long and thin face,” she remembered.
The artist drew quickly then turned the pad in her direction.
“His hair fell part way over his forehead. It was wavy, like Sergeant Andrews’. His eyes were more recessed.”
Sinclair watched and listened. Sutton didn’t have the rapport with witnesses that he would have liked. Still uncomfortable himself, he had made no attempt to put Jenny at ease. He was, however, skilled at eliciting descriptive details, adjusting the size of the attacker’s eyes, nose, and mouth as she directed.
“Any facial hair?” Sutton asked.
“No,” she said slowly. She considered the picture. “The eyebrows aren’t quite right.”
“I can do long—thin—full—heavy,” Sutton said, demonstrating each type. He was more comfortable looking at his work than at her.
“They weren’t thin,” she said, “but he was blond, so they didn’t dominate.”
“Any distinguishing marks?” Sutton asked. “Moles, blemishes, maybe a scar? Oh, sorry! I shouldn’t have said—I didn’t mean—”
Her eyes filled, and she put her hand over her cheek. “It is a distinguishing mark, isn’t it? I knew it—it looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not bad at all, Miss,” Andrews responded, feeling the need to cut through Sutton’s distress and his boss’ displeasure.
“What’s left?” Sinclair asked Sutton.
“Just the chin, I think,” Sutton said quickly. “Rounded? Pointed? Or square, like this?”
“Square,” she answered.
Again the artist corrected his drawing.
“Not—cruel enough,” she faltered. “More lines of cruelty around the mouth.” When the artist had added the final details, she began to cry. “That’s him.”
A look passed between Sinclair and Andrews. The face bore a striking resemblance to someone they both recognised. “Out,” Sinclair said. “Cover that picture. Wait for me.” Sutton was out of the room in a flash. Andrews followed.
“Miss Jeffries, thank you. Our combined efforts can accomplish a good deal.”
The phone rang, startling both of them. “I’ll answer for you,” he said, knowing she couldn’t reach it. He heard a female voice, American, ask for Jenny. He had just transmitted the number to the Jeffries the evening before. What time was it in Texas? Jenny’s mother must have risen early. “Stand by,” he said, handing the receiver to Jenny.
Jenny’s eyes were eager with anticipation, but when she heard her mother’s words, she looked shocked and then broke down. Sinclair could hear Mrs. Jeffries assuring her daughter that they’d be there as soon as they could, and they were so, so sorry for the delay. Jenny was sobbing. He took the phone from her. “Mrs. Jeffries? DCI Sinclair here,” he said. “Yes, Jenny’s all right, she’s just happy to hear your voi
ce. Let me see if I can help her settle a bit. Hold on, please.” He sat down on the bed.
“Miss Jeffries, focus on something neutral,” he suggested.
She looked at his tie—stripes of silver alternating with several shades of blue. Was that supposed to help? Her parents weren’t coming soon; she was stuck here. Nothing was going to help.
“Mrs. Jeffries? We’re not making much progress here. I know this is upsetting, but she’s really all right.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Give my regards to your husband.” He ended the call. “Miss Jeffries, your family loves you. They’ll ring again.”
He held out his handkerchief, but she gripped his hand instead. He was surprised and strangely touched. “Sshh,” he soothed. “I know it’s difficult for you to be separated from your family right now, but you’re not alone.”
He had a deep resonant voice that reminded her slightly of her father’s, but he was not her father. He wasn’t any part of her family. She realized that she was still holding his hand. She dropped it quickly, embarrassed that a stranger had witnessed her distress.
CHAPTER 6
Detective Superintendent Jeremy Graves was a spare, restless man with a seemingly endless reserve of nervous energy. Sinclair had worked with him before, when the Regional Crime Squad was investigating a case with Islington connections. Most coppers were accustomed to pressure on the Job, but Graves never ran out of expectations. He pressed hard—sometimes too hard, Sinclair thought—for a good result.
“How’s our witness?” Graves asked. “Feeling any better?”
“Still weak and in significant pain, sir, but we do have a description of her attacker.” He held out the drawing.
When Graves saw the artist’s sketch of the suspect, he snapped, “Damn! Looks like Cecil Scott.”
