The Witness: A Novel

by Naomi Kryske

  “Then talk to me,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “No, after lunch. I’ll bring another officer with me, and we’ll make an official record of what you say.”

  She felt cornered. She hadn’t been able to get away from the monster, and now it appeared she couldn’t get away from the police. But maybe if she gave them the information they wanted, they’d leave her alone for a while. “After lunch,” she confirmed.

  CHAPTER 10

  Sinclair returned to the hospital in early afternoon to show Jenny the photo display that included Scott’s picture. “As you know, we have a sketch based on your description of your attacker. We’ve tried to match the sketch with photographs. We need to see if you can identify your attacker’s photograph when compared with other similar ones. If his picture isn’t here, please say so. We want to be certain before we arrest someone.”

  He handed her twelve photos. It had taken some time to compile them, since the only photographs they had of the man they suspected showed him in evening wear or some other type of specialised clothing. Sinclair didn’t want her choice to be affected by differences in dress. Facial features alone needed to be the determining factor.

  “He’s the one,” she said shakily when she saw the twelfth picture. Seeing her attacker—even smiling, as he was in the photo she held—made her dizzy with fear. “There’s no doubt.”

  She had pointed to the photo of Cecil Scott. “Are you willing to testify in court to that effect?” he asked, trying to conceal the excitement he felt.

  “Testify? I can’t face that! I can hardly stand up.”

  “Jenny, he needs to be in prison, and you can help us accomplish that. May I count on your cooperation?”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

  “I’d like to encourage you to consider taking a further step.”

  “Why? Why do I have to be the one?”

  “Because there’s no one else. Are you aware that there were other victims? What you may not know is that none of them survived.”

  “Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” she said bitterly.

  He recognised the Tennyson quote. “Jenny, this isn’t a suicide mission. The Metropolitan Police have a world-wide reputation for excellence and integrity, and we can protect you from any threat. We’ve provided protection for you since you were found, one officer while you were in intensive care and now two. I understand that it’s difficult for you to trust anyone just now, but that’s rather compelling evidence of our commitment to you.”

  “But—my family—I want to go home. I want to see London in my rear-view mirror.”

  “Each case, each witness is different. We are more than capable of responding to your individual needs.” He decided not to appeal to her sense of civic duty. London wasn’t her city. In the short time since they’d met, he’d seen fear, pain, and despair cross her face. Occasionally she’d expressed frustration, but not anger. Some victims wanted revenge; fuel their anger a bit and they’d agree to testify to anything. He didn’t see that in Jenny. He’d been struck by her helplessness, so he decided to emphasise the empowering nature of what he was asking her to do. “Jenny, there’s power in speaking the truth. I know your feelings overwhelm you sometimes, but you seem to right yourself. It takes a special sort of strength to face someone who has hurt you, and I believe you have it.” He smiled. “You’re the spark that will ignite this case.”

  “No, I’m the kindling. I’ll be consumed.”

  “It’s your choice to make, Jenny.”

  “Do I have to decide now?”

  “No, although I’d like to suggest that you’ll feel more at peace when you do. Jenny, I’m offering you the opportunity to take back the part of your life that your attacker took away. Asserting yourself will make you feel stronger.”

  She looked down. The suspect photos were still on her lap, the one of Scott on top. Her strength had bled out of her; the surgeon had stitched up an empty shell.

  He collected the photos. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said.

  Andrews and the new SOIT officer were approaching. Sinclair gave Andrews the envelope of suspect snaps. “We’ve got him!” he said. “Take this back to Graves. The high-profile nature of this case has just escalated. And Andrews—the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  CHAPTER 11

  At the sound of the knock, Jenny turned toward the door. Mr. Sinclair had a tape recorder in his hand, and there was someone with him, a man with sandy-colored hair receding slightly at the temples and a boyish, easy smile. He was wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt under a pullover sweater. He reminded her of her brother, Matt, who was lean and wiry and wished he were taller.

  “Jenny, this is PC Bridges.” He didn’t mention Bridges’ specialist training.

  She blinked. “You don’t look like a policeman.”

  Bridges laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but the name’s Barry.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid to ask—what do I look like?”

  “A teenager.”

  “My wife would agree that I act like one sometimes,” Bridges smiled, “but I’ve seen sweet sixteen twice.” He and Sinclair pulled chairs next to the bed and sat down.

  Jenny realized that the side of her face with the scar was next to him, and she covered her cheek quickly.

  “You needn’t do that, Jenny. May I call you Jenny? We all have scars. Want to see mine?” He stood up, propped his foot on the bed, and pushed his sock down.

  “I can hardly see anything,” she said.

  “That’s just what people are going to say about you before long.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Poor quality shin guard.” He rearranged his sock and sat down.

  “What can I tell people about my scar?”

  “Tell them it’s from a sport injury,” Bridges joked.

  “Do you play soccer?” she asked Bridges.

  “Football, we call it,” he answered. “I used to. Now I coach it—seven-and eight-year-olds.”

  Sinclair was enjoying this exchange. He’d wondered what Bridges would do. Many SOIT officers watched popular TV shows to help them develop rapport with a victim, but Jenny was from a different culture and wouldn’t have been familiar with British fare.

  “Both my brothers play,” she said. “When they started, their coaches had a terrible time getting them to do the drills. How do you get kids that young to do them?”

  “I participate with them, and sometimes I even give one of them the whistle so he can start and stop the play. And I’m going to do the same thing with you, when you’re ready.”

  She turned to Sinclair. “I thought you were going to question me.”

  “You seem to be getting on with Bridges.”

  “I like helping people,” Bridges said. “I want to help the investigation, of course, but more important, I want to help you. If you can trust me enough to tell me what happened, you’ll have made an important first step.” Like other SOIT officers, he had been trained to place the needs of the victim first. Doing so not only yielded better evidence but also established a strong relationship that encouraged victims to follow through.

  She looked down at her lap. “Talking about it makes it seem like it’s happening all over again.”

  “Then it’s time you left the defence to us. We have the best defence in the world right outside your door.” He stood and summoned the two uniformed police. “We’re having show and tell, gentlemen. Please introduce yourselves.”

  “PC Denton, Miss,” the first man said. He looked like an NFL linebacker, broad and solid, but he was not armed.

  “PC Bolton,” the second, slimmer man said.

  “This is not my area of expertise,” Bridges continued, “so we won’t cover everything. However, even I know that you have radios, in case you need backup. And clearly you both carry truncheons. Would you like to tell us why you’re here?”

  “To protect this young lady,” Denton an
swered. He looked in Jenny’s direction.

  “How can you do that without guns?” she asked.

  “We don’t need firearms to protect you, Miss. If you need us, all you have to do is call.” He nodded at the DCI.

  As Denton and Bolton left, Bridges continued. “They check everyone’s identification, Jenny, every time. When the Chief Inspector and I arrived this afternoon, we both had to show our warrant cards. They have a list of approved medical personnel. DCI Sinclair has given very specific instructions to ensure your safety.”

  She was seeing only a small part of the picture. “Will you help me?” she asked Bridges. “Yesterday I was—offsides.”

  Bridges smiled. “My kids do that when they’re trying to win the game all by themselves. You don’t have to. With your permission, we’ll record what you say so you won’t have to relate everything more than once. We may have follow-on questions, but those can be asked at a later time.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Jenny said in a strained voice. She watched Bridges’ face very carefully, but there was no sign of censure in his expression when he replied.

  “Of course you didn’t. The man who hurt you was in the wrong, not you. Do you want to tell us about it now?” He saw her face turn pale. “You can begin with your arrival in London,” he said quickly. “Was this your first trip across the pond?” He turned toward Sinclair. “Sir, if it’s no bother—”

  She heard Mr. Sinclair recording the introductory information.

  She nodded. “I’d never gone through customs before. When the official asked if I were entering the country for business or pleasure, I didn’t know what to say. I took the train into the city. Seeing London’s landscape for the first time—Texas is a horizontal landscape, but it seems like everything here is vertical.”

  “Were you tired at that point?” Bridges asked.

  “Yes, tired of lugging my bags. I’d been too excited to sleep on the plane, so I had to nap when I finally got to the hotel. The owners lived in Texas for a while, isn’t that crazy? They recommended places in the neighborhood to eat and gave me directions. I found a chocolate shop. Everyone was so courteous. I thought I was off to a good start.”

  “You are,” Bridges said.

  “The next day—Thursday—I went to the planetarium. It’s near the hotel. And I walked through the Wallace Collection. That was amazing! Museums in the southwest are in new, contemporary buildings for the most part. The mansion where the Wallace Collection is displayed is so magnificent, it’s a work of art in itself.” She looked at Sinclair. “Do you really want to know all this?”

  “We want to know everything you’re willing to tell us—where you went, what you did, what your impressions were. It may help us to establish when you were targeted by your attacker.” If he prolonged the conversational nature of the interview, perhaps she’d be able to maintain her relaxed tone. “Which part of the Wallace exhibit did you like the most?”

  “The room with the knights and the armor. Cowboys in Texas wear spurs on the back of their boots, but the knights’ boots had points on the front, too. And their armor was so small! Some of it would have fit me, I think. I should have taken some.” Her voice choked. “I could have used it.”

  “Just dribble the ball, Jenny,” Bridges said gently. “One touch at a time.”

  The pained look left her face for a moment. “Friday—the Changing of the Guard and Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery. Saturday—Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. Texas doesn’t have much history compared to you. Sunday—I went shopping. I was told that Marks and Spencer would be cheaper, so I went there first.” She blushed. “I never saw so many bras and panties in all my life! I didn’t buy any—there were too many to choose from, and the sizes weren’t the same as at home. Then I went to Selfridge’s. That took more time than I thought it would, because they sell books. Department stores in Texas don’t.”

  When she didn’t continue, Sinclair spoke. “What did you plan for the Monday?”

  “The British Museum. It didn’t open until 10, but I was really eager. I started out early, because I was going to take the bus, and I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait for the right one or how long the ride would be. I figured I could find a coffee shop near the Museum if I needed to wait. The staff at the hotel—they were so friendly—told me to walk down to Oxford Street and wait at the bus stop on the north side of the street, just outside Selfridge’s. Selfridge’s,” she whispered. “I was so confident, because I knew how to get there. I had just been there the day before.”

  “Keep your eyes on the ball, Jenny,” Bridges said.

  “I was trying to figure out how to use the ticket machine when someone behind me bumped into me, hard. I lost my balance, then I felt a stick. Someone put his arm around my waist. I was dizzy. I must have passed out. On the street. Near Selfridge’s.” She stopped and swallowed hard.

  Possible CCTV footage. Sinclair made a mental note to check.

  “I woke up,” she gasped. “It was dark, like a cave. I couldn’t see a thing! I was shaking with cold. I didn’t have any clothes on! Oh, God, who would strip me and leave me naked in the dark?”

  Not only did Sinclair want the answer to that question, he wanted to be able to prove it.

  “I was too nauseated to move. I didn’t know where I was. I wanted light! Somebody to help me!”

  Not for the first time, it struck Bridges how much help trauma victims needed and how limited the police response could be. He didn’t know which was worse, losing a loved one to death or losing a loved one to trauma. Trauma had a long life.

  “It was so quiet. My heart was beating really fast, and my mouth was dry. Then I heard a door open, and a light came on. Two men were standing just inside the door.” Her voice faltered. “Two men! And I was naked! I was so scared! I tried to cover myself with my hands. But they just eyed me and left. I heard them lock the door. I saw a chest of drawers on one wall, and I crawled over to it, but my clothes weren’t in it. Just some women’s jewelry.”

  Bridges moved his chair marginally closer to the bed and nodded to Sinclair to do the same. He didn’t want to make her repeat herself, and he wanted to be sure the tape recorder could pick up even her muffled words.

  “I know I said I would—” she whispered—“but do I have to tell you everything? Can’t you figure it out from the evidence?”

  Sinclair responded. “I’m afraid not, Jenny. Without your statement, we have only a skeleton to work with. We don’t do this because we want to invade your privacy or cause you embarrassment. We do it because we can’t guarantee justice without it.”

  “Please continue,” Bridges said.

  “The door opened,” she breathed. “Another man came in. Oh, God, what was he going to do to me?”

  There was a light knock, the door swung open, and the nurse trilled, “Time to check vital signs, dear.”

  Jenny jumped and cried out.

  Sinclair stopped the tape and shouted, “Not now! Damn it!”

  Jenny’s hands flew up to shield her face.

  Bridges ushered the startled nurse out of the room. He gave hurried instructions to the two PCs. Sinclair stood, took a deep breath, and ran his hand through his hair.

  Bridges returned. “Half-time, Jenny. Even the best athletes need to rest and recharge. Wouldn’t you like something to drink?”

  She leaned back and watched them go. Her heart was racing as if she’d run a marathon, and she’d barely begun. She remembered her father’s quote: “Miles to go before I sleep.” The miles ahead of her weren’t measured in physical feet but in yards of pain and fear. She wished she were a little girl again, with a child’s faith that bumps and bruises go away.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sinclair and Bridges returned shortly with tea and biscuits. The hot tea was soothing, but it failed to quiet her nerves completely or calm her unsettled stomach, so she didn’t eat anything. None of them spoke about the interview. Bridges told humourous stories about misadventures
of players on his son’s football team, and Jenny was reminded of similar events on her brothers’ teams. It was only a partial distraction, however, because she knew what lay ahead. “I think I need a pep talk,” she said.

  Bridges smiled, hoping to dispel her fearful expression. “Then I’ll remind you that you’re the most important person connected to this case. You’re in charge. We’re here to encourage and support you.”

  She heard Mr. Sinclair give the introductory information. The tape recorder was running, and she realized that others would hear it. “No—wait—I don’t want everyone to know.”

  Bridges nodded at Sinclair to stop the recording. “Jenny, it’s time for you to pass the ball to us. I know it’s very difficult for you to trust anyone just now, but this is a team effort.”

  “But I just want to forget,” she whispered.

  “Jenny,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry to tell you that’s not likely to happen. No one I’ve interviewed has ever forgot what happened to them, but many have been able to let it go. It’s a process, and it begins with your willingness to work with us.” Patience showed respect, so Bridges waited. In his experience the best victim statements came from those who didn’t feel rushed.

  “He was a monster,” she said finally.

  Sinclair pressed the record button. He was ready to move on. As a detective, his focus was on gathering evidence. Quickly, if possible. “What did he do, Jenny?” he asked. “What happened when the third man came into the room?”

  “He—he meant to kill me. I know he did, because he told someone outside the room to get rid of me!” Tears began to clog her throat, and she had to force the words out. “‘When I’m through in here, dispose of it,’ that’s what he said!”

  Sinclair wondered if the other women had been similarly terrorised, or if Scott’s methods had become more extreme with each offence.