by Naomi Kryske
Bridges shrugged out of his jacket. He was the only one present who was informally dressed, Sinclair and Andrews still wearing suits and the three officers assigned to the protective team in uniform. He was also the shortest, but he did not bother to stand. “Jenny’s trauma isn’t over just because the attack is over,” he said. “In some respects, it’s just beginning. She’s broken. There’s an empty place where trust used to be. Rape changes everything about a woman’s world. Whatever Jenny knew to be true about herself has been shaken. How you respond to her will tell her who she is and what the world is. She needs very badly to feel she’s in control.”
“She’s not,” Casey said.
“I realise that,” Bridges replied, “but it’s a matter of perception, isn’t it? There are bound to be small issues over which her preferences can be respected.” He paused. “Usually I encourage the victims I interview to speak freely, to tell me everything in one go, and I don’t interrupt or ask for more detail until the follow-on interview. Jenny couldn’t do that. She could only face one bit at a time. Both the chief inspector and I had to prompt her repeatedly. And even with help, she couldn’t relate everything.”
Sullivan remembered how Jenny had looked when he’d left the hospital in the morning: fearful, distraught.
“Don’t push her to get over it—you’ll wound her again. No matter what she says, believe her. Show no doubt. She looks a mess, and she knows it. She’ll have mood swings, be numb, depressed, ashamed, embarrassed, upset. That’s all normal. She’s normal; it’s what happened to her that wasn’t. The problem is, she has to live with the consequences.”
Bridges was drawing the box. Casey had used the same briefing method on occasion.
“Don’t get too close. She may be afraid to be touched. And make sure she eats—she may lose interest in food.” He smiled briefly. “Except for chocolate.” He glanced at Sinclair. “In normal circumstances, I’d keep in contact with her, provide encouragement and reassurance. Sir, will that be possible?”
Sinclair shook his head.
“Will a liaison officer be assigned to her?”
“I’ll fill that role.”
“Sir, she was—desecrated. She’ll need very sensitive treatment.”
“Questions?” Sinclair asked.
Davies’ face was sombre. “Sir, the hospital attack isn’t described here. What form did it take?”
“The attacker posed as a psychiatrist. He intended to inject her with a syringe which we believe was filled with a toxic substance. When that failed, he attempted to strangle her.”
“Was she injured further?”
Sinclair responded. “No permanent injuries, but it was a close shave. He got his hand on her neck. I should add that she also suspected that he was an imposter, but she could not defend herself.”
Casey had resumed his reading of Jenny’s medical record and was cursing intensely under his breath, a continual stream of colourful expletives. “I’m surprised she lived, sir.”
“We were fortunate,” Sinclair said, glad that Casey was finally angry for the right reasons.
“She can’t walk, can she?” Casey continued.
“Not by herself, no. Also, the three of you will have to take on the cooking and cleaning responsibilities. She’s not mended enough to assist. Regarding the flat: It’s in Hampstead. She’s not to know the location. My side of the block has a private front and rear entry. There are only three tenants. The elderly couple on the ground floor will be told that you’re internet web designers with a combination home/office. I’m on the first floor. You’ll be on the second. There’s a small car park round the back. Casey, I’d like you to set the watches.”
“I’ll take the first. We’ll rotate every eight hours. I’ll reevaluate when I’ve assessed her condition and the security status of the flat. And we’ll need a locker for our firearms.”
“Anything else?”
“Sir, why aren’t there more of us?” It was Davies.
“To reduce activity in and about the block and to minimise the trauma to our witness,” Sinclair shot back. “I realise I’m asking a good deal of you, but this is a temporary assignment. Be at the hospital tomorrow night at eight o’clock. No uniforms. Have your belongings prepositioned. Come armed. I’ll brief you on the transfer procedure then. Other questions, call my mobile. Andrews, you and I are going to the supermarket. Thank you, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER 18
Jenny looked up in alarm when she saw Sinclair Friday evening. “More questions?”
“Not the sort you’re expecting.” He smiled. “How was your afternoon?”
“The chaplain came by. I was a little nervous at first, but one of your men stayed, and that helped. I had a question for him: Where was God when I was being attacked?”
“That’s a tough one,” Sinclair commented.
“Not for this chaplain! He was what Texans call a straight shooter. According to him, if God hadn’t been there, I would have died. And he said something that really touched me: that God’s a gentleman, that He doesn’t force His will on us. Then he delivered the punch line: God is a God of justice, and He chose me to see this through. He seemed so sure.” She sighed. “Also, Barry came by, and your Sergeant Andrews, to question me about the strangler.”
“I have a bit of business for you as well. I need your signature on your formal statement.” He handed her the printed copy and a pen. “Read it before you autograph it.”
“I’d rather not,” she said slowly. “There’s something frightening about seeing things in black and white.”
“Jenny, you must. If you need to make any changes or corrections, you should do so now. This is a legal document, and any deviance from it in court will cast doubt on its accuracy as a whole.”
The statement was verbatim, and it was long. It was an alien document, with her words rendered according to the British rules of spelling, yet the events it described were part of her now, an irrevocable part. As she read, Mr. Sinclair and Barry’s questions receded, and she heard only her own voice, describing the monster’s blows. She felt the slash on her cheek, so real that she half expected to see blood on her fingers after she touched it.
He watched her. When he’d told the protective team that she was fragile, he hadn’t misrepresented the situation. He hoped they were the right men for the job. On paper they were sufficiently qualified to protect her, but what were their personalities like? Could they live with her, even for a short period of time, and not drive her round the bend? The thirty-two-year-old Casey had been in the special forces. All warriors had an aggressive edge. Had that mentality moderated since he joined the police? As a medic, he might not be unsympathetic, but he looked it. Both Casey and Davies were accustomed to working primarily with men. He realised with sudden clarity that this sort of protection could be very difficult for her. He’d have to observe closely.
The more she read, the more upset she became. Her hand shook, and she crushed the edge of the page in an attempt to steady herself. Mr. Sinclair’s hand on hers startled her.
“Take it easy, Jenny.”
“Mr. Sinclair, I have to stop him.”
“You have, Jenny. Your identification and statement led to his arrest.”
“No, I mean stop him for good. I’m scared to death of him, and I don’t know how I’ll be able to do it, but I have to. Go to court. Testify. Whatever it takes. I can’t let him do this to anyone else.”
He couldn’t restrain a smile. “Brilliant! Well done. Jenny, with your help, we’ll prevail. You’ll prevail. You’ll see this nightmare end.”
Finally she finished her reading, signed where indicated, and handed the pages back to him.
He thanked her again before departing. As he headed home, he thought about how bruised and scarred she was. Somehow she had survived Scott’s onslaught. Six others hadn’t, leaving their families devastated. The lack of progress in the investigation had dispirited them and frustrated Met officers. Now this tiny Texas tourist had made
a powerful decision that could begin to set it right.
CHAPTER 19
“It’s a bit imposing, sir,” Andrews said. He and Sinclair were outside Ambassador Scott’s private dwelling in Kensington Gardens early Saturday morning. The residence itself was immense, and the metal railings surrounding it were as polished as a Royal Marine’s boots.
“It’s meant to be,” Sinclair answered.
When the other officers arrived, he assigned one lot to establish the perimeter and instructed the forensic team to stand by. The rest of them walked down the driveway to the rear entrance. “Start the video,” Sinclair said. He gave the standard introduction, then stood back to give the locksmith room to work.
“We’re in, sir,” he reported.
“Police!” Sinclair called. “Police!” He didn’t expect an answer; the ambassador was still abroad. He stationed a PC by the back door. He, Andrews, and the videographer entered first. “The room we’re looking for will be downstairs,” he said. “Access to it will be from the back of the house.” They located a door behind the kitchen, but it was locked, and Sinclair again required the locksmith’s services.
The light switch at the top of the stairs revealed one flight of plain wooden steps leading down to a short hallway. There were two doors off each side of the hall. The first room on the right appeared to be a small storeroom, but just a few tins remained on the shelves. The second room on the right was the one they had been looking for. It fit Jenny’s description exactly, from the concrete floor to the chest of drawers and the mirror on the dirty white wall. The other women had been here; Sinclair could feel it. He hoped they could prove it. The Scenes-of-Crime Officers were waiting outside. “Call the SOCOs,” he said.
“He brought her to his father’s house? Why?” Andrews asked when he returned.
“To emulate him? To embarrass him? Because he thought it was safe territory? We may never know.” Both men donned latex gloves. Sinclair opened the drawers, one at a time, wanting further confirmation of Jenny’s statement. Two were empty, but they saw several items of women’s jewellery, including an amethyst cross, in the third. “That’s as far as I dare go,” he commented, knowing any more interference would incur the wrath of the SOCOs.
Sinclair made a cursory inspection of the rooms on the left side of the hall. Neither looked as if it had been used in some time, but forensic would have to examine them nevertheless. Glancing behind him to be sure the officer with the camera was still with him, he said, “We’ll move upstairs next. There may be something there that will tie Scott to the other victims.”
The formal rooms on the ground floor had dust on the floor and dust sheets over the furniture. The same was true for the private sitting rooms, bedrooms, and baths on the first floor. The attack on Jenny was only the most recent. Evidence relating to the other women could still be present, even under the dust. All spaces would be searched eventually, but Sinclair’s focus was on Jenny’s case. On the second floor one of the bedrooms was in disarray, and the towels in the adjoining bathroom had been hastily hung. Every drawer, every cabinet would have to be opened and inspected, and every surface tested. There were a number of items to be collected and bagged, including several pairs of shoes and what appeared to be drugs and drug paraphernalia.
Sinclair removed his gloves and returned to the scene of the attack downstairs. The forensic team had discovered that what Jenny had thought was a mirror in the little room was actually a window from the storeroom next door. Anyone standing in the storeroom could see the other room totally and clearly. Sinclair had a sudden vision of Scott’s accomplices, watching and waiting while he destroyed a young woman’s life. “Test this area for fingerprints also,” he said in a thick voice, turning away to conceal his anger. He wanted more than ever to identify them.
Stepping back into the room where the attack had taken place, he called for an officer to stand by the door. “Close the door and turn off the light.” The darkness covered them like a shroud. The dank smell was more evident in the dark, and he could feel a warped malevolence seeping into his pores. Fear was one of the few things that you could see in the dark—and dear God, how frightening it must have been, for a young woman to find herself naked in this evil pit! He was wearing a three-piece suit, as usual, and still he shivered. “Thank you,” he said, and the light was flipped on. His anger had not dissipated.
Sinclair waited while the other men worked. Plastic evidence bags were labelled and sealed. Fingerprint powder covered everything, like a light dusting of sinister snow. When the SOCOs finished in the little room, he turned off the light and closed the door. Forensic had finished in the room next to it also, but Sinclair hadn’t. The window still haunted him. Andrews had started up the flight of stairs when he heard glass shattering and rushed back down.
“Bastards won’t be using this any more,” Sinclair said through clenched teeth.
“Sir,” Andrews stammered, “your hand is bleeding.” He could see his words hadn’t registered. “Sir! Your hand!”
Sinclair’s face was still dark when he tore his eyes away from the shards on the floor. He wrapped a handkerchief around his fist and put it in his pocket. He was surprised and vaguely pleased with himself. He led the way up the stairs. “I’d best ring Graves. He’ll need to report the search to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.” He and Andrews stepped into the kitchen. “You’ll continue on here? I’ll meet you at the hospital tonight. I need to collect a few more items for the flat.”
“Sir, stop in at hospital first.”
CHAPTER 20
It would have surprised his sergeant, but Sinclair took his advice and made hospital his next stop. He had Sergeant Casey paged, and as he waited, his mind travelled back to the little room and Jenny’s experience there. He found it hard to shake the weight he felt on his shoulders, and his encounter with the concealed window had only temporarily eased his anger.
“Sir?”
Casey’s voice startled him. “Sergeant, is there a treatment room available?”
“Yes, sir, this way.” He led Sinclair down a corridor and pushed open a door.
Sinclair took his hand out of his pocket and removed the handkerchief. “Can you clean this up for me?”
“Yes, sir.” He washed his hands and then cleansed Sinclair’s. “No sutures necessary,” he reported. He applied an antiseptic cream to the lacerations and wrapped the hand in a gauze bandage. “You’re good to go, sir.”
Sinclair opened and closed his fist a few times. He appreciated Casey’s apparent lack of curiosity. “Thank you, Sergeant. Are you getting on well with Dr. Adams?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be ready.”
“Tonight then,” Sinclair said. His next stop was the supermarket, followed by a trip to the flat. He and Andrews had already stocked the pantry and refrigerator with the basics, including dry goods, tinned soups, spices, and the usual breakfast and lunch items. This time he purchased a variety of meats, fresh vegetables, and fruits. He hoped the protection team would know what to do with them.
He walked through the rest of the flat, noting the extra pillows Andrews had provided for Jenny’s bed. There seemed to be sufficient sheets and towels for four people, but nothing for entertainment besides the TV. The rooms were not large, but it was still the nicest safe house he’d seen in his years on the force. The 6’5” Davies would have to bend down to get through the doorways, but he was probably used to that.
He walked back into Jenny’s room. There were several drab prints in the sitting room and dining room, but none in here. What sort of surroundings was she used to? Even with the carpet and regular bed, this room was almost as stale and sterile as her hospital room. Into this setting he was going to place a young woman who had studied literature, who remembered and quoted some of the most beautiful words in the English language, who had seen the ugliest side of man. Could she heal here?
He headed back to the Yard, stopping for a quick bite to eat on the way. That would have to be his lunch and d
inner. At his desk he marvelled at the size of Jenny’s file: at first so slim, and now that she had identified Scott and potentially linked him to six other cases, voluminous in scope and detail. A field day for the Crown Prosecution Service. The results of the rape kit were not back from the lab. Scott’s DNA had just been collected. The reports by the SOCOs would take days to complete. He sighed. He was still haunted by that little room. He did not suffer from claustrophobia, but he had felt the blackness closing in even during his brief time in the dark. He ran his hand through his hair. Was it too early to go back to the hospital? No matter; he’d spend a bit of extra time with Jenny before reviewing the transfer procedures with Andrews and the others. He collected his raincoat on the way out.
CHAPTER 21
When Sinclair entered Jenny’s room, she greeted him with a tentative smile and a question about his bandaged hand. “Policing is a dangerous job sometimes.” He sat down next to the bed. “What does the song say? ‘A policeman’s lot is not an ‘appy one.’”
“Gilbert and Sullivan,” she said, recognizing the reference. “As I recall, the police won in that operetta.”
He was surprised she knew it. “Yes, they invoked the name of the Queen, and the pirates yielded.”
“Will the monster yield? Plead guilty, I mean. If he did, I wouldn’t have to tell everyone what happened to me.”
“It’s too soon to know,” he said, although he didn’t think submission was a part of Scott’s character. “Tell me about your day.”
“The chaplain came by again. My behavior yesterday didn’t scare him away! He left the Scripture reference in your Bible but said that he just had two words for me today: ‘Choose life.’”
