The Mission

by Naomi Kryske

  “Injustice made him angry. Cruelty made him angry. Senseless death made him angry.” Fulford bowed his head for a moment. He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice when he continued. “Senseless death angers me also, more than I can express in this setting. My sincere condolences to his family.” He moved heavily from the pulpit, and Detective Sergeant David Andrews, Colin’s colleague at Islington and New Scotland Yard, took his place. He had corralled his wavy hair, and his broad, friendly face was solemn.

  “Colin Sinclair had an unusual understanding of people. He recognised an officer’s individual strengths and abilities and tried to assign jobs accordingly. He believed in teamwork but didn’t require everyone to fit the same mould. The best officers, in his view, weren’t the ones who never took risks and consequently never made mistakes but those who learnt from their mistakes. On any new investigation everyone began with a clean slate.

  “He covered it well, but anyone who worked with Colin Sinclair for any length of time became aware of his impatience, particularly as it related to evidence. He always saw further ahead than the rest of us, hence his four-step test for determining the sufficiency of evidence. First, is it sufficient to identify the wrongdoer? Second, is it sufficient for an arrest to be made and charges to be laid? Third, will the CPS – the Crown Prosecution Service – consider it sufficient to proceed? And fourth, will it give the desired result: conviction. His record of success was outstanding. We have indeed lost a champion.

  “I can’t conclude without mentioning the love he had for Jenny, his wife. He didn’t speak of it; he didn’t have to do. When she rang him, he always took her call. He wasn’t impatient with her, he was impatient to see her. At the end of a long day when we were all knackered and showing it, he still had a spring in his step because he was going home to her. I respected him as a police officer. And as a man. I – ” his voice wavered, and he stopped. The assembly waited quietly. After a moment he shook his head and left the pulpit.

  Jenny couldn’t contain her tears, and her mother leaned over and patted her hand.

  The service of Holy Communion began with family members served first. When she returned to her seat, Jenny watched others coming forward, many of them strangers to her, people Colin must have known but whom she had never met. Occasionally Joanne would whisper a name to her and a brief explanation. When one couple moved forward, however, Jenny heard a sharp intake of breath from her mother-in-law. The man, wearing an expensive dark suit, was accompanied by a tall, model-thin woman whose blonde hair nearly touched her shoulders. She was wearing a black cashmere sweater with a single strand of pearls, and her black skirt reached her ankles but didn’t hide her high-heeled fashion boots. “Mr. and Mrs. Richard Denham-Ross,” Joanne murmured, adding, when she saw Jenny’s puzzled look, “Violet. She left him! She’s here just to show off. How could she?”

  Colin’s ex-wife: stunning, somber, but to Jenny’s eye, not sad. Jenny shared her mother-in-law’s anger but felt something akin to wonder, too: She, Jenny, small, dark-haired, and casual in her manner and dress, was nothing like that elegant woman, yet Colin had loved her.

  Father Rogers then read the John Donne quote she had given him: “All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated…” Hearing his words made her feel still connected to Colin. Her eyes rested on the cross that represented Jesus’ sacrifice. Colin had died for people he had not known. What was his icon? She could imagine him saying, “That’s what coppers do, Jen. They serve, and sometimes they lose their lives while serving. No symbol necessary except the badge.” What was her icon? A weeping willow? What a pathetic panegyric!

  She gripped the railing in front of her, knowing the service was coming to a close and she would somehow have to find the strength to stand. Father Goodwyn had joined Father Rogers in front of the altar. Together they intoned the final blessing. It was time to go to the cemetery. How would she be able to? Half of her knew she must, but the other half wanted to run the other way.

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  When Jenny saw the casket for the first time, it looked alien. She hadn’t wanted anything fancy; her preference was for something strong, so strong that it would resist time and the elements and prevent the dirt from ever touching him. She hoped her final gift to him was inside, held in his hand as she had requested: a copy, in calligraphy, of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s famous poem, “How do I love thee? / Let me count the ways.” It concluded with a declaration of love: “I love thee with the breath, / Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death.” It had been her wedding gift and her promise to him, an indication of how enduring she considered her love for him to be.

  The Sinclair family cemetery had a number of graves, and Joanne saw to it that all were tended regularly. Trees lay just beyond, their bare branches reaching for the sky, as if they too wanted release from the cold, confining ground where Colin would lie. Jenny wished for a distraction to draw her attention away from the gleaming box and the gaping maw in the earth that would swallow it. She needed an animal to amble by, a bird to sing, or a sudden wind to drown out the sound of Father Rogers’ voice, but there was nothing.

  Someone from the funeral home removed the force flag from the casket, folded it, and placed it on her lap. Even folded, she could see its intense blue, darker than Colin’s eyes, and a portion of the same symbol of the Queen that had been on his warrant card, which was held in a folder as black as her skirt. “Do I have to wear all black?” she’d asked her mother. With the assurance that she didn’t, she had finally chosen a pale gray blouse with dark vines embroidered around a pink velvet heart because Colin had always smiled when she wore it. Her throat tightened, and because she couldn’t say it aloud, she had to think the words of the farewell she had planned: “Good-night, sweet prince…” There was more to the quotation, but she couldn’t remember. What was it? What was it? If only she’d written it down! But her eyes had misted over, and she couldn’t have read the words if she’d had them.

  Around her, people rose to their feet. The service must be over. Her brothers, younger than she but much taller, shifted their feet, not knowing what to do. “It’s time, Punkin,” her father said. “I’ll walk with you,” added her mother, cradling her elbow.

  She felt strapped to her chair, and anger tightened her throat even further. Why did she have to leave him again? “Not yet,” she managed to whisper. Colin, she thought, why did you have to go so soon? When we were happy? When I had overcome so much to be with you? She began to cry. Colin, I want you to come home to me!

  The trees that surrounded the cemetery were tall and stark, their branches bald and black. The breeze didn’t register when it ruffled her hair, and although the sun dazzled with a rare winter display, it did not disperse the clouds in her heart.

  In the end her family stayed with her, Colin’s mother with them, but she felt more connected to Colin than to her living relatives. She was as cold and still as he, except for her shaking shoulders and searing sobs. She folded her chilled fingers into fists and pressed them into her lap but could not contain her sorrow.

  Joanne put her arm around her shoulders and whispered, “When Cam was buried here, I stayed for the longest time. I still come often. It helps to know where he is. But there’s no rush. I’ll wait with you, we all will, the way Colin did with me, until you’re ready.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Jenny hadn’t anticipated the crushing silence. Since she had returned to Hampstead and her family had left for Texas, the flat was as silent and still as a tomb, reminding her of her last moments with Colin. Now, since he had been her most frequent caller, her phone rarely rang.

  Outside the world seemed to be going on as usual. She could often hear sirens from ambulances taking people to the Royal Free Hospital, and occasionally she’d catch snatc
hes of conversation as individuals passed by on the street. The normal sounds she made – her footsteps on the kitchen floor, setting a teacup on the counter, using her hair dryer – seemed unnaturally loud, and at first she was afraid they’d keep her from hearing Colin’s footsteps on the stairs or his key in the lock. Sometimes she wondered if she should slam the cabinet door or scream at the top of her voice to cover up the fact that he was not coming home, not ever. Finally she turned on the radio and let it play constantly, because the voices, although disembodied, belonged to living beings.

  She hadn’t anticipated the unrelenting emptiness. The flat seemed void, not just of Colin, but of everything, even air. She wasn’t even sure she could take a breath. If she struck a match, would it burn? She dressed, although even lightweight clothes felt heavy and suffocating.

  She hadn’t anticipated the all-encompassing loneliness. How could Colin be gone and all his things be in their usual places? His suits, his ties, his shoes? Her body was lonely for him. Making things worse, her period had started, causing a new despair. She had hoped against hope that he had left a part of himself behind and that she could count the days until she could embrace his son or daughter. She recalled a succession of intimate moments: Colin, confessing not long after their wedding that he wished they’d have a family sooner rather than later; Colin, so moved with joy he couldn’t speak when she told him she wanted birth conception, not birth control; the gentle, almost reverent way he made love to her that night; the intensity of their union, when she felt they were participating in an act far greater than just the two of them because there was a purpose beyond their own pleasure. Now she was mourning the death of a dream and two lives instead of one.

  She hadn’t anticipated her need for consistency. She wanted – no, needed – to find reassurance in routine and solace in the utter sameness of the flat and its furnishings. She didn’t change anything. If she opened his closet door, she needed to see all his clothes in their usual places. She found a piece of paper and wrote two titles across the top: Things That Are the Same and Things That Are Different. His clothes should be in the hamper, his aftershave in the air when she woke, his tea cup in the kitchen sink. At the end of the day she should hear the front door opening and his voice calling out to her. She did not put pen to paper; it was too depressing. Only one thing remained the same: her love for him.

  She finally opened the box of Colin’s personal effects. Inside was an inventory of the items, printed neatly on Metropolitan Police Service letterhead. She knew what to expect: his wallet, with driver’s license, credit cards, and cash. Assorted change from his pocket. Keys, which made a jarring sound when she set them on the table. She wondered suddenly what the bomb had sounded like, if it had deafened him. If he had died in silence. She picked up the keys again and jangled them to rid her mind of the thought. What else was in the box?

  No warrant card; he had been holding it at the time of the blast, so it probably hadn’t been found. No handkerchief, although she knew he would have had one. The last item was a surprise: One diamond and emerald drop earring. Only shards (not enclosed) recovered from the second earring. One earring whole, one shattered, but two lives shattered, she thought. The surviving earring was beautiful – the emerald, outlined in diamonds, was in the shape of a tiny teardrop. Why had Colin bought them? No important anniversaries lay immediately ahead. It didn’t matter; it was a gift from beyond the grave, and she treasured it.

  The knock on the door startled her. Colin? – no, he didn’t need to knock, he had a key. And he was gone. Gone, she reminded herself. It must be Simon.

  He held her mail in his hand. The entrance to her side of the building was on the ground floor, but the front door to her flat was on the first. Cards and notes of sympathy continued to be delivered through the letter box, and no matter how brief or trite, she cherished every one. They were all she had the concentration to read, and like the refrain from a favorite song, she pored over them again and again. Today, however, there was also something from Dr. Hannaford. She opened the envelope. A bill! He was charging her for the visit Colin had scheduled and not kept! Didn’t they know why he had missed the appointment? Didn’t his death count for anything? She tore the statement in half and put it in her pocket. “Your accessories match,” she said to Simon, trying to keep her voice light.

  He glanced from his brown leather jacket to his brown boots. “Dressed for the weather,” he shrugged. She seemed smaller somehow, even her voice lacking its usual resonance. “You’re wearing yesterday’s clothes, I see.”

  Even jeans and sweatshirts wrinkled if you slept in them, and her Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt was so old that the letters across the front were cracked. “They’re clean enough. Tea?”

  “I’ll brew.” He cocked his head. “Why is the radio switched on?”

  “It was too quiet.”

  “Where’s the liaison officer?”

  “I sent her away. I was uncomfortable with her, and I think she was uncomfortable with me.”

  “Was that wise?”

  Simon’s question indicated that he didn’t think so. Jenny sighed. Compton had suggested gently that Jenny’s judgement had been affected by grief. “She meant well, but she hovered around me all the time. After a while she felt like an intruder.”

  She leaned against the counter and watched him set the water to boil and place teabags in their cups. Amazing. Men who couldn’t cook anything else knew how to make a good cup of tea.

  “I have a mission today,” he said. “Davies and I – we want to know if you’ll be staying in London and if you need any help.”

  “Nothing can help.”

  “I meant, help to stay here.”

  It took her a minute to realize that he was talking about money. “Colin had a will,” she answered. “After we married, he bought this block of flats, so I’ll have rent from the other tenants. He had a life insurance policy, and I’ll receive a monthly allowance from his estate. I don’t know how much. I’ve been putting off seeing the solicitor. The Commissioner said I might get his pension and a death-in-service benefit. I’m waiting to hear from someone in Financial Liaison Services.”

  “And the property in Kent?”

  “That stays in the family. Jillian’s children will inherit it when they are of age.”

  “Still enough to live on, then.”

  “Yes, more than enough, if I’m careful, but my visa status has changed. I’ll have to apply for an indefinite leave to remain. I hope they’ll grant it on compassionate grounds.”

  They took their tea into the living room. “Simon, I’ve been thinking a lot about the man with the bomb. He must have been angry! So angry that he didn’t care how many people he killed, including himself. And now I’m angry. Angry that the bomber is dead. Angry that he took Colin with him. I’m even angry at the people who came to Colin’s memorial service. It’s so unfair! Every one of them had known him longer than I had! Was I a stranger in my husband’s life?”

  Her hands were shaking. Simon took her cup.

  “You’ve just put my teacup on the coffee table. No one drinks coffee here. Why isn’t it called a tea table?” Her half smile dissolved, and she began to cry.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and thought about his dilemma. The woman he loved was even more bound to Sinclair in grief than she had been in happiness.

  CHAPTER 9

  The flat was quiet when Jenny woke. However, instead of thinking for a brief moment that Colin had left for work and then experiencing his loss all over again, her chest felt heavy, because she knew she was alone. Only her London policeman teddy bear, a gift from Colin’s colleague Barry Bridges long ago, rested on the pillow.

  She forced herself out of bed, her limbs as sluggish as if she were wading through deep water. She had overslept but still felt exhausted through and through, her mind as well as her body. Was there no remedy? No respite? She dragged herself into the kitchen. She needed something to help her focus. It didn’t matter what she ate,
but tea – or anything with caffeine – was essential.

  She set one cup and saucer on the counter, removed one spoon from the drawer. One: It all came down to one. Thousands had been lost on September 11, but those numbers were made up of ones, of single individuals mourned by their families. She was one wife who had lost one husband, and her sorrow was unbearable.

  She now had two companions, Guilt and Grief, who took turns assailing her. “You didn’t love him enough,” Guilt said. “He deserved better.”

  “He’s gone forever,” Grief added. “Your life will never be the same.” It was true, all true. She and Colin had been two parts of the same equation. Now she was one number, a constant because she was alone.

  She tried to discipline herself to think about the support she had received. Barry, now one of the officers at Sapphire, had told her how much Colin was missed. “Your case gave him a unique perspective on the work we do,” he had said. “The next DCI’s not likely to have that.” His words had helped her to feel briefly that she wasn’t grieving alone. Simon had kept her company, and Colin’s mother had grieved with her, sometimes embracing Jenny when she cried and other times being embraced by her. Colleagues of Colin’s, some of whom she had never met, had either called or sent cards or flowers. She had acknowledged their expressions of sympathy, but she needed to talk about him to someone, talk about that awful day, and there was no one to tell. With a tinge of regret, she realized she could have spoken to the liaison officer, but she was gone. And since she hadn’t known Colin, it would have been a one sided, less than satisfying conversation. Writing it down didn’t help; she had tried. The black ink on the white paper looked cold, sterile, and final. Colin had been warm, loving, and committed to protecting and saving lives.