The Witness

by Naomi Kryskle

  He told her that he loved her, that he would always love her. He told her that a part of him was missing because he was not with her. “Jenny, I’ve been to Kent,” he said. “I have your ring, your engagement ring. It’s waiting for you. I’m waiting for you. Progress is being made. I’m confident we’ll be reunited soon. I want a future with you, and this is the only way. Jenny, I’ve seen Goodwyn. He’s praying for us. We may be separated from each other, but we’re not separated from God. God is big enough for this. God is!”

  When he finally allowed her to hang up, her stomach still throbbed, but her spirit was soothed. She had been a witness in a court of law, but Colin was a witness in a larger forum. He had tried to strengthen her with a power greater than his own. She wished she had his faith: It was stronger than hers. Then pray to have it, he had said, and she would. Only one question remained: Why hadn’t she packed any of his handkerchiefs?

  CHAPTER 44

  Several nights later, long after the sun had gone down, Colin called with good news. “Jenny, it’s over.”

  “You’ve arrested someone?”

  “Yes, but more than that—it’s all over. Scott’s dead, Jen. He was killed in prison. You can come home for good this time.”

  Tears of relief and anticipation bubbled over. A new horizon lay ahead of her!

  “Ogilvie will take you to the train tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Victoria Station.”

  “Then I’ll be in your arms before nightfall! Colin, I was afraid we’d never be able to be together.”

  “I know, Jen, but there’s nothing to hold us back now. Come home and marry me.”

  When they ended their conversation, Jenny felt her fatigue lift, as if every blood vessel had been infused with a breath of oxygen. She was energized—she would pack tonight.

  The monster was dead. It was a stunning report—he had been invincible for so long! Simon would have given her the details she had forgotten to ask Colin. Brian would have said, “Good news, JJ,” with quiet satisfaction. Hunt would have reveled in the exposé, and Danny—he would have laughed and winked the way he did before laying down a winning poker hand: “Game over, Sis!”

  No more running! No more hiding! She would have to face herself now, but that no longer seemed as difficult as it once had. She could hear Simon’s voice: “You’re stronger than you think you are, love.” The monster had demolished her concept of who she was, but now she realized that the witness protection team had already helped her begin to reshape it. Simon had challenged her to meet his standards and required her to focus on her commitment. Brian had provided thoughtfulness and generosity. Danny had added encouragement and spontaneity. Hunt’s outspokenness had tempered her. And Colin—he had had a clear vision of her potential, and with grace and patience he had led her into a loving relationship that was more rewarding than she could have imagined.

  If those men had built a real bricks-and-mortar house instead of the one where her spirit dwelt, Simon would have installed the security system and then made certain she knew how to activate it. Brian would have had the foundation inspected and arranged for any structural flaws to be corrected. Danny would have been enthusiastic about the fun she’d have living there, and Hunt would have urged her to sign her name on the dotted line and move in before the ink was dry.

  If it were a real house, she would want lots of windows to let the light in, to see the clouds coming, and to watch the rains that cleansed the world and made all things new. She would want Colin to carry her across the threshold.

  Mrs. Colin Thomas Dowding Sinclair. Would the minister use all Colin’s names when he invited them to recite their vows? Colin would be so elegant and handsome that she wondered if she’d have the breath to repeat them. When the minister asked her to “love, honor, and obey,” would it count if Colin received two of those pledges and Simon the other? What would she wear? Something with sleeves, but only her protection team would know why. Danny would play soccer—football—with her brothers in the back yard. Brian would help her mother in the kitchen. She hoped Hunt would exclude the church service from his irreverent commentary. Yes, she wanted them all to be there—even Hunt.

  EPILOGUE

  The sun rose, its rays warm enough to burn off the fog by mid-morning. It was a crisp, breezy, glorious day in Brighton, but Jenny hadn’t a single regret about leaving it behind. Detective Superintendent Ogilvie brought her a copy of the morning paper to read on the train, and she was amazed to see the monster’s epitaph reduced to a single column of ten-point type.

  CECIL SCOTT LATEST DARTMOOR DEATH

  WILLIAM CECIL CRIGHTON SCOTT, 38, of London, popularly known as the “Carpet Killer,” was found dead in his cell, the governor of HMP Dartmoor reported today.

  Scott, son of Ambassador Sir Edward Cullen Scott and a member of one of Britain’s most prominent families, was convicted of serial murder and rape and sentenced to life imprisonment earlier this year.

  Forensic examination revealed that Scott was the victim of a brutal beating. Bruises around the mouth and wrists indicated that he had been forcibly restrained and silenced while the attack took place. Multiple stab wounds were inflicted but none appeared to have penetrated a major artery. Initial findings suggest that he bled to death over time, but a complete postmortem has been scheduled.

  A spokesman for the Scott family described their devastation at the news and threatened to call for a public inquiry into the prison service and staff who permitted the atrocity to occur. “At the least Dartmoor officials were incompetent and at worst they were vengeful and sadistic,” the spokesman said. Evidently Scott had complained about receiving harsh treatment.

  Dartmoor houses a high percentage of black prisoners and has long been considered to have an unusually violent prison population. Scott’s death is not the first incident of brutality to occur at the notorious site. Repeated attempts to close it down, however, have proved unsuccessful, various prison officials requesting a last chance for a facility which appears to offer no chance of betterment for the offenders who are confined there.

  Scott’s death is the second tragedy to befall his family in as many weeks. Maurice Owen Blythe, longtime associate of the family, is being held by police on a variety of felony charges. Neither MPS personnel nor Blythe’s solicitor would comment.

  An inquiry will be conducted into the circumstances surrounding the decease.

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

  It was a work day for Colin. He was wearing a natty three-piece suit. Jenny was in jeans and a sweater. He was 6’2” tall, easy to spot in the crowded station. She was 5’2”. He had short hair; she had long. His eyes were blue, with crow’s feet at the corners, and they were combing the throng looking for her. Hers were brown, and her skin was unlined except for a small stripe on one cheek. He carried no luggage. She was overencumbered with two carryon cases and a shopping bag to hold the overflow. His face was anxious with anticipation; hers was radiant when their eyes met. They looked mismatched in every way, but when he put his arms around her, they were both crying.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My book is entitled The Witness because a number of the main characters are witnesses: Jenny, who recovers from her injuries and trauma and testifies against her attacker in a court of law; Sergeant Simon Casey, whose life illustrates the importance of honor; Detective Chief Inspector Colin Sinclair, who testifies to the power of love; Dr. Theodore Knowles, who believes that healing is possible; and Reverend Neil Goodwyn, who testifies in a spiritual forum.

  Writing the book required me to relive my own hurricane trauma and thus was a trial of sorts. Among my expert witnesses were: Dewey Lane, M.D., who gave clear and patient explanations of medical conditions; Marjorie A. Husbands, LPC, who assisted with psychological issues; Jason French-Williams, Solicitor-Advocate, who provided legal advice; Hal and Gulshan Jaffer, who answered odd questions and did a bit of sleuthing for me; Dr. James E. Auer, CDR, USN (Retired), for unfailin
g support; and John-Edward Alley, for connecting me with invaluable resources in the UK.

  From London’s Metropolitan Police Service (also known as New Scotland Yard): Phillip Hagon QPM, Commander (Retired), for his astute mind and generous spirit; Bill Tillbrook, Chief Superintendent (Retired) for gracious assistance; Detective Inspector Heather Toulson, for insight into the work of SOIT officers; and DC Clare A. Knowles. From the Specialist Firearms Unit of the Met: PC Gary Willis, “C” Relief, 1999-2005; and PC Ian Chadwick, 1982-2007 (previous service with Her Majesty’s Corps of Royal Marines). Last but not least: the two anonymous Metropolitan Police armed officers who did not arrest me for taking pictures of New Scotland Yard in November, 2005 (“suspicious use of camera in sensitive area?”). Any errors, whether intended or not, belong to me and not to any of them.

  Among those who read the “transcript” and provided constructive feedback were: my husband, Larry, who for some reason thought it fun to have new chapters read aloud to him and was my biggest cheerleader and best researcher; my son, Jeff, who read Parts One and Two and had to wait three months for me to write the remainder; my son, Paul, who corrected my poker terms; and my daughter-in-law, Jennifer, whose enthusiasm touched me (she stayed up half the night because she couldn’t stop reading).

  My publisher, David Dunham of Dunham Books, served as the judge. My thanks to him for his many sustaining rulings from the bench (shepherding a new author through the publication process).

  You, the readers, are the jury.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Naomi Kryske was educated at Rice University, Houston, Texas. She left Texas when she became a Navy wife. Following her husband, Larry’s, retirement from the Navy, she lived on the Mississippi Gulf Coast until Hurricane Katrina caused their relocation to north Texas. The Witness is the first of a series of novels set in London, involving the Metropolitan Police, and exploring the themes of trauma and recovery. In 2008 she was awarded a grant from the Melissa English Writing Trust for The Witness.

  Visit Naomi on the Web at www.naomikryske.com.

  COMING SOON, THE SECOND IN

  THE WITNESS SERIES:

  THE MISSION

  PROLOGUE

  The Gold Commander at New Scotland Yard could not believe what he saw. His twenty-seven years of experience with London’s Metropolitan Police had taught him to maintain outward calm regardless of inner turmoil, but this afternoon he was finding it difficult. His attention had been directed away from the bank of screens he was monitoring in MetOps, covering the policing of the Arms Fair at the London Docklands. On the lower left, screens showed an aeroplane exploding as it flew into a towering skyscraper in New York City. Was the crash intentional? Had someone found a novel way to kill himself? Certainly no capable pilot could miss the World Trade Center! He watched the replay. No, the skies were perfectly clear, and the plane looked too large to be a private craft. Dear God, what was happening in America? Mass murder? He forced himself to concentrate. Then a second plane hit the second tower, and all hell broke loose.

  There wasn’t an officer in the room who didn’t have the same emotional discipline as he, but none of them had dealt with an act of terrorism on this scale. Voices were raised in shock and disbelief. Terse phrases were spit out as individuals attempted to communicate what they were seeing. Frustration erupted as they realised they were powerless to assist their neighbours across the pond in any way. Their brief was to make London safer for its citizens, but loss of innocent life anywhere in the world hit them hard. Britain had been the target of IRA attacks for years, but the landscape of American law enforcement—and her security forces—was now irrevocably altered. Indeed, the entire world had changed in the space of a few minutes, because, for the first time, suicide bombers had operated outside the Middle East, setting a dangerous precedent. More attacks would come, perhaps even in his own country. What could be done to prevent them? What would the likely targets be? Senior officials in the building would be discussing those questions in the very near future, he knew, but each officer needed to be ready to do his part.

  The Commissioner of Police was in the air over the mid-Atlantic, on his way to confer with senior NYPD officials. Gold rang the Commissioner’s office and was told by his personal assistant that he had been informed of the crisis. Because American air space was now closed, his plane had been forced to turn about and would be returning home.

  “The Pentagon, sir,” an associate behind him mumbled thickly. “An aeroplane has hit the Pentagon in Washington, D.C.”

  “That makes three,” he responded. “How many more? When will this slaughter in the skies end?” He thought of his wife and children and felt a desperate need to ring them and assure himself of their safety. As quickly as the thought arose, however, he quelled it: Individual needs must be set aside. Seeing to the security of the many must take priority over personal concerns. He had not become a policeman to protect one life at a time; he had always hoped he would prove worthy of a rank high enough to affect the safety and well-being of many more.

  By now the visual images would have seared into the minds of all who had seen them. Because of the United Kingdom’s close alliance with the United States, London could be the next target. People were spontaneously evacuating high-rise buildings and crowding the streets. To prevent panic, he must supply mental pictures that would reassure them. Uniformed police were a symbol of stability in a country ruled by law. The public looked to the police for protection. They must be seen to be on the Job. He ordered all leaves cancelled and made arrangements for every available officer to report for high visibility duties. He summoned his deputy, whose stricken face had aged him. “Contact our counterparts in Kent and the other neighbouring counties. We’ll need manpower from them to assist us.”

  The news must have got round the demonstrators at the Docklands. The screens showed the mass of people splintering into groups which huddled together briefly before dispersing. Excellent. He could reduce the quantity of officers assigned there and increase the number on London streets. He rang the Silver Commander.

  There may have been British citizens on the hijacked planes, but regardless of nationality, every seat had held a human being. When had the passengers known their fate? How had parents controlled their own fears and comforted their children? He was put in mind of his early days on the Job. In his two probationary years he had seen more human tragedy than most experienced in a lifetime. Road accidents, train wrecks, bodies battered beyond recognition. In some cases he’d had to notify the next of kin and watched their desperate disbelief replaced by despair as facts crowded out the last slivers of hope. Some screamed; some went silent. Eventually, determination to carry on, to honour the dead, to see justice done, prevailed.

  MetOps was now crowded with officers straining to see the drama being played out on the screens. Gasps and exclamations from them joined his own. One of the World Trade Center towers had collapsed, the ash mixing with dark billowing smoke. Without a doubt British citizens had worked in the World Trade Centers. Many would have been killed along with their American colleagues. The lucky ones had died instantly. Others would carry their fears and scars to the gates of heaven. Still others could be missing under the thousands of tonnes of rubble still being shown. And the loved ones they left behind would be devastated with grief.

  He looked about. Not unlike many offices in the World Trade Centers, MetOps was an interior room, artificially lit, located in one of New Scotland Yard’s two-tower buildings. Occupants would have no warning of an approaching threat. Mercifully, however, MetOps was on Victoria Block’s second floor, an unlikely target for an insidious attack of this sort. Fortunately smoking was not allowed. He could not have tolerated the sight of even a wisp of smoke.

  He returned to the screens. “Four,” he whispered, his concentration so complete that he was unaware he had spoken aloud. In Pennsylvania a fourth plane had crashed. Still the nightmare continued: A second tower fell, then part of the Pentagon. He felt again the shock
, then the grip of despair, and resolved that he would not give in to either. Determination was the order of the day. His mission: take steps to do everything within his considerable power to deliver the best security to Londoners that his force could provide. He knew he’d be on watch indefinitely. He reached for his phone.

  PART ONE

  SEPTEMBER, 2001

  The battle has been joined on many fronts.

  —George W. Bush

  CHAPTER 1

  Jennifer Sinclair’s serene September day was shattered by a phone call. It was her husband, Colin, a detective chief inspector with London’s Metropolitan Police. He often called during the day, but this time his voice was terse and strained. “Jenny, turn on the telly. Your country’s been attacked. New York and other places. We’re all on alert here. I don’t know when I’ll be home. Jenny — remember that evil cannot win. There are more of us fighting it than those participating in it.”

  “Texas — is Texas okay?”

  “So far.”

  “Colin, I wish you were here!”

  “I know. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. I love you.”

  All the news channels were covering the events. Over and over she saw planes flying into buildings, the skies raining flames, smoke, ash, glass, papers, and—people. People had jumped to their deaths from the burning towers. She didn’t mind the repetitive nature of the reports: It helped the unthinkable to sink in. Terrorists had attacked her country and murdered hundreds, perhaps thousands, of her people. She imagined her nation uttering one great collective scream before the silence of shock muted her.