The Witness: A Novel (32 page)

Brian began to highlight other important sites: the nearest police station, the closest hospital with a casualty department. Areas with potential traffic problems, such as factories, were designated. “Are there any bridges nearby?” he asked. “Wooded areas? How tall are the surrounding buildings?”

Sinclair answered what he could and made notes to determine the rest.

“We’ll take it from here, sir,” Casey said.

Sinclair left, and the team continued their heads-down. “We’ll plot a primary and an alternate route. By the way,” Casey continued, “I’ll need both your medical records—blood groups, allergies, and so on. I have hers.”

Davies then outlined the IIMAC model for Sullivan. “Information—that is, her needs—we know. Intention—keep her alive and well.
Method—we’ll formulate that. Admin—getting vehicles, weapons, supplies—we’ll leave that to the boss. Communications—radios, batteries, chargers, call signs—” He stopped. “What are we going to call JJ?”

“Phoenix,” Casey answered. “It’s a constellation.”

“I thought a phoenix was a bird that came out of ashes,” Sullivan said.

“That’s doubly appropriate then,” Davies decided.

The next time Sinclair called by, Casey had a list of requirements, which included a trained driver. He and Davies planned to do their own recce of the routes, driving them ahead of time to correlate distances and times. Any road construction not already indicated on the map would be identified. Their experience had taught them that there was no substitute for firsthand observation or repeated examination of their plans. Jenny didn’t want to hear their concerns, but Casey’s military voice carried, and she was sure she heard him tell Colin, “We’re still vulnerable. At that spot. There’s no way around it that I can see.”

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A
jury was chosen, and the trial of William Cecil Crighton Scott began. The newspapers were full of information about the long line of witnesses, their expertise, their testimony, their possible impact upon the jury. Colin had told her that although she was a key witness, the evidence against Scott in the six murders would be presented first.

The tension level was rising for all of them. Her nightmares, which had abated, returned with a vengeance. The monster and his two men were there, but they were not alone. Cooke bit into her with his questions, and even the unsmiling Mr. Halladay played a supporting role.

Her days were filled with trepidation. The meetings with the solicitors had opened her eyes to the reality of what she faced. Even the questions asked by the prosecution would be invasive. If Cooke were any indication of what she would encounter from the defense, she would be in for a very rough time. How far would the judge allow the defense to go? Would he intervene at all? She snapped at the men for no reason, regretting her sharp tongue as soon as she exercised it. Sergeant Casey medicated her at night to help her sleep and probably wished he could do the same in the daytime.

One evening Colin came by early. “You’re to be called first, tomorrow morning. I rang your mother this afternoon to tell her. She’s waiting to hear from you.”

“‘My apprehensions come in crowds; / I dread the rustling of the grass; / The very shadows of the clouds / have power to shake me as I pass.’ That’s Wordsworth,” she told him. “I don’t have any words of my own.”

Colin bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll be fine. I’ll see
you in the morning.”

After he left, she called home, wishing her father were there, even in the middle of the day. “I need a dress rehearsal,” she told her mother. “It’ll be unfamiliar as well as frightening.” Then she said good-bye quickly, before her emotions overwhelmed her. She looked up at the Union Jack, still mounted on her wall, and let her eyes trace the long arms of the crosses of St. Andrew and St. Patrick and the dominating square cross of St. George which overlaid them. She wondered if she’d be the slayer, the slain, or—St. Patrick, her testimony driving the monster into a metaphoric sea.

Dinner was early, and it seemed to take forever. She felt numb inside her own skin and had to remind herself to use her fork, to chew, to swallow. It was the first meal that Brian had produced that had no flavor, although the men didn’t seem to notice. Their focus appeared to be on fortifying themselves, because all three of them had second helpings.

“It’s early to bed and early to rise for me,” she told Sergeant Casey. He brought her a sleeping tablet, which she took gratefully. “Who’s on watch tonight?”

“Sullivan.”

He was still standing by the bed.

“Is there anything else?”

“Tomorrow—if there’s any problem—do what I tell you to do. Don’t think.”

She smiled. He means, don’t argue. “Piece of cake,” she said. “Just use The Voice, and I’ll fall right in line.”

Later she thought about how fond she had become of these men, Brian and Danny like brothers, Casey like something more. Colin—she didn’t know. He had kissed her, as encouragement. He had danced with her. Had that been encouragement, too? Her arms and legs began to feel heavy, as if she had been moving with the music for a long time. She slept.

S
inclair arrived at the flat shortly after five a.m. Jenny dressed quickly, having set out her clothes the night before. Her mother had sent two wool suits and several silk blouses for her court appearances, but the royal blue with black and ivory strands in the pattern was her favorite. She wanted to wear her watch—the one Colin had given her, with the amethyst hearts—but didn’t. It fit like a bracelet, showing below her cuff. The cross, on the other hand, was concealed beneath her blouse.

She ran a brush through her hair, curving it behind her ear on one side and letting it fall forward on the side where the scar was. She drank a cup of hot tea but couldn’t get down more than half a slice of dry toast. The men were in uniform, and she could see the chevrons on the epaulettes that Sergeant Casey wore.

“You need to be kitted up, too, love,” Casey said, adjusting her body armour on top of her suit. They donned theirs and added topcoats to disguise the fact that they were all carrying. Brian had a second weapon in his hands. It was very sobering.

They exited the block by the rear door. An unmarked car with a driver was waiting for them in the car park behind the building. They took the same positions as they had for the trips to meet the solicitors, with Brian riding shotgun and Jenny in the back between Danny and Sergeant Casey.

“I’ll see you there,” Sinclair said and stepped back. It was barely six. Jenny leaned forward to look through the front windshield. The weather was bleak—misty, overcast, and so cold that her breath was visible in the air. She had wished for a clear day, for a glimpse of sky so blue that she could imagine it stretching all the way to Texas, a vast firmament connecting her to her family. Instead it was metallic gray.

The circuitous route notwithstanding, they arrived at the courthouse very early. It was a large modern structure, looking more like an office building than a seat of justice. The driver slowed as he approached the back entrance. She could see police cars in a cluster and officers waving them into position. Sergeant Casey stepped out on the right side of the vehicle. Brian and Danny exited on the left, scanning the street before gesturing her to follow. The armor felt heavy, and it took her a moment
to get her feet under her. She had barely risen when she heard a high-pitched whine and turned toward the sound. It was a courier on a small motorcycle, coming very fast, his briefcase in front of him.

Danny collapsed in front of her, his head red with blood. Then something hit her chest like a baseball bat, slamming her backward against the car. Searing pain tore at her shoulder. She would have screamed, but she couldn’t get a breath. Her knees buckled, and she fell, slowly, it seemed. Sergeant Casey’s face was over her, his hand pressing on her carotid artery. “Phoenix is compromised!” he yelled. “Officer down!” His fingers opened her mouth and swept it briefly.

He turned away, but others were there, positioning her arms and legs and rolling her gently onto her side. “Hold on, Miss,” an unfamiliar voice said. Someone pressed a heavy hand on her shoulder where the pain was.

She didn’t see Brian raise his MP5 for maximum accuracy in the crowded plot. She didn’t hear his double tap or the squeal of the Suzuki as it hit the pavement on its side.

The sky—where was the sky? Her visual world had shrunk to mere inches. She couldn’t see beyond the large dark shoes, trouser cuffs, one man’s knee on the rough, damp concrete, and the sleeve of the officer whose fingers monitored the pulse in her neck. She felt light headed and weak. She heard men’s voices and their shouted commands, loud at first, then fading. The dark uniforms surrounding her grew dim. She didn’t see how quickly Sergeant Casey worked as he applied pressure bandages to Sullivan’s wounds. She felt very cold. She didn’t see Colin’s white strained face or hear him notify Casey that the ambulance was on its way. She didn’t hear Casey’s terse response: “No time. Load Sullivan now.”

She didn’t feel her armor being removed or see the sergeant’s combat knife slicing through her suit to expose her wounds. “Phoenix is stable. I stopped the bleed. Catch us up at the hospital later.” She didn’t see the cordon of officers around them. They still had a witness to protect, although she didn’t know that. She was unconscious when she and Sullivan were lifted into police cars and whisked away.

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S
inclair forced himself to focus. First, ring Graves. He’d need to assign a temporary replacement for Davies and a permanent one for Sullivan. Davies would have to turn in his weapons and all unused rounds to a Scenes-of-Crime officer for forensic examination. The shooter had been prepared—his body armour, his speed, the way he was jinking the bike—Davies was lucky to have hit him at all.

The ambulance had arrived, and the motorcyclist had been taken, under police guard, to a different hospital than his victims. Andrews had secured the scene behind the courthouse and would keep all the uniforms in place until their statements had been taken.

Judge Thomas would have to be notified about the attack, as would counsel on both sides. Sinclair wanted Scott remanded in isolation until the police investigation of this incident was complete, and counsel for the prosecution would have to make that petition. With the current emphasis on defendants’ rights, he hadn’t a hope that it would be approved, but for Jenny’s sake, they had to try.

Dear God, he’d have to give Jenny’s parents a bell as well as Sullivan’s. Sullivan’s personnel file was in his office at the Yard, and he needed to make the call himself, not delegate it, however tempting that might be. It was far too early in Texas for him to ring the Jeffries; he’d wait until after she had come out of the operating theatre. Having the latest information on her condition could reassure them. Her shoulder and upper arm were lacerated and torn, but Sullivan had taken the worst of it.

He had a long list, with Jenny and Sullivan at the top. A well-planned operation, with competent, experienced officers executing it, but two people were seriously injured. No, Sullivan was critical—Casey, a man of few words in normal circumstances, hadn’t wasted any describing his condition. Jenny was stable. Casey’s focus had been on getting Sullivan advanced medical care as soon as possible.

This case was Sinclair’s responsibility, and correspondingly, it was his job to get his witness to court safely. Ensuring the lives of the officers who protected her was secondary but still important. If she had been residing outside London, would it have made any difference? They would still have had to transport her from a hotel somewhere in the city to the courthouse. Their point of vulnerability would have been the same. What could they do differently the next time? Mustn’t think about that now. For the moment what mattered was that Jenny and Sullivan were in more capable hands than his bloody ones.

J
enny woke in a hospital room, alone and with images of the attack vivid in her mind. Danny—was he even alive? Was anyone else hurt? Where was everybody? When the nurse came in, she was accompanied by a policeman.

“Dr. Gallagher will be round in a bit,” the nurse said, recording Jenny’s vital signs.

“Officer?” Jenny said when he turned to leave with the nurse. “Would you stay with me? Will it be breaking the rules if you do that? Have you heard anything about Danny? Constable Sullivan, I mean—he was hurt, too.”

“PC Billings, Miss. I just came on. I’m afraid I don’t have any news.”

The door opened, and Sergeant Casey entered. There was dried blood on his sleeves and a smudge on his cheek. “There’s no easy way to say this, love. Sullivan’s in a coma.” He saw the shock on her face. “One of the rounds hit him in the head. He has other less serious wounds as well. But it’s early days yet. There’s hope.”

“Are you okay? What about Brian? Where’s Colin?”

“I’m in one piece. Davies is fine. He did good work today. The last time I saw the boss, he was with Sullivan’s family. He’s probably in a slanging match with your doctor now.”

“What happened out there?”

“The man on the cycle had an Uzi in his briefcase. Davies slotted him. He’s in custody. A few of the plods picked up minor injuries. Some of the rounds ricocheted.”

“Sergeant, I can’t stand this—Danny—in a coma—”

Casey prised her fingers off his hand and checked her pulse. It was racing. “First things first, love. Deep breath.”

She couldn’t. “It hurts, Sergeant.”

“Blow all your air out, slowly.”

That hurt, too.

“Now take it back in, plus some.”

She tried.

“Again. All out—back, plus some. Think on your breathing. No more talk until you’ve settled a bit.”

Her pulse rate was better. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Listen to me, love. Sometimes the body has to shut off a few systems to focus on a particular area. There are different levels of comas. It could be worse.” He began to rub her palm and her fingers, being careful not to bump the drip needle.