The Witness: A Novel Read Online Free

to us.”
    Consent: What a concept. The monster didn’t ask for her consent. Even the doctors and nurses didn’t. Amazing that the police did. “Yes.”
    There was a knock on the door. One of the PCs pushed it open. A nurse was bringing Jenny’s dinner. “Time to sit up, lamb,” she said.
    “What’s on the menu tonight?” Sinclair asked. There wasn’t a plate on the tray. Everything was in polystyrene cups.
    “Chicken bouillon, gelatin, apple juice, and tea,” the nurse answered. “And pain medication prescribed by Dr. Adams.”
    “Yum,” Jenny said. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the pills.

CHAPTER 5
    S inclair had asked the police sketch artist to meet Andrews and himself outside Jenny’s room on Tuesday. As usual, Sinclair was early and impatient for the others to arrive.
    “Quiet night, sir,” one of the PCs reported.
    Andrews arrived next. Sinclair checked his watch. It was late, even for Sutton. He saw a slim young man with a boyish face and curly black hair hurrying down the passage. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I’ve never liked coming to hospital. Are you sure you need me to go in? Couldn’t I wait outside while you get the details? Hearing them from you would do just as well, wouldn’t it?”
    “I’ll let him know what to expect, sir,” Andrews said.
    Sutton couldn’t seem to stand still; he transferred his weight from one foot to the other and back again.
    When Sinclair entered, Jenny turned toward him.
    “Are you up to a chat?” He stood beside the bed. “The description you gave me of your attacker was a good one. Do you think you could add to it if you saw it on paper?”
    “I’ll try.”
    “Andrews,” he called. The sergeant pushed the door open and stepped inside, Sutton hanging back behind him, clutching his sketch pad to his chest like a shield.
    “Miss Jeffries, do you remember my partner, Sergeant Andrews? And this is Jamie Sutton. He’s a sketch artist. Sutton, show Miss Jeffries what you have so far.”
    Sutton opened his pad. At Sinclair’s insistence, he came a bit closer. The drawing was life size, light pencil strokes marking the features she had described.
    “How old a man was your attacker?” Sinclair asked.
    Jenny shrugged. “I don’t really know,” she said. “How old are you?”
    “Thirty-six.”
    “A little older,” she concluded. “Rugged looking.”
    “Is his face the right shape?” Sutton asked.
    “Long and thin face,” she remembered.
    The artist drew quickly then turned the pad in her direction.
    “His hair fell part way over his forehead. It was wavy, like Sergeant Andrews’. His eyes were more recessed.”
    Sinclair watched and listened. Sutton didn’t have the rapport with witnesses that he would have liked. Still uncomfortable himself, he had made no attempt to put Jenny at ease. He was, however, skilled at eliciting descriptive details, adjusting the size of the attacker’s eyes, nose, and mouth as she directed.
    “Any facial hair?” Sutton asked.
    “No,” she said slowly. She considered the picture. “The eyebrows aren’t quite right.”
    “I can do long—thin—full—heavy,” Sutton said, demonstrating each type. He was more comfortable looking at his work than at her.
    “They weren’t thin,” she said, “but he was blond, so they didn’t dominate.”
    “Any distinguishing marks?” Sutton asked. “Moles, blemishes, maybe a scar? Oh, sorry! I shouldn’t have said—I didn’t mean—”
    Her eyes filled, and she put her hand over her cheek. “It
is
a distinguishing mark, isn’t it? I knew it—it looks bad, doesn’t it?”
    “It’s not bad at all, Miss,” Andrews responded, feeling the need to cut through Sutton’s distress and his boss’ displeasure.
    “What’s left?” Sinclair asked Sutton.
    “Just the chin, I think,” Sutton said quickly. “Rounded? Pointed? Or square, like this?”
    “Square,” she answered.
    Again the artist corrected his drawing.
    “Not—cruel enough,” she