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compelling evidence of our commitment to you.”
    “But—my family—I want to go home. I want to see London in my rear-view mirror.”
    “Each case, each witness is different. We are more than capable of responding to your individual needs.” He decided not to appeal to her sense of civic duty. London wasn’t her city. In the short time since they’d met, he’d seen fear, pain, and despair cross her face. Occasionally she’d expressed frustration, but not anger. Some victims wanted revenge; fuel their anger a bit and they’d agree to testify to anything. He didn’t see that in Jenny. He’d been struck by her helplessness, so he decided to emphasise the empowering nature of what he was asking her to do. “Jenny, there’s power in speaking the truth. I know your feelings overwhelm you sometimes, but you seem to right yourself. It takes a special sort of strength to face someone who has hurt you, and I believe you have it.” He smiled. “You’re the spark that will ignite this case.”
    “No, I’m the kindling. I’ll be consumed.”
    “It’s your choice to make, Jenny.”
    “Do I have to decide now?”
    “No, although I’d like to suggest that you’ll feel more at peace when you do. Jenny, I’m offering you the opportunity to take back the part of your life that your attacker took away. Asserting yourself will make you feel stronger.”
    She looked down. The suspect photos were still on her lap, the one of Scott on top. Her strength had bled out of her; the surgeon had stitched up an empty shell.
    He collected the photos. “I’ll be back shortly,” he said.
    Andrews and the new SOIT officer were approaching. Sinclair gave Andrews the envelope of suspect snaps. “We’ve got him!” he said. “Take this back to Graves. The high-profile nature of this case has just escalated. And Andrews—the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

CHAPTER 11
    A t the sound of the knock, Jenny turned toward the door. Mr. Sinclair had a tape recorder in his hand, and there was someone with him, a man with sandy-colored hair receding slightly at the temples and a boyish, easy smile. He was wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt under a pullover sweater. He reminded her of her brother, Matt, who was lean and wiry and wished he were taller.
    “Jenny, this is PC Bridges.” He didn’t mention Bridges’ specialist training.
    She blinked. “You don’t look like a policeman.”
    Bridges laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but the name’s Barry.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m afraid to ask—what do I look like?”
    “A teenager.”
    “My wife would agree that I act like one sometimes,” Bridges smiled, “but I’ve seen sweet sixteen twice.” He and Sinclair pulled chairs next to the bed and sat down.
    Jenny realized that the side of her face with the scar was next to him, and she covered her cheek quickly.
    “You needn’t do that, Jenny. May I call you Jenny? We all have scars. Want to see mine?” He stood up, propped his foot on the bed, and pushed his sock down.
    “I can hardly see anything,” she said.
    “That’s just what people are going to say about you before long.”
    “How did it happen?”
    “Poor quality shin guard.” He rearranged his sock and sat down.
    “What can I tell people about my scar?”
    “Tell them it’s from a sport injury,” Bridges joked.
    “Do you play soccer?” she asked Bridges.
    “Football, we call it,” he answered. “I used to. Now I coach it—seven-and eight-year-olds.”
    Sinclair was enjoying this exchange. He’d wondered what Bridges would do. Many SOIT officers watched popular TV shows to help them develop rapport with a victim, but Jenny was from a different culture and wouldn’t have been familiar with British fare.
    “Both my brothers play,” she said. “When they started, their coaches had a terrible time getting them to do the drills. How do you get kids that young to do them?”
    “I participate with them, and sometimes I even