The flat was a bit dingy and dark with the curtains drawn; not a beneficial environment for a troubled young woman. PC Davies was rugby size. Sullivan was younger and quite a bit shorter, with a friendly face. Casey’s was lean and stern—hardly the sort to confide in. Jenny’s bedroom had a British flag on one wall. What looked like family photos were displayed on the chest of drawers. “Jenny, I’ve brought someone to talk with you. This is Dr. Knowles,” Sinclair said. She was wearing the nightshirt with the torn sleeve. His coat was nowhere to be seen. “Sergeant, I’d like you to stand by,” Knowles said. He sat down next to the bed. “I’m a psychiatrist, Jenny.” He noted the shadows under her eyes. Jenny saw a slender man with a placid expression, round nose, and graying hair. The lines in his face looked like laugh lines, and that made her feel terribly sad, because she couldn’t remember anymore what it felt like to laugh. “I realise there’s a big difference between the absence of fear and the presence of trust, but perhaps together we can bridge that gap.”
