The Last Witness

EIGHT

‘… I know.’ Elena shielded her other ear from the drone and throb of the ferry engine as she spoke into her mobile. ‘But if this meeting goes well now, there’s no reason why I couldn’t head out there anyway tomorrow or the day after.’

She was on the short ferry hop between Studland and Sandbanks. At the other end was Shelley McGurran in the aid agency’s London office.

‘You don’t have to,’ Shelley commented. ‘Sarah was happy riding shotgun with the shipment, and she should be quite capable by now. They’re not going to be in Bucharest in any case until late tomorrow night.’

‘That’s why I suggested leaving tomorrow or the day after — to tie in.’

Shelley sighed faintly. ‘Really, Elena — it doesn’t need two of you. If it did, I’d be the first to say. Besides, with Sarah not around I can do with your help here with a bit of PR and fundraising.’ Despite fourteen years in London, Shelley still had a warm Dublin lilt, almost tailor made for this task now: re-assurance.

Elena fell silent for a second. ‘Are you sure she’s up to it?’

Shelley sighed again. ‘Who knows? Hopefully, yes. But if not — she’s got to learn sometime. Don’t forget, you’re first trip out you were thrown in the deep end too.’

‘That’s true.’ A small agency of only fourteen, including drivers, their grand designs were driven more by ever shifting dramas and emergencies than by careful planning. An endless cycle of fund-raising, shipments, bureaucratic paperwork and organising goods, with planned calendar dates constantly hop-scotched according to which emergency suddenly screamed loudest. That was part of Elena’s concern now: that her own private drama with Lorena was just one problem too many, a feather to over-tip their already precariously balanced apple-cart. Somebody was having to cover for her. And so despite Shelley’s assurances, she felt she just had to offer to make good.

Everything had gone quiet for over a week, and then came the call from Nadine Moore: her supervisor, Barbara Edelston, had requested a meeting at which Elena’s presence was also required ‘in order to make a full and accurate assessment.’ Nadine related this with questioning parody, as if stung that her own presence at the meeting and her report requesting assessment, filed straight after their last meeting with Lorena, weren’t on their own enough. Elena didn’t want to get drawn into their inter-departmental sensitivities, so merely asked why the delay. Possibly consultation with a relevant external party, such as a psychiatrist, Nadine aired, but she wasn’t sure.

Elena glanced at her watch. She’d missed the earlier ferry she’d hoped to catch, but she should still just make it on time; perhaps a few minutes late at most.

‘You can catch up with Viorel and the others next time,’ Shelley said.

‘Yeah, right.’ Viorel was the seven-year old boy with meningitis whose brow she’d mopped half the night before he pulled back from the brink. Elena knew that Shelley meant well, was only trying to put her mind at rest, but it also served as a reminder: they need us too, desperately. Whether from the throbbing vibrations of the ferry, or the fact that the coming meeting would likely decide Lorena’s fate, make or break — she felt suddenly nervous. She shook off a faint shiver.

‘Don’t feel guilty,’ Shelley said, as if picking up on the silent vibes. ‘Look upon this with Lorena as after-care. If we’re going to spend our lives in hope that these children will finally find safe, secure homes, only to find they’re still in danger — then we’re all wasting our time.’ Shelley drew a laboured breath. ‘I mean it, Elena — go for it. And all the other worn cliches that apply: give no quarter, take no prisoners…’ Shelley’s suddenly lighter tone trailed off as Elena watched the ferry ramp ahead swing down.

‘Thanks.’ Maybe Shelley was just trying to make her feel good, but there was no time left to debate. Car engines were starting in readiness to move off. ‘I’ll phone you straight afterwards — let you know how it went.’

Barbara Edelston was early fifties with light brown hair cut short and a matronly build. She was less severe and stern than Elena had feared and even smiled at reasonable intervals. Though this couldn’t be construed as over friendliness; it was a vaguely condescending smile, as if she was merely humouring the less informed.

Edelston also played an extremely closed hand. Elena couldn’t get any indication which way it might swing from Edelston’s opening ten minutes in which she confirmed basic points of Nadine’s report: reasons for first alert, times of their two visits, parties present at each. The only hopeful spark was Edelston commenting that ‘Ms Moore’s report indeed pushes a strong and convincing case for psychiatric assessment for Lorena.’

Only a couple of questions so far had involved Elena. Now Edelston turned to her more fully. ‘When did you first meet Lorena?’

‘Just over four years ago — February, ninety-five. She was at the orphanage at Cimpeni’ A sea of children and distressed, pleading faces, but Elena still vividly recalled Lorena’s large, grey-green eyes cutting through the mass. A strangely serene gaze given the surrounding mayhem.

‘And did she in any way show signs of being mentally disturbed then?’

‘You mean, was she having bad dreams?’ Elena felt it important to confine the definition. When they’d first arrived at Cimpeni, some children had reached such depths of depravation, chained to beds or kept in basement rooms without light for months, that all they could do was rock back and forth and groan. Lorena had been one of the more hopeful cases. Elena shook her head. ‘No, she was quite alert when I first met her. Given the appalling conditions, she’d coped well — and there were no bad dreams then that I knew of.’

Edelston had Nadine’s report open on the desk before her, with her own notepad at the side. She looked at them briefly, as if for a prompt. ‘So, when did the dreams first occur?’

‘Not long after the Cimpeni orphanage closed and her eleven months rough on the streets of Bucharest. You see, in the winter they slept mainly in the sewers to keep warm.’ Elena looked down for a second, one hand clutched tight in anger at the memory. ‘We blamed ourselves a lot for that…’ Elena covered the details quickly: their not reading the signs earlier that a local developer was after the building, the hasty shipping out of the children to ‘temporary shelter’, a run down hospital on the outskirts of Bucharest. ‘But it was a clearing house for so many other orphanages and fresh children off the street that overcrowding was intense, and food and care was non-existent. A single nurse used to act as daytime warden only, and would just lock the children in and leave them to their own devices at night. It took us ten days to mobilise to get out there; but on one of those nights, two days before we arrived, almost forty of the children broke out, believing — and probably rightly so — that their chances of fending for themselves on the street were better.’ Elena looked at Edelston steadily, taking the opportunity to drive home the silent plea: look what she’s already been through, don’t let her suffer any more now. ‘Lorena was one of those children, and I didn’t see her again until she showed up at Bucharest’s Cerneit orphanage — where we’re also heavily involved with aid provision. It was shortly after then that her bad dreams started.’

Edelston made a one line note before looking up again. ‘Did she have any psychiatric counselling at that time, or indeed at any time before the Ryalls made their adoption approach?’

‘No, she didn’t. It was hardly Frazier country, we…’ Elena stopped herself short. The question struck her as somewhat ridiculous given the problems even keeping the children alive, let alone delving into their psyches. But she might come across as condescending, which would then harm their chances. She tempered her tone. ‘Well… there were nearly always more pressing medical emergencies, and resources were tight.’

‘I see.’ Edelston looked uncertain for a second where to head next. ‘So, the implication is that given the resources, Lorena probably would have received psychiatric counselling at that stage.’ Edelston barely waited out the mute nod from Elena. ‘…And so when the Ryalls first met her in Bucharest to start the adoption process — who without doubt would have had such resources and also had a strong vested interest in Lorena’s mental stability from the outset — was psychiatric assessment recommended then?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ Elena’s voice faded off submissively and she fired a brief sideways glance at Nadine. It was a valid point: why request assessment only now, when apparently the problems with Lorena’s dreams were even worse when she first met the Ryalls. Just before walking in the meeting, she’d been hit with the first positive rush that surely there was strong hope: why else would Edelston ask her along? If it was Edelston’s intention to dismiss the request out of hand, then surely she’d have just had the meeting with Nadine alone and let her pass on the bad tidings. Less confrontation. Now as she felt the first serious assault on that hope, Edelston’s every gesture began to grate. But she reminded herself that this could be Lorena’s last chance, and she was damned if she was going to let it be washed away with a few ingratiating smiles, curt, efficient pen strokes, and now an annoying raised single eyebrow that looked more smugly challenging than questioning. She could almost still feel Lorena quaking in her grasp as they ran… the light at the end of the chine remaining distant, out of reach.

Elena drew fresh breath. ‘I think with many an adopted child of Lorena’s age, there’s an acceptance that there will be some psychological scars from their past, given what often leads to them being orphaned: abuse by their real parents, death of their parents, or abandonment at birth with all those years to dwell on the fact that unlike other children they don’t have parents, aren’t part of a family. With Romanian children, the terrible hardship and depravation of the orphanages has been so widely publicised — that that acceptance becomes even stronger. Parents know and accept that they might be taking on emotionally damaged goods: as long as the children are physically healthy and have easy, big smiles — they tend to look no further than that.’

The eyebrow deflated and Elena forced a slightly tired sigh. ‘I think the hope is always that with the child given a better life, all of the emotional problems attached to their past will happily fade into the background. And with Lorena, that indeed was the case for the first year or more. It’s the fact that the dreams and memories of her troubled background have resurged after so long, and the circumstances under which they’ve come back — Mr Ryall visiting her room — that’s now given cause for concern.’

‘I know, I know. I understand that.’ Edelston nodded eagerly and turned her right palm towards them. ‘Miss Moore’s report has made a very clear and strong case for that, as I mentioned. But I think the background you’ve given me is also useful. What I wanted to make sure of is that real opportunities for psychiatric assessment hadn’t been ignored out of hand before, and weren’t being brought up now merely as a ruse to dig deeper into this problem of Mr Ryall visiting Lorena’s room — when on the surface it appears nothing is really happening there: just a developing teenager’s awkwardness with a an adult man visiting what she sees as her increasingly private space, her bedroom, with the rest manufactured purely in her dreams.’

‘I think the main reason for the assessment is that we really need to separate the two,’ Nadine offered. ‘See where Lorena’s dreams end and reality begins. Probably nothing is happening, but analysis would allow Lorena to also see that. She could lay her fears to rest and sleep easy.’

‘I see. Is that what you feel?’ Edelston smiled primly. ‘Remind me to dig out your psychiatric diploma — it must have slipped out of your file.’ As Nadine look down submissively, blushing, Edelston saw Elena’s rising outrage, and held one hand up. ‘I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. But I think it’s important to steer clear of amateur analysis. Now I’m quite prepared to approve assessment if I think it’s warranted and, as I said before, there’s no ulterior motive. The question is — are you both firmly of a mind, without reservation, that that is the case?’

Elena was caught off guard by the sharp turn-around. A sudden glimmer of light back again. ‘Yes… uh, of course. This is all about Lorena’s welfare, nothing else.’

Nadine, regaining her feet from her put-down, was slower to respond. ‘Yes, absolutely.’ She proffered with one hand. ‘As I put in my report.’

‘So this has absolutely nothing to do with trying to dig up something on Mr Ryall purely because of your failure to uncover anything through conventional methods?’

Edelston was looking between the two of them keenly, and Elena felt faint alarm bells. Obviously she’d had contact with Ryall, and he’d aired his concerns. But if they simply stood their ground, surely they’d still win the day? ‘No. We’re interested only in Lorena turning her back once and for all on her bad dreams.’ Elena’s tone was firm, resolute. ‘Which is a psychiatrist’s territory, not ours. And hopefully any worries she has about Mr Ryall will evaporate at the same time.’

Nadine was more hesitant, sensing that her supervisor had the scent of blood on something specific, and gave only a mildly concurrent nod.

Edelston continued looking at them pointedly, and a thin, smug smile appeared, as if she’d just corralled two errant children after a long chase. ‘I’m glad you’re both so sure about the worthiness of your intentions.’ Edelston reached to a side-drawer and took out a small cassette tape recorder. ‘Because after hearing this, I’m afraid I’m far from convinced.’ With a momentary hover of her finger for emphasis, she pressed play.

‘…Elena is right in that we can’t do much with what we have. But at least if all of this is only in your mind, we have the comfort that nothing is really happening. You’re not at risk.’

Elena felt her stomach dip as if a trap door had opened. Ryall had taped their last session! Her legs weakened and she felt dizzy, a misty cloud at the back of her eyes threatening blackout.

‘At this point you both appear to have given up the ghost,’ Edelston prompted. ‘And then comes the fight back.’ Her eyes settled steadfastly on Elena.

‘If something’s happening, you’ve got to tell us. Has Mr Ryall been talking to you, telling you not to say anything?’

‘You don’t have to answer that.’

‘I’m sorry. She just seems so confused, and I suppose I’m scrambling for reasons why.’

Marked pause and then a tired inhalation from Nadine. ‘Before we go — is there anything else you’d like to discuss with us, Lorena? Anything which you think might help us…’

Barely audible, ‘No… it’s okay,’ from Lorena, and Edelston talked over the rest of Nadine’s winding down: ‘Noble early attempt, but no severe rule lines broken so far… and at this stage we’re back on track… until we get to…’ Edelston held one hand up like a conductor.

Even without the elaborate cue, Elena knew what was coming. She closed her eyes, surrendering the last faint light of the chine as the cloud washed deeper, making her temples ache. And Lorena was no longer with her, but back at her bedroom window looking out over a grey, misty sea: lost, forlorn. Elena’s legs were suddenly unsteady, and she felt herself sway slightly in the self-imposed darkness, nausea rising.

‘…If this is all only in Lorena’s mind, perhaps as Mr Ryall suggests even linked to her continuing problem with nightmares — surely at least we should request psychiatric assessment.’

‘That’s true. But we just don’t have enough for such an order on what we have now. We could only make the request — it would be left up to the Ryalls to decide.’

‘I understand. But if we sold the psychiatric assessment to the Ryalls on the grounds of it being linked to Lorena’s continuing problem with bad dreams, he’d have little reason to object. After all, it’s the dreams that he keeps complaining are dragging him to her room late at night. If he does object, it’s going to look highly suspicious…’

Elena felt the last vestiges of hope fall away. She wanted to reach out to Lorena, explain: ‘We tried to help you… but in the end our own eagerness let you down. I’m sorry.’ But there wouldn’t even be that chance; after this, they’d be barred from all contact with Lorena.

Edelston’s expression was challenging, one eyebrow sharply arched. ‘So… no ulterior motive, you claim?’

Elena didn’t respond; she just looked down, embarrassed, as on tape Nadine pushed the idea of assessment to Lorena. Their position was untenable, no possible footholds from which they could bounce back. Ryall had won the day. There was nothing more they could say that would save Lorena from his grip. And from now she’d never even get close to knowing what went on beyond his high gates: she’d be lucky if she ever got to see Lorena again.

Roman slotted in the cassette tape.

He hadn’t got a chance to play the tape earlier with all the panic with Venegas, and only remembered now as he hit the freeway fourteen miles south of Lac Shawinigan. He’d planned originally to dump Venegas’s kit bag in a rubbish tip in Lavalle, but then became anxious about carrying it all the way back to the city: what if the RCs had worked out the car switch and he was stopped on the way? In the end he ran back from the shore and threw the kit bag through the ice hole.

His nerves were still racing now with it all, his hand shaking as he fed in the cassette. The voices were indistinct at first, could barely be heard above the engine and the thrum of the wheels. He turned it up a bit, then realized it was just the rustling of the bedsheets and Donatiens mumbling. He picked out only ‘No… it’s okay… I’m with you…’ and the rest was lost. Then Simone’s voice came crashing in loudly: ‘Georges… Georges. Are you okay?’ Roman turned it back down a fraction.

‘No, no… I promise, I…’

‘… You okay?… You were shaking the bed a lot, calling out.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry…’

Funicelli had told him that the worrying part came just after Donatiens broke out of his dream. Nothing significant so far. He started to get impatient listening through their banter about Terri Hatcher and Roseanne and Simone’s comments about her father, and he was about to wind the tape further on when the words hit: ‘…Look. There was something that happened that night with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’

Roman’s hand pulled back again, his shake now more pronounced. He realized that he’d swayed slightly from his lane as an overtaking truck blasted its air-horn from behind. He straightened up.

‘… I never obviously have come to terms with. So maybe that’s why I keep re-playing it in my dreams. The gun firing, Leduc’s body tossed back like a rag dummy. His blood was everywhere… everywhere. I can still feel it sticky against my skin sometimes at night.’

‘You poor thing… there only one thing you should feel sticky against your skin at night…’

With the sound of rustling sheets and kissing, Roman stopped the tape and hastily re-wound. Funicelli was right to have alerted him, but it wasn’t Donatiens talking about that night with Leduc that was most worrying — it was what wasn’t said. Roman found the section again and hit play:

‘… that happened with Roman and Leduc. Something that I never…’

It was all there in the silence between the words: Donatiens was about to tell Simone, then suddenly had a change of heart.

‘…I never obviously have come to terms…’

Roman stopped, re-wound, played it again, honing in keener on the silence in between: a siren wailed its way through the city in the background, a faint rustle of sheets… but Roman was tuned in solely to what Donatiens thoughts might have been in those few seconds.

He replayed the section again twice straightaway, then once more just as he hit the outskirts of Montreal. There remained little doubt: Donatiens had been only a second away from telling all. He’d been lucky this time, but what about next time and the time after that?

A weak, hazy afternoon sun flickered through the stanchions of the Anuntsic bridge as he crossed, picking out a faint film of sweat on his forehead. The burden of that night obviously weighed heavy on Donatiens, and at some stage he was bound to break. The problem was that ‘accidents’ had run their course, and he couldn’t get near making a move on Donatiens without Jean-Paul’s consent. How in hell was he going to convince Jean-Paul that his golden boy needed to be taken out?

‘No, for God’s sake, noooo….’ Savard’s scream rattled the recorder’s small speaker.

‘Three!’

Georges closed his eyes as he imagined Savard being thrown from the building, sailing free… but hadn’t newscasts said that Savard was shot? Maybe it was one of those cases of the police withholding information so that they knew when they had the right suspect. A soft thud came a second later, followed by another voice.

‘That’s just a practice run, Tony. If you don’t tell us where the money is, we’re going to do it for real.’

Chenouda was staring at him keenly. Chenouda’s eyes had hardly left him throughout, but there were selected moments of the tape playing, like now, when he pressed home a special message: it’s not just that they killed Savard, look at the mental torture they put him through.

They’d locked horns earlier when it came over on tape that Roman’s BMW had pulled up only a moment after the van with Savard had sped off, and Chenouda had pushed the significance.

‘See. Clever. He shows up late, knowing that it would already have gone down — and has the cheek to hold his arms up in a “where is he?” gesture. He knows he’s on camera, so at the same time he gets an automatic alibi.’

Georges protested that just because Roman was there didn’t necessarily mean he had anything to do with Savard’s murder.

‘Then tell me: who else knew about the meet to be able to set up a bushwhack like this?’

Georges didn’t have any ready answers, and fell silent again through the rest of the tape. The sirens, the tension of the chase, the voices bouncing back and forth between Savard’s abductors and the police network, within minutes had Georges’ nerves ragged. He tried to keep a poker face throughout, not let his emotions be too transparent, but it was difficult. The ruse of Savard being thrown from a high building was frightening beyond belief, and now the clawing tension towards the finale: Savard’s abductors discussing whether or not to move Savard before finally deciding to do it there. Then the ominously expectant, time-frozen silence with the guns being taken out, with Georges suddenly aware of every small sound of the squad room: Chenouda’s shallow breathing, his partner, Maury, scratching a doodle lightly on a pad, a clock ticking on the far wall. As the two shots finally came with Chenouda’s scream of ‘Noooo!’, Georges physically jolted.

Chenouda swallowed slowly, though he waited a moment more for the footsteps crunching on snow to fully recede before he pressed stop. His eyes were still fixed keenly on Georges.

‘Quite a boy, your Roman.’

‘He’s not my favourite person either.’ Georges’ voice was slightly hoarse as he struggled to regain composure; his stomach was in knots and his hammering nerves seemed to have robbed his breath. ‘But that still doesn’t mean he was involved with something like this.’ It was a bluff: his doubts about Roman were rising hard and fast, but the last person he wanted to share that with was Chenouda. All he wanted to do was get free and clear from this claustrophobic interview room so that he could marshal some clarity to his wildly churning thoughts. ‘Look. I’ve listened to your tape — as promised. Can I go now?’

Michel didn’t answer, he just continued staring straight through Donatiens, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, as if he could read the bluff. After a second he stood up, started pacing. ‘There was a specific reason why Savard was there that night to meet with Roman. You see, we could have gone with what we already had: Savard claiming that Roman shot Leduc, with you there beside him at the time. But Savard wasn’t actually in the car when it happened, and then too we’d have had the problem of winning over Roman’s likely plea of self-defence. Chances were we wouldn’t have been able to nail him. Roman claimed that Leduc had a gun, you see. It was there on the car floor by the time Savard reached the car.’ Michel looked back hard at Donatiens from the end of the table ‘But then you’d know all about that — you were right there with him when it happened.’

Georges shook his head. ‘You know I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present — that was our arrangement.’ Georges glanced towards Maury for support. Maury had stopped doodling and started making notes. Not that there’d be much to note: Georges had no intention of saying anything.

They were sat at a bare pine table with six chairs around. Minimalist Ikea to match the modern, Spartan lines of Dorchester Boulevard. An informal interview, so it had been agreed at the outset that it wouldn’t be taped. Georges was relieved also that there were no wall mirrors; nobody was looking in from another room.

Michel rested his hands on the end of the table. ‘The main purpose of the meeting that night was for Savard to draw Roman out on the issue of the gun, try and break his self-defence cover. You see — Savard was pretty sure Leduc didn’t have a gun that night.’

Georges looked down, hopefully shielding his flinch and the shadow that crossed his eyes in that second. Chenouda’s gaze was penetrating, unsettling; he could feel it searing through, probably reading volumes into his unsettled reaction.

‘Then again, you’d probably know that too,’ Michel aired. ‘Since you were right there beside him.’

Georges was on his feet, his chair grating back abruptly. ‘Lawyer, lawyer, Chenouda — or I’m walking.’

Michel ignored the protest, barrelled on. ‘And you know why Savard was sure Leduc didn’t have a gun? Because as Leduc got into his car for them to go to the meeting, Savard saw what was in his ankle sock: it was a note-book, not a gun. A black note-book.’

Georges wished now he hadn’t stood; his legs felt suddenly weak, unsteady. ‘Is that so?’ he challenged, but his tremulous undertone defeated any intended bravado. Chenouda wasn’t fooled for a minute. Chenouda not only knew, he seemed pretty sure of his ground that Georges knew too; it was unnerving.

‘The other thing is — that gun on the floor?’ Michel’s tone rose questioningly. ‘Smith and Wesson 6900. Savard never remembered Leduc carrying a gun of that type. But it was one of Roman’s favourites for a compact, second gun.’

Georges shook off a faint shudder as Chenouda’s glare burnt through him. He should never have come along; he’d walked into a lion’s den, a trap. He sat back down and let out a tired, worn sigh. ‘I want to leave. This isn’t what we agreed I came here for. I was just to listen to your tape, you apparently had some warning about the danger I was in — and that was it.’

‘Oh yes — your warning.’ Michel waved one hand in a dramatic sweep. ‘Do you really think Roman’s going to let you live after the trouble he’s gone to getting rid of every other witness to that night? And you pose far more of a threat than Tremblay or Savard. They could only put Roman there — you were right beside him.’ Michel stared the message home. ‘You’re the only one to know that it was cold-blooded murder rather than self-defence.’

Georges cradled his head in one hand, massaging his temples. There was a lot of merit in what Chenouda said; in fact, too much merit, adding ballast to the silent demons gripping him since that night with Leduc. But he didn’t want Chenouda to know that he’d hit a nerve and risk falling deeper into his trap. He wanted somewhere at least a few blocks away over fresh coffee, or perhaps a shot of something stronger, to be able to self-examine, alone, what he really thought. He didn’t even trouble to look up this time. ‘You’ve played the tape, you’ve issued your warning — can I go now?’ A worn, flat tone.

‘Can I go now?… Can I go now?’ Michel parodied. ‘You’re a fucking stuck record.’ He waved a hand to one side. ‘Sure, be my guest. Go out there and let Roman kill you.’

Georges looked between Chenouda and Maury, hardly believing he was being let go so soon, before getting uncertainly to his feet. ‘I’m not convinced Roman had anything to do with Savard’s death. So I’m afraid I just don’t see the danger the same way you do.’

‘Not convinced?’ Michel raised an acute eyebrow. ‘I thought you bankers were meant to be sharp guys. Oh, and I forgot-‘ He put one hand up, a stopping motion. ‘Pretty soon we’re going to know for sure whether Roman had anything to do with Savard or not. Which was actually the other reason why I asked you in right now.’ Michel drew fresh breath and explained about Venegas being ID’d from a Jaques Cartier Bridge camera; he was being sought as they spoke. Michel glanced at his watch: almost an hour since they’d gone to Venegas’s apartment, twenty minutes since they pulled up Massenat in Roman’s BMW. Chac and his team were now parked within eyesight of Venegas’s apartment entrance and a province-wide alert was out. How much longer before he showed? ‘We expect him to be pulled in any minute.’

Georges sat slowly back down again. ‘So if you’ve got him — what do you need with me?’

‘What I need is for you to see this as your last opportunity. With Roman fingered by Venegas, he’ll likely go down for Savard and Leduc — because without one there isn’t motive for the other. And we’ve got Savard on record putting you right beside Roman when it happened. So the minute we cuff Venegas — you’re just one beat away from going down for accomplice to murder.’ Michel stared the threat home, seeing the alarm rise in Donatiens’ eyes before Donatiens became uncomfortable and averted his gaze. ‘Unless, that is, you give us your account first. Now’s your chance. Maybe your only chance.’

Georges ruffled his hair brusquely before looking back directly at Chenouda. ‘We’re into lawyer territory again. And we agreed at the outset I wouldn’t be answering anything where I might need a lawyer.'

Michel ignored it. He sensed that he was close to breaking Donatiens. Just a turn more on the screw. ‘I might be wrong — but I don’t think you’d have willingly gone along with Roman, knowing that he was about to murder Leduc. That isn’t your role in the Lacaille organization. And witness to self-defence is not even a misdemeanour. But with you staying quiet, it’s starting to look more and more like it was murder.’ Michel held one hand out, an invitation. ‘If you come clean, I’ll make sure you don’t even see a cell door. But if not…’ Michel waved the same hand towards more uncertain, worrying alternatives.

Georges felt the small room closing in on him tighter. His pulse was racing and there was a constriction in his throat making swallowing difficult. He couldn’t believe how quickly everything had been turned around on him. An hour ago he’d been heading to his office, now he was only a step away from a jail cell. Depending on what move he made next.

Michel felt the conflicts tugging at Donatiens like raw electricity in the air; he was hovering close to the brink. Just one more push should do it. ‘You need to share this with someone for another reason, Georges. Every minute you keep this secret to yourself, you pose a threat to Roman. While he can’t breathe easy — how much longer do you think he’s going to let you breathe? With the secret out, that problem goes too. You get rid of the death threat and the jail cell in one.’

Georges had to admit, it was tempting: no more double game with Jean-Paul and wondering what Roman might do next, no more dreams in the middle of the night with Leduc’s blood sticky against his skin, no more… Georges suddenly stopped: Jean-Paul! His main anxiety all along had been his guilt over not telling Jean-Paul, and this would just constitute further betrayal. He owed Chenouda the same as Roman: nothing!

Georges shook his head. ‘If this was just about Roman, fine. But I work for Jean-Paul, not Roman.’ Georges felt the escape rope firmly in his grasp, felt it pull back some of his clawing nerves. ‘I would do nothing to betray the trust Jean-Paul has put in me, and believe me, it’s reciprocated. Even if I did have reason to fear Roman, he wouldn’t be able to make a move on me without sanction from Jean-Paul. Which won’t be forthcoming — now or at any time. So while I appreciate your concern about my safety — thank you, but it’s misplaced.’ Georges forced a hesitant smile.

Michel’s jaw tightened. At times he could look upon Donatiens as the business innocent caught up in the Lacaille’s wolves’ den; at others, like now, he was the smooth, smug money-launderer hiding the Lacaille’s dirty millions and laughing up his sleeve at the RCMP. And when that view held sway it angered him all the more because, unlike Jean-Paul and Roman, Donatiens had had a choice: he was outside of their world and had a highly-paid respectable job with a bank. He could have simply turned his back.

Michel sneered thinly. ‘Jean-Paul and Roman have worked side by side now for over twenty years. They’ve been through hell and high water together, buried both their father and their younger brother in the name of a crime empire that’s survived now two generations. If it comes to the crunch and that’s threatened — do you really think Jean-Paul’s going to take your side over Roman’s just because you’ve turned some good trade these past few years and you’re shacked up with his daughter?’

‘We’re to be married, in case you haven’t heard.’ Georges tone was indignant. ‘But where all your theories fall apart is that they’re not even involved in crime anymore.’

‘You expect me to believe that? The bikers are still getting their supplies to distribute. It’s business as usual. And a lot of the old Lacaille contact names, like Leduc, keep cropping up.’

‘It’s Cacchione, or a new independent. Maybe even more than one.’

Chenouda’s sneer was back. ‘You and I both know that Medeiros won’t go near Cacchione. And he wouldn’t trust these levels of transactions to some new kids on the block. He’s dealing with old friends; and with Cacchione out of the picture, that leaves only the Lacaille family.’

‘You don’t get it, do you? That’s what me being brought in was all about. To make money from legitimate enterprise so that they didn’t need crime. After Pascal was shot, everything…’ Georges faltered, his voice trailing off. He was getting drawn out by Chenouda, heading into areas he shouldn’t be talking about. ‘Look — we’ve covered much more here than we agreed. I’ve got to go.’ Georges stood up and smiled tightly. ‘Earn some more legitimate money.’

Michel shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure. Cool your heels for a while in one of our cells while we pick up Venegas — then you’re free to go.’

‘What?’ Georges voice was strained with incredulity. ‘You said before I could go straightaway.’

‘Oh, did I say that? You know, that’s the problem with not running a tape. You never can keep track from one moment to the next.’ Michel’s voice was heavy with sarcasm; then his tone suddenly became low, threatening. ‘You must be kidding. You know now we’re onto Venegas. As soon as you walk out of here, you could put a call through to Roman and ruin our operation. And if you want to call a lawyer, fine — he’ll only tell you the same: that under section 359 we’re allowed to hold someone up to twelve hours when an active operation might be threatened.’

‘You bastard, Chenouda.’ Georges glared back hard. ‘You knew all the time you were going to do this. You planned it.’

Michel moved in closer. ‘No. I pulled you in to save your neck from Roman — which you don’t seem to appreciate. And also because this is your last chance to save yourself from a charge of accomplice to murder. Once we’ve pulled in Venegas, that chance has gone. So now you’ve got some free time to contemplate the wiseness of talking or not.’

Georges met Chenouda’s hard stare evenly. The nerves were back somersaulting in his stomach and tightening his throat, and his first instinct was to continue fighting back. But the roller-coaster ride of the last half-hour had drained him and the situation seemed almost too surreal for comment, so that all that came out in the end was, ‘This is ridiculous,’ huffed on a weak exhalation. ‘So when do you expect to be picking up Venegas?’

Michel turned away slightly. ‘A half hour. Maybe an hour or two. Who knows?’

Georges’ shoulders slumped at the prospect of possibly hours in a jail cell. ‘You knew it all the time,’ he hissed. ‘You knew that-’

‘We don’t have time for this now,’ Michel cut in brusquely, holding one hand up. ‘… I’ve got an operation in progress to get back to. All I can say again is use the time wisely to re-think whether it’s worth taking an accomplice to murder rap for the Lacailles.’ He stared the weight of the message home one last time, but still he couldn’t tell if he’d made any inroads.

He repeated Donatiens’ right to a lawyer, but Donatiens merely fired back defiantly, ‘If I’m not going to talk, what’s the point?’ before Maury led him away.

Michel sat down slowly in the silence of the interview room. The exchange had exhausted him. Hopefully some time in the cells would weaken Donatiens’ resolve; he’d get a taste of what the next few years might be like if the chips fell the wrong way for him, and crumble.

The confrontation had given him more the measure of Donatiens, but still he wasn’t sure: the business innocent, or the smooth money-launderer? Maybe the next few hours with Donatiens within arm’s each in the cells below would help provide some clarity for both of them.

Elena stared into the churning water over the side of the ferry rail.

A faint mist obscured landfall at the far end of Poole harbour and the open sea at her back. The short ferry hop had come to symbolise for them freedom, escape from all the madness of the world outside, but now it felt as if they’d merely been escaping reality and the veil had finally been lifted on just what a waste half her life had been.

Elena had protested with Edelston that surely the fact alone that Ryall had taped their last meeting showed his guilt. Edelston didn’t agree. Ryall suspected that Lorena was being led and cajoled into admitting something that just hadn’t happened, was purely in her dreams, and the tape had born out that concern.

Elena had launched one last desperate assault. ‘That’s what we’d hoped for in recommending psychiatric assessment. It would have separated the dreams from the reality and cleared up any doubt once and for all.’

‘That as may be. But due to your over-eagerness and over-stepping the line, that chance I’m afraid has now gone.’

She shook her head. Nothing more she could do for Lorena; unsure now whether the leaden weight sagging her shoulders was because she felt to blame, or the sense of redundancy and helplessness. But was it too late to save herself?

When she’d first made the ferry hop, she’d been with her parents and younger brother. She’d been only eight years old, and imagined that she was sailing away to a magical, mystical land; that the short strip of sea separated them from an entirely different world. It became all the more magical when she discovered the chine. They’d been on the beach and she’d gone deep inside, out of sight, and she’d lost track of time wrapped in its cool, shaded embrace, sitting by the gently running brook while a squirrel eating a berry on a nearby branch looked at her curiously. She’d been gone for over forty minutes, her parents berated her when she emerged. They’d been frantically looking for her, worried that he might have drowned. Her father’s anger was strongest, and finally it boiled over. He landed an increasingly hard flurry of smacks on her backside before her mother intervened. It was just one of many volcanic eruptions of her father’s constantly stern, bubbling temperament, and her and her brother spent half their lives in fear of ever provoking it.

The first time she’d made the ferry journey with Gordon had been fifteen years ago. They’d been going out together for only three months, then after that made the habit of coming down every spare weekend in the summer months. Gordon was working in the City at the time, and for him the short ferry hop symbolised separation from the mad cut and thrust of the finance markets that consumed him all week. A year after they were married, they bought a weekend cottage in Chelborne, only two miles from where they now lived.

Then six years ago came Gordon’s heart attack and his decision to leave the City and them move to the area permanently. They put out requests with local estate agents, and details of the house overlooking the chine came through their letter-box four months later. They stayed in the weekend cottage while improvements were made, Gordon started a small investment brokerage based from home, handling a select few old clients to which were gradually added some local clients, and she also shifted half her London workload to a home desk and computer. When she wasn’t on a plane or truck bound for Eastern Europe, she spent most of her time on the phone, so it hardly mattered whether she was in London or Dorset.

Gordon’s income was more than halved, but their London house sale had left them with a healthy financial cushion. Most importantly, Gordon felt happier, less stressed, and they both had more quality time to spend with the children.

Elena shook her head. Each stage in their lives appeared so carefully planned and mapped out — except that half of it had been a lie throughout. And she’d lived that lie now for so long that she could never bring herself to tell Gordon; it would cut him to the quick, summon another heart attack. No, this was a quest she’d have to make alone, in secret.

‘Christos Georgallis…’ She muttered the name almost as an incantation under her breath, quickly swallowed on the steady breeze swirling into Poole harbour. Twenty-nine years? She wondered where he was now. She had so much to tell him: that she’d never stopped thinking about him; that she’d always loved him, and that she was sorry, sorry… sorry. She clenched her eyes tight as the tears welled. Oh my God, she was sorry.

But she wondered first and foremost if she’d ever be able to find him. Knowing how intent her father had been on burying him forever out of sight and reach, probably not.