The Last Witness

SEVENTEEN

Elena was slightly breathless as she jumped back in the car and waved the tickets. ‘Great. I’ve got them.’

She started up and headed off. From Lorena’s uncertain smile fired back, the significance of the triumph was obviously lost on her. Elena had become rigid with tension when the clerk seemed slow processing everything on screen, filled with sudden panic that an alert might have already reached the ticket desk. First hurdle down: two more to go. As she wended her way around and got her first view of the Euro-Shuttle check-in kiosks eighty yards ahead, she could see that there were about three or four cars in each queue.

‘Don’t forget, if anyone asks — you’re my daughter, Katine.’ Elena stared the message home for a second with Lorena. She’d already mentioned it on the long drive, but it was crucial now that they were coming up to Customs. One of the key parts of her plan: Katine was still on her passport, and with Lorena only a year older, they should sail through with no problem. ‘I don’t think they will ask — but just in case.’

‘Okay.’ Lorena nodded and fixed her eyes straight ahead again as they veered slightly and slowed to join a queue that had just reduced to two cars.

Each car seemed to be taking about a minute. Elena tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as the one in front started to take longer. The ticket desk clerk had informed her that she could go to the duty free shopping area for the twenty minutes before boarding, but she wanted to get through straightaway. If there was no alert at the ticket desk, then probably one wouldn’t have reached the check-in kiosk yet either. But each extra minute increased the likelihood. The car at the kiosk finally moved off: just one ahead now.

Elena’s body ran hot and cold. She stopped her finger’s tapping on the steering wheel, tried to look relaxed, calm. Nicola Ryall would have discovered Lorena was missing fifteen minutes ago now. How long before it hit Nicola Ryall that it wasn’t just some innocent mix-up with Lorena getting a lift from a friend’s mother and she called the police: five minutes, ten minutes? Then how long for them to arrive, start questioning and get to the stage where they realized that she’d taken Lorena? Another twenty, twenty-five minutes at most. But would they put out an alert straightaway, or head to her home first and listen through the tape left with Gordon? The car ahead moved off. Elena pulled forward to the kiosk.

The clerk, a man in his early twenties, smiled cursorily at her. She stiffened her arm as she handed over the ticket folder to dampen the visible shaking of her hand.

He flicked through the tickets for a second before looking up. ‘One child and an adult?’

‘Yes.’

The clerk looked at the screen ahead and keyed in some details. After a second his eyebrows furrowed and Elena’s heart froze. Then as quickly his face relaxed and he made a quick note as he tore off part of the tickets. ‘Board at gate eight and wait for the green signal there. Thank you.’ He handed back the tickets with a boarding card.

Elena was a second slow pulling away, caught off guard at getting passed through so quickly. But the most difficult part lay only sixty yards ahead: Customs. Any alert put out would likely have gone straight through there, not to the ticket desks.

She felt a rush of guilt when she thought of the crushing shock that must have hit Nicola Ryall when she realized Lorena was missing — reflecting for a moment how she’d feel to discover that Katine had disappeared from school with a stranger. To abate that panic, she wanted Nicola Ryall to get to Gordon and the tape as quickly as possible and know that Lorena was safe and wouldn’t be harmed. But her thoughts were seriously at odds: to allow her time to get away, she hoped that there was some delay.

Two cars ahead in the shortest queue at Customs, one by the time she’d slowed and pulled in — people were being passed through quickly. She took her passport out of her side-pocket, her heart beating wildly. If an alert had come through already, it would all be over now. Brief nod as the guard handed the passport back to the driver in front, and Elena pulled forward to the kiosk.

The Customs guard fired a curt smile without hardly looking at her as he asked for her passport. His only direct stare into the car, as he flicked through its pages, was towards Lorena. ‘Your daughter?’

‘Yes.’ Elena tried to keep her voice flat, calm, but she swore she could hear a few nervous modulations just in that one word.

The guard looked again at Lorena and then at her, and handed the passport back. ‘Okay. Thank you.’

Elena kept her return smile equally as curt and controlled, tried not to let him see the relief and elation that swept through her in that moment. She pulled away, but not too hurriedly. So, no alert as yet; at least not one that had reached Customs.

But her elation faded quickly in the first minutes of waiting in the queue for a green light: fifteen more minutes to go to boarding. Her name and car registration were now on the computer, and an alert could come through at any minute. She found her eyes drifting anxiously to the rear-view mirror. What would they do: run out of the Customs kiosk to catch up with her? Or would they just contact the guard ahead controlling boarding with a walkie-talkie? Then the half-hour train journey itself: more than enough time for the police to visit Gordon, hear the tape and alert Customs. They’d simply phone ahead and stop her as she rolled off the train at Calais. Her mouth was suddenly dry and it was hard to swallow.

Lorena picked up on her consternation. ‘We’re through now, no? Everything’s okay?’ Her tone was questioning with a hint of plea.

‘Yes, yes. Everything’s okay.’ Elena took her eyes from the rear-view mirror and let out her breath. By necessity she’d put Lorena on her metal approaching Customs, but there was no point keeping her on a knife-edge for the next forty minutes. With what she’d probably suffered with Ryall, Elena didn’t want this trip to be yet another nightmare. She’d just have to weather the brunt of that alone. She forced a reassuring smile as she lightly ruffled Lorena’s hair. ‘France, here we come.’

‘I’m sorry to phone again so late. It’s starting to become a habit.’ The smile in Azy’s voice stopped short of a chuckle: it was way too late for open jibing. ‘But I thought you’d want to know this straightaway.’

Michel blinked and rubbed his eyes as he focused on his bedside clock: 3.08 a.m. this time. ‘That’s okay. What’s up?’

Azy related how he’d seen one of the club girls, Viana, get a lift home with Georges Donatiens. ‘She told me she was getting a lift home with a cousin, but I was suspicious — so I hung about a block up from the club and saw her get into Donatiens’ car. What made me suspicious was she was talking earlier to Donatiens, and it all looked pretty sensitive, private. They moved away from the bar, didn’t want to be overheard.’

Michel didn’t see anything overly worrying, at least not to warrant a 3 a.m. call. ‘Doesn’t Donatiens talk to the other girls or sometimes give them a lift home?’

‘Yeah, he talks to ‘em, he’s friendly enough, alright. But it’s all at arm’s length, he never usually leaves the bar. As for him giving them lifts home, I don’ think so — he hardly ever hangs around that late.’ Azy’s gravel voice hushed a shade, as if he was concerned about listeners-in, as he came to the crunch point. ‘But the problem with this girl, Viana, is that she’s also Roman’s girl on the side. That’s why I called.’

Michel sat bolt upright, a sharp tingle running up his spine. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Uh huh. As sure as can be. They tried to keep it quiet, low-key — but I’ve had my suspicions for a while. Then a few nights back — the last time I called in fact — they had a scene in the club and it all came out. Roman blurts out about her riding his dick like it was going out of style — embarrassed the hell out of her.’

The pieces were all tumbling into place for Michel. ‘So this was the girl Roman gave a hard time to the night he finally materialised after Venegas disappeared?’

‘Yep, one and the same.’

Michel fell silent. The tingle in his spine had risen to solid tense knot at the back of his neck. He massaged the taut muscles with his free hand. Faint traffic sounds from beyond his window were starker, more pronounced through the phone. Azy was obviously calling from a downtown booth. ‘And you think they were headed for her place, not his?’

‘Yeah. They went east on Sherbrooke, and her place is in the Latin Quarter, a couple of blocks beyond St Denis.’

Michel was sure it was some sort of set up, but how would it pan out? His brain was still too addled with sleep to apply clear thought to it. He realized he’d left another long pause, and brought his attention back to Azy. ‘You were right to call. Thanks.’ Then with a quick confirmation that the same girl was on the next night, before signing off he asked Azy to call him again then. ‘I want to know her every movement and who she sees, but just as important her mood, how she acts.’

Michel contemplated the phone thoughtfully for a moment after hanging up. Another early hours call tomorrow, but he needed to know straightaway; in fact, it might already be too late by then. Michel ruffled his hair brusquely as he ran through likely scenarios: some photos of Georges and the girl together, for sure. But would that be enough on its own, or would Roman want something more torrid, graphic? More graphic, knowing Roman. He’d have to build his case strongly with Jean-Paul, a set-up that left nothing to chance, no other possible interpretations. Which would mean that unless Georges was tempted and the camera was concealed, they’d have to drug him… and once he was drugged…

Michel stood up, started pacing. The hand was back quickly at his head, but now clutching lightly in exasperation as he ruffled. But would Roman be bold enough to take advantage while Georges was drugged and take him out straightaway, with the photos then purely to cover his tail with Jean-Paul, or would he play by the book and use the photos to get Jean-Paul’s sanction for a hit?

Michel stood by his apartment window, looking out. The floodlit flank of Notre Dame was the strongest light outside and made a faint silhouette of his body against the dark room behind. That was the problem with Roman: you never knew. Option two might be the most sensible, but if time was pressing he’d take whatever rash action suited him best. But it hardly mattered: even if Roman waited on Jean-Paul’s final nod, that would delay things one or two days at most, and there was little or nothing Michel could do in the meantime anyway. He’d already hauled Georges in on the premise that his life was threatened and held him hours on a technicality: Georges wouldn’t even give him the time of day a second time.

Michel regarded the rough stone walls of Notre Dame with a wry, sour grimace. So, no fanfare wedding there in a few months time; not even a burial there. Georges’ family were middle-class and suburban, from out in Beaconsfield from what Michel recalled from his files. They’d probably arrange a quiet burial and service for him somewhere out there. He’d be forgotten quickly by the Lacailles.

Michel found his eyes watering slightly: unsure for a moment if it was sorrow for Georges, anger and frustration, or the floodlight glare on the Basilica walls. His hands had unconsciously balled tight at his sides, and he took a deep breath as he loosened them, tried to ease the tension from his body. It felt wrong sitting by when he knew with such certainty that Georges was about to die, a final condemnation of just how pathetically hand-tied they’d been throughout with the Lacailles — but then what could he do? What could he do?

‘…but most important is that you to know I’ve gone with Mrs Waldren of my own free will. I’ve not been abducted. I phoned Mrs Waldren only a few nights back and asked for her help — to try and see a psychiatric counsellor to know if my concerns with my stepfather are just in my dreams, my imagination… or whether they might be real. Counselling which my stepparents and the local social services have refused. That is why I asked for Mrs Waldren’s help.’ Faint swallow, slight hesitation from Lorena. The sound of a passing car drifted through the small cassette speaker. ‘But when we’d left my school, Mrs Waldren asked me again if I was sure that I wanted to go ahead with seeing a counsellor. If not, she’d return me straightaway to school. I said that I did want to go ahead.’ Another brief pause as Lorena took fresh breath. ‘So I want you all to know that I’m safe, well and in good hands and will remain so. I don’t want Mrs Waldren, Elena, to get into trouble for this. She's my friend, she's helping me, and there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be back home safe and well in only two or three days.’

Gordon left only a second’s silence before stopping the tape. The lead police officer, DS Barry Crowley, was slow in breaking his gaze from the recorder. An assisting Detective to his side had a notepad out, but so far had only scrawled two sentences. A uniformed Constable stood sentry at the lounge door, as if wary that Gordon might make a sudden break for it, and another sat in the car outside, probably to start putting through traces on Elena’s car.

Crowley had announced on introduction that they knew Elena had Lorena, and asked Gordon where she was. I don’t know, not here ‘… But she left me a tape to play you.’ Crowley then asked what car she was driving, and after another ‘Don’t know,’ which Crowley seriously doubted by his return glare, he sent one Constable back to his car. Gordon heard some radio squawk filter through from outside as he stopped the tape. They’d probably have Elena’s car registration within minutes. Perhaps saying he didn’t know had come across as pointlessly obstructive, but then the leeway Elena needed might be down to just those few extra minutes.

Crowley was looking at him keenly. ‘So, if we’re to believe this tape that she’s not been abducted — then why the secrecy with you not knowing where your wife is or what car she’s driving?’

‘I’m aware that the Ryalls probably wouldn’t share that view. They’d want Lorena back straightaway. Particularly Mr Ryall…’ Gordon nodded towards the tape, but Crowley held his gaze with worn indifference. ‘He wouldn’t be keen on Lorena receiving counselling. But Lorena desperately needs those two or three days for a few sessions to be put in.’

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. ‘You seem eager to tell me, so it might as well be now: why wouldn’t Mr Ryall be keen on Lorena receiving counselling? What’s the supposed problem between him and Lorena?’

‘Well, uh…’ Gordon was caught momentarily off-balance being asked straight out. ‘She’s afraid that her stepfather might be interfering with her.’ The statement still sounded lame, unable to carry the weight of all the connected horrors it mentally ignited, even with the pause for emphasis.

‘I see.’ Crowley pursed his lips and looked down. He’d in fact heard a part of this already from Nicola Ryall, in one of the few moments he’d been able to get any sense from her amidst her panic and screaming to please find her daughter, Please! Halfway through his interviews at the school, news winged in that a pupil had seen Lorena leaving the playground and thought she recognized the woman with her: ‘Mrs Waldren, lives up the top of Chelborne Chine.’ Mrs Ryall seemed relieved at first at this news: at least some mad stranger didn’t have her child. But then panic quickly set in again, as if other connected consequences had suddenly dawned on her. Crowley asked if she had any idea why Mrs Waldren might take Lorena, and she’d told him about the two visits from Social Services with Mrs Waldren in tow. ‘Mrs Waldren has some crazy, misguided notion that there’s a problem between my husband and Lorena.’

Crowley contemplated Gordon steadily. ‘You said that Lorena was afraid something might be happening with her stepfather… doesn’t she know for sure? Has the girl said nothing directly in that respect?’

‘No… it was all mainly from her dreams, she couldn’t be totally sure.’ Gordon realized then that Crowley had probably heard something already from the Ryalls. He tried to add ballast so that it didn’t come across as so tenuous. ‘That’s why the recommendation for psychiatric counselling — to try and make sure one way or the other.’

‘I see. Only in her dreams.’ Crowley’s tone was vaguely mocking. ‘And what did the social services say?’

Gordon sighed heavily. Crowley seemed intent on throwing out the ballast, making his explanation not just tenuous but almost laughable. ‘The social services worker who interviewed Lorena on two occasions along with my wife in fact recommended counselling. But her supervisor apparently had other ideas — mainly courtesy of Mr Ryall trapping the officer and my wife by taping their last interview with Lorena.’ Gordon forced a tight ‘I bet the Ryalls didn’t tell you that’ smile.

Crowley’s eyes flickered only slightly before recovering. He leant forward, resting his hands resolutely on his knees. ‘But the upshot is that the social services saw no reason finally for Lorena to have counselling. Lorena herself has made no direct accusations, it’s all just in her dreams… so in the end your wife decides to take the law into her own hands and abduct the girl.’

Gordon shook his head firmly. ‘No, no… it wasn’t like that. For God’s sake, you’ve listened to the tape. If Lorena didn’t want help, my wife wouldn’t have-’ Gordon faltered, realizing his voice had raised, he was almost shouting. Crowley’s soft Dorset brogue had a lulling effect, as if this was all just a cosy fireside chat. And his appearance — pressing forty with fast thinning blonde hair, rumpled brown suit which had seen better days — made him seem worn, tired, almost past caring. But his sharp, pale blue eyes warned of stronger metal beneath, and meeting them steadily now it dawned on Gordon that the sharp about-turn with pressure was purposeful: Crowley was getting the rise out of him he wanted. Crowley was obviously going to be a stronger adversary than he’d first judged, but there’d be more than enough to raise Crowley’s hackles over the coming hours: no point in going head-on with him now. Gordon tempered his voice. ‘Well — my wife simply wouldn’t have taken Lorena if it wasn’t something the girl wanted, that’s all. That’s why the tape was made, so that not only was my wife sure of that — but you also.’

Crowley looked back at the cassette recorder. The tape certainly muddied the chances of any clear-cut procedural line. Minutes before arriving to confront Gordon Waldren, his immediate boss, Inspector Turton, raised him on the radio to advise that he’d just had Cameron Ryall on the phone ranting and demanding fast and firm action. Turton had assured that he was taking full personal control of the investigation, but privately to Crowley he admitted that he had no intention of getting hands-on unless or until it was clear that the girl had been abducted or was in danger. This was going to be an interesting conundrum for Turton: Ryall would no doubt scream that she had been abducted, whereas the Waldrens, supported by Lorena on tape, would claim that she hadn’t. The only saving grace was that Ryall might be unlikely to scream too hard and push things to a press appeal, given that the reason for the girl being taken would also no doubt come out. Innocent or not, some tar was bound to stick. And what if the Waldrens were right? His own daughter was only a couple of years younger than that now. The thought made him shudder. He decided to give the soft approach one more try.

‘I can sympathise completely with what’s behind your wife doing this — that is, if her suspicions are right. But if she’s wrong, just think of what she’s putting the Ryalls through right now. And unfortunately it’s not our job to judge whether or not her action might be justified: regardless, she’s broken the law. And so the quicker we can talk to your wife and sort this all out, the better. So again I urge you, Mr Waldren, to tell us your wife’s whereabouts and what car she’s driving?’

‘I’m sorry, it’s more than my life’s worth… I gave my wife my promise. In any case, I don’t know exactly where she is right now.’ Which was partly true: he wasn’t sure if she was still in England or would have crossed to France by now. Would Crowley have already put out an alert? If so and Elena hadn’t yet hit customs, that’d probably be the furthest she’d get. Maybe that was what the Constable outside was waiting for news on. Gordon felt suddenly hot, a faint film of sweat rising on his forehead. He resisted the temptation to check his watch and forced an apologetic smile as he looked towards the window and the intermittent radio squawks from outside. ‘Still, I’m sure that won’t hold you up long from finding out what car she’s driving.’

Crowley grimaced tightly and looked down for a second. He didn’t want to just revert again to a hard line, so he decided to go in-between. At least it would put Gordon Waldren on a tight time leash. ‘Look — you’ve obviously made the tape to argue the case that your wife hasn’t abducted Lorena. To try and keep your wife clear of a jail term for this. And while right now that argument might just wash — as the hours pass with the Ryalls worried sick and screaming for action, that’s going to quickly fade and attitudes will harden. So I’m going to cut a deal with you, Mr Waldren, one that hopefully I can sell to both my superior and the Ryalls: if your wife can get Lorena Ryall back by say-’ Crowley glanced at his watch ‘-Midnight tonight, I’ll recommend that charges for abduction not be pursued, and that we put this all down to an unfortunate mix up. But if not…’

Gordon was shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure that my wife will be in touch any time tonight for me to pass on that message… even if she might agree to returning Lorena straightaway.’

Crowley held Gordon’s eyes for a moment. He seemed to be sincere. At length a reluctant nod. ‘Okay — I’ll stretch that to 10.30 am tomorrow, eighteen hours from now. But already I’m pushing things to the very limit — so try not to let me down. If you can sell that to your wife, you have my word that I’ll do everything I can to make it stick my end. But after that time, I’m afraid, a nation-wide alert will go out and your wife will be tracked down as a common criminal.’

Gordon closed his eyes for a second and nodded. ‘Yes, okay. I’ll do my best.’ He was trembling from the confrontation. It was clear now that after tomorrow morning, Elena was facing a jail term for this, and he was pretty sure already that she couldn’t make it back by then.

‘Well, we at least have hopefully reached some understanding on this, Mr Waldren.’ Crowley left his direct line number, and with a final curt nod left with his assisting Detective and the Constable manning the door.

As they pulled away, the Constable he’d left in the car informed him that vehicle registration had two cars listed for the Waldrens. ‘…And I’ve already eliminated the Suzuki Jeep parked in their drive. Which leaves a Saab 900 — three years old from the registration. What do you want me to do?’

Crowley eased back in his seat and let out a faint sigh. He paused for only a moment. ‘Ask central to put out an all-points alert, county and nation-wide, including customs points.’ Turton’s directive had been to wait until he’d visited the Waldren’s home before putting out an alert, just in case they had Lorena tucked away in a bedroom. Crowley felt a stab of guilt lying to Gordon Waldren, but then so was everyone else: Turton to Cameron Ryall, and no doubt Waldren too. Gordon Waldren probably knew exactly where his wife was right now. But at least it was only a low-level alert for now — missing persons instead of abduction and kidnapping. Turton had advised initial caution. And if they apprehended her before tomorrow morning, Crowley had every intention of keeping his promise about charges not being pressed — if he could convince Turton and Ryall. He’d said only that he’d try his best, no more.

The camera clicked repeatedly as the two naked girls slithered and writhed over Georges laid out flat on the bed.

Viana and the other girl, a luscious green-eyed blonde escort called Eve, started at opposite ends: Viana took him in her mouth while Eve licked his nipples, then they changed position for a moment before Viana slid on top of him, Eve guiding him slowly home. The camera clicked repeatedly, and Roman found himself getting excited looking on from the back of the room, despite the fact that it was Viana. The drug was working as per the recommendation: Georges could still hold an erection, in the same way as a sleeping man having a wet dream, but was out cold, would remember nothing. Roman was probably getting more sensation from just watching than anything Georges might be enjoying.

The photographer had to set up some of the shots: placing Georges’s hands on Viana’s and then Eve’s hips as they rode him, pulling his eyelids open for some shots so that it looked like he was staring up at them. For the rest he made do either with profiles or where it might look like Georges’ eyes were closed in abandon. Viana had taken off her face mask, and at Roman’s instruction the photographer was careful to keep her just in profile, her bruised side concealed.

As they finished, something in the way Roman surveyed Georges’ body on the bed, as if gloating in the control he had over him, made Viana ask what he planned to do with Georges. ‘You promised that you wouldn’t harm him. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with this if I thought you were. You said that it was just to make the cut clean with Simone.’

‘That’s right, that’s right. It’s just a spoiler ‘cause he’s doing the dirty on Simone. But I don’t remember saying nothing about not harming him?’ That teasing, mocking smile which now she knew so well, then his face suddenly became dead-pan, stern. He reached out and lightly pinched her cheek, her bruised side. ‘Don’t worry your head none about what I’m going to do with him. Whatever it is, it ain’t going to happen here. We’ll have him dressed and out of your place in no time.’ One last pinch, harder, which made her gasp in pain. ‘You did good, that’s all you need to think about.’

The sign flashed by: Bethune 8km. A ballad in French played on the radio, the sound on low. Elena would turn it up when songs came on in English, particularly ones Lorena recognized and liked.

Elena looked thoughtfully towards Lorena. They’d stealthily avoided the subject so far, their conversation had been light, incidental, but Elena found her thoughts turning to it more and more, particularly in the silent lulls.

‘You know, if you did want to say anything more about what happened with Mr Ryall — we’re away from there now. You don’t have to worry any more about what you say because he’s hovering in the next room.’

Elena watched Lorena’s expression keenly. Weak sunlight flickered through the trees, Lorena’s light-brown hair intermittently strobe-lit silver, translucent. Lorena bit lightly at her bottom lip, pausing for a second.

‘I was nervous in the interviews, yes… thinking about what he’d say or do afterwards. But that wasn’t why I said nothing then.’ She shook her head. ‘I just couldn’t remember being awake when anything happened… not for sure at least.’

‘It’s okay… you don’t need to explain.’ Watching Lorena’s small face tense, grapple for images that were either out of reach or pushed there by her psyche for her own protection, Elena wished she hadn’t asked. But Lorena simply shook her head again; she appeared too wrapped-up in her own thoughts to take heed.

‘It seemed so real, him touching me, his voice in my ear… I imagined I could almost feel his breath against my cheek. But then when I awoke in the morning, I just couldn’t remember another time that I was awake in the night. And the dreams too had seemed so real… you remember?’ Lorena looked directly at Elena.

‘Yes… I remember.’ Elena’s throat tightened. How could she forget? Lorena’s recurring nightmare was that she was back in the sewers and the waters were rapidly rising. When she couldn’t raise the manhole cover to get free and was fast drowning, she’d awake screaming, her body bathed in sweat. Elena recalled two such nights at the Cerneit orphanage during Lorena’s ten months there after her sewer days, hugging Lorena tight and re-assuring her that she was no longer in the sewers, she was safe. And there were apparently many more nights with similar nightmares when Elena wasn’t present. One of the Cerneit wardens had voiced concerns about Lorena’s state of mind when after a nightmare Lorena had pressed whether the warden was sure that she hadn’t sneaked off in the night back to the sewers ‘…Maybe to look for Patrika.’ Patrika was her closest friend from the sewers who’d drowned one night when the waters rose: the main event which they suspected had triggered the nightmares. The line between the dreams and reality had often been thin in Lorena’s mind, and perhaps Lorena was flagging that now because she was worried that with all the trouble Elena was going to, it might all end up as nothing: any suspicions of Ryall unfounded, all of it just in her dreams. Elena felt suddenly guilty: that wasn’t why she’d asked.

She reached out a hand to touch Lorena’s shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter…that’s what the psychiatrist is meant to sort out. If nothing is happening, at least then you’ll know for sure, one way or the other.’ Elena pushed a smile that hopefully rose above her uncertainty as she looked across. ‘And hopefully be able to sleep easy.’

‘Okay. I understand.’ But from the faint shadows that lingered in Lorena’s face as she took her eyes from Elena to look stolidly at the road ahead, Elena wondered if she did.

A couple of songs later ‘All Saints’ ‘Never, ever’ came on the radio, and Elena turned it up a notch, noticing after a moment Lorena hum along at intervals, the shadows receding. But Elena’s guilt and uncertainty remained. She’d brought up the subject because between their lightweight, inconsequential conversation and the awkward lulls, it felt almost as if they were purposefully tip-toeing around the issue: it was starting to rise as an awkward barrier between them.

But she wondered if part of her had pressed for her own ends. She’d been tongue-tied with nerves practically throughout the Euro-Shuttle crossing and Lorena had done most of the talking. Then with the relief of getting clear on the open road in France, in contrast she’d been more animated, taking over the conversation — until they passed a police car travelling in the opposite direction. A reminder that they were still far from home and dry. An alert could be out with the French police at any moment.

They’d passed only one more police car since, but again it made her pulse race triple-time and put her stomach in knots — and perhaps she was hoping for a quick admission from Lorena so that the nightmare could end here and now. She wasn’t sure she could face many more hours of this assault on her nervous system, a light trembling constantly with her that rose spasmodically to an intense hot rush, her hands at times shaking so hard on the steering wheel that the muscles in her arms ached. But even if there had been a sudden admission and she’d stopped the car and put it on tape, it probably wouldn’t have helped: she’d no doubt have still needed it taped under the guidance of a psychiatrist for it to hold up with social services.

And what now if those sessions revealed nothing conclusive either way? Or, worse still, they leaned towards the likelihood that Ryall was molesting Lorena, but without enough to support that claim with social services. Despite her frayed nerves, at least getting Lorena away was an adventure, a hopeful escape to freedom. How on earth would she be able to return her to the Ryalls if she knew with all certainty what fate awaited her?

The first real break in the case came through just after 7.30 p.m.

Within an hour of returning from interviewing Gordon Waldren, Crowley had a team of five working on and off tracking down Elena Waldren and Lorena. In addition to an all-points police and customs alert, they’d traced all cash-cards and credit-cards in her name, and news finally came in that one of her cash cards had been used fifty minutes beforehand, 19.38 in France. Crowley went through immediately to Inspector Turton’s office.

‘Where?’ Turton asked breathlessly.

‘At a Credite Lyonnaise branch in Bonneval, about fifty miles south-west of Paris.’

‘Where does it look like she’s headed?’

‘At present she’s on a direct line for the south-west coast: Bordeaux or Biarritz.’ Crowley shrugged. ‘But she could easily veer off sharp and head to Brittany, or direct south to Provence or even Spain.’

‘Okay.’ Turton brooded only for a second. ‘Contact Interpol and ask them to put out an alert for her and her car, with special emphasis on the areas you think she might now be travelling through.’

‘Will do.’ Crowley nodded summarily and headed back into the harried activity of the squad room. Hectic at the best of times, the Waldren case had added an edge of urgency: it wasn’t often they got a child abduction, particularly not one that started to blaze a trail across Europe.

He had to look up the Interpol number; the last time he’d contacted them had been over eight months ago. As it started ringing, Crowley glanced at his watch: forty minutes or so to process everything through Interpol, and then Elena Waldren would be hunted down in earnest. A British-plated car off-season, it probably wouldn’t take that long. The bonus would come if she used her credit card to pay for a meal or a hotel that night. Either way, Crowley was confident that within hours Elena Waldren would be apprehended.