The Last Witness

TWENTY-ONE

Maurice Roubilliard pulled up in front of the Bar Rodeo with his normal trademark show and flourish: one Harley taking the lead of his gleaming silver 4-wheeler, two more bringing up the rear. His attempt at a Presidential cavalcade: at least in terms of drug-dealing at the street and club levels in Quebec, Roubilliard was omnipotent, all-powerful.

At six-foot-three and two-forty pounds, he cut an imposing figure, with immaculate black leather trousers and matching jacket which was closer to a waistcoat with its arms cut out and only a four-inch silver chain linking it at the front. It looked as if it had been purposefully tailored to show off his biceps and pecs. His age he’d frozen at thirty-eight, but most put it closer to forty-six, with the main sign evident in his fast thinning shoulder-length rust hair. He sported the green and gold Mohawk headband he’d always worn, but now it was pushed further back on his crown to shield his receding hairline. He was now on his fourth hair transplant to cure the problem, but any of his inner circle that spread that well-concealed titbit put their health at risk: vanity went against the ruthless, hard-man image he carefully nurtured, boosted years back by him beating a murder rap with only manslaughter; he served five out of the seven-year sentence, had continued running his drugs network from inside Leferge prison, and had been out now nearly four years.

The 4-Wheeler was heavily customised, with tinted glass — bullet-proof rumour had it — oversized chrome exhaust snaking up one side like a trucker’s funnel, and big wheels that pushed it ten inches higher off the ground. The two girls with Roubilliard stepped down carefully in their high heels. A blonde and a brunette, both stunning and leggy, close to six foot, if more than a little tarty in their dress: matching black leather trench-coats open at the front to show tight silver hot-pants and bubble-gum pink tank-top on the blonde, the brunette with black leather mini, black see-through blouse and black lace bra. The brunette looked about nineteen, but the blonde looked disturbingly young, no more than fifteen.

At a table by the front window of the Rodeo, Roman nudged Frank Massenat and smiled as Roubilliard’s entourage approached. ‘Would you get this fucking guy. Makes you wonder if we’re doing something wrong, we should be flauntin’ it too.’ They’d parked the Beamer discreetly round the corner and had entered quietly. But in their suits and Crombies, they couldn’t help feeling nevertheless as if they’d made some sort of grand entrance: the bar was awash with check-shirts, jeans and leathers, and more than a few eyes had turned to them curiously.

Roman noticed a hooker outside stepping out intermittently to attract passing drivers in hot pants not dissimilar to Roubilliard’s blonde, but with black nylons and a grey fake fur. He couldn’t resist the jibe as Roubilliard burst through the Rodeo’s swing doors. He stood up theatrically, holding his arms out.

‘Hey, hey. Maurissse, Maurissse.’ He clamped his arms around Roubilliard’s bulk in an embrace, then gestured towards the girls as he pulled back. ‘These two come with you, or did you just pick them up outside?’

Massenat guffawed as the two girls scowled, the brunette perching one hand on her hips challengingly.

Only one corner of Roubilliard’s mouth curled slightly, making it clear he thought the humour value was scant. ‘Let me tell you, my friend — these girls are a cut above.’

‘What — you mean they’re ten years younger?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose you could say.’ Roubilliard levered down into the seat opposite with a faint grunt as Roman sat back down. He gestured towards the window. ‘I didn’t know you liked your girls street-worn like those tired pussies out there.’

‘Just I like them to at least finish their schooling so that they pick up on the finer points of my fucking humour.’ Roman eased a ready smile. ‘Still, enough of my pussy preferences. To business.’ No point in riding Roubilliard too hard. The regular drug shipments Roman was middle-managing for Medeiros guaranteed Roubilliard dancing to the strings he pulled; but this was a side issue on which he wanted Roubilliard’s co-operation.

Roubilliard peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and told the two girls to perch up at the bar, he’d join them in a while, and, with only a brief interruption as the waitress came over and they ordered a fresh jug of beer, Roman ran through the fresh dilemma with Donatiens: nobody had seen him in the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t shown up at the office, wasn’t contactable on his mobile and hadn’t left messages with anyone. ‘…And we’ve checked every likely place he could be. He’s completely disappeared. And we need to find him. Fast!’

Roubilliard nodded knowingly and sipped at his beer. ‘Knows too much, huh?’

‘Yeah, well, we’re starting to get worried about him. He had a little run-in with the RCs recently, and we need to talk to him, that’s all.’

‘Right.’ Roubilliard took another slug of beer and fixed his eyes keenly on Roman, a slow leer rising. ‘Rumour has it that he’s been a problem to you for some while. So maybe this disappearance now is that you finally decided to do something about it: he’s already keeping Venegas company at the bottom of some lake or river, waiting for the Spring thaw.’

Roman sneered and chuckled nervously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be sitting here — ’ Roman waved his arm towards Roubilliard’s henchmen at the table behind and the bar at large — ‘Surrounded by a bunch of assholes who look like they’re stuck in a fucking time warp since “Easy Rider” — asking you to find him.’

Roubilliard shrugged. ‘Maybe ‘cause like everything else with our drug deals and Leduc and Venegas — you haven’t told Jean-Paul. He doesn’t know you’ve already offed Donatiens. And so you need to go through the motions now with me to keep up the pretence.’

Roman reached across and gripped Roubilliard’s arm hard. ‘Look — you’re just arms and legs in this. Someone with the right street connections to find this fucker — if he’s still in Quebec. I’m not paying you to think.’

Roubilliard gave a more philosophical shrug, as if accepting it as a complement: if Roubilliard’s connections weren’t second to none, they wouldn’t both be sitting here now. By necessity, his drugs distribution network touched every club, clip-joint, neighbourhood cafe or bar dealer in the Province, and his contacts with fences and counterfeiters were also excellent. If Donatiens had gone to ground anywhere, or wanted a false-plated car or false identity and credit cards to be able to moonlight discreetly out of Quebec, Roubilliard would soon know about it.

‘Matters not to me if you’ve already taken out Donatiens — I’m hardly likely to let on to Jean-Paul. We don’t exactly mix in the same circles: he’s only interested in being seen around politicians and city movers and shakers these days, not ex-con bikers.’ Roubilliard raised his glass towards Roman. ‘If you say try and find Donatiens, I’ll try and find him.’

But Roman held the same poker face with just a hint of ingratiating smile: Roubilliard couldn’t tell either way whether he’d already taken care of Donatiens or not.

Session 2.

‘…The tragic incident with your friend Patrika drowning in the sewers was something that intensely upset you? Something you found hard to forget?’

‘Yes… yes, it was.’

‘And what were your feelings about the rest of your time in the sewers outside of that tragedy? Did you feel vulnerable and uneasy, frightened even?’

‘Yes, we did… much so. There were always noises: the rush of water, strange echoes… rats scurrying. We never slept much — it was just somewhere to escape from the cold at night.’

Elena sat in a small annexe seven-foot square listening in on headphones to Lorena’s session in the adjoining room. No window between the two rooms: in front of her was a Nova Scotia Tourist Board poster with a rugged coastline vista. The headphones snaked out of a cassette player rolling to one side, and there was also a microphone before her. Because Lowndes dealt with so many child cases, the room was for parents who might need reassurance that their offspring weren’t being unduly pressured. The microphone was only for necessary prompts or, in extreme cases, for parents to call a halt to the session. Lowndes had urged her only to use it if absolutely necessary, as it tended to interrupt the flow.

In a ten-minute briefing beforehand, Lowndes voiced that having reflected more on the first session, he had strong doubts he’d get anywhere trying to draw directly from Lorena that she might have blotted out unsettling events with her stepfather: his aim therefore was to start with other events and edge in.

‘…And how long did you stay using the sewers as a refuge after Patrika died?’

‘Three months, I think… maybe four.’

‘And were you even more frightened then, knowing what had already happened with Patrika?’

‘Yes… yes.’ Lorena was slightly breathless, obviously agitated by the memory. ‘It was even harder then to sleep each night. We would all huddle together and listen out… and the slightest rush or surge of water would waken us. The fear of it perhaps rising again — trapping or sweeping us away.’

‘I see. But this didn’t in the end at any time happen. It was only the fear of it happening… and this replayed mainly through your later dreams?’

‘That’s right… it was only really in the dreams.’

Edging. Elena’s hands clasped tight and worked together. She’d have done anything to avoid Lorena now being dragged back through those dark days — but Lowndes was insistent that there could be a vital link there, a key to the protective barriers in Lorena’s psyche.

‘So too what happened with Patrika. His death, and all the fear and anxiety that came as a result afterwards — that was also kept mostly to your dreams, was it not? Did you spend much time thinking or reflecting on those events at all while you were awake?’

‘No, no… I didn’t. Not much, anyway — it was mainly in my dreams.’

‘So, recall of this period — possibly one of the worst in your life — would it be true to say that to the large extent you pushed away at arms length into your dreams?’

‘Yes, I… I did push it away, I suppose.’ A long pause, faint rustling, the sound of Lorena swallowing. ‘It was very tough for me to think about, you know.’

‘I know. I understand.’ Soothing tone.

Elena closed her eyes. She could hear the tremor in Lorena’s voice as she finally admitted to ‘pushing’ events away, her East-European accent slightly more evident. The breakthrough Lowndes had no doubt been seeking, but at what price? Elena too found herself trembling with the stifling pressure of Lowndes’ questioning. Lowndes had flagged that unless they tried a fresh angle and had a breakthrough soon, he had strong reservations about continuing sessions. ‘We could find ourselves just going around in circles, hitting the same brick wall.’ And so she’d finally relented to allowing Lowndes free rein. It was either that or risk having to throw in the towel: the thought of shipping Lorena back to Ryall, possibly even later that same day, made her shudder.

‘And so with other terrible incidents in your life that you don’t wish to remember directly — do you think it’s possible or even likely that you might want to push them away too?’

‘I… I don’t know.’ Lorena sounded uncertain, or perhaps she hadn’t quite picked up the link.

The prompt from Lowndes came quickly: ‘Push them away to your dreams, where perhaps they’re easier for you to deal with?’

‘I… I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it.’

Slow exhalation from Lowndes — Elena pictured him summoning up fresh reserves — then he continued on relentlessly, as if afraid that if he eased off the pressure, the thread would be lost. With a few more questions, he drew out of Lorena that if indeed something was happening with her stepfather that too would likely be too terrible for her to remember. He finished with a flourish: ‘…Something you might wish to blot out, perhaps again — as with the your terrible sewer days and what happened with Patrika — push to the safety of your dreams.’

There was a suspended moment as Lorena contemplated this: it was as if the impact of where Lowndes had been heading hadn’t really hit her until that final connection was made.

Tentatively: ‘It… it could be that, yes. I see now. I just didn’t know what might be happening because I didn’t really think about it before, I-’

‘It’s okay,’ Lowndes cut in, perhaps sensing it would be the most he’d get at this stage and Lorena was once again heading for more uncertain ground. ‘You don’t need to embrace that thought fully. That would be unfair: after all, this is probably the first time you’ve even looked at that possibility. But I do want you to stay looking at it for a moment, letting it settle more, as I ask you to consider something else…’

Elena had to admit, Lowndes was good. Even without his voiced pre-session concerns, she’d begun to worry that it wasn’t enough hoping that Lorena would simply unlock the memory on her own, and in her call to Gordon late the night before she’d asked how he was getting on with Mikaya: they’d agreed that as soon as she was home dry in Canada, he’d try and make contact with her. ‘I’ve left two more messages, but still no return call as yet. I’ll try twice more tonight and if there’s still no luck, I’ll drive up to Durham University first light tomorrow.’

One of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. If there were darker secrets behind Mikaya’s earlier pregnancy and she pointed the finger at Ryall, they’d have enough for a social services order to get Lorena away: a few months respite if not longer for more considered sessions to discover if the same thing was happening with Lorena, rather than this madness now of trying to cram in everything in only days in the hope of a breakthrough.

‘…What do you think would happen if you did speak out against your stepfather and say that these terrible things that you picture now only in your dreams, were in fact happening? That they were real?’

‘I’m not sure… in what way?’

‘Well, we’re only talking hypothetically — what if — for now. But what do you think would happen to you, Lorena? You obviously wouldn’t be able to stay in the same house with Mr Waldren any more, so where do you think you would go?’

‘I don’t know… I haven’t really thought about that.’

‘I see. I truly don’t think you have.’ Heavy pause, then a fresh breath from Lowndes. ‘But have you considered that perhaps part of your mind has, and that part might fear that you’d have to return to what you knew before — the horrors of the orphanages and your days and nights in the sewers.’

‘I… I don’t know.’

‘But apart from the dreams and your concerns about Mr Waldren — you’re happy there at the house? It’s comfortable and secure and you have everything else you need?’

‘Yes, I think so… it’s a very nice house.’

Elena held her breath as with a series of questions Lowndes teased out of Lorena that in fact this was a level of comfort and security that she’d never experienced at any time in her life before: the tremendous gulf between her current life and the deprivation and horrors of her past existence.

‘…Something you’d probably wish to avoid going back to at any cost.’ A marked pause, as if Lowndes perhaps expected an answer or was intently studying Lorena for reaction. ‘Now that may or may not also be causing something of a block. But it’s never that easy just to say: “Now that I know there’s a block, I’ll just remove it.” So I’m going to ask you Lorena to relax and imagine that if you did have to leave Mr Waldren’s house — you’d go somewhere equally as nice and warm and secure. Somewhere with your mother, obviously the first choice, but if not perhaps some friends. Do you have some other friends perhaps you’d like to stay with?’

‘Yes… there’s my aid worker who first saw me in Romania. She doesn’t live far away.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Elen… er… Ei… Eileen.’

Elena closed her eyes and swallowed hard. The warm rush at being Lorena’s first choice of alternate haven was swiftly quashed by guilt at what she was putting Lorena through: just when Lorena was meant to be opening up her mind to discover the truth about her own life, she was forced to hopscotch around lies as to who everybody else was.

‘And is it a nice house?’

‘Yes. It overlooks a wooded ravine… and at the end is the sea.’

‘There. See. You’re spoilt for choice.’ Lowndes let out a relaxed, soothing sigh. ‘Now I want you to think about those nice places that you’d go to… just as comfortable and secure as where you are now. Because for sure your mother or your friend, Eileen, aren’t going to let you go anywhere that’s not nice or safe. And if you’re worried about you’re stepfather being angry and ranting and shouting at you — don’t. He won’t be allowed near you. You’ll have nothing to fear from him… and absolutely nothing to fear as to where you might go or what might happen to you. Is that perfectly clear now? You’re settled about that and understand that you have no worries at all in that regard?’

‘Yes… I understand.’

‘…And I want you now to draw on that, feel relaxed… feel calm. Feel the pressure gone of perhaps being afraid to speak out because of how your stepfather might react or what might happen to you. But at the same time I also want you to be cautious: if you still can’t remember anything happening with your father, even with all that pressure now gone — and I mean clearly remember — then that too is what we want to hear.’

‘I… I’m not sure. Like I said before, some of it seemed so real… as if it couldn’t possibly be a dream. But I just couldn’t remember any time when I was awake.’

Elena’s palm sweated as she clutched unconsciously at the headphones’ wire: she could feel the clawing pressure on Lorena with each fall of her breath, swallow or faint cough. Lowndes had edged in so deftly, purposefully: it reminded her of the carefully layered brushstrokes of her painting. But then it was as if he’d suddenly remembered False Memory Syndrome and went back and wiped out a stroke, worried that he might have painted her too much into a corner. He needed to push hard to break any block, but then he didn’t want it possibly viewed that the memory had come about merely as a result of that pressure — because Lorena thought that that was what he wanted to hear.

‘…And when you thought back, trying to recall if it was real or just a dream — this was already the morning, the first moments of waking.’

‘Yes.’

Lowndes confirmed with Lorena that her stepfather wasn’t usually there when she awoke. ‘But have there been times in the night when he was at your bedside when you awoke?’

‘Yes… some times when I had the bad dreams.’

‘…About Patrika and the sewers?’

‘Yes.’

‘But were any of those dreams with your stepfather touching you… and you’d awake to find him there at your bedside?’

‘Only one… I…I’ Faltering pause, Lorena’s breathing fractured, laboured.

Gentle prompt from Lowndes, ‘It’s okay… go on.’

‘…I dreamt that he was stroking me, soothing me, telling me that it was okay. Then it became the waters of the sewer washing over me… but it was somehow warm, strange… and as it came up to my mouth, I was choking and spluttering for breath… but still he was stroking me, telling me everything was okay… okay…’

‘…And when you awoke, was he touching you?’

‘Yes… yes. But only my forehead… and he was saying the same words, that everything was okay.’ Lorena swallowed hard, trying to regain her breath and her composure. ‘He said that I’d been screaming… had woken him up.’

‘Did you think he’d just run in from his room, or did you get the feeling he’d been standing there all along?’

‘I… I don’t know… I couldn’t tell. I’m sorry.’

Lowndes paused and took a deep breath. Elena couldn’t help sensing that he’d reached a sort of crossroads — uncertain where to head next, or perhaps because with only a few minutes of the session remaining, he wouldn’t have time to fully explore where he wanted to go. Elena looked down to see her hands noticeably shaking: Lowndes’ questioning, or all the other panics she was frantically juggling at that moment?

Crossroads. In their call last night, Gordon had warned her that the time-scale in which they could have traced her flight to Canada was soon up, and she should be doubly wary the next morning. She’d squeezed in three more door-calls before the session with Lowndes, and heading down St Denis a squad car came out of a side turn and pulled up two cars behind her at the Avenue Monte Royal crossroads. She tried not to look too pointedly or repeatedly in her mirror — but it stayed behind her all the way to Sherbrooke before turning off, by which time her nerves were completely frazzled. She pulled over immediately afterwards: her stomach was still somersaulting and for a second she thought she was going vomit.

‘…You don’t need to be sorry, Lorena. As I said, if nothing is happening, then that’s fine too. And if this is still a question of your memory being blocked in some way, I wouldn’t expect it to suddenly be freed within minutes; it could take time. But what I do want you to do is continue thinking on what we covered earlier: there are absolutely no pressures or worries as to what might happen to you as a result of you speaking out — if you finally remember anything. And maybe with some time to let that thought settle, that might help us in your next session.’ Lowndes voice lowered, becoming soft, almost conspiratorial. ‘Would you do that for me, Lorena?’

‘Yes… I will.’

With a perfunctory but equally soft-mannered ‘Good, see you tomorrow then,’ Lowndes closed the session. He let Lorena go ahead with the receptionist as he held back a moment in his office with Elena. He turned to her thoughtfully.

‘You realize that if there’s no breakthrough early on in the session tomorrow, it could all be over quickly. There might be nowhere else we can go with this?’

‘Yes, I realize,’ she agreed sombrely. As much as she wanted the nightmare ended quickly — the only acceptable way was with a solution. She didn’t think she could bring herself to send Lorena back to Ryall still with the knowledge that he might be molesting her.

‘Oh, one more thing. This Eileen… Lorena’s friend. The aid worker. Are they very close?’

‘Yes, fairly. She helped Lorena a lot in Romania.’ Suddenly realizing she should distance herself more, she added: ‘So I suppose so.’

‘And does she know about this new problem now with Lorena?’

‘I… I’m not sure,’ she stuttered, her heart suddenly in her mouth. But as her mind flashed frantically through all the possible pitfalls — she’d already mentioned social service visits to Lowndes — she decided to at least partly tell the truth. ‘Yes — she must know now. She came along with social services on their second visit. But probably she didn’t know at the beginning.’

‘Right. I see,’ Lowndes mumbled.

She could see that he was still slightly lost in thought, and quickly added: ‘Any problem?’

‘No… no. Not at all.’ He looked at her directly, forcing a smile. ‘Just it’s always useful to have as much background as possible.’

But fifteen minutes later grabbing a quick beef-burger lunch with Lorena, she couldn’t help dwelling on whether Lowndes had some deeper concerns about Lorena’s mention of Eileen the aid worker. As Lorena reached across for much ketchup and the hustle and bustle of the restaurant crashed back in, she pushed it from her mind. She had enough to worry about, and it was probably nothing: just her paranoia because she knew they were lying.

The telephone lines had burned red hot the last twenty-four hours between Cameron Ryall, Inspector Turton and DS Crowley, and in turn between Crowley, Interpol, and an ever-widening net of airports and customs posts halfway across Europe. And as the likelihood of a quick breakthrough diminished, Inspector Turton decided that rather than try and kid-glove the increasingly heated calls from Ryall, he’d pull himself out of the loop and suggest that in future Ryall should contact Crowley directly to be kept up to date on progress.

‘I’ve been told I should speak to you now about this. Apparently you’re doing all the legwork.’ Ryall made the emphasis as if it was the lowest form of activity. The message was patently clear: he was only talking to Crowley through sufferance, and his patience was already long gone. ‘Now what the hell’s going on?’

Crowley clarified with Ryall what information Turton had already passed on, then picked up from there. ‘The cash-card trail seems to have petered out in the middle of France. We’ve had no other notification of its use there, or indeed anywhere else.’

‘And any sightings of her car in France?’

‘No. Nor again anywhere else for that matter. I don’t want us to get stuck on the fact that she might still be in France. So we’ve got alerts out not only with most airports in Northern France, but also border posts with Belgium, Switzerland, Holland and Germany — not to mention airports too that she could have by now reached in those countries. We’re also going through airline passenger records at those airports, plus we mustn’t rule out that she could still be in England. The Euro-Shuttle ticket and the cash-card might have all been just a diversion.’ He didn’t add that he’d soon have to widen the net to cover Italy and Spain as it became possible that she’d reached that far: it made the search sound all the more tenuous, underlined that they really had no idea where she’d gone. He tried to sound confident. ‘Believe me, we’re doing everything we can. Wherever she is, we’ll find her.’

‘What about Mr Waldren?’

Turton had already told Ryall about them putting Mr Waldren on a tight time leash the first twelve hours with the promise of them possibly holding back on charges till then — so Crowley jumped to what had happened since. They’d piled on the pressure by extending the deadline by a few hours, but that now too was well past. They’d applied for a telephone tap on the Waldren’s line along with a record of all calls made the past thirty-six hours, and received both in late yesterday.

‘…But nothing interesting from the records or from the monitoring so far. Though that might be because Mr Waldren seems to make the habit of travelling out to call boxes, usually late at night. Which is the other thing we’re doing — following his movements. Two Chelborne boxes and one on the way to Wareham: he uses different boxes each time. And every time he appears to be receiving the calls rather than making them.’ The way it came across, Crowley couldn’t help thinking their efforts sounded quite impressive. ‘As you can see, sir, we’re not sitting on our haunches on this. We’re covering every possible option.’

‘Is that right?’ Ryall quickly killed any exuberance. ‘But the end result of all this marvellous activity is that you’re found absolutely nothing concrete?’

‘Yes, well, I… I’m not sure what else you expect us to be doing on this?’

‘I though that was your job to work out.’ Mix of bristling impatience and sarcasm. ‘But if I think of anything, I’ll make sure to phone you.’ Ryall hung up abruptly.

Child molester or not — Crowley didn’t want to go near the dangerous area of even attempting to think about it — Cameron Ryall was certainly not a nice person.

Ryall’s intimation that he might not be doing his job properly had particularly stung him, he felt the strong urge to redress the balance, score back some points. And when forty minutes later the two DCs trailing Gordon Waldren patched in to say that he was on the move ‘…Heading out of the area this time, obviously not seeing local clients’ — he thought he might just have that something. Though he waited for another hour to receive the news that Waldren was on the A421 approaching Northampton before he called Ryall.

‘…It could be that he’s going to meet up with his wife, or at least where he’s headed could give some clue to her whereabouts. Certainly it’s a change to his normal routine.’

‘Yes… I see. Some activity I suppose rather than nothing. Thank you for phoning. Keep me posted.’

Crowley’s next call wasn’t for over two hours. ‘He’s gone to Durham, it appears. My men have just watched him park.’

‘Which street?’ Ryall asked pointedly.

‘What…?’ Crowley was fazed for a second before going back to the other line to ask. ‘Elvet Hill Road.’

‘That’s where my other daughter is, you oaf.’

‘Your other daughter?’

‘Yes, my eldest stepdaughter, Mikaya. She’s at Durham University.’

‘…And what would Gordon Waldren be doing seeing her?’

‘I don’t know, for God’s sake,’ Ryall blustered. ‘Maybe abducting her as well. A full bloody house!’ Though he did know. An icy tingle ran up his spine, made his whole body rigid. His secretary had looked up with his raised voice, was still looking concernedly through his glass office partition. He looked down, lowered his voice to an urgent rasp. ‘Look — you’ve got to stop him seeing her.’

‘I… I don’t know if we can do that. It’s not our job to deal with preventive crime management just because you think something might happen.’ Now it was Crowley’s turn to be condescending. ‘Besides, Waldren’s not even meant to know we’re tailing him. And he’s not exactly going to get far with anyone with my two men sitting right over his car.’

‘But you’ve got to do something. I don’t want him speaking to her — is that clear?’

No it wasn’t, not really; but with one daughter now missing for over forty hours, Crowley conceded that Ryall’s reasoning powers were probably heavily bruised. ‘As I say, I don’t think there’s much we can do. But you could of course phone her yourself — warn her off from meeting him. If that’s what he’s got in mind.’

‘Thanks. You’ve been a big help.’

For the second time Crowley found himself left holding a dead line with Ryall.

Ryall tried Mikaya first in her dorm room: no answer. Then he tried to raise her through her tutor or whatever lectures she might be in at that moment, but still no luck. All he was left with was the Registrar secretary’s consolation: ‘We’ve got messages out for her with the note that it’s urgent. I’m sure she’ll call you back as soon as she’s able.’

‘Yes… Thank you. I’m sure she will.’

By then it would probably be too late. Waldren could already be with her in a study room or quiet corner, questioning her. Ryall started trembling, a tingling heat rising up through his neck to his face. His secretary looked away as he looked up sharply.

Turton’s revelation that the main reason given for Lorena’s abduction was for her to undergo psychiatric counselling, and now Gordon Waldren confronting Mikaya: it was like a one-family all-out assault! He doubted that conventional child-psychiatry would uncover much — but with repeated sessions the odds could rapidly worsen. Who knew for sure? Each extra hour with no news on Lorena tightened the tourniquet on his nerves, made him want to scream out loud: part anxiety and fear, part exasperation at the lack of control — so alien to him.

Mikaya too probably wouldn’t recall anything — but what worried him most with her was the time that had since elapsed. How long did something like that stay buried at the back of the mind before it could finally be recovered?