The Last Witness

THIRTY-ONE

‘You feel completely relaxed… feel yourself drifting deeper, deeper…’

Elena was in the small annexe room listening in, breath held as Lowndes pulled Lorena down through the final stages. This would be the first acid test of whether Ryall might have hypnotised Lorena: not everyone was susceptible.

‘…But you’re still aware of my voice. You’re able to follow my instructions, do what I ask. Deeper… deeper…’ Silence for a few seconds, only the sound of Lorena’s steady breathing. ‘You’re in a deep sleep now. But can you still hear my voice, Lorena?’

No answer from Lorena, but Elena imagined that she’d nodded, because Lowndes immediately said ‘Good. Good.’

Longer pause this time, then: ‘Now let us go back to one of the nights Mr Ryall came to your bedside — any night — did he at any time do what I’ve done now: talk you down into a deep sleep?’

‘I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘Cant remember?’ Lowndes was doubting, disbelieving. ‘But you’d surely remember clearly something like that, Lorena. Or is it that Mr Ryall told you not to remember?’

‘I don’t know… I can’t say.’ Lorena was flustered, her breathing rapid and fractured.

‘Can’t say? I think more like won’t say.’ This time it was a statement; Lowndes decided to head abruptly in another direction for questioning. ‘Last time we spoke, you mentioned Mr Ryall counting down some numbers — seven… eight. Is that when he was counting you down into sleep or counting you awake again?’

Silence again, but Lorena’s answer was obvious from her breathing becoming more laboured still. She felt trapped: part of her wanted to say yes, but another part of her Ryall still held in check.

Seven… eight. Lorena recalling the counting had given Elena the first clue, then Gordon’s private investigator had mentioned that Ryall had done child’s party magic acts to pay his way through university. One of the clippings he’d faxed through to Gordon revealed that part of this involved hypnotising the parents and getting them to do all manner of silly things. No doubt a great hit with the children; though not so popular when used against them, Elena thought sourly.

‘It’s okay, Lorena, we’re your friends,’ Lowndes prompted, trying to ease her from the dead-end, the uncertainty of where to head next. ‘And it’s okay to tell us. Mr Ryall only said that you shouldn’t tell anyone else after he’d counted you back awake, didn’t he?’

No answer. A heavy swallow, then the steady, rapid fall of Lorena’s breathing returned.

‘…And we’re still there with you — he hasn’t counted you back awake yet. So it’s okay…’

Another swallow, then ‘…Are you sure?’

Lowndes leapt on the advantage. ‘Of course I’m sure. We’re your friends… Mr Ryall would want you to tell us. We’re still alongside you now the same as him, waiting for his countdown…’

Silence again, back to Lorena’s fractured breathing, her uncertainty. Elena’s hands were clenched tight together with expectancy. Lowndes had mentioned that Ryall had likely built in a protective key: that would be the second breakthrough stage.

‘He’d want you to tell us, Lorena,’ Lowndes repeated. Brief pause, then: ‘So let’s move on to when your stepfather has already put you in a deep sleep, like now.’ Lowndes had obviously decided to take the initiative to break the deadlock; or maybe he felt that part of Lorena’s uncertainty was that she didn’t know where to start her story. He’d have to lead her by the hand. ‘What happened next?’

Still silence from Lorena. Elena counted down the beats with one finger against the table. One. Two. Three. Almost in time with Lorena’s breathing.

‘He’s already soothed your brow… told you everything was okay. Is that what he continues to do — stroke and soothe your brow?’

Five. Six. Finally, hesitantly: ‘Yes, he… he continues stroking me, but gently on my cheek now, saying everything’s okay, okay… we’re all alone now. Nobody else around to disturb us.’

Lowndes eased a heavy breath. He’d told Elena that one of his worries was that the protective key could be quite complex, involving an unusual word to be repeated: it could take them hours to hit on it. Though that method had drawbacks too in that a subject could stumble on the word in real life, or what they thought was that word, and suddenly start talking. He’d hoped that Ryall had simply built in an ‘anyone else once awake’ key.

Back to the silence. ‘This is your story, Lorena — so you have to lead us through it, tell us what happens next.’

Elena sensed Lowndes’ reluctance to continue prompting. He’d had strong reservations about hypnotising Lorena initially: it was outmoded, something he rarely practised anymore, but also it was viewed as strongly suggestive. False Memory Syndrome could all too easily be claimed, especially if it was seen that he’d in any way led her.

After a second. ‘He… he continued stroking me. My neck, my shoulders… then lower…’ Lorena swallowed heavily.

‘Where was he touching you then?’ The closest Lowndes dared prompt.

Another long pause. ‘On… on my breasts.’ Then, as if uncomfortable with what she’d just said, she moved quickly on. ‘And all the time he was saying it’s okay… it’s okay. It’s our little secret. Nobody else will ever know.’

Elena closed her eyes and felt herself sucked back down into the darkness of the chine. Ryall had probably been molesting her practically from day one, back even to when she’d first visited Elena that day and they’d gone down into the chine. And meanwhile Ryall had been dragging her into his own private darkness every other night. Straight from the hell of the sewers and orphanages to Ryall’s personal magic-show hell-hole.

Elena shuddered, could hardly bear to listen as Lowndes wrenched her through the rest: Ryall’s hand travelling lower, lower, until it was between her legs. Ryall gloating, telling her it was okay to enjoy it, to feel excited. It was their secret, remember. He wasn’t going to tell anyone.

It was a difficult passage for Lorena. She paused frequently, her breathing laboured, staccato, her voice often pushed in grabbed bursts in-between. And it was equally difficult for Lowndes. Several times he sighed heavily; it was evident that he’d rather be doing anything else than have her re-live these memories. His awkwardness, his frustration with not being able to openly prompt her came across clearly at moments. Elena could sense him want to reach a hand out, guide her through the more difficult parts, wrap her tongue around words and descriptions she thought she’d never have to speak.

All the times that Elena had harboured doubt, sometimes small, sometimes large; but practically all the way through she’d held some reserve for herself. And Lowndes too only forty-eight hours ago had doubted Lorena, and once again she’d been swayed. Anger, frustration, just wanting to hug Lorena tight and say again that she was sorry, sorry, sorry for ever having doubted her. And tell her that now it really was okay; she was finally safe. Elena suddenly pictured herself showing up at Ryall’s door before the police had even arrived to personally tell him the news that Lorena would never be coming back, and as he registered surprise she’d swing a punch flat on… Elena was distracted. Lowndes’ questioning had shifted.

‘…Don’t you mean Eileen the aid worker? She’s the one you contacted for help.’

‘No, Elena — that’s her name. She’s the one I phoned. She visited originally with someone else, a local social worker, before she finally got me away.’

Oh no! Elena’s heart dropped like a stone. She should have realized the possibility: the whole idea of hypnosis was to uncover buried secrets, get to the truth. But that ran equally for buried secrets on all fronts. She felt like bursting in and screaming ‘Stop! Stop! We’ve already got what we want.’ But it was too late: Lowndes had picked up the thread.

‘Got you away?’ He tried to sound casual, mask his astonishment.

‘Yes. Got me away from England and Mr Ryall. She’s here with me now.’

‘What — here as in here in the next room? Waiting on you.’

‘Yes.’ Questioning tone, faint surprise that he didn’t know this already.

Elena’s heart pounded hard and heavy and her mouth was dry as Lowndes wound the session down. Still she waited in the annexe rather than walk straight in; as if she was an errant schoolchild hiding in the stock cupboard in the hope that the teacher wouldn’t find her.

Sound of a door opening and closing as Lorena went through to the reception area, then seconds later Lowndes swung open the annexe room door.

‘I think we need to talk.’

‘Yes. I think we do.’

Within two hours of putting down the phone on Georges and Chac, Michel decided to phone Mundy.

He’d spent the time between his office and pacing up and down the squad room meanwhile, frantically turning over all the possibilities. One advantage of being out in the cold: nobody called out to disturb him, spoil his train of thought.

Could Chac’s reading of the situation possibly be right? He started to work angles as soon as he was off the line, suddenly he felt he should be back in there infighting, pushing, moulding things how he wanted. A possible ace card to play hit him after only half an hour; but if Donatiens simply said that he didn’t want to see her, he wouldn’t get the chance to play it. There wouldn’t even be any reason for him to contact Mundy. They’d all just have to sit tight on the roller-coaster and wait and see if it de-railed off the edge, as Chac suspected.

But with all that had gone before, everything they’d risked to bring them to this stage — Michel saw that as an unacceptable final chapter. He couldn’t possibly leave anything to chance. He decided to phone Mundy straightaway, before he’d even received Georges’ call.

Mundy listened patiently as Michel explained the latest developments. He sighed long and hard as Michel finished. ‘Strong, heartfelt case. Couldn’t be stronger. But you know the rules with this type of programme. Absolutely no contact with outside.’

‘I thought with the emotional stakes on this one and the fact that it was so unusual — there might be an exception. We could cut some slack.’

‘Nothing could be worse emotionally than not be able to turn up to a loved-one’s funeral — but we never let them go. A case a couple of years back with Pepe Aquilana. His mother died while he was on the programme. And believe me he loved his mother, doted on her — and she was around all of his life. But we couldn’t let him go.’

‘I know.’ Michel had half expected this response, had his game-plan prepared. ‘But that’s mostly because funerals are the first place they look. They expect the mark to come back for a loved-one’s funeral, and they’re waiting. That’s why you don’t let them go. But this is different — she’s new on the scene, nobody has even a sniff of her. Until the other day, not even Georges or the Donatiens family — so certainly not the Lacailles. She could see him and they wouldn’t know the first thing about it.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Mundy said it more to himself. Then after a second: ‘No doubt Georges Donatiens says he wants to see her?’

Michel sensed Mundy was starting to sway; just a touch more. ‘From our earlier conversation, I think he’ll want to. He’s going to confirm back to me later.’

‘Then why don’t we just wait for his confirmation. He might say no — he doesn’t want to see her.’

‘I… I wanted to make sure of the ground first: where S-18 stood.’ Michel purposely appeared hesitant. ‘I didn’t want to build his hopes up only to let him down. He’s already had one let down with not being able to speak to his fiancee. And… well, we’ve got another problem.’

‘What’s that?’

Mundy was where he wanted. Teed up and ready for the swing through. ‘I’m worried that Donatiens isn’t going to last through the programme. Only three days in, and he’s missing his fiancee like hell. The fact that he hasn’t been able to speak to her has hit him hard.’

‘Withdrawal symptoms — happens a lot. He’ll probably get over it in a week or two.’

‘I don’t think so. Him wanting to speak to her is all tied in to a sort of guilt complex over what he’s done. He feels the need to desperately explain that this has nothing to do with betraying her father; that this is all just about Roman and survival. He feels that her father was good to him, and he doesn’t want it seen that he’s let her and her father down, betrayed them. And for good measure he wants to throw in that he still loves her. Maybe he sees that as the final noble gesture: “I still love you, but look what I’m sacrificing for it.” And if he’s not going to get the chance to pass that on, get closure on the whole caboodle with her and her father, then I think the guilt’s just going to work deeper. We’ll end up with a problem — he won’t last the course.’ Michel’s voice was doom-laden as he hit the last words. Part had been passed on earlier by Chac, part he’d filled in and embellished, but hopefully the joins were seamless. Only twenty-four hours sitting on the fence, and once again he was back to steering events where he wanted them to go. The fear of possibly losing grip of the Lacailles was again running through him like raw voltage.

‘So, what’s the solution?’

‘I think there’s a way of using this situation now with his birth mother to our advantage. Killing two birds with one stone.’ Michel explained his thinking and Mundy stayed mostly silent, confirming only a couple of small points. At the end he was back again to ‘I don’t know,’ but Michel sensed that Mundy was warming to the idea, his earlier reservations were fast dying. He was eighty-percent there.

‘As soon as you know from Donatiens whether or not he finally wants to see her, let me know.’ Mundy exhaled like a deflating tyre. ‘I’ll give you my decision then.’

Except for a couple of times when Lowndes looked down and shook his head, his eyes hardly left Elena’s as she ran through the whole sorry saga of the past weeks.

‘You mean the police are seeking you now, as we speak?’

‘Yes. The last four days — since we left England.’

‘Oh boy.’ Lowndes ruffled his hair, lightly clutching at it. ‘Some mess.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Seeing the weight of problems she’d carried with Lorena suddenly shift to Lowndes’ shoulders, she felt the need to apologise. ‘But I just didn’t see any other way through. Ryall had blocked all the routes — if I’d turned my back, she’d have been trapped there. And if I hadn’t made out I was Lorena’s mother, you probably wouldn’t have seen her. She’s the only one you’d take authority from.’

‘Right.’ Lowndes looked at her levelly. ‘One truth at least.’

Elena looked away awkwardly for a second, then gestured towards the session couch. ‘And as things turned out, in the end I was right to take that action. Vindicated.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Vindicated.’ Lowndes chuckled nervously. He was quickly back to ruffling, trying to clear his thoughts. Then stopped abruptly, looking up again. ‘Look — what you’ve just told me, you never told me. Right? Otherwise it might be seen that I’ve been an accomplice in this too.’

Elena raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘I don’t see how that’s such a problem now. I’ve got to contact the police in any case, hand Lorena over and tell all about Ryall. Given that my reasons for taking her were founded, I don’t see that they’re going to pursue it. And certainly Ryall won’t be in any position to press charges.’

‘True. But… but that’s not the main problem now. This really all goes back to my first concerns about False Memory Syndrome.’

‘What sort of problem?’ With Lowndes’ hesitance and his eyes suddenly having trouble meeting hers directly, Elena got the first warning signs that this was no light problem. One last hair-ruffle and Lowndes leant forward with forearms rested on his knees to explain.

He’d mentioned False Memory Syndrome at the outset of the sessions with Lorena, and particularly before this last session now involving hypnosis.

‘The reason that I emphasised it again is that hypnosis is seen as highly prone to suggestion. That’s why I was reluctant to use it, particularly in a potential child abuse case. But, as you pointed out, it was likely the only way to draw Lorena out. And you were proven right on that front. We succeeded there, and we have every right to feel happy with that success.’

Lowndes paused and drew a long breath. ‘But unfortunately it could all too easily end up a hollow victory.’ Lowndes went on to explain a case a couple of years back involving a close colleague in Montreal. A similar child abuse claim where the main evidence was gained on the psychiatrist’s couch. The father screamed ‘False Memory Syndrome’, said that the psychiatrist had planted the idea in the child’s mind, and he got off. ‘There’s been a half-dozen or more such cases nation-wide the past five years, and all of those just involved conventional therapy. With hypnosis, where possible suggestion is already seen as a strong factor — one of the reasons in fact why it has become outmoded — the chances of the FMS flag being raised are even higher. It depends how hot on the ball the stepfather is — this Mr Ryall?’

‘He’s a pretty high-profile businessman,’ Elena said vacantly. It probably came across as a surrender flag, but all Elena felt was numb. She was still assimilating what Lowndes was saying: no clear thoughts yet either way. Then she remembered from the adoption files: ‘Oh, and he used to be a barrister.’

‘Oh.’ The single exclamation was like a pistol-shot, echoing and ricocheting round the room: No chance, no chance, no chance.

In the silence following, as the prospects of a doomed case against Ryall settled like a grey shroud where only moments before Elena had seen nothing but bright hope, it suddenly dawned on Elena that Ryall had probably seen this last contingency from the outset. The chances of his secret being discovered were slim enough, but this was the final safeguard: even if it was, he’d known all along that FMS would be his get-out. All of her efforts and the dramas of the past weeks had in the end been for nothing. He’d covered every possible option. Controlling men. Story of her life.

‘No, no!’ She shook her head. That couldn’t be the final note; she couldn’t let it be. ‘Surely Lorena can’t just go back to him. The police can’t possibly let that happen.’

‘No. But you probably know how these things works as much as me. Lorena will go to foster parents for a while until this whole wrangle is sorted out. But I wouldn’t hold your breath on this one going against Ryall. She’ll probably end up having to go back to him — and the best you can do is try and complicate the legal process as much as possible to delay that inevitability.’

‘Delay?’ Elena jumped in. Only moments ago Lorena in her mind’s eye had been free of Ryall forever, now she was reduced to desperate bargaining for time. ‘How long do you think we could play things along?’

‘A good lawyer should be able to spin things out for a year, eighteen months. But don’t forget Ryall is going to be pushing just as hard to cut that time back, short-circuit things. And I don’t think you’ll have helped your case any by taking Lorena from her home in order to bring her here. Abduction, probably arguing that the evidence shouldn’t even be considered because it was gained under forced, criminal circumstances. If Ryall’s lawyer push all the right buttons, they could get it thrown out in a preliminary hearing within only a few months.’

‘Right. I see.’ Elena blinked slowly. The abduction she recognized as an obvious strike against, but she hadn’t realized that it might also get the main evidence thrown out. The chances of nailing Ryall were slipping further away by the minute. She’d hardly had a chance from the start, let alone the half-crazed woman she was now: her nerves shot from the stream of valerian pills, the pressure-cooker anxiety of running hide-and-seek from the police, and only a few hours sleep grabbed in days. She felt strangely pathetic, that somehow she could no longer get anything right: wrong about her father, and while she’d been right overall about Ryall, she’d read everything else wrong; in the end she’d been ineffectual, unable to change anything. Michel Chenouda would probably phone her that night and tell her ‘no go’ on that front as well. Dead-ends at every turn.

Maybe they should be glad of small mercies: six months respite, perhaps even a year or more. But the thought of Lorena having to go back to Ryall after that time, fully knowing that he was molesting her, was somehow even crueller, more unacceptable. She voiced that thought. ‘…I couldn’t possibly let her go back knowing that. I’d do again what I’ve done now — abduct her.’

Lowndes shrugged awkwardly, glancing towards the reception room where Lorena waited on them. ‘The thing is, she doesn’t know that yet. It was all under hypnosis. And if the tapes were entered in-camera, she never would get to know. Unless of course you won the case.’

Elena considered the option for only a second before discarding it. She shook her head, cradling with her left hand as she gently massaged her temples. Another secret hidden, more shadow games; already she’d spent too much of her life playing them.

Seeing her so forlorn, the storm clouds settling heavy in her face, Lowndes felt the need to reach a hand out. She thought she’d reached the last hurdle, and now he’d suddenly put another half dozen in front of her. ‘Maybe I’ve painted too dark a picture, but I didn’t want you to get carried away with false hope. And that’s only how I see it from the Canadian perspective; things might be completely different in England. When you speak to the police, the best thing is get their view. They might well see a brighter and better way through.’

Curiosity. In the end that’s what won through.

Everything else all but cancelled out. On one hand the fact that she’d left him alone without any attempt at contact for all these years; on the other that she’d obviously gone to considerable trouble to make contact now: search agencies, the trip from England, finally the orphanage. She’d let him be given away, unforgivable; but then she’d been so young, the father domineering. Left to her and perhaps a couple of years older, it sounded like she wouldn’t have let him go.

Chenouda said that she’d blotted it out, too painful. What did that mean? That she thought of him frequently but blotted it out? Or that she blotted it out from the start and rarely thought of him? How much thought, how much blotting out? With her work with the child agency, certainly it looked like the guilt had stayed with her. Thought, blotting out, guilt? With each passing minute that Georges pondered and paced on the safe-house veranda, the questions multiplied. He’d only get so far quizzing Chenouda; probably already he’d passed on most of what he knew. For the rest, the only way would be to meet her face to face.

Then there were the many gaps to be filled in on his own life. One that already sat comfortably was knowing that Nicholas Stephanou wasn’t his real father. He’d always found it hard to accept that that spineless wonder, consumed only with burying his own misery at the bottom of a whisky bottle, selfishly and heartlessly giving him away to an orphanage so young — when he too was blinded by grief from the loss of his mother — could possibly be the same blood.

His mother? But at the same time he’d revered what he thought was his mother: so beautiful, died so young. She too was a victim, just like him. He’d touch her photos longingly in the dark days in the orphanage, and dream about her. Think how nice it would be to feel her hug and hold him tight, feel the soft press of her lips against his cheek. Now too those fond memories would be sacrificed, and that he didn’t feel so comfortable about. In the balance. It was difficult.

But the action of Nicholas Stephanou and the orphanage had left by far the biggest shadow on his life. His memory of Maria Stephanou had been little more than a fragment, fading fast with the years: in the end it was more what he hoped or imagined her to be like from her photos than the brief reality he recalled before the car accident.

Shadows that plagued him for years with his second family — or was it now the third? — the Donatiens, Claude and Odette. They loved him, doted on him, but Claude Donatiens’ business ups and downs through the years meant that often things had to be cut lean. A small jobbing builder, whenever there was a property slide their own home fortunes slid with it.

They weren’t able to have children of their own and there’d been another adoption planned, a baby sister for him, but in the end tight finances put pay to that too. But despite the see-saw problems, Claude Donatiens always managed to bravely smile his way through. He never let them drag him down, in any way overshadow his affection for him as a child, or hide in a bottle like Nicholas Stephanou; or at least he never showed it. Odette too was amazingly supportive throughout. She never balked or swayed from Claude’s side.

Though it was many years before he saw those attributes as in any way positive. When the problems hit, his predominant fear was that once again he’d be given away. The financial pressure would crush Claude, or Odette would leave him because it was finally one crisis too many, and in the melee he’d be given away.

Nicholas Stephanou and the orphanage had left him with deep-rooted insecurities that had hung over him most of his life. Even in his teens when abandonment no longer held the same threat, he still harboured resentment, viewed his stepparents’ problems with disdain. Probably what had made him so driven to end up in finance and banking. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes.

That didn’t change until he’d been through his first yuppie years in banking and had a bellyful of shallow people who chased money to the exclusion of all else — including loved ones and family. Possibly they even viewed him as one of them, didn’t realize that to him family was vitally important, with the money mostly as a means to that end. It was only then that he finally started to appreciate his stepparents: despite their financial problems, they’d always put him first, kept the family bond strong. Now he’d seen the other side of the coin: money dividing families. Battles over estates and wills, money all too often taking pole position over a child’s welfare in divorce battles, or them cast aside and forgotten in the rush as one partner found a better financial match somewhere else.

In comparison, Claude and Odette had suddenly shone through as heroes. Champions of how to survive business crises and still cling on, hold body and soul and family together. Most other men would have long ago been trampled under, but Claude had this amazing bounce-back quality; he’d have probably made a good spokesman at a small business survival conference. And with a little financial help and guidance from Georges, business had been good these past five years; perhaps that gentle touch on the rudder had been all that Claude needed all along.

But still on occasions it was laid at his door that his attraction to the Lacailles was because of his own past family insecurities: that he saw in Jean-Paul a strength and security that had been lacking in both Nicholas Stephanou and Claude Donatiens.

And all of that as a result of one abandonment — now there was meant to be two. Maybe that’s why the insecurity had wormed so deep: a part of him had always known that it had happened twice.

Elena Waldren. He uttered her name on a slow breath, watched thoughtfully the vapour drift and disperse in the cool air. She could probably fill in a lot of the gaps in his life, shades that had never been fully clear. But having spent so long coming to terms with what he thought was his life to date, he wasn’t sure he was ready to have it upended yet again. He was curious, curious as hell. But was he ready for the Pandora’s Box that might be opened up?

He was still pacing and rolling the pros and cons on his vapoured breath when twelve minutes later Chac knocked on the glass behind him.

Chac waved him in as he slid back the veranda door. ‘Michel on the line for you.’