The Last Witness

TWO

Elena flicked through the report in her lap as Nadine Moore wended through the Dorset lanes. A weak sun threw dappled light through the trees, and at points Nadine glanced across and pointed at the file, prompting.

‘That’s the last interview with the Ryall’s, there. Eleven months ago. Two months later the official adoption order was made, and we were out of the picture.’

‘And no alerts since?’ Elena asked. ‘Nothing to raise concern?’

‘That would normally only come up through Lorena’s school or GP. But no, nothing.’ Nadine forced a tight smile after a second. ‘But, anyway, it seems you’re the one she first turns to for help.’

‘Seems so.’ Elena nodded and mirrored Nadine’s smile. She looked again at the file, flicking back a page.

The call had come through at almost 1 a.m. Lorena’s voice had been hushed, and Elena got a picture of her sneaking in the call while the rest of the house was asleep. ‘…Sorry to disturb you, Elena. But something troubles me here. And I didn’t know who else to phone.’

Lorena’s English had improved tenfold in the fifteen months since she’d last seen her. ‘It’s no trouble at all. Now tell me — what’s the problem?’

‘It’s Mr Ryall. He comes to my bedroom late at night, and I… I don’t feel comfortable.’

‘In what way?’

‘I’m not sure. ’ A heavy swallow from Lorena, her breath coming short. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry.’

Elena reassured her that she’d done the right thing, then pressed if Ryall was actually touching or interfering with her. A long silence, too long, before Lorena’s uncertain ‘No.’ Then: ‘I don’t know,’ and something incoherent in Romanian, Lorena’s voice quavering heavily before she finally lapsed into muted sobbing. Seconds later she hung up.

Elena didn’t sleep well afterwards, contemplated phoning back or actually jumping in the car and heading to the Ryalls. But Lorena’s obvious fear of disturbing the house and her own concern that breaking procedure could upset progress, if anything was happening, held her in check.

She phoned Social Services first thing in the morning. She received the call back from Nadine Moore forty minutes later that Lorena had requested she also be at the interview. ‘She says she’ll feel more comfortable talking about it with you there.’

Elena had only met Nadine Moore once before, when Nadine first took over Lorena’s case halfway through the final adoption assessment year. Nadine was a bright-eyed twenty-eight year old with crinkly brown hair framing round wire-frame glasses. Strong contrast to her older, more matronly predecessor who often spoke in tired, condescending tones, as if long ago she’d adopted the style to deal with errant parents and found it difficult to switch off. Maybe in another ten years all the verve and optimism would be knocked out of Nadine as well.

Elena herself might at one time have been described as matronly, but her hectic schedule the last five years with the aid agency — jumping aboard last minute flights or supply trucks headed for Bucharest or Bosnia — had rapidly burned off the pounds. Now she looked more like a trim, mid-forties Jackie-O, the first touches of pepper showing in her dark hair. In looks — though decidedly not in temperament or in her outlook on life — she’d taken more after her Cypriot father than her English mother.

Elena buried herself back in the report. The final assessment findings told her little beyond what she already knew about the Ryalls from when they’d started the whole process in Bucharest. Cameron Thomas Ryall, 52, founder and head of CTR Micro-Tech. Married to Nicola Anne Ryall, 44, housewife by occupation, for the past fourteen years, his second marriage. No children of their own, though Mr Ryall has a son, Michael, now 28, from his first marriage. One previously adopted daughter, Mikaya, originally from Cambodia. Mikaya is now 19 and at University.

Well-established businessman. Comfortable and secure home environment. One-career household (prospective mother always at home). Previous successful history with adoption. Ryall had collected star points at every turn, and perhaps, Elena reflected, he’d known that all along. Lorena’s adoption planned with the same skilled precision as his last take-over bid. The only thing which might have gone against Ryall was the high-flying nature of his business. But his main plant and HQ was only eight miles away, by far the area’s largest ‘green-field’ industrial enterprise and nearby Chelborne’s largest employer. Not only had Ryall avoided the absentee father label of so many high-powered executives, he’d also gained the final cream topping of local champion of the people.

‘You still feel quite close to her, don’t you?’ Nadine was looking across with a slightly pained, quizzical expression. She’d purposely side-stepped ‘feel responsible for’; it might make it sound like a forced obligation. ‘How long did you know her in Bucharest?’

‘There was a gap in the middle — but twenty months altogether.’ Elena nodded. ‘And yes, I suppose I do.’ They were all special to her in some way. All 18 children between the three orphanages in Romania, now all settled in new homes, hopefully safe and secure, around Britain. But how to explain that Lorena had stood out, touched an even more poignant chord above the rest? A natural closeness and affinity you feel with a particular child, yet can’t pinpoint exactly why? Or perhaps part of it was due to what Lorena had suffered after the first orphanage closed and her eleven months rough on the streets, one of Bucharest’s ‘sewer children’, before re-emerging. Elena still partly blamed herself for that.

Elena looked up as Nadine swung into the Ryalls’ driveway. An impenetrable rhododendron hedge ten foot high spread out each side of double wrought-iron black gates almost as high.

Local champion of the people. Any move against Ryall wouldn’t be popular, if anything was happening. But Elena prayed that it was all a false alarm first and foremost for Lorena’s benefit. She pushed away the contemplation that it was also partly for herself as abruptly as it had struck. Possible failure with one of the eighteen just wasn’t an option.

Nadine got out of the car and buzzed the security intercom by the gate.

Elena felt the walls and barriers go up as they went deeper into the Ryall house.

They were ushered into a large open entrance hallway, then on through a narrow, walnut-panelled passage by the Ryalls’ maid, who — according to Nadine’s report — also doubled as a cook and was at the house daytimes four days a week. Cameron Ryall maintained it was important not only that they should have time together privately, as a family, but also that they shouldn’t become reliant on a housekeeper to the extent that she might become viewed as a surrogate mother by Lorena. ‘She’ll have enough trouble adapting to one new mother, without any such confusion.’

Ryall certainly knew how to score the points. Elena bit at her lip. She should avoid slipping into prior judgement; it wouldn’t help her have a clear view now. Ryall might have been being sincere.

Through half-open doors as they went along, Elena got a glimpse of a large oak kitchen and another room with a piano and some books, games and toys stacked to one side. The centrepiece, though, was the room they were led into: a high-ceilinged drawing room some thirty-five foot square. Overlooking was a book-lined gallery, and the walnut-panelled theme had been continued, with a painting centrepiece on each panel. Elena recognized two originals by Thornhill, the Dorset landscape artist, but on the far wall to their left were more modern works, slightly out of keeping with the Edwardian house: two abstracts Elena didn’t recognize, then a Chagall and a Seurat. They weren’t close enough for her to tell if they were original or not.

The maid asked if they wanted tea or coffee. They both took coffee: Nadine white, Elena black.

The few minutes with her out of the room preparing — the only sound the remote clink and clatter of china — were tense. They didn’t speak. There was only one thing now on their minds, and it wasn’t a conversation they could risk being overheard.

Their eyes were naturally drawn to the over-sized picture window at the end of the room. At least twelve-foot high and asp-shaped, it provided a dramatic view over the pool and the gardens beyond. Flower beds and linking paths flanked one side, and the lawn tabled steadily down so that they could see clearly over the bordering rhododendron hedge towards the sweep of SwanageBay. The wind was steady, and a succession of distant white-caps were just discernible dancing through the sea haze. Approaching the house from the car, they’d clearly heard the ebb and surge of the sea, but now it was deathly silent: muted through eighteen-inch thick stone walls and double-glazing.

As if on cue, the Ryalls walked in just before the coffees were brought through. Eager smiles and handshakes all round. Cameron Ryall looked keenly at Elena as he held her hand a second longer.

‘Nice to see you again. Last time we met was — ’

‘Cerneit orphanage, Bucharest,’ Elena filled the gap.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Must be almost two years now.’

They sat down. The awkward silence settled again for a second, and as Nadine opened by explaining the reason for her visit now — that Lorena had confided in a school-friend about some worries and concerns at home — the Ryalls’ expressions quickly became solemn.

This had been the final game-plan agreed with Lorena: Lorena hadn’t wanted it known that she’d phoned directly about any worries. Elena was watching Cameron Ryall’s expression closely: no visible flinching, just his eyes darkening a shade. Heavier concern.

‘As explained, we do have to follow these things up.’ Nadine took a quick sip of coffee. ‘So, after speaking to you, I would like ten or fifteen minutes alone with Lorena. If that’s okay?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Cameron Ryall said. He sat forward, forearms rested on his thighs; a picture of eager compliance.

Nicola Ryall nodded her concurrence, eyes quickly downcast. Who would be taking the lead became painfully clear. Standard role positioning between them, or had she been coached? ‘This could be delicate: leave it to me.’

When Nadine had phoned and made the appointment with Nicola Ryall, Nicola hadn’t made it clear whether Mr Ryall would also be present. The meeting had been arranged for 4 pm, just after Lorena returned from school. Cameron Ryall obviously considered it important enough to leave early and let his global conglomerate run itself for a couple of hours, or perhaps he had deeper reasons for concern? Elena pushed the thought back again.

Cameron Ryall was stocky, his dark-brown hair heavily greying at the sides, and apart from a few extra pounds looked very much the same as when she’d last seen him. His most startling feature was his dark blue eyes, which in certain lights, depending on their dilation, appeared almost black.

He was dressed casually in dark green rugby shirt and jeans; the soft-edged, caring foster parent. When she’d first met him at the orphanage, he was wearing an oversized parka, as if he was a war-zone journalist. Then later at the Bucharest adoption agency, a dark grey suit and tie. Man for all seasons.

Nicola was a slim, attractive blonde, but her hair was cut short and she was wearing a small-check plaid skirt and plain cream blouse, as if she was trying to appear more prim, reserved and country-setish. Or perhaps this was more of her husband’s stage-management: ‘Less glamour will give the impression of less self-interest. You’ll come across as more motherly.’

Nadine opened up her folder on her knees, pen poised. She glanced down briefly at some typewritten notes before turning to a blank page and looking back at the Ryalls.

‘Now, has Lorena mentioned anything to you recently about something troubling her?’

The Ryalls looked at each other briefly. Cameron Ryall answered with a slight shrug.

‘No, not that we can think of.’

‘Anything at all?’ Nadine pressed. ‘However small and irrelevant it might have seemed at the time?’

Nicola Ryall’s expression lifted, as if a fresh thought had suddenly struck. ‘Well, she did complain not long ago about problems with some school-work. History, I think it was…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cameron Ryall quickly picked up. ‘Her spoken English is quite good now, but she still has problems with written English. And for history she has to do a fair few essays.’ He forced a weak smile. ‘She finds them something of a struggle.’

Nadine started in on the rest of her check list: Progress with other subjects? Friends at school and how was Lorena settling in generally? Outside friends and interests? Lorena was settling in fairly well, no problems with other subjects that the Ryalls could think of. A few friends made at school, only one from outside that they knew of. After a moment, Elena partly faded it out. Nadine had pre-warned that with much of it routine questioning, she’d be largely redundant until they talked to Lorena. She was there to comfort and reassure Lorena, nothing more.

Cameron Ryall answered politely and methodically, with his wife providing only sporadic input. Eagerness to satisfy any concern was the general tone; no hint of defensiveness or agitation that Elena could pick up on.

Elena got up and walked towards the picture window. It wasn’t so much her redundancy, but frustration that suddenly settled hard. Left to her, she’d have bulldozed in with a chain of direct, awkward questions and by now had the Ryalls pinned in the corner. But that wasn’t, as she knew from past often tedious experience, how the Social Services worked.

Procedure. Questions had to be open, devoid of angle. ‘Subjects must have the opportunity to volunteer information without undue prompt or influence.’

Elena looked out over the gardens and pool. With the winter light fast dying and a chill wind, it looked inhospitable. She recalled two photos Lorena had sent with a short note five months back: one of her in the pool with an oversized beach ball in bright sunshine, the other of her blowing out the candles at her April birthday party with a few friends — probably taken in the breakfast or dining room. Happy days with her new family. Few signs now of a child’s joyful activity, thought Elena; the atmosphere in the house was flat and sterile. Pretty much like Nadine’s interview technique.

The softly-softly approach might work with some, but Elena doubted it would with Cameron Ryall. She remembered from the first adoption report that he’d been a practising barrister for three years before going into business. With now almost thirty years of hard-edged trading under his belt, he could run rings round the Nadine’s of this world.

But then Nadine had told her that probably little would be revealed until they spoke to Lorena directly, and then if anything looked suspicious she would hit the Ryalls with bigger guns at a second interview. Perhaps her attachment to Lorena was making her too anxious for a quick solution, which was no doubt why Nadine had reminded her so pointedly to stay in the background with the Ryalls, ‘However angry and indignant you might feel. And after the initial introductions with Lorena and putting her at ease, leave everything to me.’

Her husband Gordon, too, had tried to calm her crusading spirit when she’d told him about the meeting with the Ryalls. ‘It may all come to nothing, you don’t know yet. And even if something is happening, it’s not your problem anymore, it’s the Social Service’s. You did your bit by caring for those children until they found homes. You can’t be expected to stay responsible for them all forever.’

But that was the problem, she did still feel responsible for them all. And in that moment, she felt a strong pang of guilt that in twelve years of marriage, she’d never told Gordon why. Perhaps he was right, it would all come to nothing, and she would never have to tell him. It would stay her secret, as it had done already for half her life.

‘No, no. There’s no problems.’

‘Are you sure?’ Nadine let out a slow breath. ‘This is quite important. It’s why we’re here.’

A moment’s hesitation from Lorena, but it was quickly brushed aside. ‘No, really. Everything’s fine. I was worrying for nothing.’

They were in the music and playroom they’d passed earlier. Lorena had been ushered in from her room by the maid, then they’d been left alone, the door closed.

There had been a tense moment towards the end of interviewing the Ryalls when Nadine had asked a similar question: ‘Moving closer to home, is there anything here troubling Lorena that you can think of?’ Elena had turned from the window and moved a few paces back towards the Ryalls, focusing intensely and staring almost straight through them — not sure whether she was still looking for tell-tale signs or was hoping to unnerve them. Cameron Ryall had answered the same as Lorena, though without any hesitation.

Lorena appeared to have grown almost two inches since Elena had last seen her, was now close to five foot. Her hair was long and straight and somewhere between light-brown and corn, with just a hint of red in certain lights. Her eyes were a large and expressive blue-grey with a sprinkling of pale green flecks. In a few years, she could no doubt pass for a stunning pre-pubescent cat-walk model, and perhaps that had partly contributed: because she was so pretty, it was easy to believe the worst about Cameron Ryall. Elena tried to detach herself from that thought, but it was difficult.

Lorena’s English was near-perfect, though still with a distinct Eastern-European accent, its edges now smoothed by a gentle Dorset lilt. The combination was quite cute and endearing.

They’d hugged enthusiastically on greeting, and Elena felt reluctant to part, clinging on to Lorena’s hands a moment longer as Lorena asked if she got the photos, and she in turn commented that Lorena had grown and asked how she was. But it became quickly, painfully obvious that there were few safe footholds without getting to the business at hand, so Elena made the introductions and offered some encouragement — ‘Nadine’s here to help you. Just tell her everything in your own words, in your own time’ — then let Nadine take over.

Nadine started with the softer ground covered earlier with the Ryalls — friends at school or from outside, how she was settling in generally, problems with her history essays — before zeroing in with questions about problems at home. But it seemed to have served little purpose; Lorena was still edgy, ill at ease.

Nadine was uncertain whether to ease back and circle slowly in again, or to be more direct. She glanced at Elena, whose frustration and impatience was painfully evident. The risk with a direct blast was that Lorena could clam-up completely; but there was probably little to lose, she certainly wasn’t getting anywhere with the soft approach.

‘When you phoned Elena, you mentioned that Mr Ryall was coming to your bedside late at night, and that this disturbed you. Why did this disturb you?’

‘It just did, that’s all.’ Lorena looked down for a second. ‘He used to come to read me bed-time stories, but I told him I was too old for that now.’

‘But has he still continued to come?’

‘Yes, but less now. Now it’s more for when I have the dreams than to read me stories.’

‘The dreams?’

‘Yes, I…’ Lorena glanced towards Elena. ‘I used to have bad dreams that I was underground, trapped… couldn’t breathe.’ She put one hand up dramatically to her throat. ‘They stopped finally, but not long ago, maybe six or seven months, they come back again.’

Elena could see that Nadine was still grappling for a full picture, and cut in. ‘Lorena lived rough on the streets of Bucharest for almost a year after the first orphanage closed. In the winter, to keep warm, this often meant them making their beds and sleeping underground in the sewers. For a while afterwards at the second orphanage, before she came to England, she was plagued by nightmares about that.’

‘I see.’ Nadine nodded. ‘And when Mr Ryall comes to your bedside over those dreams, does anything else happen? Anything that might disturb you?’

Lorena’s brow knitted. ‘In what way?’

Nadine swallowed imperceptibly and stayed staring steadily at Lorena. ‘Has there ever been any physical contact?’

Lorena blinked slowly, absorbing the weight of the question. ‘No, well… only him soothing me, stroking my head, you know, to calm me.’

‘Nothing else?’

Lorena shook her head. ‘No, nothing.’

Elena remembered many a night soothing Lorena’s brow at the Cerneit orphanage, and now Cameron Ryall had taken her place. Elena noticed the dark, fearful shadows return to Lorena’s eyes with talk about the dreams, but did something else lay behind those shadows? Natural discomfort of a young woman fast growing-up with a man visiting her bedroom late at night, or was something more worrying going on? Was this a safe and secure, loving home — everything Lorena had always dreamed of and more — or a gilded prison?

Lorena would have grown up quicker than most, Elena reminded herself: she’d have had to think and act like an adult just to survive on the streets of Bucharest. She’d had so little real childhood. And perhaps, as a result, she just couldn’t relate to the Cinderella and pink-ribbons images Cameron Ryall was trying to sell with his bed-time stories. She was keen to embrace adult-hood quicker so that she could blot out her childhood completely; kid herself it never happened. Maybe the only way she felt she could be truly happy. Certainly it would explain a lot.

‘How often do you have these nightmares now?’ Nadine asked.

‘Sometimes I’ll have none for two weeks or so. Then two or three might come only days apart.’

‘And is it always Mr Ryall that comes to see to you, or does Mrs Ryall sometimes come?’

Lorena shook her head. ‘It’s usually him. She usually only comes to me when he’s away somewhere on a trip.’

‘And does Mr Ryall visit your room late for any other reason now apart from the dreams? Does he read you some stories still?’

‘No, no stories anymore. But sometimes he comes to my room just to talk — you know, asking about schoolwork, how I’m getting on. Things like that.’

‘Does that happen often?’

Lorena shrugged. ‘Mainly when he’s been away somewhere and hasn’t seen me for a few days. Apart from that, not much.’

Nadine asked a few more questions, trying to get it clear just how often Mr Ryall visited her room late at night. One way or another, Ryall managed to visit at least once a week, sometimes twice a week.

‘How about when Mr Ryall is around you at other times? Do you feel comfortable then?’

‘Yes, it’s… it’s okay.’ A flicker of uncertainty for a second, then Lorena shrugged nonchalantly. ‘No problems.’

‘And Mrs Ryall? You get on well with her?’

‘Yes.’

‘You never feel uncomfortable around her at any time?’

‘No.’ Lorena smiled faintly, as if the question was slightly ridiculous.

Elena watched Lorena intently throughout the exchange. The atmosphere in the room became tenser with each question, and Elena’s emotions were seriously divided. A chink of uncertainty in Lorena’s eyes, and she’d feel like screaming: ‘Stop shying away, covering up! If you don’t say something, speak up, we can’t help you. You’ll stay trapped here at Ryall’s mercy.’ But when Lorena appeared sure-footed and confident, it would hit that other part of her that wanted desperately to believe that nothing was happening; though maybe she too was selectively erasing, unwilling to accept any possible horrors after what Lorena had suffered in Romania.

Nadine took a fresh breath. ‘So, more or less, all of your problems stem from your discomfort with Mr Ryall coming to your bed late at night now that you’re older. Is that about it?’ Nadine tapped her pen on her folder as she waited on Lorena’s answer.

Lorena merely nodded, chewing lightly at her bottom lip.

‘So, if and when you have these bad dreams, if we ask that Mrs Ryall comes to you rather than Mr Ryall — I suppose that would solve your problem.’

‘I suppose it would.’ Lorena fluttered her eyes down in submission for a second before looking up again. Embarrassment at having wasted their time, or still holding back on something? It was difficult to tell.

‘We’ll see what we can do.’ Though Nadine didn’t know where she’d even start; she could hardly reproach Ryall for showing due care and concern for Lorena. And telling Ryall that he couldn’t tuck his favourite stepdaughter in bed after a few days away would be even more absurd. She pressed one last time, if nothing else to save later criticism from Elena that she might not have been thorough. ‘And are you absolutely sure there’s nothing else troubling you concerning Mr Ryall — either connected with him coming to your room late at night, or otherwise?’

Lorena’s eyes flickered, as if she was searching for something that was finally just out of reach. ‘No, no… there’s nothing. That’s it.’

But by the way Lorena looked fleetingly back towards the closed door, as if towards the Ryalls in the drawing room beyond, Elena knew in that instant that something was wrong. Cameron Ryall had coached Lorena, or for some reason she was covering up for him.

Savard’s body was found at 5.43 am., only yards from the taxiway of an old abandoned airfield two miles south of Longueuil. An area used by the man who discovered the body for early morning training of his greyhound.

The first police arrived at 6.18 am, and within twenty minutes had been joined by two more squad cars, forensics and a meat-wagon. The call to Michel came through just after 6 am, disturbing him from barely two hours’ sleep. He’d spent till 1 am with his team back-tracking and trawling some likely spots for Savard, and sleep had been difficult in coming; Savard’s voice on tape and the images that went with it had kept him turning uneasily.

Michel arrived minutes after the meat-wagon. The first dusk light had only just started to break, so Michel took a torch with him. The photos being snapped of Savard’s body cut starkly through the near darkness, competing with the flashing beacon on a nearby squad car. The only other light was from torchlight playing and the headlamps of two vehicles left on, one pulled close to Savard’s body.

Three of the police squad and everyone from forensics, Michel knew. One of the homicide Sergeants, Lucien Feutres, looked up as he approached.

‘Michel.’ Brief smile that fell into a shrug and stern grimace. ‘Rough break. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. I know.’ Michel nodded dolefully, looking around. ‘Thanks.’

Savard’s body was heavily illuminated by the headlamps, blue spray body outline markings already made in the snow — so Michel played his torchlight mainly to each side.

‘Who found him first?’

Feutres glanced back and pointed with one thumb. ‘Guy over there. He was walking his dog. Want to speak with him?’

Michel looked at the figure at the back of the milling activity, probably finished his questioning a while ago and wishing now he hadn’t found the body and subjected himself to fifty minutes of standing around in the cold. His greyhound looked equally as bored, tongue lolling as it looked to one side.

‘No, no, it’s okay.’ Normally, he would have had a chain of questions, and a hundred more for forensics: How many shots? Time of attack? How did he get here? But he knew practically everything from the wire tape.

He played his torchlight around again as Feutres went over to tell the man he could go. He picked out quickly the repetitive circles of tyre tracks, but it took a moment more to find the main thing he was looking for: a ramp made up of packed snow thirty yards away; sharp slope one side, gradual, almost imperceptible decline, the other. They hit the sharp side on each loop, and Savard gets the sensation they’re rising up through the car park.

His gaze swung back to the main circle of light and Savard’s body. It was curled almost in foetal position, a light dusting of snow covering it from a fresh fall overnight. The hood, pulled back to the crown for photo-identification, was dark blue, and Savard’s hands had been tied in front by rope. There were a number of other small things he could have clarified at this point, but he also knew now why he was shying from asking the questions: each answer would bring back Savard’s screams too vividly, when already they were still ringing in his ears. He would read the reports later and make a few calls; some distance at least.

An arctic wind whipped across the flat expanse of grass and overgrown taxiways. Michel felt it cut through him like an icy hatchet, taking his breath away. His eyes watered.

Michel took one last lingering look at Savard’s body, and slowly closed his eyes. They’d obviously headed due south straight over the JaquesCartierBridge rather than downtown. Roman and Jean-Paul Lacaille had played them for mugs at every turn: the finder smashed, the wire left in place and traffic sounds played, the snow ramp. Savard was already practically dead as they’d watched through binoculars him waiting on Roman Lacaille — only they hadn’t known it.

You’ll be safe. We’ll be watching every moment, guarding your back. Weeks of meetings before Savard was finally confident enough to go ahead. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you,’ they’d assured. Yet Savard had died like a trussed chicken, his final moments filled with terror.

Michel was now doubly determined to nail the Lacailles, but now only one witness remained: Georges Donatiens. And Donatiens was practically family, engaged to marry Jean-Paul Lacaille’s only daughter, Simone, the apple of his eye.

Michel opened his eyes again, taking in the horror of what had happened to Savard in an effort to will himself on; but already he knew it was an almost hopeless quest. They’d have to move mountains to get Georges Donatiens to testify.