The Last Witness

ELEVEN

‘Look, Jean-Paul. I’ve got to speak with you.’

‘I know, you mentioned. But can’t it wait till later. You can see how crazy everything is now.’ Jean-Paul turned away, pointing over to the far side of the conference room. ‘No…no! The main flower arrangement should go in that corner.’ Then he addressed two men laying white cloths on long trestle tables to the side. ‘The gravlax should go in the centre, with the canape’s around. Then on the next table the side of lamb and the suckling pig…’

‘I can see… I can see.’ Roman felt awkward enough with the subject he had to broach, but this army of flower-arrangers and caterers hovering around made it all the worse: so many men in one room with female mannerisms and affectations; it wasn’t natural. It made him feel uncomfortable, out of place, like a gorilla surrounded by a flock of dancing flamingos.

He’d hoped to speak to Jean-Paul directly upon his return from seeing Art Giacomelli in Chicago. There was a full day spare before preparations started for their mother’s birthday party that evening. But Jean-Paul had at the last minute delayed a day, so in the end the only opportunity was now, in the midst of preparations. Once the party started, there wouldn’t be an opportunity; and even if there was, Jean-Paul wouldn’t thank him for taking the edge off the celebrations.

Roman touched Jean-Paul’s arm. ‘It’s urgent, Jean-Paul. I don’t think this can wait.’

‘Right. I see.’ Jean-Paul’s eyes clouded as he registered for the first time the gravity of Roman’s concern. He held one arm out towards the adjoining office. ‘Let’s go in here.’ Then to the caterers: ‘I’ll be back with you shortly.’

The atmosphere in the fifteen-foot square room was stuffy, austere: part power-broker, part intellectual. Directly behind Jean-Paul’s desk was his diploma in maths and art from University of Montreal, and a framed thank-you letter from one of Canada’s most notable past Prime Minister’s, still a Montreal resident, for Jean-Paul’s heavy campaign funds in the late 70s. The far wall was lined with books: Flaubert, Dostoyevsky, Voltaire, Joyce, Orwell, Zola, Rand, Proust… Proulx. Jean-Paul the avid reader, whereas Roman had hardly got past The Three Musketeers. Roman had always felt uncomfortable in this room: probably not intentional, but everything seemed to shout down at him that he was the lightweight intellectual of the family.

Jean-Paul pressed his fingertips together in a pyramid. ‘So… tell me.’ He opened them out for a second. ‘What’s the problem?’

As Roman explained about Donatiens being taken in for questioning, Jean-Paul’s expression darkened. His eyes shifted uncomfortably to some papers at the side before coming back to Roman. ‘Are you sure your contact’s reliable? That he hasn’t made a mistake.’

‘No, I’m sure. He’s been spot-on every time before. And he works in the same building at Dorchester Boulevard. So it’s not the sort of thing he could make a mistake about.’ Roman let the information settle a little deeper, enjoying watching Jean-Paul squirm at the thought of golden boy possibly being tainted, before he asked: ‘So he hasn’t mentioned anything about it to you?’

‘No… no, he hasn’t’ Jean-Paul was still distracted, turning possibilities around in his mind. ‘But then I’ve only just got back… and as you can see things have been more than a little hectic.’ He gestured towards the adjoining room. ‘Maybe it’s something he’s planning to tell me about later. Maybe too nothing much happened, so it wasn’t worth raising the alarm straightaway.’

‘And maybe the Pope’s dating Sharon Stone.’ Roman leant forward, raising a sharp eyebrow. ‘He was in there three hours, Jean-Paul. Three fucking hours! The RCs could know every single financial transaction worth shit and what every one of us has for breakfast.’

Jean-Paul sighed heavily. Maybe Roman was right, but Jean-Paul was also keenly aware of the growing animosity between Roman and Georges; he needed to be sure this wasn’t just Roman axe-grinding for the hell of it. ‘We’re not involved in crime anymore, and Georges wasn’t involved either in any of the money-laundering — so what’s to tell?’ He waved a hand towards Roman. ‘This is probably all about that night with Leduc again.’

Roman flinched and sat back. Always the same these days: when it came to the crunch, Jean-Paul invariably sided with golden-boy and threw it all back in his lap. ‘Three hours, Jean-Paul? What did he do — show them his family snaps?’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Even if it was all innocent, you’ve got to admit — he should have told you.’

‘I know, I know.’ Jean-Paul nodded solemnly.

Roman could tell that he was starting to teeter. ‘And that Leduc incident could easily unravel the wrong way. If they’re not convinced it was self-defence, I could go down for twenty. For ordering it, you’d get the same. They’ve probably been pressing Donatiens that they know he was there, but if he turns Crown evidence they’ll give him immunity against prosecution as an accomplice. And then with the finances — once they’ve got the full picture of all the legitimate stuff, how long do you think it’s going to take them to trace back to the…’

Jean-Paul held a hand up; a Priest dispensing blessing. ‘Okay, Roman… okay. You’ve made your point.’ His tone was worn, tired. All he could do was defer judgement: there were just too many open interpretations to get out the way first before he’d be convinced that he should mistrust Georges. ‘I’ve pencilled in that I’d phone him about four o’clock before he heads off to get ready for the party, to catch up on business while I was away. I’ll leave a few long gaps and pauses, and let’s see if he fills them. If not, then we can start worrying.’

Elena grabbed the phone at the start of the second ring.

‘He thinks he’s found something at last.’ Megan’s voice at the other end: excited, slightly breathless.

‘Where did he find it in the end?’

‘Westminster registry.’

‘Right. That’s great.’ Elena too found her breath caught slightly. The first call two days ago, only thirty hours after she’d given Megan the go ahead, had been to say that Terry, her search man, had found nothing in either the Kilburn or Hampstead registries. They’d trawl through the other North London registries before spreading the net wider.

‘But before we get too carried away,’ Megan continued. ‘It’s not an exact match. The name he’s found is George Georgallis. And the birth date entered is not exactly the same either: it’s four days later, April 19^th, with the registration itself entered on the 23^rd April. But the certificate is marked, adopted, which is what first made it leap out for Terry.’

Elena was uncertain. Georgallis was a common name among the Cypriot community, and with the few days difference it could easily be someone else. Then the thought suddenly hit her: choosing the name George would mean that the family name would continue on, regardless of the final adopted family name. And she seemed to remember her father having a Greek doctor friend in Pimlico, which would come under Westminster. ‘Is it a doctor who made the registration? Is there a name and address given there?’

‘Yes, uh…’ Megan struggled to decipher the scrawled writing. ‘Looks like a Doctor Manatis or Maniatis. Tatchbrooke Place, London, SW19.’

‘Yeah, that’s it. I’m sure… I’m sure.’ Tatchbrooke Place was Pimlico, if she remembered her London geography: the coincidences were too many. ‘Where do we go from here?’

‘Well. Underneath adopted, there’s a note of a temporary care order made in the name of Anthony Georgallis…’

‘Yes… that’s my father. He thrust a load of papers in front of me only a week after the birth. I hardly even knew what I was signing, I was still so distraught…’

‘That’s okay. You don’t need to appease yourself to us, or explain. It’s just the more we know, the easier it is when it comes to tracing.’ Megan’s voice was cool, soothing; as if she’d dealt a thousand times before with mothers who held back the harsher, more painful details. ‘Then we’ve got a note of a Court order made some five months later at Highgate Court. That would probably be the next most logical search point.’

Elena felt her trembling start to return. ‘I think I know what it says already.’ She gripped hard at the edge of the telephone table, trying to brace her shaking. ‘I suffered severe depression soon after signing my baby away and made an attempt to take my own life.’ The images were still vivid: the bathroom sliding sideways after she’d taken the pills, her face being slapped hard; but as she tried to focus on her mother above, the bright fluorescent light behind washed away any definition, searing through her eyes like a hot lance. ‘When I recovered, I decided that I just couldn’t live with the same sense of loss and guilt for the rest of my life — I wanted my baby back. But my father said that he’d fight me all the way, and he used the attempted suicide to argue that I was unstable and unfit. I didn’t even bother to show up at court for the final ruling — it was already a foregone conclusion.’

‘I see.’

Despite Megan being battle-hardened and probably having heard every possible story — Elena could swear she heard a faint swallow from the other end.

From downstairs came the muffled tones of Gordon’s voice: speaking to another business client while on the other line she unravelled the secrets of the past she’d long held from him. At the local shops the day before, she’d suddenly panicked that Megan might phone while she was out, Gordon would pick it up and, if the wrong thing was said, the secret would be out straightaway. But if the trace was successful, she’d have to tell him anyway, and the mounting dread of finally having to spill all to Gordon hit her in full force.

When no call had come through the rest of that day, she began almost to wish that there would be no trace found; then at least she would never have to tell Gordon. Their lives would continue as before: happy, albeit for her, incomplete.

‘But that’s not the only thing those Court papers might show.’ Megan’s words were suddenly measured, purposeful. ‘They might show the family who adopted your son.’

Elena felt a sudden tight constriction in her chest. She swallowed hard, as if she hadn’t heard right and that might clear it. She’d been prepared for weeks or even months of searching, and likely even then nothing at the end of it. It was as if someone had casually told her she had a winning lottery ticket in her coat pocket. It just seemed too easy to trust. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Not a hundred percent — but there are strong chances it’s registered there, particularly if the adoption was arranged at the same time. We’ll know soon enough.’

‘How long?’

‘Well, normally it can take anything from a few weeks to a few months. But Terry has his way of speeding things: urgent contact needed because of a serious congenital disorder, rare blood group sharing, things like that. Quite honestly, it’s best not to ask. I just leave it to him as to the best and quickest method to get what he wants. Any luck, he should have something within five or six days, certainly within a week.'

In the end it was only four days before Megan called back with some names: Nicholas and Maria Stephanou, and an address in Canterbury, Kent. Terry was checking it out as they spoke. ‘Twenty-nine years, so probably they’ve moved. But at least it’s a name and a start point for him to track from.’

Suddenly Elena had a new name to mutter under her breath: George Stephanou. Still it didn’t help: no image came to mind for her to cling to. But at least now she felt more alive, full of hope: marked contrast to the doldrums of the past week.

Though later that afternoon she was back again in the doldrums. She’d just left her local corner store after being brought up to date on village goings-on by Mrs Wickens, its shopkeeper of twenty-five years, in her normal shrugging and winking ‘Yar know what I’m saying’ style. Elena’s step was lively, brisk — the air was fresh, the sky bright, she was still smiling from Mrs Wickens’ stories — everything seemed to be going right at last.

Then Nicola Ryall’s dark blue Range Rover drifted by. Lorena was in the back and she saw Elena straightaway. Their eyes locked, and Lorena swivelled quickly around so that she could continue staring back. Her small hand slowly reached out and touched the inside of the back glass, as if she was trying to make invisible contact, and Elena felt a sharp stab of guilt. This past week she’d consumed herself with nothing but her own problems, leaving Lorena all but forgotten. The girl’s last hope probably now gone of ever getting free from Ryall, and Elena hadn’t given her a second thought.

Just before fading from view, Elena thought she saw Lorena silently mouth something. It looked like ‘Help me.’

Georges went back across with Simone’s drink, a Campari and lemon, as the man in the light grey suit with bright floral tied moved away.

‘Who’s he?’ Georges asked Simone.

‘Jaques Delamarle. Local politician, something to do with Cultural Affairs, if I remember right. My father deals with him now and then because of his heavy jazz festival contributions — but he’s known him for years. He’s an old family friend and also knows Lillian: that’s why he’s here.’

‘No political advantage being sought then?’ Georges raised an eyebrow.

‘No. I don’t think my father would dare try it here.’ Simone smiled and took a sip of her drink. They’d both noticed how over the past year Jean-Paul had increasingly courted political favour. ‘If Lillian got even a whiff that he was turning her birthday party into part of his image bolstering campaign, she’d have his head on a plate next to the suckling pig.’ The three-man combo at the end of the room started up again, launching into an upbeat Latin version of ‘Besame Mucho’, and Simone had to raise her voice slightly. ‘He saves all of that for open house days or business and charity functions.’

There were only about ten people dancing — most people seemed keener on eating, drinking and talking for the past hour or so, though invariably Lillian and her new ‘friend’ Max were among the first on the floor. Max was a retired grocer whose expansion plans had peaked at two small Outremont stores and a downtown depanneur before he sold out.

Jean-Paul looked on and smiled graciously, but both Simone and Georges could still read the silent disapproval carefully shielded beneath. One of Jean-Paul’s few character flaws. Normally extremely broad-minded with little regard for social or class divides, when it came to his mother his class-consciousness was suddenly extreme. Nobody was good enough for her.

But Georges was more concerned about reading something else beneath Jean-Paul’s smile, after their earlier conversation. It had started out as a standard business update, but then there’d been a couple of questions as to whether everything was okay and ‘did anything else happen while I was away?’ that in retrospect struck him as odd. Not the questions themselves, but the awkward moment’s silence straight after Georges had assured that everything was fine.

Probably he was just getting paranoid; he was still rattled after the session with Chenouda and perhaps it had come through in his voice. He’d sounded strained, concerned. If Jean-Paul had an inside track with the RCMP, then he’d also know the theory Chenouda was pushing about Leduc and now Savard. He’d have been grilling Roman non-stop since he got back, but things between them seemed to be fine; the smiles and body language were easy and relaxed from the couple of times he’d seen them talk so far.

The only thing he was still unsure of was whether the smiles were easy from Jean-Paul to him, whether… ‘What…?’

‘I said — so here we are. Stuck in the middle,’ Simone repeated. She looked back towards Jaques Delamarle, then towards Roman and Frank Massenat propped up against the back wall, diving into re-filled platefuls of canapes. ‘Clowns to the left of us… jokers to the right.’ Then her eyebrows knitted slightly. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, fine. Fine.’ Georges smiled wanly. Jean-Paul’s oddly comical mix at functions: the transition from crime boss to respectable businessman wasn’t fully there yet; the past was still mingling with what Jean-Paul hoped was his future.

Roman’s Marie was halfway across the room from him talking to two other women, while Jean-Paul’s date of choice for the evening, Catherine, was by his side. He’d met her just before Christmas at ‘The Bay’s’ perfume counter while choosing a present for his then girlfriend. In the three years since burying Stephanie, his second wife, he hadn’t settled emotionally. Hardly anyone was good enough to match up to her either. Though with each one, Jean-Paul initially had high hopes: he was keen to enlighten that Catherine was not just a platinum blonde, perfume-selling wallflower, she was also doing an evening course in Sociology at McGill.

As the song finished, Lillian and Max came over.

‘Big day for these two soon,’ Lillian said. ‘Have you met Max before?’ Lillian asked Georges.

Georges held a hand up in greeting at Max and smiled. ‘Yes, but only once. Jean-Paul’s last Boxing Day open house.’ Obviously Lillian had forgotten.

‘Maybe we won’t be too far behind on the church steps,’ Lillian nudged Max. ‘Anywhere planned for the honeymoon yet?’ Martinique was too hot and humid in July, she informed them without hardly waiting for an answer; so was Mexico. ‘Maybe you should head to Europe. Cote D’Azur’s nice then, or maybe Italy.’

Simone said that they’d talked about France, but one of those Loire Valley picture-postcard chateaux for the first ten days. ‘Then the Med coast with maybe a quick look at Tuscany for the rest of the time.’

She’d barely finished before Lillian, with a quick ‘excuse us’, whisked Max back to dance. Jon and Cynthia Larsen moved in from a few yards away, picking up on the tail end with Cynthia asking if they knew where they’d have the reception yet, and would they use the same caterers as today? Impressive spread, but for Cynthia’s money — no doubt gained from her current haute cuisine courses to raise the level of her already renowned dinner parties — the rack of lamb was a bit dry and some of the canape pastry a touch over-baked.

Jon quickly became disinterested and led Georges a yard to one side by the arm. ‘What do you reckon on this Cuban thing then?’

‘Well, Jean-Paul mentioned something — but we never really got into it.’ Georges gestured towards the end table spreads. ‘Preparations for this I think took over.’ Jean-Paul had mentioned at the start of their earlier call that he wanted to talk about increased Cuban investments. But then after them catching up on events and Jean-Paul asking if everything was okay, they’d never got around to it. Jean-Paul had abruptly signed off, saying that he had two caterers and a party decorator hovering anxiously at his office door. He had to go.

‘Right.’ Jon looked fazed for only a second, then explained: Arturo Giacomelli was interested in funnelling funds into Cuba. He couldn’t do it through the USA, because of the trade embargo. ‘But he could do it through Jean-Paul and Canada.’

Georges sucked in his breath. ‘We can’t handle money for Giacomelli. It would be back to what Jean-Paul’s been fighting so hard to move away from: laundering and trying to play clean with dirty money.’

Jon Larsen held up his free hand. ‘We went through all that. This would be totally clean money, straight from the two Vegas Casinos.’

‘Right.’ Georges looked down, pondering it quickly as he took a slug of his beer. ‘We’d still have to be careful of not breaching the US embargo. But that wouldn’t be a problem if the money was channelled first through Canada and Jean-Paul’s side of the Vegas partnerships.’

Jon nodded. ‘I think that’s one of the options that came up when they discussed it.’

‘… But I still think it would be safer to run it all through, say, Jean-Paul’s Mexico companies first, then on through Cuba.’ Georges’ thoughts were running double time as he watched Jon Larsen consider the suggestion. Despite the frantic preparations, obviously Jean-Paul had found time to discuss this with Jon in some depth. Georges began to wonder about Jean-Paul’s abrupt signing off. Maybe he had heard something and was troubled.

Larsen took a sip of his martini. ‘I suppose that’s got merit. But we’d have to make sure it was in and out under three months to avoid any tax implications. Then too we should think about-’

‘Enough shop talk, I think,’ Cynthia cut in. Simone smiled tightly alongside her.

Jon nodded hastily. ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re right.’

And they stood as an awkward circle for a second before Cynthia commented: ‘No ice storms this year, at least.’ Then launched into how they’d all coped and survived, respectively, through them last winter.

As Simone explained that it hadn’t been too bad — when the power lines started going down they’d all simply headed here to her father’s house because he had a generator — Georges was hardly listening. He was looking across and trying to catch Jean-Paul’s eye and in return hopefully get that confident, re-assuring smile that he knew so well; more vital to him now than ever, because it would tell him that everything was okay.

It wasn’t until some time later that he finally managed to elicit that return smile, but by then Georges had run through so many conflicting emotions he was almost past caring. He’d started to drink quicker, slugging back two beers and two double Southern Comforts in an effort to lose his worries on the mood and flow of the party. He’d danced with Simone a few times and in the middle of the band’s passable rendition of the Beatles ‘And I Love Her’, whispered in Simone’s ear how much he loved her. He’d thought a couple of times of going over and talking directly to Jean-Paul — maybe he could better discern eye to eye if something was wrong. But Jean-Paul seemed to be endlessly wrapped up talking to other people. He’d just finished a long session with Delamarle when one of Lillian’s bridge circle, an elderly surgeon, moved in. Then Jean-Paul’s neighbours, a leading realtor and his twenty years younger aerobics instructor wife.

At one point Georges caught Roman’s eye and could almost swear that Roman had read his consternation: a direct, challenging look with a faint smile at the corner of Roman’s mouth. All Georges could think of was Savard’s screams on tape, and he was first to look away. The room felt suddenly as if it was closing in: the beat of the music, Jean-Paul’s cold-shoulder, Roman staring at him, the rising cacophony of voices all around, a woman just behind breaking into laughter… all of it seemed to spin in his head, make him dizzy.

‘Sorry.’ He excused himself to Simone and headed to the bathroom, splashing some water on his face as he stared hard in the mirror. Strange how quickly he could become an outcast to the extended Lacaille family, a stranger at this gathering. Marked contrast to the camaraderie when they’d all grouped together under this same roof during the ice storms, playing cards and charades: the Lacaille family and their favoured inner circle against a hostile world outside. Now he too was practically out in the cold, along with the ice sheets.

And it was in that moment, with his frantic, haunted eyes still fixed in the mirror as he dabbed dry with a towel, that he finally decided: he couldn’t take the burden of this secret any longer. He’d have to tell the truth about that night with Roman and Leduc. He didn’t want to tell Jean-Paul directly, that was what he’d been avoiding all along: ratting one brother against the other. But perhaps he could confide in someone in the middle: Simone or Jon Larsen? Which would be best?

The decision made, he felt as if a sack had been lifted from his shoulders as he emerged. And it was then too that Jean-Paul’s smile finally came in return — just after Georges whispered in Simone’s ear as Frank Massenat trod on Lillian’s foot for the second time during his disastrous attempt at the Bossanova: ‘He doesn’t need to strong-arm people, he just needs to threaten to dance with them.’

Simone smiled broadly, and as Georges pecked her on the cheek and straightened up, Jean-Paul was smiling over at them. But Georges couldn’t tell whether it was directed just at his daughter, or whether it embraced both of them.

‘I know that you already had Social Services on to you asking about Lorena, Dr Tinsley, but this was something entirely separate — more to do with her condition when she first arrived in this country,’ Elena elaborated. ‘As one of the agency workers involved in her placing here, that was more my neck of the woods.'

‘I see. Well, what sort of thing specifically?’

Elena could still sense Tinsley’s caution over the line. She decided to backtrack a bit, filling in some background about Lorena’s sewer days and the severe depravation of the orphanages. ‘She suffered bouts of disturbing dreams in the last orphanage in Bucharest as a result, and I just wondered what signs there might have been of them continuing in England?’

‘Surely this is more psychiatric or counselling territory, than a physicians.’

‘I know. But they were never severe enough that she was recommended for treatment, so this would really be just a general observation on your part.’

‘Well… I, uh, she never actually complained directly about any dreams that I recall… but she did at times seem a bit detached, pre-occupied.’

Elena could hear the flicking of some papers in the background; she wasn’t sure whether the hesitation was Tinsley showing due caution or just that his attention was only half with her. ‘I mean, did she seem troubled… would you say that she might have been suffering from depression?’

‘Depression? A bit of an extreme term for a nine-year old.’ Lightly humouring tone, almost condescending. ‘But she was, shall we say, sometimes distant, lost in her own world. I often had to repeat questions. Though I must say I put this largely down to her getting to grips with the language and also getting used to her new environment.’

‘Right.’ She sensed she’d gone as far as she could about Lorena, but from Nadine’s earlier paperwork she’d noted Tinsley’s age: 53. ‘And the other adopted girl, Mikaya — were you her GP as well?’

‘Yes, I was. But I thought-’

‘And was there any history of depression or upsets there?’ Elena barrelled in quickly with the question, hoping to catch Tinsley off guard. But Tinsley merely continued with his started objection.

‘…I thought you were only concerned with Lorena — so I don’t really see what that has to do with anything.’ Defensively questioning.

‘Yes, I know. But we’re trying to isolate if this is just a problem with Lorena. Because if there’s been a similar problem with another child of mental detachment and depression — it could be that unconsciously the Ryalls are somehow alienating these children from abroad, not fully embracing and accepting them as family.’ Elena listened to the shallow fall of Tinsley’s breath at the other end, wondering if he’d fall for it. She felt as if she were treading on egg-shells; it was the only plausible story she could think of to get what she wanted. ‘As I say, I don’t think this is something the Ryalls would knowingly have done. It’s just that children can often be very sensitive — particularly displaced children like this.’

‘Look, there was something — but it was absolutely nothing to do with the Ryalls, more to do with a boyfriend.’ A brisk, blustery tone, as if Tinsley thought Elena might have heard something and he wanted to ensure she didn’t fill in the gaps the wrong way. ‘What I can vouch for is that Mr and Mrs Ryall supported Mikaya wholeheartedly and unequivocally throughout the whole matter. Beyond that, I think you should speak to the Ryalls directly, or the Social Services.’

‘Yes, yes, certainly. I understand.’ My, my, she had touched a nerve. Boyfriend? ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’ She bowed out swiftly, getting the distinct impression that if she’d pushed an inch more, Tinsley would have hung up on her.

Elena dialled Nadine Moore’s number straightaway. She was out, so Elena left her number for a call back. She tapped her fingers impatiently for a second by the phone, then went downstairs to pour a fresh coffee. The first few sips and the aroma made her feel a bit more alert; she hadn’t slept well the night before after seeing Lorena pass by.

No call back had come by mid-morning with more news from Megan, so after half an hour of thinking through tactics, she’d decided to start on trying to help Lorena. Not sure how far she’d get, and feeling a bit like a frantic juggler given her own dilemma — self-examining for a moment if it was just because of the lull, killing time so as not to dwell on her own uncertainty. No, she’d have made time regardless. She couldn’t have lived with herself knowing she’d simply deserted Lorena at the first obstacle; she had to at least give it one last try.

Gordon was out for a few hours seeing some local clients, so at least the pressure was gone of him lurking around. Megan and Terry’s bill was already up to?830,?300 beyond what she could manage from her own account. She’d made an excuse to Gordon about problems with her car: new disk brakes needed, according to the garage. But what about the next?300, and the one after that; she’d either have to become inventive, or bare all to Gordon. She shook her head: such a momentous secret kept for so long, how could their relationship survive it?

Two hours later she was sat at the back of Chelborne Sands in Nadine Moore’s car, the two of them like drug dealers or lovers on a clandestine meet. More secrets.

‘It’s all there. Everything regarding Mikaya Ryall.’ Nadine passed the file across. ‘I can only let you read the file, not take it anywhere or copy it. Make notes if you like — but if anyone asks you where you got the information, it wasn’t me. Right?’

‘Yes… of course.’ Elena was only half listening as she rifled hungrily through the file. Nadine had protested strongly about digging out and sharing the file, and Elena had to push hard: ‘If you’re happy with what Ryall did, taping our conversation; and if, despite that, you’re satisfied he has nothing at all to hide and everything’s alright with Lorena — then fine, don’t help me.’ Nadine had against her better judgement finally relented, though was still muttering and complaining now that she shouldn’t be doing this. ‘I must be crazy. I could lose my job if this got out.’

Elena’s eyes scanned frantically, leap-frogging for relevant paragraphs. After a moment’s strained silence as she read, she slowly looked up, staring blankly ahead. The beach was deep, and winter winds had blown the sand in banks and ridged eddies. On the stronger wind flurries buffeting the car from the open bay, loose sand was lifted and strewn across the windscreen.

Nadine put on her wipers to clear it as Elena exhaled slowly; a note of winding down, finality: Pregnant at fourteen, signs of being sexually active for some months previous, possibly longer; mystery boyfriend. It was almost a mirror image of her own background, too close for comfort. A faint involuntary shudder quickly shook away the awkwardness and the similarity: in her own case, there had been a boyfriend, but with Mikaya she’d bet anything that he was invented; a ruse to cover up for Ryall. She noted from the file that the boyfriend had never been named. How convenient.

She felt suddenly burning with conviction, and angry with herself that but for a chance sighting of Lorena, she might have left her, forgotten, at Ryall’s mercy.

She thanked Nadine and headed off with the intention of going straight back home, her fury making her drive faster than normal — but as she was passing Mrs Wickens’ store, she decided on impulse to stop. If anyone could fill in the gaps, Mrs Wickens could.

Mrs Wickens nodded sagely. Yes, of course she remembered the whole affair. No, the boyfriend was never named. A few boys were suggested that young Mikaya was known to be friendly with — but she swore it wasn’t them. ‘She says first of all she couldn’t say who it was — then she says she just couldn’t remember. Rarl mystery.’

‘What does she look like?’ Elena asked on an afterthought, about to turn and head off.

‘Beautiful girl, stunning. One of the most beautiful oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’

Cameron Ryall got the first call from Dr Tinsley late that afternoon. The following two calls notifying him that Mrs Waldren had been asking questions around town came the next day, the last prompting, ‘You know, the aid worker who lives with her husband up above the chine,’ as if for a moment he might not be able to place her.

He’d thought of little else over the weeks spanning the two interviews with Lorena, and now it was all possibly springing back again. Just when over this past week, after the tape and the intervention of Edelston, he’d started finally to relax, thinking it was all over.

His first thought was to contact Edelston to warn her off, but then Waldren was a free agent, out of their control. And Waldren’s aid agency would likely take no notice.

He seethed and simmered for hours pondering what to do — his attention to the pressing business matters of the day was sparse and often drifted — before finally deciding that he just didn’t know enough about Waldren to be able to plan the best way to stop her. In the same way that she was digging about his background, he needed to dig about hers.

He contacted a Chelmsford based private investigator he knew from his old Barrister days, Des Kershaw, who he’d used just a few years ago to dig into the private life of a plant manager he suspected of embezzlement. Kershaw was tenacious and thorough: he wouldn’t rest until he’d stripped bare every facet of Elena Waldren’s background.

The first couple of days, Kershaw uncovered nothing ground-breaking, mostly filling in the shades of the last twelve years of her married life with Gordon Waldren, her work with the aid agency and their two adopted children, Christos and Katine.

One thing at least he had in common with the Waldrens, thought Ryall: adopted children. Kershaw’s call had disturbed him halfway through an inspection in their micro-chip section, and he was still slightly breathless from stripping off the protective suit. ‘Nothing juicy then yet? No, right… right. Let me know as soon as you’ve got more… if there is more.’

Ryall began to worry that nothing worthwhile would come up on Waldren, she was just as she appeared on the outside — the goody two-shoes aid worker with her two adopted children and finance-broker husband, upper-middle and pristine with her ‘Champion of downtrodden children’ halo — and he’d have to think of other ways of striking back at her, stopping her before she got uncomfortably close.

But Kershaw’s increasingly frequent and fervent calls over the next few days bit by bit quelled his mounting panic, and when the whole picture became clear he realized that he had more than enough ammunition for his purpose: enough to bury Elena Waldren twice over.

Some of it seemed so unlikely and extreme that he found himself asking Kershaw to repeat segments, pressing if he was sure. Ryall was concerned that Kershaw might have been over-keen to unearth some dirt and had tapped some unreliable sources. But Kershaw was sure of his ground.

‘Some of it was hard to find, buried in old articles from Hampstead and Highgate local papers where the George — previously Georgallis — family used to live. Though a couple of incidents managed to warrant small sidebars in the national press. The only word of mouth was an old police contact — but I’ve used him before. He’s reliable. And then the rest is pretty much down to court papers: little room for error there. But when you’ve got the file, if there’s anything you’re unsure about and want me to check again — just let me know. I’d be happy to oblige.’

There was no need for a call back. Kershaw’s report was thorough, detailed, and made sober reading. Two drug busts and a third for a Greenham Common anti-nuclear demo that went awry. From the press clippings, most of it appeared to be a rich ‘wild-child’s’ rebellion against her strongly establishment father, the founder of what at one stage was Britain’s 9th largest merchant bank, 17^th overall among financial institutions. Ryall should have twigged when he first saw the original family name: George. Anthony George, whiz-kid financier of the 70s and 80s.

But it was the earlier problems — the pregnancy at fifteen and giving the child up for adoption, then the attempted suicide and the Court’s final ruling that she was too unstable, unsuitable to be a mother — that was the most damming, especially given her current work. Ryall wondered just how much of her background she’d come clean about with the aid agency, or in the adoption applications for her two children.

Giving up her own child, convicted drug addict, attempted suicide, Court-ruled as unsuitable for motherhood: not exactly the best commendations for work with a child aid agency or to adopt children.

Ryall couldn’t resist a wry smile as he penned his covering letters that night to go with copies of Kershaw’s file: one to Barbara Edelston, one to Elena Waldren’s aid agency — but both to the same effect: that he was still being privately harassed by Waldren over Lorena and, given Waldren’s own history, surely she was the last person to be questioning his rights and ethics as an adopted parent; with an added paragraph to the aid agency venting his surprise that they hadn’t more stringently vetted her background.

He paused for a moment, wondering whether to send a copy as well to Gordon Waldren, or whether that would be going too far — just how much of her past had she told him — before finally picking up another envelope. She’d been first to draw the battle lines, had been prepared to destroy him. All’s fair in love and… though this time he didn’t bother with a covering note, just slipped a copy of Kershaw’s report inside on its own.

He sat back, pleased with his efforts. In the background, Prokofiev’s ‘Dance of the Knights’ played. Fitting battle requiem music. Nicole had gone to bed over an hour ago, shortly after Lorena, as usual zonked out on half a bottle of gin and prozac, and suitably unimpressed when he said he had some business to attend to, some letters to write.

Outside, a gusting wing buffeted against the high asp windows ahead, and the muffled surge of the sea could be heard in the distance — but inside the music filled every corner of the grand room, bouncing back from the high windows and vaulted ceiling to the reaches of the gallery library behind. A strongly resonant sound chamber with just the right balance of absorbent wood: how such music was meant to be heard — with only him at its centre to receive it. He could feel its rhythm and cadences reverberate through his body, rallying his senses, his spirits rising, soaring. He started waving his hands elaborately to the strident, staccato violin bursts, drawing substance and power from what he’d just done that made him feel suddenly master of all around: master of this grand room and this house, master of the village and its petty minions who dutifully passed information back to him, and now master of all those who dared interfere in his life, the Elena Waldrens and their kind.

He froze for a second, lifting one hand to his right cheek. He swore he could still feel where little Lorena had kissed him. The dutiful ‘Goodnight Daddy’ ritual of every night. And every night he could sense too her clinging anxiety as she came close and pressed her lips to his skin, her eyes darting and her small heart hammering as furiously as a humming bird’s wings, that in a way made the whole ritual all the more angelic, endearing. The sense that he had such power over her, yet only a part of her knew how or why.

He looked up, straining his ear to the house upstairs beyond the music, wondering perhaps whether he should make sure Lorena was okay, soothe her brow for a moment: a small victory visit. But he decided in the end to wait a few days: then he could be sure that that victory would be lasting. Nobody would ever trouble them again.

The tears hit Elena as she rounded the bluff beyond Chelborne.

It was one of her favourite views: almost two hundred feet sheer elevation from the sea, with the rolling contours of green hills and pastures ahead spilling gently into the yellow trimmed expanse of Chelborne sands and the deep blue of the bay. On days when the sea was wild, like now, she liked it all the more: white caps could be seen stretching out towards the horizon, more lines of conflict and contrast. She’d captured the view twice before on canvass, but still felt she’d missed the key that made her soul soar when she rounded the bluff on a stark, clear day.

The day was clear now, the wind brisk, aftermath of the previous night’s gale. But Elena felt nothing but empty, desolate, as she looked out across the sweep of the bay.

‘I think that’s it… I’m afraid. We’ve hit a stone wall. The chances of ever finding him again now are virtually nil, in Terry’s view.’ Megan’s words of first thing that morning.

She hadn’t cried then, just the same empty, gut-voided feeling as now. Terry had discovered that the Stephanous had changed their name by deed-pole to Stevens some ten months later, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth. No forwarding address, nothing on electoral registers or credit files. Like her father, the name was now completely anglicised: George Stevens. Megan and Terry were probably right: with no link traceable to the Stephanous, she’d never find him. ‘I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach. You won’t find him.’ Her father’s words, all these years later, suddenly having crushing resonance. Still a part of her life, despite her fighting so hard to be free from his shadow, was in his grip and control.

Though a few hours later she was far more concerned about Cameron Ryall’s control, his influence over much of Chelborne. She’d quickly shook off her own disappointment: if she couldn’t help herself, at least she could still help Lorena. Mrs Wicken’s words preyed heavily on her mind: ‘One of the most beautiful Oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’

Perhaps Ryall hand-picked these girls for their sheer beauty — God knows there were enough of them, an endless sea of children with angelic faces and big eyes that the rest of the world had forgotten. He’d get them into his trust at first, soothe their brow, some seemingly innocent gentle stroking, then would gradually build up until they were thirteen or fourteen, the age Mikaya had been when she became pregnant, and then… Elena convulsed at the thought. But why didn’t they speak out against him? With Lorena, she could understand: she was too young, too frightened, and probably not too much had happened yet; and what had, she’d blanked from her mind.

But Mikaya had been old enough to speak out, especially given the horror of her pregnancy — yet still she’d stayed quiet. What hold was it Ryall had over them?

She realized she couldn’t possibly know without finding out more about Mikaya, so she’d headed back into Chelborne. After seeing Mrs Wickens the day before, she’d filled in some gaps at the local dress shop and at the health store. But it was all minor stuff: the school Mikaya went to, what clothes she liked; yes, they knew about the whole messy business with the pregnancy, but no, there wasn’t a particular boyfriend they could point to as a likely culprit. ‘We haven’t seen much of her these past couple of years,’ Mrs Frolley at the dress shop finished thoughtfully. ‘Now that she’s away at university.’

Now, visiting Mrs Frolley again to ask ‘Which university?’ — Mrs Frolley was a closed book. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ Becoming quickly flustered. ‘I think I’ve said more than I should in any case… and I’m rather busy now.’ Red-faced, Mrs Frolley scurried away to attend to a customer.

A shop-girl at the health store, after going back and checking, informed her that Mrs Boyle was busy stock-taking and couldn’t see her — so she’d rested her hopes on the ever-reliable Mrs Wickens.

But the reaction with Mrs Wickens was much the same, albeit handled with a more open, folksy reprimand. ‘When I tell you things, it’s in all trust and confidence. I don’t expect it to be used in all strange manners.’

Elena tried to appeal to Mrs Wickens’ maternal instinct, with her having raised four children of her own. ‘This isn’t about any personal clash I might have with Mr Ryall. It’s about the welfare of a young girl who I believe could be under threat. Serious threat.’

Mrs Wickens shook her head. ‘I don’t believe any of it for a moment. Mr Ryall’s a good man. He wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that. He’s been very good to my Rolly these past years.’

It hit Elena with a jolt in that moment: Mrs Wickens’ husband, Roland, worked at Ryall’s local plant. With a business of that size in a small village like Chelborne, no doubt numerous relatives of other villagers and shopkeepers were employed there. After all, Ryall was by far the area’s largest employer. A saving hero to fill the gap after the years of decline in the local fishing industry. Few locals wanted to think badly of him.

A spark of recognition reflected back through Mrs Wickens’ eyes, and she turned away with a slight flush, busying herself with re-arranging her counter newspaper display. ‘Well, you know… we each have our own to take care of.’

And it was driving away from Mrs Wickens’, rounding the bluff, that the build up of frustrations and obstacles finally became too much, and the tears hit. She’d been working against the grain, against the impossible, for days and weeks — for decades if she counted the lost, forgotten time that she’d blanked Christos from her mind, hadn’t even troubled to search for him — and only now was that realization hitting her face-on.

Her father’s hand reaching across the years to still grip tight, affect her life; and now Ryall’s tentacles spreading across Chelborne, blocking, strangling her progress.

The bay ahead became misty and blurred as her eyes swam, and she had to pull over. Maybe that was the key with her painting, that slightly blurred, Monet look — but it barely raised a smile at the corner of her mouth, her spirits couldn’t be buoyed this time; and she sank deeper down, sobbing uncontrollably. She cried more for the lost years with Christos than for this dead end now; after all, she’d only lost a week to discover that she would never make good on the twenty-nine years lost. And for Lorena, it was more the sense of frustration and powerlessness than sorrow. She thought she’d shaken free of her father’s grip years ago, but she’d been fooling herself all along. And now she was facing the same again: another powerful man, and she was unable to prise loose his grip to be able to help Lorena.

She shook her head, biting back the tears. Maybe Gordon was right: she’d allowed the dividing lines between Ryall and her father to become muddied, confused; it wasn’t healthy, would only get in the way of her being objective, having a clear view.

Clear view. She wiped again at her eyes, dabbing her cheeks with the back of one hand, and once again the view of the bay ahead was clear. She only wished her troubled thoughts could as easily have been cleared.

After a moment she swung the car out again and continued on down the slow decline towards Chelborne Bay, clinging to the one consolation out of the whole mess: at least now her secret would remain forever buried, no reason for its exposure. Her life with Gordon and the children, like the view ahead, would continue much as it had done: bright, untroubled, with few worrying clouds.