The Last Witness

TWENTY

‘As I say, listen to the tapes, then call me later on if you have any questions or particular points you want me to put across at tomorrow’s session. Oh, my notes are towards the end of the second tape.’

‘Right.’ Elena glanced at the cassettes in her hand in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, yes, I will. Thank you, Dr Lowndes.’ She smiled and turned with Lorena to the door. A twenty-something auburn receptionist to the side smiled with a silently mouthed goodbye aimed more at Lorena than at her.

‘If not, I’ll see you in any case at eleven tomorrow.’ Dr Lowndes looked keenly between them.

A hulk of a man with wild, grey-tinged blonde hair, Elena thought John Lowndes looked more like an ageing lumberjack than a psychiatrist. The only hint of erudition, apart from the diplomas on his walls, were pince-nez glasses which looked all the more out of place given his size. But he came well recommended from one of the local Dorset psychiatrists in Nadine Moore’s file: apparently, one of Montreal’s better Anglophile child psychiatrists. From his fifteen minute introduction before the one hour session, he seemed very capable, and, though the only clue was his parting smile now, he was obviously also keen to get to grips with Lorena’s problem, if there was one.

‘Yes, see you then. Thanks again.’ Elena headed out with Lorena and took the elevator four floors down to Rue Drummond. They walked a block and a half down to the car park where she’d left the hire car, paid the ticket, and headed east along St Catherine St as she slotted Lowndes’ tape into the cassette player.

The first moments were settling Lorena in and general background, nothing of any relevance, so she tweaked it down a bit as she asked Lorena, ‘Did it all go okay?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Lorena grimaced and shook her head. ‘But I still couldn’t remember anything.’ She sounded annoyed with herself.

Elena reached out and lightly clutched her hand. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only the first session. We didn’t expect alarming breakthroughs straight away.’ But she had at least hoped, and she was silently worried: they didn’t have weeks for endless sessions. Two or three might be all they could cram in before the police net finally closed on them.

Worrying news from Gordon on that front when she’d phoned the Chelborne call box they’d pre-arranged. He’d told her about the heavy swoop search in France related from the friend who’d run decoy; her name had obviously been out on the wire with Interpol practically from the word go. They’d originally hoped that the tape would give them at least twenty-four hours or possibly avert a police search altogether.

How long before they traced the Frankfurt-Brussels-Edmonton flight? Gordon’s bet was at least another twelve or eighteen hours, and they’d probably start trawling Edmonton first. Canada was a big country, but, she’d speculated, ‘What if they always put alerts out nation-wide as a matter of course?’ Gordon fell silent, and his ‘Unlikely’ a few seconds later sounded uncertain. And when she pressed him, he admitted that of course he couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t already traced her flight and her put her name out on the RCMP network, or might do so in only a few hours. Another ‘But unlikely.’

And so her nerves were still on edge with every police car that passed, she found it impossible to relax. The clock was fast ticking down on her getting to the root of Lorena’s problem and finding her son. She’d visited three of the Stevens with initials N, M or G listed in the phone book, all she could fit in before Lorena’s session, but no matches or even remotely hopeful leads there: twenty-six more to go plus the two unlisted Terry had given her, if they were still in Montreal. She shook her head. She must have been crazy trying to do both at the same time under this set of circumstances. The pressure was stifling.

The lack of sleep on top hadn’t helped. She hadn’t slept at all on the flight, and had grabbed barely an hour on the train up from Toronto before the blaring train klaxon as they crossed a series of level-crossings woke her abruptly.

‘… I was trapped, couldn’t lift the cover, couldn’t breathe.’

Elena turned the tape up again.

‘And this was a recurring dream during your time in the orphanages?’

‘Yes… and for a while afterwards.’

‘How long afterwards?’

‘Well… a few months at least.’

‘I see. But by this time you’re settled in with your step-parents, the Waldren’s?’

‘Yes… yes. I was.’

Elena picked up on Lorena’s beat of hesitation as she mentally self-prompted about the false name and story. Elena had presented herself as Lorena’s stepmother concerned about abuse from the stepfather, not an aid worker abducting her. It was the only thing she could think of to get Lowndes to handle the case. Elena smiled conspiratorially at Lorena.

‘… But the dreams started to become different then,’ Lorena continued.

‘In what way?’

‘Well… in the last two, I was able to get the manhole cover open. Get free.’

‘I see. And you felt relaxed then. No problems or concerns with Mr Waldren coming to your room at night?’

‘No.’

As Lowndes’ questions rolled on and it became clear that nothing dramatic was being revealed, Lorena looked at the tape player and then at Elena with an ‘I told you so’ expression. The only small triumph was Lowndes establishing that the return of the bad dreams coincided with Ryall (Mr Waldren) starting to visit her bed late at night. And this time in their original, more worrying form. The manhole cover was once again immovable. She was trapped.

‘…And when you dreamt that your stepfather was touching you — was that part of the same dreams, or separate?’

‘Separate.’

‘The same nights — or different nights?’

‘Different nights. Oh, I…. I think one was on the same night.’

Longer pause this time from Lowndes. ‘Now, I’d like you to think about this question a bit more carefully, Lorena. Now when you awake and remember dreams with your father touching you — do you at any time remember actually being awake when he touched you?’

‘No, I can’t… I’m sorry.’ Faint rustling, as if Lorena was moving or shaking her head. ‘The dreams seemed so real at times, but… but I don’t think I was awake at any time.’

‘Don’t think?Is it possible that you might have in fact been awake, but the sleep either side has muddied your memory?’

‘I don’t know… I’m not sure. I can’t remember.’ Lorena sounded flustered.

‘Well — ’ For a moment it seemed Lowndes was going to press more before deciding against it. ‘That’s okay. That’s okay.’ Gently soothing tone.

As Lowndes re-capped on some of the ground when the dreams first started — the real sewer floods they’d suffered and the death of Patrika — Elena turned it down again. It was background she knew all too well, too painfully, and one that she wished she didn’t have to drag Lorena through again now.

Lorena looked wistfully at the tape player and bit lightly at her bottom lip as she cast her eyes down, as if concerned she might have let everyone down.

Elena turned into St Denis, heading towards their hotel. ‘Don’t worry,’ She re-assured. ‘It’s early days yet. Tomorrow might be a completely different story.’

But she could read the questioning frankness in Lorena’s eyes as she looked across: if she didn’t remember, she didn’t remember. How were these sessions going to help?

Jean-Paul picked up the message from Simone on his answerphone.

‘Pa. I know that I’m angry at Georges, verrry angry. And I know you’ve got your own problems with him and I don’t want you to read into this that I’m trying to interferrre in your business — never have done. But I don’t want Georges in any way harmed.’ Brief pause, the sound of traffic in the background. ‘Oh, and I’m sorrry that things were left the way they were earlier. I’ll be back at my place in half an hour. Call me there.’

Breathless, the words punched out as if she was afraid that if she hesitated she’d forget them completely, with a slight slurring on some words. Jean-Paul wasn’t sure if she’d been drinking or it was just due to distress, or both.

Jean-Paul kept the tape rolling: two business calls in between, and then another call from Simone.

‘With you not calling back, I decided to phone Georges’ apartment. No answer. I tried his mobile, but that just rang out too. I’ve tried five more times in the last two hours — still no answer. I’m starting to get worried. You promise that nothing’s happened to him?’ A heavy pause, as if she expected him to offer re-assurance in the gap, then with a ‘Speak to you later’ she hung up.

Jean-Paul anxiously checked his watch: 10.14 pm. After leaving a message on Simone’s mobile, he’d got wrapped up in a meeting with Jon Larsen at their tax lawyer’s office the rest of the afternoon, then had gone for an early dinner with Larsen, part of which was to delicately explain that they might have some problems with Georges. Larsen should shy away from sharing any possibly sensitive business information with him, ‘At least for the time being.’ Until they’d finally worked out how to play everything.

He dialled Simone’s number. It answered on the second ring.

‘Hi, Simone. I’ve just come in now and got your messages. Have you managed to get hold of Georges yet?’

‘No, no. I tried him again just ten minutes ago — but still no answer. Not at home or on his mobile.’

A moment’s tense silence between them as Jean-Paul’s concerns verged towards panic.

‘Please tell me that he’s alright. That nothing’s happened to him.’ Simone’s voice broke slightly with the plea. ‘I know that you’ve had some concerns about him seeing the police, but-’

‘No, no!.. Of course I’ve done nothing like that. Do you think I’d be calling back now if I had?’ He sounded more annoyed than he’d intended; but his anger wasn’t aimed at her, more his rising worries about Roman. ‘Look, let me make some calls — then I’ll phone you back.’

‘When?’

‘Give me an hour or so to sort it out. And if Georges turns up meanwhile, call me straight away.’

He hung up and dialled straight out to Roman. No answer at home, so he raised him on his mobile.

‘Roman. We’ve got a problem. Georges has apparently disappeared.’ Jean-Paul honed in intently on the silence and the intonation of Roman’ response.

‘When…Where? How do you know?’

Little indication either way. ‘Simone phoned. She’s been trying frantically to get hold of him the past few hours, can’t find him anywhere. I want you to come to the house right now so that we can sort this out.’ Maybe he could pick up more face to face, from Roman’s eyes and body language.

‘Well… I was planning to go to the Sherbrooke Club to-’

‘I said right now! See you here in twenty minutes.’ Jean-Paul slammed the phone down before Roman could draw breath, let alone respond.

Roman made it to the door at Cartier-Ville in seventeen minutes, slightly flushed after Jean-Paul’s tone on the phone. He was visibly agitated, obviously half-expecting a confrontation: Jean-Paul rarely lost his temper.

Jean-Paul wheeled on him as soon as they’d entered his study. ‘I’m going to ask you the difficult question first, Roman. Have you done anything to Georges?’ He held one hand up, forefinger and thumb close together. ‘Harmed even a hair on his head?’

Roman jolted slightly, looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘No, no… of course not.’

Either he hadn’t or a very good act. But then he’d probably had a few hours to prepare. Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘You know, because it’s just the sort of thing you’d do. You’ve been pressing and pressing for me to do something about Georges, telling me what a danger he could be. But in the end, you just couldn’t wait for the final nod, could you?’

‘No, no… I’m telling you. I ain’t done shit to him.’ Roman held his hands out in exasperation, his face redder still, fit to burst.

‘As father said, always the bull-head. Barging in before you’ve had a chance to put your brain in gear.’

Roman moved a step closer to Jean-Paul, his eyes fixing hard on him. ‘Look — I haven’t touched the fucking creep. Okay? Much as I might have liked to.’ He looked ready to strike out.

Jean-Paul paced to one side, looking away uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. I come back home to find nothing but frantic messages on my answerphone from Simone. She can’t find him anywhere, is worried sick about him.’ He ran one hand through his hair and sighed. ‘I just don’t know what to think.’

Roman found more confidence with Jean-Paul easing off. He raised an acute eyebrow. ‘I don’t quite see the panic — even if I had done something, which I haven’t. Surely having him taken him out is what you’d have decided yourself in the end anyway? Pleading hearts from Simone or not?’

Jean-Paul looked back sharply at Roman. Was this an attempt at rationalisation because he had in fact done something? With Roman protesting his innocence so vehemently, any further assault was probably pointless. Jean-Paul exhaled tiredly.

‘I was actually thinking more in terms of sending Georges to Cuba to run our business interests there and in Mexico until things cooled down. Not only in respect of Simone, but, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re meant to have moved away from crime. Respectable businessmen don’t go around killing people.’

‘Yeah, and mugs who get ratted on end up spending twenty in Orsainville.’ Roman smiled dryly. ‘I told you the transition wouldn’t be easy, Jean-Paul. Cuba might be a good short-term solution, but in the long-’

‘Whatever!’ Jean-Paul held one hand up abruptly as his felt his anger rising again. ‘That would be my call, not yours.’ He watched Roman flicker his eyes down and shrug with a subdued ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Jean-Paul took fresh breath. ‘But that’s not the main problem right now. Hopefully Georges might materialise later tonight, but if he still hasn’t shown by tomorrow, if he doesn’t turn up at the office — then I think we’ve got to face we could have a real problem. Georges suspects that we might be rallying against him because he sent Simone in with some wild story to try and turn the tide at the last minute. And if he fears that he’s out in the cold, that’s when he presents the strongest danger to us: he might go to ground for a day or two until he’s worked out what the hell to do, but there’s strong chances he’d prove our worst fears and end up in the arms of the RCMP. And then solutions like Cuba would be out of the window — I’d have to leave things in your hands.’

‘Right. I see.’ Roman noticed how Jean-Paul couldn’t even look at him directly, let alone say it — just the tame wave of one hand to signal that Georges might, after all, have to be taken out. He thought it pathetic — death-bed promises to their father over Pascal or not — Jean-Paul used to be so direct, unflinching, someone to respect. This new Jean-Paul, trapped between this recent-found social conscience and what he needed to do to take care of business, he found hard to stomach. His conviction that he should be the one taking the reins of their business couldn’t have been stronger than in that moment. But it was important to keep up the image of acquiescence just a little longer: until the final parts of his double game were in place. He held out his palms. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘If Georges doesn’t show in the office tomorrow, then I want you to find him — and find him fast. Work every street contact you know.’

‘And if and when I do?’

‘Bring him to me so that I can decide what to do.’

But again that tell-tale flinch in Jean-Paul’s eyes that told Roman the decision on that end solution would be difficult, if not impossible, for Jean-Paul to take. He’d read things right all along.

‘… You will probably notice, Mrs Waldren, that although I pushed a bit on the subject of whether Lorena remembered anything happening with your husband while awake, rather than just in her dreams — I wasn’t insistent. I didn’t push too hard. There was a specific reason for this.’

Elena was in her hotel room playing the end of tape notes from John Lowndes. He’d pre-advised that Lorena shouldn’t hear them, so she’d sent Lorena down to the hotel bar to have a coke and some crisps with the promise that she’d join her in ‘eight or ten minutes.’

Pause as John Lowndes drew fresh breath. He was obviously measuring his words carefully. ‘We have a slight dilemma here. If the problem with Lorena not remembering is that she’s selectively blotted it out because it’s simply too terrible to remember — then the only way for us to break that protective barrier and draw the memory out, is to push. But then if we push too hard and it starts to look as if we might have even suggested that particular scenario to Lorena — unfortunately we then get into the muddy area of FMS — False Memory Syndrome. Is it a real memory, or one we’ve planted there?’

Half-defeated sigh from Lowndes. ‘Though there’s nothing conclusive either way at this stage, I’m afraid I must reserve strong concern that your suspicions could indeed have foundation. The main clue to this is that so many of the horrors Lorena has suffered in Romania have in fact been transposed to her dreams. She sees that as safer ground than direct recall. It might also follow therefore that any horrors she feels she can’t face now she also stashes away there. A safe haven to protect her psyche, if you will. But that’s a long way from tangible proof. Let’s hope we have a better day tomorrow.’

She stopped the tape and let her thoughts settle for a second. She was sat on the edge of a king-size bed with a tape player borrowed from the hotel owner, Alphonse ‘Just call me Al’ something. The decor made an attempt at French regency with fake wood beams, mock fireplaces and fleur-de-lis wallpaper, but overall was too garish, heavy-handed. Even the dressing table was mock Louis XV, with the bed a matching four-poster with red velvet trim. The only modern things in the room were the TV and Lorena’s sofa-bed.

But it was just what she wanted: small and faceless, just one of many bow-window-fronted B amp;Bs in the Latin Quarter. She’d decided to avoid the larger hotels that might list with a central computer register as a matter of course. The only small problem was that Alphonse, a small rotund man with dark Brylcreamed hair and a thick bristling moustache, who also doubled as the hotel barman and receptionist, was discomfortingly gregarious and friendly. He seemed to want to tell them everything about the city — while at the same time drawing out snippets about them, ‘Dorset, huh? Sounds nice’ — practically on sight. Given their situation, she’d have preferred one of those mousy, indifferent desk clerks that barely looked up when you came in or left.

She drummed a few fingers lightly against the cassette player. Great start, she thought ruefully. They needed desperately to push, but their hands could be tied from word go.

She went down to see Lorena. She’d finished her coke, but was nibbling at some peanuts Alphonse had put before her.

‘She was just telling me all about England, the house you have there,’ Alphonse commented.

‘Oh, right.’ Elena went on alarm. Which house had she mentioned: hers or Ryall’s?

‘Sounds like a palace.’

‘Well, not quite. But getting there.’ Probably Ryall’s: their place wasn’t quite so ostentatious. But she was nervous about what else Lorena might have talked about that she could get caught out on. She was eager to leave. ‘Look, sorry. Got to dash now. Long-lost relatives to track down, and not much time left.’

‘What you mentioned earlier?’

‘That’s right.’ She fished her hire-car keys out of her bag, Lorena got up, and they hustled out. ‘See you later.’

They headed in the car towards Avenue Du Parc. If Alphonse was going to show willing, then she might as well use him to advantage. So she’d spun a story about looking for long-lost cousins, ‘the Stevens, previously Stephanou. Greek-Cypriot relatives, from my father’s side.’ She’d shown Alphonse the list of addresses she’d written down, and he’d given her a quick regional guided tour of the city: French to the East, English to the West, with St Laurent as the main dividing line. ‘Except for Outremont just north-west of St Laurent, which is decidedly upmarket and almost exclusively French. Then we’ve got the Jewish community around Main and St Laurent, the Italians of course in Little Italy around St Joseph and Laurier, and the Greeks and Hispanics spread mostly in between. Westmount is the main upmarket Anglophile area, and the few blocks wedged between St Laurent and Du Parc thirty years ago used to be a predominantly Greek area — but now the new immigrants are mostly Portuguese.’

Elena turned off of Du Parc into Rue Milton, then took the second left — the address that Terry had given her as the Stevens’ first address in Montreal — and started counting down: 67, 65…

She pulled in as the house came into view and turned to Lorena. ‘Will you be okay here for a little while?’ She didn’t just mean the few minutes she’d be now, but for the five or six calls she hoped to get in before dinner-time. ‘You’ve got the radio, or the walkman if you like.’ She glanced towards the back seat where it had been left from Lorena waiting during her earlier calls.

‘Uh huh. I’ll be okay.’

Elena patted her hand and got out. The pavement was wide, then three yards of approach path and five steps before the house. Two bells. She rang the bottom one.

A narrow brownstone with half basement, orange-painted window frames on the ground and lower-ground floors, neutral cream on the top two floors. It was obviously now divided into two apartments — but twenty-eight years ago it could well have been all one house.

A small, swarthy woman in dark-grey track-suit and floral head-scarf opened the door. She looked Elena up and down curiously. ‘Oui?’ Then glanced over her shoulder towards her car.

‘I was looking for some old relatives of mine that used to live here, and I wondered if you might have known them or know where they might have gone. How long have you lived here?’

‘Four year now. Why? What their name?’

‘Stevens. But it was a long time ago — over twenty years.’

The woman considered for a moment. ‘No. No know any Steven. Sorry.’

From her appearance and her accent, Elena thought she was probably Arab or North African rather than Greek or Portuguese. The woman seemed to keep her gaze more over her shoulder towards the car and Lorena than meeting her eye directly. But then she too was looking over the woman’s shoulder, taking in the decor in the hallway and what little she could see of a room two-down through a half-open door.

Elena pointed to the top buzzer. ‘And how long have your neighbours been here?’

‘Just over a year. No longer.’

‘Right.’ Twenty-eight years? There’d probably been a dozen or more owners since then. Elena glanced around: bike against the railings leading down to the basement, an infant’s blue plastic tricycle on the six-yard square of front lawn. And it suddenly struck her what had drawn her here, despite knowing that the Stevens would probably have left long-ago; what was making her look keenly around and try to get glimpses of the inside.

She was following in his footsteps, trying to see what life he might have had after she gave him up: good environment, bad? Well cared for or neglected? Happy, sad? She snapped to as she noticed the women’s eyes on her questioningly.

‘Sorry. Thanks for your help, anyway.’ There was no way of her knowing from this postage-stamp of a garden and glimpse of a half-lit hallway almost thirty years on.

The next few hours became an increasingly wearying blur. Practically the same pitch each time: Stevens, previously Stephanou; Nicholas and Maria and baby of only eighteen months, George. Twenty-eight years ago. ‘…Relatives that my family lost contact with.’ A lot of head-shaking, shrugs and hastily closed doors. And with it dark for an hour and a half and her still calling on fresh doors, Lorena started to become agitated.

‘Still more? You haven’t found him yet?’

‘I haven’t seen him in years now: we lost contact completely. It could take a while more.’ Elena smiled sheepishly. With the long flight and perhaps some nervousness about the impending sessions, Lorena had been quieter than normal, more subdued; now she was obviously getting alert and bright-eyed again, and impatient with it. ‘Just a few more, then we’ll go grab a pizza. Promise.’

She managed two more calls — the third was out — before deciding finally to call it a night. It was getting late to keep disturbing people and they were both hungry, with Lorena bordering on cranky, complaining that she’d listened to all three tapes on the walkman and there was hardly anything on the radio. ‘Most of the stations are in French.’ She sounded bemused.

But Elena now realized that it was going to take a lot longer than she’d first envisaged: three not there to call back on out of the ten Stevens so far canvassed, plus eighteen more fresh calls to go. It was going to take her all of the next day, if not spill over into the day after, especially since five of them were in far-flung suburbs.

The only brief respite — a fleeting flash of hope that had caught her breath in her throat — was a man in his twenties swinging open a door to greet her. Dark brown hair, quite tall… but as she looked closer, she realized that he was probably closer to twenty-two or three than twenty-nine. And she quickly discovered that his name was Guy, parents Charles and Madeleine.

But it suddenly struck her that that was easily how it could happen: the right door swinging open, and suddenly he’d be there. Twenty-nine years melting away in an instant: all the years she’d turned her back on him and tried not to think about him, yet in truth he’d hardly left her thoughts for a second; and she’d clutch at him and embrace him hard… or perhaps stand trembling uncertainly for a second before bursting into tears…

But then she was quickly back to the harsh reality of the head-shakes, shrugs and hastily closed doors, with her father’s voice ringing incessantly in her ears: ‘I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach. You won’t find him.’