The Last Witness

TWENTY-NINE

‘What are you going to do?’ Gordon asked.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

When Gordon hadn’t answered the first time, Elena had tried again after a minute or so — thinking that maybe he’d been held up in traffic or had car problems — and on the third try, he’d answered. They’d spent a while swapping respective tribulations and dramas — his with Crowley were almost insultingly trivial compared to hers: now it was decision time.

Elena was relieved to hear that her flight hadn’t been traced yet, and the level of alert explained why she hadn’t been flagged down by the first squad car. The policeman who had approached her had seen her near miss and was merely enquiring if she was okay to drive on or if she needed assistance. But that would all change in only twelve hours: the next one to approach her would be with handcuffs and his gun drawn.

She was on a phone in the Eaton Centre with Lorena at a table eight paces away in an open food hall area. The clatter and bustle of people eating echoed slightly; she had to cover her other ear at moments to hear Gordon clearly.

She didn’t notice the man at a far table watching her every move between cappuccino sips.

‘If you’re not heading back, will you at least be sending Lorena?’ Gordon prompted. ‘As much as I know you’d like to keep trying — it’s probably the only sensible option left now.’

‘I know.’ Sensible? Nothing she’d done so far had been sensible; her whole life in fact, though she’d only discovered it these past few days, had been a nonsense. How was she suddenly going to gain 20/20 vision now?

Dead ends at every turn, all her options fast closing down; and now she’d reached the stage of inaction through fear, almost fatalistically certain that whichever one she chose it would be wrong. Crowley’s deadline, little chance now of seeing her son, and nothing helpful in the investigative report on Ryall related from Gordon: nothing suspicious about the adoptions or around the time of Mikaya’s pregnancy; the only other link with children was him apparently doing party magic acts to pay his way through university.

But the bombshell news from the Donatiens about Georges hung like a heavy cloud over most of their conversation. At first all Gordon could manage was ‘Oh Elena,’ followed by a weighty, defeated sigh. Then after a second: ‘I just don’t know what to say.’ That was all she seemed to get these days: silent empathy. The Donatiens so awkward they could hardly meet her eye, and now Gordon winded and lost for words. Only Lorena seemed to be bold enough to talk openly about it, ask her what was wrong; and she’d either fluff around it or openly lie. So in the end there was really nobody she was fully sharing the burden with.

And she felt tired, so tired: the endless search and chase of the past days only to hit the brick wall of the Donatiens’ calamitous news, then the jolt of the policeman by her car right on its back. She felt totally drained, no reserves left to struggle on.

She leant her weight heavier against the wall by the phone and softly exhaled. ‘I think you’re right. I should send Lorena back. With nothing on Ryall and the sessions heading nowhere — no point in holding on to her here any more.’

Gordon said ‘Sorry,’ he didn’t catch the last part, and Elena turned into the wall to shield from the echoing bustle behind and repeated herself. Gordon asked when, and she said ‘Probably first thing tomorrow. I think it’s too late to arrange anything tonight.’ Then after a second another thought struck her: ‘The only problem is that as soon as I send her back, Crowley will know where I am and alert the Canadian police.’ She felt unsettled having voiced it: that the only reason she might keep Lorena there was to serve her own aims, once again she was putting those first.

‘Well, if you didn’t send her back till tomorrow morning — you’d probably get a good twenty-four hours grace overall, what with the flight and then time for Crowley to make contact.’

‘I’d probably need a hell of a lot more than that to sort out this mess with Georges: several days or even weeks, that is if I’m going to be able to get to see him at all.’ Elena glanced around to see Lorena heading back towards their table from her direction. She must have been back at the food counter for something or to the toilets to one side.

‘When will you know for sure?’ Gordon asked.

‘I arranged to call Claude Donatiens in just over an hour. He said he’d have phoned the police by then and got their initial reaction — not only for me possibly being able to see Georges, but if and when they might be able to see him.’

‘I know it sounds trite — but good luck.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And if you are able to go for it, you appreciate the risk you’re running — because you’re certainly on police computers somewhere.’

‘I realize.’ She’d thought of little else since leaving the Donatiens and then hearing about Crowley’s new deadline. Originally, her fear was that as soon as she made contact with the police about Georges, her name would come up on the RCMP’s computer. Now it was like Russian roulette: it might come up, it might not. But if she didn’t make contact before Crowley’s deadline, even that chance would be gone: the gun would once again be loaded with six bullets.

‘There’s also the possibility that Crowley was bluffing just to create an extra pressure deadline: he could have put out a grade one alert immediately.’

‘I see.’ And now a factor she hadn’t considered: the gun could already be fully loaded. In that moment, doubt once again seized her: she was crazy to think she could go through with it, she turned to a quivering jelly just at the sight of a passing squad car — she’d never be able to brave contacting the police over Georges. She should just throw in the towel and head back to England with Lorena. ‘Well, maybe Claude Donatiens will just say it’s a ‘no go’, so it’s not something I’ll even have to — ’ Elena broke off as she looked around: Lorena wasn’t at their table. Her eyes darted like a pin-ball: not at the food counters, not by the toilets, not by the shops to one side. Then she surveyed quickly back through the other tables and the crowds milling around. She was nowhere to be seen! ‘Oh Jesus!’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Lorena. I left her at a table… and now she’s gone. I can’t see her!’ Her breath was falling hard and fast. ‘Sorry, Gordon — I’ve got to go now. Got to find her.’

She hung up halfway through Gordon replying ‘I understand, we’ll-’ and started working her way deeper through the tables, trying to see if Lorena was perhaps obscured by some of the plants and pillars. Nothing. She recalled then Lorena heading back to their table from her direction: Lorena had probably heard her talking, heard her mention sending her back to England and Ryall!

Oh God, that’s what this was all about. She became more frantic, her step quickening and her breath staccato as she scanned furtively through the milling crowds, then rushed and checked the washroom and the shops in each direction, finally stopping at the fourteenth checked: Lorena surely wouldn’t have gone this far and she’d no longer be able to see her if she suddenly appeared and returned to their table. Still nothing, nothing. Elena returned to where she’d started by the phone, still frantically scanning. Her breath fell laboured and heavy with the exertion and panic, and her chest ached as if a nail had been hammered home dead centre. She’d asked herself what else could possibly go wrong on the way from the Donatiens, a whimsical escape valve from the ludicrous, impossible problems with Georges: now she had her answer.

She stood in the same position with her breath easing as her stomach sank deeper with each passing minute, until finally after almost fifteen minutes she felt nauseous, the rest of her body little more than an empty, numb shell with the realization that Lorena probably wasn’t returning. She’d lost her.

Grey-blue water iced over, white in patches where the snow had settled from last night. A ring of pines encircled in an oval half a mile away, stretching into the distance as far as one could see.

Right now the snow and ice gave the lake a hostile, barren feel, but Georges imagined that in a month or so that would all melt and it would be almost idyllic. Azure blue water and rich green pines stretching endlessly, straight out of a ‘Canada Wilds’ vacation brochure. Difficult for Georges to think of it in terms of being his prison for the next six or seven months, maybe longer.

He guessed from the ice on the lake and the dusting of snow overnight that they were somewhere further north: Northern Quebec or Ontario, perhaps even Manitoba. The ice and snow had mostly gone around Montreal, but further north it took longer to shift.

That, apart from the two-hour small plane journey and twenty-minute car ride following, was the only clue to where they were. He’d had to put on a headset with blacked-out visor the minute they were airborne and wasn’t allowed to remove it until they’d arrived. Chac, Chenouda’s side-kick designated to accompany him for the first two weeks, wore the same, as would Chenouda apparently when he came out for his first briefing in a couple of weeks. S-18 were taking no risks. It wasn’t a matter of trust, Chenouda enlightened when they’d initially run through procedure, it was just the fact that the three of them, by necessity, would have contact with other RCMP staff over his investigation and could inadvertently give away clues to his location. Any such contact by Georges would obviously only be by phone: secure line, Chenouda was eager to add.

The others on the plane out, the pilot and two Detective Constables, were all S-18 travelling without headsets: the safe house was already well known to them and they’d stay with him one month on, one off, swapping duty with an alternate set of three S-18 guards. Chenouda went to great lengths to explain how they were a clandestine elite, cut off from all other RCMP contact or even discussions with their own families about their movements. ‘The secrets of the Kingdom have got to rest with someone, and their record is second to none. They’ve never lost anyone yet.’

Georges knew that Chenouda meant well, but it was going to take a while for his unease to shift, if it went at all; and the danger he was in was only part of it. This level of remoteness, being cut off from all other human contact, was totally alien to him; he was a city dweller, used to the hustle, bustle of downtown Montreal and a crammed, stopwatch-timed business day. This lakeside retreat with nothing but empty time on his hands was going to take some getting used to and, whether partly because of the time to dwell on it or not, already he was starting to miss Simone.

What hadn’t helped was his phone conversation with Chenouda the day before. The mention of the secure line they were on led him to raise the subject that he’d like to phone Simone. ‘One last call, a sort of goodbye, if you will. I never did get to say goodbye to her, you see. And also to tell her that I was sorry and put her mind at ease that I wouldn’t be testifying directly against her father — that this was all just about Roman.’

Chenouda was vehemently against the idea. Simone would be one of the first they’d expect him to phone, along with his parents. ‘We can use whatever scrambling and encryption codes we like — but a skilled guy the other end can always crack it.’ And under no circumstances did he want Georges giving away what he might or might not say in testimony. ‘It’ll just give the Lacaille’s defence lawyer ammunition to use against us.’

His three S-18 guards — Clive, Steve and Russell, he’d been given only their first names — had done everything to make him feel at home, and the house was spacious and comfortable enough to stave off claustrophobia: a stunning wood and glass contemporary with five bedrooms, family and games room with snooker table, and even a small gym and jacuzzi. A first-floor verandah stretched its entire length facing the lake, and on his first look around in daylight it was easy to see why this particular house had been chosen: the lake ran each side and then cut back in to join a hundred yards back, so that effectively the house was on a peninsula with only a single bridge connecting. And the study was apparently crammed with monitoring equipment, with the guards taking it in turn to watch its screens: views over the lake from all directions and the connecting bridge, plus motion and weight sensors on the bridge and dotted around the first five metres of land in from the lake.

This was a fortress; and as much as that made him feel more assured about his safety, he couldn’t escape the final key-turn that gave to his sense of isolation. He was kept apart from the world outside as much as it was kept from him. A gilded and comfortable prison, but a prison nevertheless.

He shuddered slightly, recalling his feelings as he’d first approached the house. With the blackened visor and the bumpiness of the last stretch of track before the bridge — suddenly he was back in the van with the hood on. He wasn’t sure what upset him most recalling it now: that in those moments he’d faced death head-on, given up all hope, or than now it represented his last moment of freedom. The pivotal event after which his life could never be the same again.

Roman sat with Funicelli in his car forty yards back from Elena Waldren’s hotel on Rue Berri. Roman had instructed Funicelli not to break off from watching her, not for a second, so the only option had been for Roman to come and collect what he had on tape so far.

Roman couldn’t resist a faint smile as the cassette tape rolled. Funicelli had related the substance of this woman’s conversation at the Donatiens when they’d spoken almost two hours ago, and he’d immediately relayed it to Jean-Paul — but listening to it first hand the impact came home harder, tugged at the heart-strings. Separated at birth, the son she hadn’t seen in twenty-nine years. Pure gold-dust. If anyone had a shot at seeing Donatiens, it was her.

The light was fading fast as Roman listened, and Funicelli found himself squinting slightly, wondering if the street-light was enough to see if she came out of the hotel or whether he’d have to pull closer.

‘The strangest thing was with the girl,’ Funicelli commented absently. ‘I saw everything from where I was… saw exactly where she’d gone. But I couldn’t say nothing. Makes you wonder what was going on there.’

‘Yeah, strange.’ Roman was too absorbed with the tape to shift his concentration much.

When the Donatiens started talking about family background and how long they’d lived in their current house, Roman fast-forwarded. On the second wind-on, Funicelli prompted as Claude Donatiens’ voice on the phone came across.

‘This is where he phones the RCs to find out the lay of the land.’

Roman re-wound a fraction. After some preambles with another RCMP officer, Roman recognized Chenouda’s voice straightaway. Chenouda commented that he was glad of the call, because they were in fact about to call the family anyway to brief about the current situation.

‘We’ve instructed your son not under any circumstances to make contact with you, because you’d be one of the first places the Lacailles would look. So if anyone contacts you asking questions, anything suspicious at all — you’re to let us know. Anything like that already?’

Roman held his breath and looked sharply at Funicelli; but Funicelli looked relaxed, had already heard the tape.

‘No… not that I can think of,’ Claude Donatiens answered.

Probably his wife hadn’t even mentioned the telephone engineer calling; or if she had, he didn’t see it as suspicious.

‘Well, that’s good. Good. It’s probably too early yet for them to react, they’re still scrambling for what to do.’

Roman nodded and smiled at Funicelli. ‘Always said he had big balls… but they sure ain’t fucking crystal.’

‘But you’ll let me know the moment anything changes?’

‘Yes, certainly — I will.’ Then Claude Donatiens came onto the main reason for his call: if and when they might be able to see their son. He sounded hesitant; Chenouda’s opening about Georges being instructed not to contact them had obviously put him off his stride, bade the worst.

But Chenouda listened patiently and didn’t completely pour cold water on the idea. He explained that the idea of the programme was that their son would have no contact with family or friends. ‘But that’s not to say that a meeting couldn’t be arranged at a later stage — if we can put the right safeguards in place.’

It was difficult to tell if Chenouda meant what he said or was letting the Donatiens down softly, didn’t want to tackle right now the thorny truth that they might never get to see their son again.

Roman sat forward as Claude Donatiens came to the topic of the woman who’d visited them. Chenouda was off balance at first and it took a couple of questions for him to get things clear in his mind. Then he was circumspect, raising the coincidence of the timing.

‘Surely this comes under what I mentioned initially — things out of the ordinary, suspicious. People making contact out of the blue and asking questions.’

‘No… no, I don’t think so. She came across as very genuine, and she showed us some papers from England. Birth certificate, something too from a search agency. She’s been looking for him for a month or so… way before any of this happened.’

Chenouda fell silent for a second. ‘Well, whether or not she’s genuine I suggest you leave to me to decide — after I’ve had her checked out and seen for myself what papers she’s got.’ Faint resigned sigh as Chenouda asked and made note of her name and where she was staying. ‘I’ll speak to her.’

Roman glanced up at the hotel ahead. Perhaps she was talking to Chenouda right now: if only they could get a bug inside there as well. The uncertainty, not knowing for sure, was stifling, had his nerves on a razor’s edge.

He told Funicelli to phone him the minute anything new broke or she left the hotel, then took the tapes and headed off to see Jean-Paul.

Jean-Paul looked up thoughtfully as they finished. ‘What do you think?’

Roman shrugged. ‘I think that if she lays it on thick like she did with Claude Donatiens — we’ve got a chance. Thing is, it’s our best and only chance right now.’

Jean-Paul nodded. ‘Maybe so. But this Chenouda sounds more than a little reticent, was very non-committal.’

‘Yeah, true. It’s all in the balance — could go either way.’ But Roman was more confident than he made out, because what Jean-Paul couldn’t take account of was how Chenouda arranging Donatiens’ abduction could now play a vital card in their favour. Cutting Donatiens off from his family, friends and past was bad enough — but being responsible for him never being able to meet his natural mother added an all the more poignant, crushing burden; hopefully the straw to break the camels back.

Roman had been blind with fury when it first dawned on him what Chenouda had done. Not just the sheer cheek of it or that someone else apart from him was suddenly playing under the table with an extra deck, but the fact that he’d been first to fall in the frame — which Chenouda would have known all too well. He’d been made to look a fool and a liar with Jean-Paul. Despite his protestations last time and him making good now, Roman was sure Jean-Paul still harboured doubt. Chenouda had probably had a good laugh up his sleeve at that: getting Donatiens to testify and at the same time putting him and Jean-Paul at each other’s throats. But now hopefully there’d be some divine pay-back in store for Chenouda.

Roman grimaced tightly at Jean-Paul. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see which way he finally jumps.’

‘If there was any way to avoid sending you back, I would, Lorena. But there’s nowhere left for me to go with this. Can’t you see that?’

‘Yes, I… I suppose I can.’ Lorena eyes flickered down and she bit lightly at her bottom lip.

The first acceptance, perhaps even a shade of guilt at the trouble she’d caused. But it had been a tough few hours to get there, Elena contemplated.

Lorena had heard her on the phone and at first thought of running away. She went out of the mall and got as far as sixty yards down St Catherine St before the confusion of people and traffic passing made her realize that she’d be lost and alone in a strange city. She returned to the mall and stood inside a shop doorway, trembling, trying to frantically think of what else she might do. She could just see Elena from where she was, but was careful to duck inside the shop when Elena turned. Then, as Elena appeared about to give up and go, she rushed over and clutched on to her and burst into tears, saying she was sorry, sorry, sorry. Between the tears she explained what had happened and begged and pleaded for Elena not to send her back tomorrow.

The display took all the steam out of Elena’s anger. All she did was wipe away Lorena’s tears, order a coffee for them both and sit Lorena down and try and calmly explain her dilemma.

But Lorena was practically beyond consolation. ‘Mr Ryall will be angry with me… much worse than before. I can’t go back now.’

Elena reasoned and cajoled, but Lorena clung on obstinately, still pleading and panicked at the thought of having to face Ryall again. And in the end all Elena could think of to break through was being dramatic.

‘You don’t understand, Lorena. If I don’t send you back to England tomorrow, I’m going to jail for this.’

‘But that tape. I thought that was to help you… so that you wouldn’t get into trouble.’

‘Yes, that helped us for the last few days. But after tomorrow, that won’t help anymore. And they could send me to jail for a long while, Lorena. You wouldn’t want that would you?’

‘No… no, I wouldn’t.’

Watching the heavy shadows in Lorena’s eyes as she looked away awkwardly — torn between her own very real fear and getting Elena into such serious trouble — Elena felt immediately guilty using such tactics. But she hadn’t seen much choice.

She’d had to break off to make her call to Claude Donatiens. Claude said that the officer he’d spoken to, Michel Chenouda, was non-committal, but at least had said he’d contact her; he hadn’t closed the door straight away.

Elena was suddenly apprehensive when Claude said he’d passed on her details. She’d hoped to just be given a number, have that option of whether or not to brave making contact. Now that had been taken from her grasp; probably best, she might have balked and never made that final move. But she was nervous that now the police had her name and where she was staying, they could already be checking her out. She could return to the hotel to find it ringed by police cars with their beacons flashing.

Both her and Lorena were silent heading back to the hotel: her worried about impending arrest, Lorena about returning to Ryall.

There’d been no flashing lights at the hotel, but Elena had been too tense waiting on Chenouda’s call to talk much about Lorena’s concerns. She’d just placated that Lorena shouldn’t worry so, they’d sort something out.

‘We’ll go for something to eat and talk then.’

Chenouda’s call had been a non-event after the level of anticipation and panic she’d worked herself up to: all he did was confirm with her the details Claude Donatiens had passed on to him, then suggest that they should meet and talk fully at eleven-thirty the next day. He gave her an address on Dorchester Boulevard and asked that she bring her passport and all relevant paperwork regarding her son.

But soon after putting down the phone, she began to panic how on earth she was going to face walking into a police station, right into the lion’s den!

They found a restaurant on St Denis that had a special on lobsters, and Elena talked Lorena into trying one as a change from pizza.

‘If this meeting doesn’t work out tomorrow, I’ll be heading back with you.’ Elena was still throwing across everything she could to reassure. Lorena had earlier looked concerned when she’d explained that if she was staying on, all she could do was walk Lorena into the nearest British embassy and give them the Ryall’s details; they’d have to arrange transport back for her. Anything to meet the deadline. ‘I don’t think much will come of it, so you’ll probably end up with my company.’

The shadows only eased from Lorena’s eyes a fraction. Elena once again opted for dramatics to shift Lorena’s mood. She decided to open up more about her son, explain why tomorrow was so important to her.

‘I said that I hadn’t seen him in a while, but I lied. Truth is, I’ve never seen him since he was born. I was very young when I became pregnant… and my father gave him away to another family. I was given no choice in the matter.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lorena said, appearing confused for a second how else to respond. ‘You missed him a lot?’

‘Yes… very much.’ And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see him again. She blinked slowly, but suddenly there were no more welling tears: the see-saw events of the past forty-eight hours, the valerian pills and her mounting tiredness had battered her senses numb. Sometimes she felt completely empty of emotions, little more than a hollow shell. Or was it simply a protective barrier so that any new shock wouldn’t send her reeling and rip her insides out? She was finally battle-hardened for the worst.

‘Was he cruel, your father?’

‘No… just very strict. Impossibly strict.’

‘So he wasn’t someone for you to be afraid of — like Mr Ryall?’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Elena smiled wanly as she made the concession. She’d raised it as a trump card, but Lorena had deftly slipped it back in the deck where it belonged. Of course, she had been afraid of her father; but that suddenly put it all in perspective: if Lorena’s claims had substance, Lorena had a real fear to face.

Suddenly Lorena was once again the frightened little girl reaching out a hand for help from the back of Nicola Ryall’s Range Rover. And whatever rationale Elena threw across, she knew that she could never shift the lingering fear in Lorena’s eyes. Jail sentence or not, in the end she just didn’t think she could face sending Lorena back to Ryall tomorrow.

Another restless night.

Elena had been hoping finally to get a good night’s sleep. She was so exhausted and so keen to make the right impression for her big day tomorrow. Get rid of the blood-shots in her eyes and steady her nerves, hopefully not come across how she felt: haggard, desperate, at her wit’s end. There’s no way this half-crazed woman is getting to see him.

But, perversely, the worry about how the day might go kept her thoughts churning; and now she still had Lorena to worry about. She’d hoped to at least put that to rest. All she’d said in the end was for Lorena not to worry, she didn’t think that she could send her back. ‘We’ll try and sort something out tomorrow.’ Left that small gap open in case finally there was no choice. Sometimes she wished that she were arrested so that she didn’t have to make the decision. It was frustrating. She’d set her game-plan, was almost there in convincing Lorena, getting her to accept — then suddenly she’d been slam-dunked at the last moment.

The problem was, which was the right Lorena? Had Lorena purely stumbled on hitting the right chord about her father through a child’s naive bluntness, or had she planned it — her street-wiliness showing through? Was Lowndes right that Lorena had formed an unnatural attachment to her and this was all just a cry for attention, to grab back some of their old bond together? In which case Lorena must have planned everything practically from the start.

Except for one thing: the fear Elena had seen in Lorena’s eyes in the restaurant. That was difficult to fake. She herself was full of concern and panic for what the next day held, but what she’d seen in Lorena in that moment went far beyond that. Whether something was happening with Ryall or not, it was certainly real in Lorena’s mind. So why after all these sessions couldn’t she recall anything?

The thought had a loop effect: there was no real answer and so it just went around, and Elena let it because it was soporific, pushed her closer towards sleep. She finally dozed off after half an hour, her last thoughts on what she might wear for her meeting tomorrow. Something clean-lined and respectable, but at the same time not too cool and formal: it should be soft-edged, maternal. She’d glanced at the weather forecast before getting into bed to help her decide.

Overnight lows of 4 or 5, 10 or 11 by mid-morning, rising to highs of 13 or 14.

For some reason she found the numbers replaying in her thoughts halfway through the night, jumbling with a segment from one of Lowndes sessions: ‘And he was saying some numbers… seven… eight.’

Elena was suddenly wide-awake again, her breath falling sharp and fast. Magic acts! She sat up and looked at the bedside clock: 3.26 am. Barely two hours sleep.

She felt like waking Lorena, screaming out loud that she thought she’d found the key, and they’d both jump up and down excitedly and wake the rest of the hotel. But she needed to know for sure — so she threw on some clothes, grabbed her bag and headed for the nearest phone box. She used her global call card and dialled her home number.

Gordon, initially pleasantly surprised, almost relieved to hear her voice — perhaps he’d been half-expecting another call from Crowley — berated her for breaking their call policy.

‘This couldn’t wait,’ Elena said, still slightly breathless from the rush to the booth. ‘Besides, I’ve used a global call card. It’ll be scrambled through some faceless exchange in Virginia. I could be calling from anywhere in the world.’ She told Gordon what she needed to know — Ryall’s background with children’s magic acts — and why. ‘Where did your investigator get that from?’

‘From some old newspaper clipping, I believe.’ No, he hadn’t send them through; but, yes, Gordon could get hold of him now. ‘He works from home. Phone me back in fifteen minutes and I’ll see what he’s got.’

Six minutes later Gordon had the fax through: three newspaper clippings in total. He scanned rapidly through, his blood running cold as he came to the reference two-thirds of the way into the second article. Elena’s hunch had been right! He tapped his fingers on the table by the phone and read through more thoroughly as he waited on Elena’s call back.

Elena’s nerves had been wound too tight to do anything more than pace agitatedly back and forth ten yards either side of the call box to kill the time; once again she was slightly breathless. All she could manage was ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ when Gordon told her. She’d hoped that she’d be right; but another part of her had hoped desperately that she’d be wrong. She sighed heavily, felt the last remnants wash away from her. ‘The rest now I suppose will have to be sorted out on the psychiatrist’s couch.’

Gordon again wished her good luck for tomorrow as they signed off. ‘Thanks.’ Hopelessly inadequate for one of the biggest days of her life: decision day now on two fronts. But she felt too numbed and shell-shocked to say anything else.

She stood for a moment by Lorena’s bed before getting back into bed herself: Lorena didn’t appear to have stirred, even notice that she’d been gone. She realized then that she couldn’t say anything: it could later be said that Lorena had merely filled in the gaps to suit. She’d only be able to tell Lowndes, then they’d just have to hold their breath to see if events followed the nightmare path they feared. But the strongest emotion she felt looking on at Lorena gently sleeping was that she was sorry, so sorry for ever having doubted her.