The Last Witness (21 page)

  Eight, fourteen… now in his late twenties. All those lost years. She tried to picture what he’d look like now, but again it was the image of small boy in her mind, running along the beach at the end of the chine, the wind lightly ruffling his hair… then as she focused, tried to see him clearer, she realized it was the Christos she had now, a chink of recall from a Cyprus beach holiday when he was five. She opened her eyes again, her breath showing on the cool air with her heavy exhalation. There was nothing there. No image she could cling to.

  He’d been christened, blown out his first birthday candle, grazed his knee, had his first day at school, college, had girlfriends, maybe now was even married and had a family of his own. And she hadn’t been there for any of it. Even if the call came through with something and she could find him, all of that would still be lost to her. All she could do was try and fill in the gaps in her mind – but even that small consolation seemed desperately out of reach. There was nothing there. Nothing. Just an empty, aching void.

  Her eyes filled, and the tears flooded rapidly over. She dabbed at them, thinking she had it under control, but suddenly her body was convulsed with racking sobs, competing with the trickling of the nearby stream. The tears felt cool against her skin with the breeze, and she rocked gently, muttering, ‘Christos… Christos. I’m sorry… so sorry.’

  The wind in the treetops drowned out her voice, which made her plea seem all the more lost, insignificant. She was alone; alone with her secret in the one place that since childhood she felt she could be alone and secretive. But for one of the first times she no longer felt cocooned and protected, but adrift, vulnerable. The magic was fading. She’d kidded herself all along that she’d chosen it as a sanctuary from the craziness of the world outside, when in reality she’d merely used it to bury the memories of what she’d done; and now she could almost feel them seeping back out of the trees and damp earth to haunt her.
Your only son… and you let him go. How could you?

  She shook her head, bit hard at her lip, trying to shake away the silent whispers of recrimination. Maybe as she searched she might get a clearer image of Christos in her mind, something to cling to that would help fill the crushing void inside, and the magic would start to return. She wiped at her tears and started her way slowly back up the steep slope of the chine. Her step was heavy, her legs starting to ache only halfway up, and she couldn’t help dwelling on the task ahead. Making her way from a place of such long-buried secrets into the open. It wouldn’t be easy.

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 canapé’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.’