The Last Witness (22 page)

  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
dépanneur
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 canapés. ‘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. Côte 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 canapé 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.’