The Last Witness (56 page)

  Chac joined him after a minute. ‘You okay?’

‘Just starting to worry that this is what my life holds from hereon in: watching ice melt and putting bets on the number of F-words on Springer.’ Georges went back to staring out blankly across the frozen lake.

  ‘I know.’ Chac shrugged. ‘But don’t worry – it’s just the first months until the trial. After, you’ll be re-located with a new identity – be playing golf in the Carolinas or fishing in the Florida Keys with some Jennifer Lopez look-alike on your arm. Or maybe with the language thing, they’ll buy you a new life in the South of France. Things will be looking up again.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds good.’ Georges nodded dolefully. He confided in Chac more than anyone else. Perhaps because Chac had been with him throughout since the abduction, or maybe it was just his size: broad shoulders and soft edges to cushion problems. ‘But the thing is, Chac, I’m missing her. I’m missing her like hell.’

  ‘Did you speak to Michel about it?’

  ‘Yeah. But he says no go. They’ll be watching her too closely, and whatever I said would probably only be used against us at trial.’

  Chac joined him in staring out across the frozen lake. Georges had probably explained it better to him than he’d got a chance to over the phone to Michel: just why he was unhappy leaving things on this note with Simone. And it made sense: a sort of closure to that part of his life so that he could get on with this new chapter now. But Chac could also see the risk from Michel’s viewpoint.

  ‘I’ll try and talk to him about it next time he calls,’ Chac said. ‘Maybe there’s a different angle to play it.’

Crowley’s call came through to RCMP central in Ottawa at precisely 11.08 am EST.

  ‘No, we can’t narrow it down more than that, I’m afraid.’ And, no, she wasn’t armed and dangerous. ‘In fact they know each other quite well, so the girl is in no immediate danger. But it is urgent we have contact with them and that the girl is returned to her parents.’

Within the hour the alert was logged and put out on the network for the attention of all stations in Eastern Canada, which included Dorchester Boulevard. But Michel Chenouda had already done his checking for Elena Waldren on the system over an hour ago.

  Then at 12.52 pm EST, Ottawa received another call from Crowley.

  ‘We’ve narrowed it down! They’ve gone to Toronto.’

  ‘You’re sure of that now? Before I make the final change.’

  ‘Yes, yes… positive. We just got the confirmation through from the airline.’

  ‘Okay.’ A few key taps, and the alert was amended solely for Toronto and Ontario police. It had been on the Quebec network for less than two hours before vanishing like a dying radar blip.

  Hanging up, Crowley was bursting with excess adrenalin and energy. They’d finally traced the flight, a charter from Brussels to Toronto and Edmonton: she’d booked all the way to Edmonton, then changed at the last moment.

  Two days with nothing, and suddenly the breaks were all hitting at the same time, the squad room was once again buzzing with it. Often the way.

The squad room was like a morgue.

  A hubbub of activity only seconds before, each time Michel Chenouda walked in it fell quiet. This was the pay-back for having put them under suspicion with S-18. Michel felt like picking out individuals and saying I don’t think it’s you or you, or ‘Come on, we’ve worked together years now: I’m not pointing the finger at you, it’s others here I’m not so sure about.’ And then those others would stare at him blankly. Chac and Maury Legault were getting the treatment too, because they were the only ones he’d singled out to trust. He’d had to trust somebody, and they were his longest standing partners. But nobody had any idea just
how much
he’d trusted them, that they shared his secret of Donatiens’ abduction.

  Maury had taken notes during his interview with Elena Waldren, and the squad room had predictably fallen silent as they’d walked back in. Chac thought he’d drawn the short straw getting the main duty guard with Donatiens: unlike him and Maury, he didn’t have kids to see, a failed marriage to try and make good on after the event. But Chac was better off out of it, Michel reflected: at least his isolation was real, tangible. This forced isolation, surrounded by people you knew so well yet were made to feel so apart from and out in the cold, in a way was much harder to take.

  He felt guilty having roped Chac and Maury in on his little scheme, subjected them as well to this icy inter-departmental blast. Along with their help, he’d wanted them as sounding boards to convince himself he was doing the right thing: ‘If we just leave Donatiens, Roman’s going to take him out for sure. All we’re doing is advancing what Roman’s going to do to him in a few days. And at the same time we get our witness.’ Chac and Maury had been heavy with doubt and concern at first. There’d been a lot of frowns and forehead-cradling at the terrible risk to their careers, and Michel moved in swiftly with the clincher. ‘What’s the alternative? We know he’s about to die – yet we just sit around and let it happen?’

  He’d wanted their honest input, but in the end had shamelessly cornered them, left them little choice: how could they put their precious careers before a man’s life? The reverse of that same coin, once the battle banners had been raised, suddenly made their actions seem terribly noble. They’d put their necks on the line to save Donatiens’. Michel clung to that, recited the same headline justification each time the guilt seeped back.

  Because what Michel didn’t want to have to face is that his obsession with the Lacailles might have finally made him step too far. He’d known all along that he was going to corner Chac and Maury, because he couldn’t have done it without them. He didn’t just want head-nods that he was doing the right thing. Chac had in fact helped him choose the two abductors and set things up, then he’d assigned Chac and Maury to watch over Donatiens, allowing just the right leeway for his abductors to get away – until the last moment. Every detail had been painstakingly pre-choreographed and timed.

And now Maury was alongside him in a small back office at Dorchester Boulevard with Chac and Georges at the other end of the line in the safe house. Russell had set up the scrambler and watched a monitor for a second to ensure the signal kept shifting and the line was secure, then left them to it. Their small circle of conspiracy was once again complete.

  Chac spoke only briefly and said that he wanted another word when Michel had finished, then passed him over to Georges.

  Michel swallowed hard. This wasn’t going to be easy.

Georges had at first been defensive and incredulous. It was impossible. His real mother had died when he was only three in a car accident: Maria Stephanou. And his father had been too spineless to bring him up on his own.

  ‘That’s
how
I ended up in the orphanage. And that’s why I never troubled to see him since, or even tried to make contact.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Georges. I’ve seen her papers and heard her story. And I think she’s for real.’ Michel ran through everything as it had been presented to him: early pregnancy, dominating father, the court order, the birth registration with the same doctor also finding the Stephanous. He didn’t want to pull any punches, so his tone was straightforward, almost matter-of-fact; belied the emotional weight of the subject.

  It would have made everything so much easier if Donatiens just said ‘I don’t want to see her.’ Washed all the guilt and the difficult decisions yet to come on this away in one. And it would have been easy to put the spin on it now to lead to that response. But Michel already carried enough on his shoulders through influencing events, moulding them the way he wanted. It was doubtful enough that Donatiens might ever be able to see his birth mother; he didn’t want to be responsible for driving home the final knife, trying to influence to ensure they never met just to save added complications. That would be a step too far. This one he’d have to play straight down the line.

  Georges still clung on defensively, much of it covering ground that Michel had tossed around a dozen times over the past two hours. Surely it was all just a scam dreamt up by Roman? No, first thing Michel had thought of: no possible link and her search had started ten days before Georges had even been abducted. Then why had she left it until now to try and make contact? And Michel had told him the rest: her cutting herself off from her father and trying to blot it from her mind; her work with adopted children to salve the guilt.

  ‘…Telling herself all along that you’d have gone to a good family somewhere. And everything was going well until she suddenly hit the brick wall of a child placed with a family where everything wasn’t so fine.’

  Georges let go reluctantly: it was almost half an hour before his anger and defensiveness finally wound down. Silently submissive.
Too
silent after the earlier outbursts, stiflingly awkward: Michel could still sense a hundred questions bubbling beneath. But it was probably as close to acceptance as Georges would come until all the pieces had sunk in and finally settled.

  There was a moment close to the end when Georges suddenly blurted our: ‘What would you do in my position?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose I –’

  But Georges butted in. ‘Oh, I forgot. You couldn’t possibly have any idea of my position or know how I feel. Cut off from everyone I know and love, and now one more added to the pot.’ He eased an awkward, muted chuckle. ‘Are you sure this isn’t one of Roman’s warped games?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure. As I say, we checked it every which way.’ As if countering the barb, after a second he added that Georges didn’t exactly have the exclusive on isolation. ‘Since I went out on a limb for you by bringing in S-18, a lot of backs have turned here. I might as well –’ Then it was his turn to cut short. His situation paled in comparison. The closest he’d come to knowing how Georges felt was the situation with his own family. Following his wife from Toronto to Montreal because he couldn’t bear being away from his children. When they’d left it had been like a stab to the heart, grinding month by month deeper: the ten months before he finally got transfer and followed were one of the hardest of his life. Because of this squad room cold shoulder now and his role winding down as S-18 took over, he’d thrown himself more into his family, arranged a couple of days out with Benjamin and Angelle; with his absorption with the case, all too often they’d taken a back seat. The cold shoulder from work colleagues was one thing – uncomfortable, a pain in the ass – but separation from family was in an entirely different league. ‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I know how you must feel – I was seperated from my own children for a while.’ Though he didn’t have the time or inclination to explain just how and why. He took a fresh breath. ‘This might not be a decision you can make right now. But she has flown all the way from England and can’t stay indefinitely on the off-chance – so I promised to let her know one way or the other within twenty-four hours. If you’re not ready now, fine, we can just tell her that and when you are finally ready – three months, six months, whatever – she can be contacted again.’

  Georges sighed nonchalantly. ‘What’s the point? Even if I decide I want to see her, it’ll probably just be the same as with Simone: no go.’

  ‘I can’t say one way or the other. I’m just the messenger here. I passed on what she said – and if you decide you want to see her, I again pass that on to S-18. In the end it’s up to them to decide. One thing in her favour is that unlike Simone, she’s not the first place that Roman and Jean-Paul will be watching. She’s new on the scene – they won’t even know about her.’

  Michel was pleased with the way he’d handled it: no edge or influence. If Georges finally decided he didn’t want to see her, he couldn’t possibly be held to blame. But with what Chac had to say as he came back on the line – pausing momentarily for Georges to leave the room – Michel began to wonder whether perhaps he should have tried to influence Georges; mould him, push him where he wanted. Things hadn’t changed: each time he feared the Lacailles might slip from his grasp, all else quickly went to the wind.

THIRTY-ONE

‘You feel completely relaxed… feel yourself drifting deeper, deeper…’

Elena was in the small annexe room listening in, breath held as Lowndes pulled Lorena down through the final stages. This would be the first acid test of whether Ryall might have hypnotised Lorena: not everyone was susceptible.

‘…But you’re still aware of my voice. You’re able to follow my instructions, do what I ask. Deeper… deeper…’ Silence for a few seconds, only the sound of Lorena’s steady breathing. ‘You’re in a deep sleep now. But can you still hear my voice, Lorena?’

No answer from Lorena, but Elena imagined that she’d nodded, because Lowndes immediately said ‘Good. Good.’

Longer pause this time, then: ‘Now let us go back to one of the nights Mr Ryall came to your bedside – any  night – did he at any time do what I’ve done now: talk you down into a deep sleep?’

‘I… I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘Cant remember?’ Lowndes was doubting, disbelieving. ‘But you’d surely remember clearly something like that, Lorena. Or is it that Mr Ryall
told you
not to remember?’

‘I don’t know… I can’t say.’ Lorena was flustered, her breathing rapid and fractured.

‘Can’t say? I think more like won’t say.’ This time it was a statement; Lowndes decided to head abruptly in another direction for questioning. ‘Last time we spoke, you mentioned Mr Ryall counting down some numbers – seven… eight. Is that when he was counting you down into sleep or counting you awake again?’

Silence again, but Lorena’s answer was obvious from her breathing becoming more laboured still. She felt trapped: part of her wanted to say yes, but another part of her Ryall still held in check.

Seven… eight
. Lorena recalling the counting had given Elena the first clue, then Gordon’s private investigator had mentioned that Ryall had done child’s party magic acts to pay his way through university. One of the clippings he’d faxed through to Gordon revealed that part of this involved hypnotising the parents and getting them to do all manner of silly things. No doubt a great hit with the children; though not so popular when used against them, Elena thought sourly.

‘It’s okay, Lorena, we’re your friends,’ Lowndes prompted, trying to ease her from the dead-end, the uncertainty of where to head next. ‘And it’s okay to tell us. Mr Ryall only said that you shouldn’t tell anyone else
after
he’d counted you back awake, didn’t he?’

No answer. A heavy swallow, then the steady, rapid fall of Lorena’s breathing returned.

‘…And we’re still there with you – he hasn’t counted you back awake yet. So it’s okay…’

Another swallow, then ‘…Are you sure?’

Lowndes leapt on the advantage. ‘Of course I’m sure. We’re your friends… Mr Ryall would
want
you to tell us. We’re still alongside you now the same as him, waiting for his countdown…’

Silence again, back to Lorena’s fractured breathing, her uncertainty. Elena’s hands were clenched tight together with expectancy. Lowndes had mentioned that Ryall had likely built in a protective key: that would be the second breakthrough stage.

‘He’d
want
you to tell us, Lorena,’ Lowndes repeated. Brief pause, then: ‘So let’s move on to when your stepfather has already put you in a deep sleep, like now.’ Lowndes had obviously decided to take the initiative to break the deadlock; or maybe he felt that part of Lorena’s uncertainty was that she didn’t know where to start her story. He’d have to lead her by the hand. ‘What happened next?’

Still silence from Lorena. Elena counted down the beats with one finger against the table. One. Two. Three. Almost in time with Lorena’s breathing.

‘He’s already soothed your brow… told you everything was okay. Is that what he continues to do – stroke and soothe your brow?’

Five. Six.
Finally, hesitantly: ‘Yes, he… he continues stroking me, but gently on my cheek now, saying everything’s okay, okay… we’re all alone now. Nobody else around to disturb us.’

Lowndes eased a heavy breath. He’d told Elena that one of his worries was that the protective key could be quite complex, involving an unusual word to be repeated: it could take them hours to hit on it. Though that method had drawbacks too in that a subject could stumble on the word in real life, or what they thought was that word, and suddenly start talking. He’d hoped that Ryall had simply built in an ‘anyone else once awake’ key.

Back to the silence. ‘This is
your
story, Lorena – so you have to lead us through it, tell us what happens next.’

Elena sensed Lowndes’ reluctance to continue prompting. He’d had strong reservations about hypnotising Lorena initially: it was outmoded, something he rarely practised anymore, but also it was viewed as strongly suggestive. False Memory Syndrome could all too easily be claimed, especially if it was seen that he’d in any way led her.

After a second. ‘He… he continued stroking me. My neck, my shoulders… then lower…’ Lorena swallowed heavily.

‘Where was he touching you then?’ The closest Lowndes dared prompt.

Another long pause. ‘On… on my breasts.’ Then, as if uncomfortable with what she’d just said, she moved quickly on. ‘And all the time he was saying it’s okay… it’s okay. It’s our little secret. Nobody else will ever know.’

Elena closed her eyes and felt herself sucked back down into the darkness of the chine. Ryall had probably been molesting her practically from day one, back even to when she’d first visited Elena that day and they’d gone down into the chine. And meanwhile Ryall had been dragging her into his own private darkness every other night. Straight from the hell of the sewers and orphanages to Ryall’s personal magic-show hell-hole.

Elena shuddered, could hardly bear to listen as Lowndes wrenched her through the rest: Ryall’s hand travelling lower, lower, until it was between her legs. Ryall gloating, telling her it was okay to enjoy it, to feel excited. It was their secret, remember. He wasn’t going to tell anyone.

It was a difficult passage for Lorena. She paused frequently, her breathing laboured, staccato, her voice often pushed in grabbed bursts in-between. And it was equally difficult for Lowndes. Several times he sighed heavily; it was evident that he’d rather be doing anything else than have her re-live these memories. His awkwardness, his frustration with not being able to openly prompt her came across clearly at moments. Elena could sense him want to reach a hand out, guide her through the more difficult parts, wrap her tongue around words and descriptions she thought she’d never have to speak.

All the times that Elena had harboured doubt, sometimes small, sometimes large; but practically all the way through she’d held
some
reserve for herself. And Lowndes too only forty-eight hours ago had doubted Lorena, and once again she’d been swayed. Anger, frustration, just wanting to hug Lorena tight and say again that she was sorry, sorry, sorry for ever having doubted her. And tell her that now it really was okay; she was finally safe. Elena suddenly pictured herself showing up at Ryall’s door before the police had even arrived to personally tell him the news that Lorena would
never
be coming back, and as he registered surprise she’d swing a punch flat on… Elena was distracted. Lowndes’ questioning had shifted.

‘…Don’t you mean
Eileen
the aid worker? She’s the one you contacted for help.’

‘No, Elena – that’s her name. She’s the one I phoned. She visited originally with someone else, a local social worker, before she finally got me away.’

Oh no!
Elena’s heart dropped like a stone. She should have realized the possibility: the whole idea of hypnosis was to uncover buried secrets, get to the truth. But that ran equally for buried secrets on
all
fronts. She felt like bursting in and screaming
‘Stop! Stop! We’ve already got what we want.’
But it was too late: Lowndes had picked up the thread.

‘Got you away?’ He tried to sound casual, mask his astonishment.

‘Yes. Got me away from England and Mr Ryall. She’s here with me now.’

‘What – here as in here in the next room? Waiting on you.’

‘Yes.’ Questioning tone, faint surprise that he didn’t know this already.

Elena’s heart pounded hard and heavy and her mouth was dry as Lowndes wound the session down. Still she waited in the annexe rather than walk straight in; as if she was an errant schoolchild hiding in the stock cupboard in the hope that the teacher wouldn’t find her.

Sound of a door opening and closing as Lorena went through to the reception area, then seconds later Lowndes swung open the annexe room door.

‘I think we need to talk.’

‘Yes. I think we do.’

* * * *

Within two hours of putting down the phone on Georges and Chac, Michel decided to phone Mundy.

He’d spent the time between his office and pacing up and down the squad room meanwhile, frantically turning over all the possibilities. One advantage of being out in the cold: nobody called out to disturb him, spoil his train of thought.

Could Chac’s reading of the situation possibly be right? He started to work angles as soon as he was off the line, suddenly he felt he should be back in there infighting, pushing, moulding things how he wanted. A possible ace card to play hit him after only half an hour; but if Donatiens simply said that he didn’t want to see her, he wouldn’t get the chance to play it. There wouldn’t even be any reason for him to contact Mundy. They’d all just have to sit tight on the roller-coaster and wait and see if it de-railed off the edge, as Chac suspected.

But with all that had gone before, everything they’d risked to bring them to this stage – Michel saw that as an unacceptable final chapter. He couldn’t possibly leave anything to chance. He decided to phone Mundy straightaway, before he’d even received Georges’ call.

Mundy listened patiently as Michel explained the latest developments. He sighed long and hard as Michel finished. ‘Strong, heartfelt case. Couldn’t be stronger. But you know the rules with this type of programme. Absolutely
no
contact with outside.’

‘I thought with the emotional stakes on this one and the fact that it was so unusual – there might be an exception. We could cut some slack.’

‘Nothing could be worse emotionally than not be able to turn up to a loved-one’s funeral – but we never let them go. A case a couple of years back with Pepe Aquilana. His mother died while he was on the programme. And believe me he loved his mother, doted on her –
and
she was around all of his life. But we couldn’t let him go.’

‘I know.’ Michel had half expected this response, had his game-plan prepared. ‘But that’s mostly because funerals are the first place they look. They expect the mark to come back for a loved-one’s funeral, and they’re waiting. That’s why you don’t let them go. But this is different – she’s new on the scene, nobody has even a sniff of her. Until the other day, not even Georges or the Donatiens family – so certainly not the Lacailles. She could see him and they wouldn’t know the first thing about it.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Mundy said it more to himself. Then after a second: ‘No doubt Georges Donatiens says he wants to see her?’

Michel sensed Mundy was starting to sway; just a touch more. ‘From our earlier conversation, I think he’ll want to. He’s going to confirm back to me later.’

‘Then why don’t we just wait for his confirmation. He might say no – he doesn’t want to see her.’

‘I… I wanted to make sure of the ground first: where S-18 stood.’ Michel purposely appeared hesitant. ‘I didn’t want to build his hopes up only to let him down. He’s already had one let down with not being able to speak to his fiancée. And… well, we’ve got another problem.’

‘What’s that?’

Mundy was where he wanted. Teed up and ready for the swing through. ‘I’m worried that Donatiens isn’t going to last through the programme. Only three days in, and he’s missing his fiancée like hell. The fact that he hasn’t been able to speak to her has hit him hard.’

‘Withdrawal symptoms – happens a lot. He’ll probably get over it in a week or two.’

‘I don’t think so. Him wanting to speak to her is all tied in to a sort of guilt complex over what he’s done. He feels the need to desperately explain that this has nothing to do with betraying her father; that this is all just about Roman and survival. He feels that her father was good to him, and he doesn’t want it seen that he’s let her and her father down, betrayed them. And for good measure he wants to throw in that he still loves her. Maybe he sees that as the final noble gesture: “I still love you, but look what I’m sacrificing for it.” And if he’s not going to get the chance to pass that on, get closure on the whole caboodle with her and her father, then I think the guilt’s just going to work deeper. We’ll end up with a problem – he won’t last the course.’ Michel’s voice was doom-laden as he hit the last words. Part had been passed on earlier by Chac, part he’d filled in and embellished, but hopefully the joins were seamless. Only twenty-four hours sitting on the fence, and once again he was back to steering events where he wanted them to go. The fear of possibly losing grip of the Lacailles was again running through him like raw voltage.