The Last Witness (6 page)

  Maury was tentative, hesitant, as he passed on the information – even though Michel had made it clear first thing to the entire squad room that it should be the prime focus of their efforts. ‘No let up until we see a breakthrough.’

  But then interruptions had been few throughout the morning, as if people were apprehensive about entering the inner sanctum of his office with its photo-montage homage to the Lacailles. And when he did venture out, the normal frantic hubbub of the squad room would noticeably subside and a few eyes would avert and look down, suddenly absorbed with desk paperwork. It was as if he’d had a close relative die, not an informant.

  ‘Was it the original registration?’ he asked Maury.

  No, the plates had been switched. ‘The original to match the chassis number was reported stolen in the early hours yesterday morning. We pulled it up just minutes ago on the bulletin board.’

  Pretty much as Michel had expected. Maury informed him that forensics and two mechanics were going over the van with a fine tooth comb, but Michel wasn’t holding his breath. One of the Lacailles past enterprises had been an auto-chop shop. They knew how to make sure a vehicle was left clean.

  Three hours later Maury came back with the news that it looked like it had been steam and chemically cleaned.

  Michel simply nodded and cast his eyes down, numbed more by a pervading lethargy that this would be the pattern at every turn than his lack of surprise. And partly lack of sleep. He hadn’t slept well the night before the Savard sting operation, turning over in his mind all manner of possible scenarios; now only two hours last night. He felt ragged.

Trying desperately to avoid his department head, Chief-Inspector Pelletier, hadn’t helped. He already knew what was coming. Pelletier had left him alone the first few hours of the day: respect for Savard or the dead case? But then Pelletier obviously thought sufficient mourning time had passed, so that Michel could explain, clearly and succinctly, how everything could have fallen apart so disastrously.

  The calls, one just before lunch and another early afternoon, came from Maggie Laberge, Pelletier’s PA, through Christine Hébert, one of two Constables on the open squad-room message desk. Always protocol and distance with Pelletier.

  Michel parried the first call by passing the message through Hébert that he knew what it was about, but he was still busy gaining vital information to be able to give Pelletier the full picture. With the second call, he spoke directly to Laberge and sold her more of the same: ‘We’re close to breakthrough on a couple of key things. Each extra second I spend close on top of everything right now is vital. Hopefully things should free up in an hour or two.’

  Soon after, Chac informed him that yet again Arnaiz in Mexico hadn’t turned up anything suspicious on Donatiens; then Maury came in with the news about the steam-cleaning. Each extra hour he delayed only made the picture worse, not better. Screw-up of the year, and any hope of redemption was fast disappearing with each extra head that appeared at his door or fresh file slapped on his desk.

  Early forensic findings had been the biggest body blow. Some blood had been found under the fingernails of Savard’s right hand. The hope had been that Savard might have clawed the neck or face of one of his abductors, or even through their clothing as he frantically grappled at their arms when they swung him. But the report concluded that it was Savard’s own blood. The first shot had struck his chest, and he’d put his hand up defensively to the wound before the final two shots came: one to the neck, one to his head. The report made chilling reading, brought Savard’s screams back too vividly.

  Just before signing off, almost as a by-the-way, Laberge informed him that they had to liaise on time because Pelletier wanted Tom Maitland, Crown Attorney, to also be present at the meeting. Michel knew what that meant. While Pelletier might justifiably reach the conclusion that a potentially prosecutable case now looked out of reach, it would carry more weight with Maitland’s legal-eagle viewpoint at his right arm.

  Michel knew then why he was delaying: not so much for a fresh lead to salvage something from last night’s disaster – the past track record with the Lacailles had long ago made him cynical – but because he was desperately seeking an angle to convince them, and himself, there was still mileage left in the case. If he presented Donatiens – soon to become part of the Lacaille family – as his only remaining hope, they’d kill the case straightaway.

  He took a hasty sip of his sixth coffee of the day, trying to clear his thoughts and focus. But no ready answers came.

  The only light relief of the day came when Chac responded gruffly, ‘Well, they can suck my dick,’ when he’d explained the pending dilemma with facing Pelletier and Maitland, fearing that they’d now want to hastily close the Lacaille file.

  ‘Is that because you’ve already asked everyone else and they’ve said no?’

  Chac beamed broadly, despite the barb. And Michel realized then how impossibly intense he’d been all morning. The pall hovering over the squad room each time he opened the door was not just in respect of Savard’s death, but also for the possibly dead case and his feared reaction. Chac was simply glad to see a chink of his old self re-surface. 

  But the mood died quickly as Chac reminded him that even if he convinced Pelletier to keep the case open, at best it would only give him a few months grace. ‘Once Donatiens is married, it’s game over. And Roman Lacaille knows it.’

His desk phone started ringing. He looked through his glass screen towards the squad room. Christine Hébert was looking over at him, pointing to the receiver.

  No doubt Laberge chasing for Pelletier again. A film of sweat broke on his forehead. He couldn’t delay any more. What would he say? Maybe bluff for now, say that they had reliable inside information that Donatiens would soon about-turn and testify. That at least might give him a week or two’s grace to either make good on that claim or come up with something else.

  The seed of the idea was still only half-formed as he picked up the receiver at the end of the third ring. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s your wife Sandra,’ Hébert said.

  He was caught off guard for a second. ‘Oh… right. Put her through.’ She rarely phoned him. Hébert never termed her ex, despite it now being four years they’d been parted.

  Then, with her first words, ‘Michel, you said four O’clock and it’s already four-twenty…’ he pushed back sharply from his chair, suddenly remembering.

  ‘Oh, Jesus, yeah… I’m right there.’ Basketball championship with a rival school with his son Benjamin, now nine years old.

  ‘If you couldn’t make it or it was somehow awkward, you should have said so earlier. He’s been looking forward so much to–’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m there, I tell you. I’ll be with you in under ten.’

  ‘It’s not often that he has things like this. What happened?’

  ‘Something came up, that’s all.’ He didn’t want to be specific or shield behind the dramatics of the past eighteen hours:
the biggest case of my career has just gone down in flames.
Besides, she’d heard it all before. The stake-outs that ran hours over, the last minute suspects and late night emergencies. The steady stream of late nights crawling into bed and so little quality time with her and the children that had finally led to the collapse of their marriage. She’d moved to Montreal so that she could have her mother’s help with babysitting while she went back out to work. He followed ten months later so that he could be nearer his children, but history was repeating itself. Chac had always claimed that his absorption with the Lacailles was partly to fill the void from losing his family, and perhaps he was right. He looked thoughtfully at his desk photo of Benjamin and young Angelle, only six, against the overbearing backdrop montage of the Lacailles. Certainly in the last twenty-four hours, his family hadn’t got a look-in. ‘It’s completely my fault, I’m sorry. But I’m leaving right now.’

  He hung up swiftly before Sandra could draw breath to grill him more. He grabbed his coat and was halfway across the squad room as Hébert waved frantically at him.

  ‘It’s Maggie Laberge again. Wondering whether–’

  He held one hand up. ‘I’ll call her back from my car. Ten minutes, no more.’

  A bit more time to refine what he was going to say. He thought of little else as he sped through the traffic. How would he know if Donatiens was likely to turn turtle and testify? Their only feed from within the Lacaille camp was Azy Ménard, bar manager at their night club on Rue Sherbrooke. Was it likely Donatiens would confide directly in him? No. He’d have to think of a credible go-between to be able to sell the story.

  He tapped his fingers on the wheel as he hit a small tailback of traffic at the first stop light on Saint Catherine. The early rush hour was starting, it was going to take him a little longer. Snow flecked with dark-grey slush was banked over the kerbs each side, and the exhaust outflows of the cars ahead showed heavy in the freezing air.

Chac’s words spun back…
a few months?
The same was true for Roman Lacaille. What would he do? Just bide his time, knowing that soon he’d be home dry anyway. Or was he determined to rid himself of every last witness to that night with Leduc.

FOUR

‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ Elena pressed.

‘Not at this stage, I’m afraid.’ Nadine Moore let out a tired breath at the other end of the phone. ‘I’ve been in touch with Lorena’s school and GP, told them to let me know if anything appears untoward with Lorena. Physical indications obviously from her doctor, but from the school all they can look out for are mood swings or problems with her work.’

‘And they didn’t tell you of anything they’d noticed already?’

‘No. I’d have phoned you straightaway if there was any news. I know how anxious you are.’ With the silence from the other end, Nadine added. ‘As you said, it was just a momentary look. You could well be wrong – it could be nothing.’

‘No.’ Elena shook her head. ‘I know Lorena too well. There’s something wrong.’

‘Maybe it was just concern about the fuss caused by our visit. She started to think about what might be said to her after we left.’

‘I don’t know.’ Elena felt herself swaying, but only for a second. She reminded herself that she’d only seen that look on Lorena’s face twice before: once recalling some nights in the sewer waking up with rats crawling over her, then the threat of the second orphanage closing and her dread of possibly having to go back to the streets again. Elena knew the difference between fear and concern with Lorena. She was aware of a presence behind her, and glanced back. Gordon hovered by the door to his study. With a taut half smile he turned back in, and she pulled her attention back to Nadine. More emphatically: ‘No. It’s more than that, I know.’

Nadine exhaled heavily. Practically a replay of their conversation after leaving the Ryalls yesterday, and now painfully evident that she wasn’t easily going to dispel Elena’s worries, imagined or otherwise. But there was little else she could do. As it was, she’d stretched as far as she dare go: telling Ryall that he should avoid visits to Lorena’s room late at night had been like tip-toeing through broken glass. Cushioning the reproach – ‘ It’s just one of those things with girls at her age. They become very secretive and self-conscious. You weren’t to know’ – had done little to ease Ryall’s pained, incredulous expression.

‘With Ryall not visiting her room any more, hopefully that should put pay to any problems.
If
there were problems.’

‘Yes, hopefully.’ Elena didn’t sound convinced. Doubt still nagged heavily at her. But she sensed that Nadine’s position was starting to become entrenched; little would be gained by pressing. She elicited a promise from Nadine to let her know the moment anything knew came up, and signed off.

Yet it wasn’t just Nadine that was doubtful. When she’d recounted everything to Gordon the night before, he’d questioned whether she might be reading too much into it all. Now that tight smile when he’d heard her pressing Nadine.

She pondered whether to broach the issue – she’d hoped at least for support from Gordon, if nothing else so as to not feel so isolated with her concerns – but from his voice trailing through from his office, she could tell that he was on the phone.

She went back to her upstairs studio to do more painting. Time to allow her mood to settle, her thoughts to focus. Her painting helped with that. Brushstroke therapy.

She’d spent much of the last month painting version three of the chine – the steep wooded ravine leading to the sea – which their house overlooked. Version one had been a standard landscape view which she wasn’t happy with. Gordon had prompted her: What is it that you most like about the chine, that you find magical? She’d admitted that it was the feeling of secrecy and being protected once deep inside it, with the open sea at its end representing freedom. Yet as she would move closer to the sea and hear its rushing surge, that also came to represent all the volatility and madness out there; what she was perhaps hiding away from. ‘In the chine I feel safe, as if it’s a haven.’ ‘Then paint that,’ Gordon had suggested.

Good, solid, dependable Gordon, sometimes infuriatingly laid-back with his slow, pedantic deliberations – but always intuitive. The voice of reason in a storm. Probably why now his support was so important to her.

Her second attempt had too much contrast between the darkness of the chine and the harsh light of the sea horizon beyond – this time she was trying to capture some warmth and texture; some detail and depth to the trees and foliage, the faint chinks of light reflecting off the brook trickling through. She’d taken three photos in the summer as a guide, but she knew the chine so well she could practically paint it blindfold.

Her style of painting was conventional landscape with a hint of impressionist, but became unconventional through its use of layering – the habit of building the oils in layers employed by the Old Masters. It had derived originally due to the expense of canvass, so therefore the need to re-paint over old paintings or the false starts of works in progress. For Elena, she enjoyed the luxury of being able to paint over her errors until she reached perfection. She considered herself not that good an artist – despite now two local exhibitions and one at a small Notting Hill gallery when they were in London – and so for her the layering became in part a device behind which she could shield her lack of ability. Nobody would ever know.

The one thing she shared with the Old Masters was the rich texture and depth gained through the many layers. But as now she carefully dabbed and stroked, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated rather than relaxed. Her hand started to shake on the brush. The therapy this time wasn’t working.

Elena could only catch a glimpse of sea beyond the far ridge of the chine, a heavy grey-blue almost merging with the mist and cloud. Far different to the Ryall’s broad sea panorama seven miles up the coast – but Elena couldn’t help contemplating if Lorena was looking from her bedroom window at the same dull, brooding sea, wondering if anything was happening or whether she’d been left alone and forgotten.

‘You don’t think I should pursue it, do you?’ Elena looked at Gordon directly as she toyed with the last of her dessert.

  She’d tried to broach the subject twice earlier: the first time Shelley McGurran, her boss at the agency, had phoned; the second time her daughter, Katine, walked into the kitchen halfway through them talking while preparing dinner.

  They’d let the children leave the table early to watch TV with their desserts; they were now out of earshot in the adjoining lounge.

  ‘It’s not that I think you’re wrong. Your suspicions may very well be right – something
is
happening.’ Gordon gave a small shrug. ‘After all, you know Lorena better than most. It’s just that from your position there’s little you can do – you’re out of the loop now. And if, as you say, Social Services can’t do anything, you’re just going to get frustrated trying to pursue it.’

   Elena held Gordon’s gaze for a second. Obviously her two false starts earlier had given him time to prepare: he’d chosen the route of lesser confrontation, not wanting a heated debate over whether or not her suspicions might be right.

‘But if Social Services can’t or won’t help her – who else is there to help her? Who else does she know in this town?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Gordon held one hand up, sighing, as if exasperated that despite his efforts he’d still hit a confrontational wall. ‘I think you’re right to try. But unless you budge Social Services to your way of thinking, how far are you going to get? Even if you convince them something is happening – regardless that it’s based only on a hunch over a worried look from Lorena – they’ll still need something concrete to be able to pursue it.’

  As always, the voice of reason. But as much as she knew that, annoyingly, Gordon was probably right – what hit her strongest, like the many times he’d been right before, was his smug, know-it-all overtone, which would usually draw out her instinctive rebelliousness. Though through twelve years of marriage she’d learnt to curb her worst traits, so all that resulted now was her lightly chewing her bottom lip as she looked back down at her dessert.

  Sudden awkwardness with the silence; when she lifted her head she glanced through the open archway to the lounge. Christos, twelve, their eldest by four years, was pointing to something on the TV and making a comment to Katine, who was just out of view.

  Elena shook her head. ‘I mean, my God, she’s only eighteen months older than our Katine. If anything is happening, she must feel so… so helpless. And vulnerable.’

  Gordon reached across the table and clasped her hand. ‘Maybe they’ll hit on something through her school or GP.’

  Elena smiled back tightly. Gordon had aimed to re-assure, but it had back-fired as a sharp reminder that those were their only hopes. If nothing came to light, Lorena would be quickly forgotten, consigned to some Social Services ‘dead-file’ cabinet – no doubt larger than any others.

  After a second, Gordon asked, ‘What was it with Shelley?’

  Elena faltered slightly with the shift in topic before re-focusing. ‘Oh… it was about the next supply consignment. It’s almost ready – five or six days. I’ll ride with it to Bucharest, stay maybe a week between the two orphanages, then catch a flight to Sarajevo.’

  Gordon nodded. Europe’s child-neglect hot-spots that had been Elena’s roster the past four years: Romania, Bosnia, Chechenya – where they’d adopted Katine eighteen months before Elena joined the agency. In fact, the main driving force behind her joining:
‘We were able to help Katine. But she’s just one child out of thousands in the same position. If I can, I’d like to be able to help more children like Katine.’
Anything from two to four weeks away on each round-trip tour, then two or three weeks back in the UK helping Shelley McGurran organize the next aid consignment.

  ‘How are things now at the Cerneit?’ Gordon asked. He knew from Elena’s recent conversations that the Cerneit was one of their most troubled orphanages.

  ‘We’ve managed to cut down on the two or three to a bed sharing – but now every inch of floor space is littered with mattresses. You can hardly get a foot between. And just when we got the hepatitis under control, there was an outbreak of scurvy.’

  ‘What from?’

  ‘We sent over a large consignment of oats porridge last time. But they went mad with it, gave it to the children for breakfast, lunch and dinner – weren’t sensible enough to balance it out with fresh fruit and veg.’ She shook her head, half smiling in disbelief. ‘The said they didn’t realize and, besides, they claimed to be short the last couple of months on cash for food: a problem with the heating boiler had forced them to spend more on building maintenance and take it out of the food budget.’

Gordon looked down for a second – the point he’d been circling towards was now within grasp  – before looking back up meaningfully. ‘That’s the other thing with this now. If there is a problem with Lorena – what do you do? Just turn your back on all those hundreds of other children who need your help?’

  ‘That’s unfair, and you know it,’ Elena protested. ‘This is just a one-off. It’s not as if it’s the sort of thing that happens every day.’

  ‘The point I’m trying to make, Elena, is where do you draw the line? You’ve become a surrogate mother to a lot of these children, and it’s great that you’ve become so close to so many of them. But you can’t be a mother to the world. At some stage you’ve got to let go, let someone else take the responsibility. You can only stretch yourself so far.’

  ‘This is different. And, as I said, unlikely to happen again.’ Elena flickered her eyes to one side, towards the children in the next room. Gordon was right, but she didn’t want him to see he’d hit a painful raw nerve. Feeling his eyes still on her, she added, ‘This isn’t just about my past closeness to Lorena, or perhaps me reading too much into the worried look in her eyes. It’s also the atmosphere in the house and with the Ryalls that tells me something is wrong.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well…’ She grappled for the right words. ‘Tense to say the least – which perhaps you’d expect given the nature of our visit. But I couldn’t help feeling that something was being hidden. And Cameron Ryall came across as a complete control guru.’

  ‘Isn’t that also what you’d expect from someone in his position.’ Cameron Ryall’s status warranted only sidebars in the financial pages of the national press, but locally he was big news: Chelborne’s Bill Gates.

  Elena shook her head. ‘No, it went beyond that. Nicola Ryall had obviously been primed, but I got the strong feeling that she was actually afraid of him. As she sat there, hardly daring to answer or interject, all I got was a picture of my mother sat there in a similar position.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Gordon exhaled, a slightly defeated sigh. So now finally they were getting to the root of the problem: her father.

Gordon looked down awkwardly, toying with the rim of his wine glass. Just when he thought that finally her father’s shadow had gone from her life, inevitably it would rise again, like a phantom. The all-controlling figurehead who had guided – or would a better word be destroyed – so much of her life. Whose hand could be seen in practically every major step or decision she’d ever made: forcing her to have an abortion when she became pregnant at sixteen, and then the growing gap between them finally leading to years of rebellion – leaving home early, the bed-sits and hippie communes, the protest marches and ‘discovery’ trips to India and Marrakech, where she’d ended up living for two years: days where the edges became increasingly blurred in a euphoric haze of dope and dabbling with LSD – before she woke up to the fact that she wasn’t just rebelling against everything her father stood for, she was also punishing herself.