The Last Witness

Paul’s Cadillac swung out.

They were startled, and it took a second for them to kick into action. Lorenzo fumbled before finally firing up the car, then swung around and started to close some of the long gap that had opened up.

Two hundred yards along, Jean-Paul turned left into Avenue Christophe Colomb. He was oblivious to the car lights trailing a steady fifty yards behind as he took out his mobile. Suddenly he’d thought of how he might be able to help Georges. The most unlikely of calls, but it was all he could think of.

He tapped out the number and a woman’s voice answered. ‘Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Dorchester Boulevard.’

‘Staff-Sergeant Michel Chenouda, please.’

THIRTY-FOUR

Lorena held her breath for a moment, listening.

The faint, muffled voices she’d heard downstairs had stopped. Her stepparents had stopped talking. Sound of footsteps on the stairs now. Mr Ryall or Mrs Ryall? After a second she could pick out that the step was lighter: Mrs Ryall.

She settled back again and eased out her breath. Probably Mr Ryall wouldn’t come to her room this first night, he’d wait a few days. But the waiting would be almost as bad as the fear that he might come in at any minute.

She was tired, very tired. She’d slept on the flight, but only a couple of hours. And now it was three or four in the morning. She’d lost track. But she felt almost too afraid to fall asleep in case Mr Ryall did come to her room.

Maybe once she’d heard his footsteps come up the stairs and head for his room, she could relax a little. But then several times he’d come out of his room without warning an hour or two later to see her. It was almost like he knew instinctively the best time to visit, when she was at her most drowsy, her defences weak.

But what would she do? She couldn’t stay awake every night, waiting. She remembered in the sewers when Patrika died, for several nights after they’d laid awake for hours listening out if the waters might be rising again. But after a few nights they were exhausted and would have slept through anything.

What had Dr Lowndes said? When he starts counting down, put other numbers and thoughts in your head. Act as if you’re succumbing, falling under, but all the time keep your mind alert, resist. If she didn’t get sleep, then her mind simply wouldn’t be alert enough to be able to resist.

She held her breath again for a second, listening. Footsteps starting up the stairs, heavier this time. Mr Ryall!

She swallowed hard, looking over at the large Mountie bear. She’d positioned it where they told her, looking straight at her and the bed. Perhaps it would have been better if they hadn’t told her anything about it all. They’d tried to put her mind at rest: ‘Don’t worry, as soon as he starts touching you, we’ll be there. That’s the whole idea: to stop him touching you once and for all.’

She said she could do it. But now as the moment was upon her, her nerves were racing out of control. Her whole body had broken out in a sweat. Mr Ryall was bound to notice her fear, her body’s trembling.

Footsteps moving closer, creaking some boards among the top steps.

She closed her eyes, feigning sleep. The darkness felt welcoming, her tiredness threatening to suck her under. Maybe she should just sleep through it all, wake up when it was over. If he came in and started counting down, just let herself sink under. Let it all stay in the darkness and shadows, like every other night. Where it belonged! She just didn’t think she could bare being awake for a second while his hands moved over her body.

Her breath froze, suspended, as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs; then released again as she heard them start moving away towards his bedroom. But after a few paces they paused, turned, and started heading towards her.

Derek Bell watched the blue-grey images on a monitor less than a mile from the Ryall’s.

He adjusted the dials for a second. With the directional mike, he had to work hard to cut down the background hiss. Finally it was clear: the fall of Lorena’s breathing, the faint rustle of bedsheets.

Rush job, but that was often how he liked them. More of a challenge. He’d only had forty minutes turn- around to get everything planted and the bear sewn back up again. The lens was in the cap band, the mike in the belt.

He noticed Lorena look over directly for a moment, and silently prompted: Get used to not looking. Act as if I’m not here.

Her eyes shifted towards the door after a second, then finally flickered shut. Faint sound of footsteps from the corridor. They receded for a moment before turning and becoming more prominent again. Bell watched Lorena’s eyes flicker open again fleetingly, then shut again.

The footsteps were now in the room, moving closer, closer… and Bell clearly saw Ryall — his back at first, then more of his profile. Bell adjusted the focus slightly, his hand staying expectantly by the dials.

Ryall leant over and touched Lorena’s hair, starting to lightly stroke. Bell’s pulse was suddenly in his throat. He thought he’d been in for a long few nights, but now he began to wonder.

‘You poor girl,’ Ryall mumbled under his breath. ‘You’ve been through so much.’

Bell tweaked the volume up a bit.

‘…So much. Such an ordeal.’ The hand continued stroking, now gently tracing across Lorena’s brow as Ryall sat on the side of the bed.

Lorena’s eyes stayed closed, though Bell knew that she was feigning sleep. Only as Ryall’s hands traced down and started gently stroking one cheek and her neck, did she finally flicker her eyes slowly open, probably sensing that it was too much for her to sleep through.

Good girl, good girl, Bell thought. Keep this up and we’ll get the bastard. Bell was leant forward, intently following each small movement, beads of sweat shiny on his forehead in the glow from the screen.

But as Lorena’s eyes looked up, Ryall’s hand suddenly paused, hovering an inch above her cheek. Had he sensed something was wrong, seen something in her eyes to alert him? Or was he just deciding: count her down into a deep sleep so that his hand could continue its journey, or return another night?

The heavy rotor blades cut through the night sky.

Michel felt its rhythm driving him on, pumping his adrenalin. The energy of the motion and the five men sat expectantly with him, rifles and automatics at the ready, was the only thing to make him feel positive.

He found it hard to escape the feeling that they were heading there after the event, it would all be for nothing. The cavalry turning up after the last Indian arrow had hit Custer. They must be at least an hour behind Roman and his men. Roman might spend some time checking the lay of the land and finalising a plan, but an hour?

Michel slowly closed his eyes, the dull thud of the rotor pumping almost in time with his pulse. And there was no doubt now that Roman was on his way. He’d had Maury on the radio-phone only minutes ago: phone bugs at both the Donatiens’ and at a switching box outside the Montclaire. Roman knew every last detail!

‘Ontario border ten miles ahead!’ the pilot announced.

‘Okay.’ Michel opened his eyes, nodding. He’d purposely asked for the alert: they’d hit sector 14 only twenty-five minutes after the border. And if there was still nothing still from Mundy, they’d have to start circling. More time lost to Roman.

Michel asked to be patched through again to Melanie Fuller — he’d already spoken to her twice in the last eighty minutes they’d been airborne.

No, she confirmed, she still hadn’t heard anything from Mundy. ‘…We just missed him at a restaurant by minutes, but he didn’t head home — so now it’s down to bars and clubs. But it’s more difficult: no check-in reservations. We’ve either got to eyeball him or find his car. So there’s a team out there checking every possible dive, and every patrol car’s alerted.’