The Last Witness

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