The Last Witness

stripping off the protective suit. ‘Nothing juicy then yet? No, right… right. Let me know as soon as you’ve got more… if there is more.’

Ryall began to worry that nothing worthwhile would come up on Waldren, she was just as she appeared on the outside — the goody two-shoes aid worker with her two adopted children and finance-broker husband, upper-middle and pristine with her ‘Champion of downtrodden children’ halo — and he’d have to think of other ways of striking back at her, stopping her before she got uncomfortably close.

But Kershaw’s increasingly frequent and fervent calls over the next few days bit by bit quelled his mounting panic, and when the whole picture became clear he realized that he had more than enough ammunition for his purpose: enough to bury Elena Waldren twice over.

Some of it seemed so unlikely and extreme that he found himself asking Kershaw to repeat segments, pressing if he was sure. Ryall was concerned that Kershaw might have been over-keen to unearth some dirt and had tapped some unreliable sources. But Kershaw was sure of his ground.

‘Some of it was hard to find, buried in old articles from Hampstead and Highgate local papers where the George — previously Georgallis — family used to live. Though a couple of incidents managed to warrant small sidebars in the national press. The only word of mouth was an old police contact — but I’ve used him before. He’s reliable. And then the rest is pretty much down to court papers: little room for error there. But when you’ve got the file, if there’s anything you’re unsure about and want me to check again — just let me know. I’d be happy to oblige.’

There was no need for a call back. Kershaw’s report was thorough, detailed, and made sober reading. Two drug busts and a third for a Greenham Common anti-nuclear demo that went awry. From the press clippings, most of it appeared to be a rich ‘wild-child’s’ rebellion against her strongly establishment father, the founder of what at one stage was Britain’s 9th largest merchant bank, 17^th overall among financial institutions. Ryall should have twigged when he first saw the original family name: George. Anthony George, whiz-kid financier of the 70s and 80s.

But it was the earlier problems — the pregnancy at fifteen and giving the child up for adoption, then the attempted suicide and the Court’s final ruling that she was too unstable, unsuitable to be a mother — that was the most damming, especially given her current work. Ryall wondered just how much of her background she’d come clean about with the aid agency, or in the adoption applications for her two children.

Giving up her own child, convicted drug addict, attempted suicide, Court-ruled as unsuitable for motherhood: not exactly the best commendations for work with a child aid agency or to adopt children.

Ryall couldn’t resist a wry smile as he penned his covering letters that night to go with copies of Kershaw’s file: one to Barbara Edelston, one to Elena Waldren’s aid agency — but both to the same effect: that he was still being privately harassed by Waldren over Lorena and, given Waldren’s own history, surely she was the last person to be questioning his rights and ethics as an adopted parent; with an added paragraph to the aid agency venting his surprise that they hadn’t more stringently vetted her background.

He paused for a moment, wondering whether to send a copy as well to Gordon Waldren, or whether that would be going too far — just how much of her past had she told him — before finally picking up another envelope. She’d been first to draw the battle lines, had been prepared to destroy him. All’s fair in love and… though this time he didn’t bother with a covering note, just slipped a copy of Kershaw’s report inside on its own.

He sat back, pleased with his efforts. In the background, Prokofiev’s ‘Dance of the Knights’ played. Fitting battle requiem music. Nicole had gone to bed over an hour ago, shortly after Lorena, as usual zonked out on half a bottle of gin and prozac, and suitably unimpressed when he said he had some business to attend to, some letters to write.

Outside, a gusting wing buffeted against the high asp windows ahead, and the muffled surge of the sea could be heard in the distance — but inside the music filled every corner of the grand room, bouncing back from the high windows and vaulted ceiling to the reaches of the gallery library behind. A strongly resonant sound chamber with just the right balance of absorbent wood: how such music was meant to be heard — with only him at its centre to receive it. He could feel its rhythm and cadences reverberate through his body, rallying his senses, his spirits rising, soaring. He started waving his hands elaborately to the strident, staccato violin bursts, drawing substance and power from what he’d just done that made him feel suddenly master of all around: master of this grand room and this house, master of the village and its petty minions who dutifully passed information back to him, and now master of all those who dared interfere in his life, the Elena Waldrens and their kind.

He froze for a second, lifting one hand to his right cheek. He swore he could still feel where little Lorena had kissed him. The dutiful ‘Goodnight Daddy’ ritual of every night. And every night he could sense too her clinging anxiety as she came close and pressed her lips to his skin, her eyes darting and her small heart hammering as furiously as a humming bird’s wings, that in a way made the whole ritual all the more angelic, endearing. The sense that he had such power over her, yet only a part of her knew how or why.

He looked up, straining his ear to the house upstairs beyond the music, wondering perhaps whether he should make sure Lorena was okay, soothe her brow for a moment: a small victory visit. But he decided in the end to wait a few days: then he could be sure that that victory would be lasting. Nobody would ever trouble them again.

The tears hit Elena as she rounded the bluff beyond Chelborne.

It was one of her favourite views: almost two hundred feet sheer elevation from the sea, with the rolling contours of green hills and pastures ahead spilling gently into the yellow trimmed expanse of Chelborne sands and the deep blue of the bay. On days when the sea was wild, like now, she liked it all the more: white caps could be seen stretching out towards the horizon, more lines of conflict and contrast. She’d captured the view twice before on canvass, but still felt she’d missed the key that made her soul soar when she rounded the bluff on a stark, clear day.

The day was clear now, the wind brisk, aftermath of the previous night’s gale. But Elena felt nothing but empty, desolate, as she looked out across the sweep of the bay.

‘I think that’s it… I’m afraid. We’ve hit a stone wall. The chances of ever finding him again now are virtually nil, in Terry’s view.’ Megan’s words of first thing that morning.

She hadn’t cried then, just the same empty, gut-voided feeling as now. Terry had discovered that the Stephanous had changed their name by deed-pole to Stevens some ten months later, then simply disappeared off the face of the earth. No forwarding address, nothing on electoral registers or credit files. Like her father, the name was now completely anglicised: George Stevens. Megan and Terry were probably right: with no link traceable to the Stephanous, she’d never find him. ‘I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach. You won’t find him.’ Her father’s words, all these years later, suddenly having crushing resonance. Still a part of her life, despite her fighting so hard to be free from his shadow, was in his grip and control.

Though a few hours later she was far more concerned about Cameron Ryall’s control, his influence over much of Chelborne. She’d quickly shook off her own disappointment: if she couldn’t help herself, at least she could still help Lorena. Mrs Wicken’s words preyed heavily on her mind: ‘One of the most beautiful Oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’

Perhaps Ryall hand-picked these girls for their sheer beauty — God knows there were enough of them, an endless sea of children with angelic faces and big eyes that the rest of the world had forgotten. He’d get them into his trust at first, soothe their brow, some seemingly innocent gentle stroking, then would gradually build up until they were thirteen or fourteen, the age Mikaya had been when she became pregnant, and then… Elena convulsed at the thought. But why didn’t they speak out against him? With Lorena, she could understand: she was too young, too frightened, and probably not too much had happened yet; and what had, she’d blanked from her mind.

But Mikaya had been old enough to speak out, especially given the horror of her pregnancy — yet still she’d stayed quiet. What hold was it Ryall had over them?

She realized she couldn’t possibly know without finding out more about Mikaya, so she’d headed back into Chelborne. After seeing Mrs Wickens the day before, she’d filled in some gaps at the local dress shop and at the health store. But it was all minor stuff: the school Mikaya went to, what clothes she liked; yes, they knew about the whole messy business with the pregnancy, but no, there wasn’t a particular boyfriend they could point to as a likely culprit. ‘We haven’t seen much of her these past couple of years,’ Mrs Frolley at the dress shop finished thoughtfully. ‘Now that she’s away at university.’