The Last Witness

in. She looked perplexed, doubt starting to set in, so he jumped quickly to the money.

‘This is important to me, so I’m paying top dollar. Eight grand — and don’t worry none about paying for supplies the next four, five months.’ He gently touched her nose. ‘The treats on me.’

Her smile slowly emerged. ‘That’s good of you, Roman. Thanks.’ Her eyes flickered, searching his fleetingly. ‘This must be important to you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, as I say… it is.’ He knew he’d have to be generous: she earned fifteen hundred dollars some weeks. But probably the nose candy was enticing her most.

A sly twinkle suddenly came to her eyes. ‘Anyways, Georges… I always thought he was quite a cutie. Would hardly seem like work.’

Roman sat up, bristling. He reached out and pinched her cheek. ‘Look — this is just play-acting. You’re not there to fuck him for real. Besides, he’s gonna be zonked from what you put in his drink back at your place, so this’ll just be look-good stuff for the camera.’ He gave one last hard pinch and pushed her face away in disgust.

She came sidling up against him after a second, stroking the nape of his neck. ‘Come on… I was just teasing, Roman. But I didn’t know you cared so.’

‘That’s where you got that wrong. I don’t care… that’s why I’m fuckin’ paying you.’ He remained rigid a moment more before finally giving in to her insistent stroking. He shrugged and smiled reluctantly. ‘Well, maybe when you’ve just fucked my brains out like now, I do care just a little.’ Her hand froze on his neck, and he gripped it and pushed her back on the bed, straddling her. Her eyes glared back at him for a moment before realizing from his smile that he was teasing too. But he was glad in a way that she’d chosen to rib him over Georges: it would make what was coming easier.

The tension gone between them, he ran through the rest: Someone from the club that she’d made the mistake of dating. He’d become a bit freaky and possessive, was waiting outside her place the night before, and they’d ended up having a fight. Could Georges run her home, see her safely into her apartment? She was afraid the guy might be waiting for her again that night.

She grasped the plan clearly after only a couple of minor questions, except for one point. ‘A fight? Wouldn’t it be enough just that I’m rattled, afraid?’

‘No, I think we’re going to have to be a little more convincing.’

‘What? I put on some make-up for it to look like bruising or something?’

‘No… I don’t think so. He might pick up that it’s just make-up, get suspicious.’ This was the best part, watching that gradual dawning of realization on her face. He was still straddled on top of her, and her eyes darted uncomprehendingly for a moment before settling on him.

‘No, Roman… no way. My face is my work, my money.’

‘Sorry, doll… I just don’t see any other way round.’ Fear settled in her eyes and she grappled out frantically to push him away. He pushed one arm back easily with his left hand and pinned the other under his right knee. ‘The bruising will be gone in just a week — back to normal.’

‘No, Romy… please… please.’ She writhed and bucked to try and shake him loose, but he had her pinned too tight. Her breath came short with the effort, verging finally into tears and gasping sobs as she realized the futility. She wasn’t going to get free. ‘Noooo… please!’

‘I’ll round it off to ten grand — and just think of all that nose candy.’ He cocked his right fist above her face.

‘No, Roman… don’t do this to me, I’m begging you… nooooo!’ She shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. She let out a piercing scream that went straight through him, and he dug his knee harder into her left arm.

‘Shut the fuck up and keep your head still — unless you want to get your nose broken as well.’

Her head stopped shaking and she stared straight up at him, her pupils dark and dilated, full of terror. He drank in that terror for a moment, wallowing in the heady sense of power. Combined with her body’s trembling it told him that finally he was in control, all her resistance had burnt out. But there was a plea beneath her eyes that he found disturbing.

‘Or maybe turn your head a little so that I can be sure of a clear shot.’

She slowly, reluctantly turned her head to one side, tears streaming unashamedly down her face. Her body trembled beneath him like a trapped humming bird, her only sound a muted whimper as she bit tautly at her bottom lip; and with his final, ‘Sorry, babe,’ her eyes fluttered gently shut a second before his fist came down.

Roman let Carlo Funicelli into the club less than an hour later.

Funicelli perched up at the bar, Roman poured them a couple of beers, and they started talking. Aimless chatter, it was all for the sake of the security cameras: if Jean-Paul got sight of the tapes, he’d say that he met Funicelli at the club after hours to talk over surveillance of Donatiens.

After a moment, Roman pointed something out along the rows of bottles behind, and Funicelli came around the bar. They moved along, but as soon as they were out of security camera view — Roman knew the exact position — Funicelli ducked to one side towards the cash register.

Roman had already given him the key, and in just over a minute Funicelli was finished: two sets of codes keyed-in that he knew would disrupt the club’s four linked registers handling both cash and automatic stock ordering.

They moved back into view of the security camera, with Roman pointing out some Sambuca on a high shelf as Funicelli nodded.

Azy would call in a panic soon after they opened that night, and ever-efficient Donatiens would come running: the new system had been his recommendation. Roman knew that he couldn’t wait for Donatiens’ normal monthly till check and reconciliation — he had to somehow get him there quickly.

Funicelli noticed Roman’s right hand clenching and unclenching, and asked, ‘Something wrong?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Roman shrugged. ‘You know, for every bit of love there’s always some pain.’

Funicelli didn’t pursue it, he went back to silently sipping at his beer as Roman glanced at his watch: forty- eight hours for Donatiens left to live, and counting.

FIFTEEN

Five days since baring her soul to Gordon: five days of searching with nothing but fruitless dead ends, and now practically Elena’s last hope lay with these two old steamers trunks, raking through her father’s memorabilia and keepsakes. All that remained: sixty-two years of life neatly packed away. She was so absorbed with their contents that she barely registered the footsteps behind her.

‘Come on… enough, Elena. You can go through the rest later. If we don’t get ready, we’re going to be late for the restaurant.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Elena was kneeling down, her breath short from raking and sifting through. She lifted her head and half turned towards Uncle Christos. ‘Just five minutes more, and then I’ll jump into the shower. Get some of this dust off. Okay?’

After a second a reluctant ‘Okay’ from Uncle Christos. ‘I’ll make us another coffee meanwhile.’ Then the sound of his footsteps shuffling back down the stairs.

The first three days had been spent searching through UK credit reference agencies for the Stevens, previously Stephanou family, mostly at Gordon’s instigation: she’d all but given up, felt that she had no fight left in her to continue searching. But Gordon insisted it wasn’t the sort of thing she could give up on lightly, it would only come back later to haunt her. He offered to help with his knowledge of credit reference tracking, and the next forty-eight hours they burnt up the phone loans between Terry, Megan’s trace man, and seven reference agencies from Gordon’s card file. But they found nothing linking back to their previous Canterbury address with either Stevens or Stephanou. They concluded that either the Stevens had miraculously survived without any credit for three years after moving, had lied about their previous address or, more likely, that they’d left the country.

They were stuck at first as to how to find out where they might have gone — then Gordon hit on the