The Last Witness

place, not his?’

‘Yeah. They went east on Sherbrooke, and her place is in the Latin Quarter, a couple of blocks beyond St Denis.’

Michel was sure it was some sort of set up, but how would it pan out? His brain was still too addled with sleep to apply clear thought to it. He realized he’d left another long pause, and brought his attention back to Azy. ‘You were right to call. Thanks.’ Then with a quick confirmation that the same girl was on the next night, before signing off he asked Azy to call him again then. ‘I want to know her every movement and who she sees, but just as important her mood, how she acts.’

Michel contemplated the phone thoughtfully for a moment after hanging up. Another early hours call tomorrow, but he needed to know straightaway; in fact, it might already be too late by then. Michel ruffled his hair brusquely as he ran through likely scenarios: some photos of Georges and the girl together, for sure. But would that be enough on its own, or would Roman want something more torrid, graphic? More graphic, knowing Roman. He’d have to build his case strongly with Jean-Paul, a set-up that left nothing to chance, no other possible interpretations. Which would mean that unless Georges was tempted and the camera was concealed, they’d have to drug him… and once he was drugged…

Michel stood up, started pacing. The hand was back quickly at his head, but now clutching lightly in exasperation as he ruffled. But would Roman be bold enough to take advantage while Georges was drugged and take him out straightaway, with the photos then purely to cover his tail with Jean-Paul, or would he play by the book and use the photos to get Jean-Paul’s sanction for a hit?

Michel stood by his apartment window, looking out. The floodlit flank of Notre Dame was the strongest light outside and made a faint silhouette of his body against the dark room behind. That was the problem with Roman: you never knew. Option two might be the most sensible, but if time was pressing he’d take whatever rash action suited him best. But it hardly mattered: even if Roman waited on Jean-Paul’s final nod, that would delay things one or two days at most, and there was little or nothing Michel could do in the meantime anyway. He’d already hauled Georges in on the premise that his life was threatened and held him hours on a technicality: Georges wouldn’t even give him the time of day a second time.

Michel regarded the rough stone walls of Notre Dame with a wry, sour grimace. So, no fanfare wedding there in a few months time; not even a burial there. Georges’ family were middle-class and suburban, from out in Beaconsfield from what Michel recalled from his files. They’d probably arrange a quiet burial and service for him somewhere out there. He’d be forgotten quickly by the Lacailles.

Michel found his eyes watering slightly: unsure for a moment if it was sorrow for Georges, anger and frustration, or the floodlight glare on the Basilica walls. His hands had unconsciously balled tight at his sides, and he took a deep breath as he loosened them, tried to ease the tension from his body. It felt wrong sitting by when he knew with such certainty that Georges was about to die, a final condemnation of just how pathetically hand-tied they’d been throughout with the Lacailles — but then what could he do? What could he do?

‘…but most important is that you to know I’ve gone with Mrs Waldren of my own free will. I’ve not been abducted. I phoned Mrs Waldren only a few nights back and asked for her help — to try and see a psychiatric counsellor to know if my concerns with my stepfather are just in my dreams, my imagination… or whether they might be real. Counselling which my stepparents and the local social services have refused. That is why I asked for Mrs Waldren’s help.’ Faint swallow, slight hesitation from Lorena. The sound of a passing car drifted through the small cassette speaker. ‘But when we’d left my school, Mrs Waldren asked me again if I was sure that I wanted to go ahead with seeing a counsellor. If not, she’d return me straightaway to school. I said that I did want to go ahead.’ Another brief pause as Lorena took fresh breath. ‘So I want you all to know that I’m safe, well and in good hands and will remain so. I don’t want Mrs Waldren, Elena, to get into trouble for this. She's my friend, she's helping me, and there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be back home safe and well in only two or three days.’

Gordon left only a second’s silence before stopping the tape. The lead police officer, DS Barry Crowley, was slow in breaking his gaze from the recorder. An assisting Detective to his side had a notepad out, but so far had only scrawled two sentences. A uniformed Constable stood sentry at the lounge door, as if wary that Gordon might make a sudden break for it, and another sat in the car outside, probably to start putting through traces on Elena’s car.

Crowley had announced on introduction that they knew Elena had Lorena, and asked Gordon where she was. I don’t know, not here ‘… But she left me a tape to play you.’ Crowley then asked what car she was driving, and after another ‘Don’t know,’ which Crowley seriously doubted by his return glare, he sent one Constable back to his car. Gordon heard some radio squawk filter through from outside as he stopped the tape. They’d probably have Elena’s car registration within minutes. Perhaps saying he didn’t know had come across as pointlessly obstructive, but then the leeway Elena needed might be down to just those few extra minutes.

Crowley was looking at him keenly. ‘So, if we’re to believe this tape that she’s not been abducted — then why the secrecy with you not knowing where your wife is or what car she’s driving?’

‘I’m aware that the Ryalls probably wouldn’t share that view. They’d want Lorena back straightaway. Particularly Mr Ryall…’ Gordon nodded towards the tape, but Crowley held his gaze with worn indifference. ‘He wouldn’t be keen on Lorena receiving counselling. But Lorena desperately needs those two or three days for a few sessions to be put in.’

Crowley nodded thoughtfully. ‘You seem eager to tell me, so it might as well be now: why wouldn’t Mr Ryall be keen on Lorena receiving counselling? What’s the supposed problem between him and Lorena?’

‘Well, uh…’ Gordon was caught momentarily off-balance being asked straight out. ‘She’s afraid that her stepfather might be interfering with her.’ The statement still sounded lame, unable to carry the weight of all the connected horrors it mentally ignited, even with the pause for emphasis.

‘I see.’ Crowley pursed his lips and looked down. He’d in fact heard a part of this already from Nicola Ryall, in one of the few moments he’d been able to get any sense from her amidst her panic and screaming to please find her daughter, Please! Halfway through his interviews at the school, news winged in that a pupil had seen Lorena leaving the playground and thought she recognized the woman with her: ‘Mrs Waldren, lives up the top of Chelborne Chine.’ Mrs Ryall seemed relieved at first at this news: at least some mad stranger didn’t have her child. But then panic quickly set in again, as if other connected consequences had suddenly dawned on her. Crowley asked if she had any idea why Mrs Waldren might take Lorena, and she’d told him about the two visits from Social Services with Mrs Waldren in tow. ‘Mrs Waldren has some crazy, misguided notion that there’s a problem between my husband and Lorena.’

Crowley contemplated Gordon steadily. ‘You said that Lorena was afraid something might be happening with her stepfather… doesn’t she know for sure? Has the girl said nothing directly in that respect?’

‘No… it was all mainly from her dreams, she couldn’t be totally sure.’ Gordon realized then that Crowley had probably heard something already from the Ryalls. He tried to add ballast so that it didn’t come across as so tenuous. ‘That’s why the recommendation for psychiatric counselling — to try and make sure one way or the other.’

‘I see. Only in her dreams.’ Crowley’s tone was vaguely mocking. ‘And what did the social services say?’

Gordon sighed heavily. Crowley seemed intent on throwing out the ballast, making his explanation not just tenuous but almost laughable. ‘The social services worker who interviewed Lorena on two occasions along with my wife in fact recommended counselling. But her supervisor apparently had other ideas — mainly courtesy of Mr Ryall trapping the officer and my wife by taping their last interview with Lorena.’ Gordon forced a tight ‘I bet the Ryalls didn’t tell you that’ smile.

Crowley’s eyes flickered only slightly before recovering. He leant forward, resting his hands resolutely on his knees. ‘But the upshot is that the social services saw no reason finally for Lorena to have counselling. Lorena herself has made no direct accusations, it’s all just in her dreams… so in the end your wife decides to take the law into her own hands and abduct the girl.’

Gordon shook his head firmly. ‘No, no… it wasn’t like that. For God’s sake, you’ve listened to the tape. If Lorena didn’t want help, my wife wouldn’t have-’ Gordon faltered, realizing his voice had raised, he was almost