The Last Witness

‘Hi, Simone. I’ve just come in now and got your messages. Have you managed to get hold of Georges yet?’

‘No, no. I tried him again just ten minutes ago — but still no answer. Not at home or on his mobile.’

A moment’s tense silence between them as Jean-Paul’s concerns verged towards panic.

‘Please tell me that he’s alright. That nothing’s happened to him.’ Simone’s voice broke slightly with the plea. ‘I know that you’ve had some concerns about him seeing the police, but-’

‘No, no!.. Of course I’ve done nothing like that. Do you think I’d be calling back now if I had?’ He sounded more annoyed than he’d intended; but his anger wasn’t aimed at her, more his rising worries about Roman. ‘Look, let me make some calls — then I’ll phone you back.’

‘When?’

‘Give me an hour or so to sort it out. And if Georges turns up meanwhile, call me straight away.’

He hung up and dialled straight out to Roman. No answer at home, so he raised him on his mobile.

‘Roman. We’ve got a problem. Georges has apparently disappeared.’ Jean-Paul honed in intently on the silence and the intonation of Roman’ response.

‘When…Where? How do you know?’

Little indication either way. ‘Simone phoned. She’s been trying frantically to get hold of him the past few hours, can’t find him anywhere. I want you to come to the house right now so that we can sort this out.’ Maybe he could pick up more face to face, from Roman’s eyes and body language.

‘Well… I was planning to go to the Sherbrooke Club to-’

‘I said right now! See you here in twenty minutes.’ Jean-Paul slammed the phone down before Roman could draw breath, let alone respond.

Roman made it to the door at Cartier-Ville in seventeen minutes, slightly flushed after Jean-Paul’s tone on the phone. He was visibly agitated, obviously half-expecting a confrontation: Jean-Paul rarely lost his temper.

Jean-Paul wheeled on him as soon as they’d entered his study. ‘I’m going to ask you the difficult question first, Roman. Have you done anything to Georges?’ He held one hand up, forefinger and thumb close together. ‘Harmed even a hair on his head?’

Roman jolted slightly, looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘No, no… of course not.’

Either he hadn’t or a very good act. But then he’d probably had a few hours to prepare. Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘You know, because it’s just the sort of thing you’d do. You’ve been pressing and pressing for me to do something about Georges, telling me what a danger he could be. But in the end, you just couldn’t wait for the final nod, could you?’

‘No, no… I’m telling you. I ain’t done shit to him.’ Roman held his hands out in exasperation, his face redder still, fit to burst.

‘As father said, always the bull-head. Barging in before you’ve had a chance to put your brain in gear.’

Roman moved a step closer to Jean-Paul, his eyes fixing hard on him. ‘Look — I haven’t touched the fucking creep. Okay? Much as I might have liked to.’ He looked ready to strike out.

Jean-Paul paced to one side, looking away uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. I come back home to find nothing but frantic messages on my answerphone from Simone. She can’t find him anywhere, is worried sick about him.’ He ran one hand through his hair and sighed. ‘I just don’t know what to think.’

Roman found more confidence with Jean-Paul easing off. He raised an acute eyebrow. ‘I don’t quite see the panic — even if I had done something, which I haven’t. Surely having him taken him out is what you’d have decided yourself in the end anyway? Pleading hearts from Simone or not?’

Jean-Paul looked back sharply at Roman. Was this an attempt at rationalisation because he had in fact done something? With Roman protesting his innocence so vehemently, any further assault was probably pointless. Jean-Paul exhaled tiredly.

‘I was actually thinking more in terms of sending Georges to Cuba to run our business interests there and in Mexico until things cooled down. Not only in respect of Simone, but, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re meant to have moved away from crime. Respectable businessmen don’t go around killing people.’

‘Yeah, and mugs who get ratted on end up spending twenty in Orsainville.’ Roman smiled dryly. ‘I told you the transition wouldn’t be easy, Jean-Paul. Cuba might be a good short-term solution, but in the long-’

‘Whatever!’ Jean-Paul held one hand up abruptly as his felt his anger rising again. ‘That would be my call, not yours.’ He watched Roman flicker his eyes down and shrug with a subdued ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Jean-Paul took fresh breath. ‘But that’s not the main problem right now. Hopefully Georges might materialise later tonight, but if he still hasn’t shown by tomorrow, if he doesn’t turn up at the office — then I think we’ve got to face we could have a real problem. Georges suspects that we might be rallying against him because he sent Simone in with some wild story to try and turn the tide at the last minute. And if he fears that he’s out in the cold, that’s when he presents the strongest danger to us: he might go to ground for a day or two until he’s worked out what the hell to do, but there’s strong chances he’d prove our worst fears and end up in the arms of the RCMP. And then solutions like Cuba would be out of the window — I’d have to leave things in your hands.’

‘Right. I see.’ Roman noticed how Jean-Paul couldn’t even look at him directly, let alone say it — just the tame wave of one hand to signal that Georges might, after all, have to be taken out. He thought it pathetic — death-bed promises to their father over Pascal or not — Jean-Paul used to be so direct, unflinching, someone to respect. This new Jean-Paul, trapped between this recent-found social conscience and what he needed to do to take care of business, he found hard to stomach. His conviction that he should be the one taking the reins of their business couldn’t have been stronger than in that moment. But it was important to keep up the image of acquiescence just a little longer: until the final parts of his double game were in place. He held out his palms. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

‘If Georges doesn’t show in the office tomorrow, then I want you to find him — and find him fast. Work every street contact you know.’

‘And if and when I do?’

‘Bring him to me so that I can decide what to do.’

But again that tell-tale flinch in Jean-Paul’s eyes that told Roman the decision on that end solution would be difficult, if not impossible, for Jean-Paul to take. He’d read things right all along.

‘… You will probably notice, Mrs Waldren, that although I pushed a bit on the subject of whether Lorena remembered anything happening with your husband while awake, rather than just in her dreams — I wasn’t insistent. I didn’t push too hard. There was a specific reason for this.’

Elena was in her hotel room playing the end of tape notes from John Lowndes. He’d pre-advised that Lorena shouldn’t hear them, so she’d sent Lorena down to the hotel bar to have a coke and some crisps with the promise that she’d join her in ‘eight or ten minutes.’

Pause as John Lowndes drew fresh breath. He was obviously measuring his words carefully. ‘We have a slight dilemma here. If the problem with Lorena not remembering is that she’s selectively blotted it out because it’s simply too terrible to remember — then the only way for us to break that protective barrier and draw the memory out, is to push. But then if we push too hard and it starts to look as if we might have even suggested that particular scenario to Lorena — unfortunately we then get into the muddy area of FMS — False Memory Syndrome. Is it a real memory, or one we’ve planted there?’

Half-defeated sigh from Lowndes. ‘Though there’s nothing conclusive either way at this stage, I’m afraid I must reserve strong concern that your suspicions could indeed have foundation. The main clue to this is that so many of the horrors Lorena has suffered in Romania have in fact been transposed to her dreams. She sees that as safer ground than direct recall. It might also follow therefore that any horrors she feels she can’t face now she also stashes away there. A safe haven to protect her psyche, if you will. But that’s a long way from tangible proof. Let’s hope we have a better day tomorrow.’

She stopped the tape and let her thoughts settle for a second. She was sat on the edge of a king-size bed with a tape player borrowed from the hotel owner, Alphonse ‘Just call me Al’ something. The decor made an attempt at French regency with fake wood beams, mock fireplaces and fleur-de-lis wallpaper, but overall was too garish, heavy-handed. Even the dressing table was mock Louis XV, with the bed a matching four-poster with red velvet trim. The only modern things in the room were the TV and Lorena’s sofa-bed.

But it was just what she wanted: small and faceless, just one of many bow-window-fronted B amp;Bs in the Latin Quarter. She’d decided to avoid the larger hotels that might list with a central computer register as a matter