The Last Witness

pressure now gone — and I mean clearly remember — then that too is what we want to hear.’

‘I… I’m not sure. Like I said before, some of it seemed so real… as if it couldn’t possibly be a dream. But I just couldn’t remember any time when I was awake.’

Elena’s palm sweated as she clutched unconsciously at the headphones’ wire: she could feel the clawing pressure on Lorena with each fall of her breath, swallow or faint cough. Lowndes had edged in so deftly, purposefully: it reminded her of the carefully layered brushstrokes of her painting. But then it was as if he’d suddenly remembered False Memory Syndrome and went back and wiped out a stroke, worried that he might have painted her too much into a corner. He needed to push hard to break any block, but then he didn’t want it possibly viewed that the memory had come about merely as a result of that pressure — because Lorena thought that that was what he wanted to hear.

‘…And when you thought back, trying to recall if it was real or just a dream — this was already the morning, the first moments of waking.’

‘Yes.’

Lowndes confirmed with Lorena that her stepfather wasn’t usually there when she awoke. ‘But have there been times in the night when he was at your bedside when you awoke?’

‘Yes… some times when I had the bad dreams.’

‘…About Patrika and the sewers?’

‘Yes.’

‘But were any of those dreams with your stepfather touching you… and you’d awake to find him there at your bedside?’

‘Only one… I…I’ Faltering pause, Lorena’s breathing fractured, laboured.

Gentle prompt from Lowndes, ‘It’s okay… go on.’

‘…I dreamt that he was stroking me, soothing me, telling me that it was okay. Then it became the waters of the sewer washing over me… but it was somehow warm, strange… and as it came up to my mouth, I was choking and spluttering for breath… but still he was stroking me, telling me everything was okay… okay…’

‘…And when you awoke, was he touching you?’

‘Yes… yes. But only my forehead… and he was saying the same words, that everything was okay.’ Lorena swallowed hard, trying to regain her breath and her composure. ‘He said that I’d been screaming… had woken him up.’

‘Did you think he’d just run in from his room, or did you get the feeling he’d been standing there all along?’

‘I… I don’t know… I couldn’t tell. I’m sorry.’

Lowndes paused and took a deep breath. Elena couldn’t help sensing that he’d reached a sort of crossroads — uncertain where to head next, or perhaps because with only a few minutes of the session remaining, he wouldn’t have time to fully explore where he wanted to go. Elena looked down to see her hands noticeably shaking: Lowndes’ questioning, or all the other panics she was frantically juggling at that moment?

Crossroads. In their call last night, Gordon had warned her that the time-scale in which they could have traced her flight to Canada was soon up, and she should be doubly wary the next morning. She’d squeezed in three more door-calls before the session with Lowndes, and heading down St Denis a squad car came out of a side turn and pulled up two cars behind her at the Avenue Monte Royal crossroads. She tried not to look too pointedly or repeatedly in her mirror — but it stayed behind her all the way to Sherbrooke before turning off, by which time her nerves were completely frazzled. She pulled over immediately afterwards: her stomach was still somersaulting and for a second she thought she was going vomit.

‘…You don’t need to be sorry, Lorena. As I said, if nothing is happening, then that’s fine too. And if this is still a question of your memory being blocked in some way, I wouldn’t expect it to suddenly be freed within minutes; it could take time. But what I do want you to do is continue thinking on what we covered earlier: there are absolutely no pressures or worries as to what might happen to you as a result of you speaking out — if you finally remember anything. And maybe with some time to let that thought settle, that might help us in your next session.’ Lowndes voice lowered, becoming soft, almost conspiratorial. ‘Would you do that for me, Lorena?’

‘Yes… I will.’

With a perfunctory but equally soft-mannered ‘Good, see you tomorrow then,’ Lowndes closed the session. He let Lorena go ahead with the receptionist as he held back a moment in his office with Elena. He turned to her thoughtfully.

‘You realize that if there’s no breakthrough early on in the session tomorrow, it could all be over quickly. There might be nowhere else we can go with this?’

‘Yes, I realize,’ she agreed sombrely. As much as she wanted the nightmare ended quickly — the only acceptable way was with a solution. She didn’t think she could bring herself to send Lorena back to Ryall still with the knowledge that he might be molesting her.

‘Oh, one more thing. This Eileen… Lorena’s friend. The aid worker. Are they very close?’

‘Yes, fairly. She helped Lorena a lot in Romania.’ Suddenly realizing she should distance herself more, she added: ‘So I suppose so.’

‘And does she know about this new problem now with Lorena?’

‘I… I’m not sure,’ she stuttered, her heart suddenly in her mouth. But as her mind flashed frantically through all the possible pitfalls — she’d already mentioned social service visits to Lowndes — she decided to at least partly tell the truth. ‘Yes — she must know now. She came along with social services on their second visit. But probably she didn’t know at the beginning.’

‘Right. I see,’ Lowndes mumbled.

She could see that he was still slightly lost in thought, and quickly added: ‘Any problem?’

‘No… no. Not at all.’ He looked at her directly, forcing a smile. ‘Just it’s always useful to have as much background as possible.’

But fifteen minutes later grabbing a quick beef-burger lunch with Lorena, she couldn’t help dwelling on whether Lowndes had some deeper concerns about Lorena’s mention of Eileen the aid worker. As Lorena reached across for much ketchup and the hustle and bustle of the restaurant crashed back in, she pushed it from her mind. She had enough to worry about, and it was probably nothing: just her paranoia because she knew they were lying.

The telephone lines had burned red hot the last twenty-four hours between Cameron Ryall, Inspector Turton and DS Crowley, and in turn between Crowley, Interpol, and an ever-widening net of airports and customs posts halfway across Europe. And as the likelihood of a quick breakthrough diminished, Inspector Turton decided that rather than try and kid-glove the increasingly heated calls from Ryall, he’d pull himself out of the loop and suggest that in future Ryall should contact Crowley directly to be kept up to date on progress.

‘I’ve been told I should speak to you now about this. Apparently you’re doing all the legwork.’ Ryall made the emphasis as if it was the lowest form of activity. The message was patently clear: he was only talking to Crowley through sufferance, and his patience was already long gone. ‘Now what the hell’s going on?’

Crowley clarified with Ryall what information Turton had already passed on, then picked up from there. ‘The cash-card trail seems to have petered out in the middle of France. We’ve had no other notification of its use there, or indeed anywhere else.’

‘And any sightings of her car in France?’

‘No. Nor again anywhere else for that matter. I don’t want us to get stuck on the fact that she might still be in France. So we’ve got alerts out not only with most airports in Northern France, but also border posts with Belgium, Switzerland, Holland and Germany — not to mention airports too that she could have by now reached in those countries. We’re also going through airline passenger records at those airports, plus we mustn’t rule out that she could still be in England. The Euro-Shuttle ticket and the cash-card might have all been just a diversion.’ He didn’t add that he’d soon have to widen the net to cover Italy and Spain as it became possible that she’d reached that far: it made the search sound all the more tenuous, underlined that they really had no idea where she’d gone. He tried to sound confident. ‘Believe me, we’re doing everything we can. Wherever she is, we’ll find her.’