The Last Witness

what Georges feared — was why he asked me to talk to you.’

‘Like I said before, Simone, I just don’t think Roman would do something like that without my sanction. He might be hot-headed and irrational at times, but he’s not completely suicidal.’ Her first screams of accusation, at first light the day after Georges’ disappearance, had been directed at Jean-Paul with Roman merely doing his dirty-work. Jean-Paul fired back that a six-month cooling-off period in Cuba or Mexico was what he’d had in mind. ‘That’s not how I do things any more, and you more than anyone else should know that.’ His reprimand, carrying with it Pascal and all he’d fought so hard for since to make amends, made her flush and softly say she was sorry, and they’d turned their thoughts to Roman possibly acting on his own. Jean-Paul had pointed out that there was little point in Roman investing so much time convincing him that there was a problem with Georges, only to then suddenly jump the gun and take action himself. ‘Even if he was of a mind to do it himself, he could have done it long before. He didn’t need to waste breath on me.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Simone agreed dolefully, looking down. She stopped nibbling her nail and pulled a lank strand of hair behind one ear. The photos were back before them as the only reasonable explanation for his disappearance. He knew that they’d been found and was embarrassed as hell, knew that she’d be furious and so he’d gone to ground for a few days until she cooled off. He was right on that count: she’d phoned at least thirty times between the two numbers, each time ready to slam the phone straight down. ‘Good, now that I’ve got you — this is just to say fuck off and never phone me again!’

‘Maybe he’s looked up an old friend up-Province or out of Quebec or headed to a ski-cabin for a while to re- think and re-evaluate.’ Jean-Paul didn’t add that the main reason he had Roman trawling half of Quebec wasn’t to find her lost albeit fallen-from-grace love, but because Georges going to ground could be the final signal that he was about to talk to the RCs. Roman could have been right all along. ‘Or maybe even he’s gone on a short hop to Mexico. He’s got a lot of friends and contacts down there now.’

‘Yeah. He’ll probably surface later tonight or tomorrow and call me.’ She eased a tentative smile, the first in forty-eight hours. ‘And then I can kill him.’

The policeman was a bad start to the day, seemed to have sapped all of Elena’s energy barely a half an hour into her door-calls. Or maybe it was the build-up of nerves, the lack of sleep and the valerian pills and whisky — she’d downed the two remaining miniatures last night, then had nursed another two at the hotel bar with Alphonse after Lorena had gone to bed.

Now she’d sunk another three valerian straight after leaving the depanneur with the policeman to steady her nerves. She was a quivering jelly, frantic. Her trembling was clearly visible, and as she looked in the car’s vanity mirror after sinking the pills she noticed a small muscle spasm at intervals below her left, very bloodshot eye: she looked more like a hardline heroine case.

The spasm eased after twenty minutes and her nerves settled, she just felt numb. But the problem was the numbness was all over her body, and her step felt heavy, laboured, as she made her way towards the front door of her second call of the day. Her thighs and legs felt leaden, as if they were weighted with sacks. She’d hoped to squeeze in three or four calls before Lowndes’ session in just under an hour — but the way she felt now this would probably be the last.

Or maybe it was the repetitive nature of the calls, the endless chain of head-shakes, frowns and ‘sorry’s’ creating her lethargy, steadily grinding her down so that now she couldn’t raise the faintest spark of hope or enthusiasm as she approached a fresh door. It just wouldn’t be any different. More head shakes and frowns with nothing left but to trudge on to the next. And the next. And the…

She felt dizzy, disorientated, felt herself sway slightly, her step unsteady.

She was deep inside the chine and with dusk approaching the light at its end was fast dying. She started to head back up the slope to home, but her legs felt heavy — the same heaviness she felt now as she made her way up the four steps to a cream front door — progress was slow, she started to fear that she might not make it back up before the light died completely. She wouldn’t be able to find her way any more: the darkness of the chine was intense, no trace of moonlight or starlight filtered through the thick blanket of trees above. And it suddenly hit her that the light at the end didn’t just represent hope, but that without it she wouldn’t be able to find her way at all. She was totally lost.

She rang the bell. Its chime lingered in her head for a second after she pulled her finger away.

But didn’t she know her way in and out of the chine practically blindfold, she been there so many times? Muted sound of footsteps approaching the other side. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure — she wasn’t sure of anything any more.

And when after her standard pitch the man confronting her, a Stephanou in his late fifties, nodded and with a strained grimace opened the door wide — ‘You’d better come in’ — she was still grappling with reality, slightly lost. It took her a moment to finally respond and walk into his house and realize that the light at the end of the chine was suddenly back again.

TWENTY-THREE

‘Pardon. Bell Canada, Madame.’

‘Oui, oui. C’est vite.’ Odette Donatiens opened the door wider to let the man in. ‘We noticed the line was dead — but we haven’t even reported it yet. I was just about to go to my neighbours and phone in.’

Carlo Funicelli shrugged and smiled amiably. ‘We found a junction box burnt out with a short that effects you and three other houses. Which means that one of you has a problem with too much resistance on the line.’ He followed her down the hallway. Slightly broad in the beam, but still a good figure for what he’d heard from Roman was a mid-fifty year old: the grey track suit and trainers maybe helped her look more youthful and there was only a touch of salt in her auburn hair. ‘So we thought we’d better check.’

‘Oh, right.’ She could see him scanning to each side of the lounge. She pointed. ‘It’s over there.’

‘Thanks.’ Funicelli smiled back at her as he reached the phone, as if to say ‘it’s okay now’, hoping that she’d disappear for a moment and leave him to it. But she just stood there looking at him as he undid the phone cradle casing. ‘Could take a little while.’

She stood there a moment more looking blankly on, then jolted slightly. ‘Oh, sorry. Would you like coffee or something?’

‘Yes, thanks. That would very nice, Madame.’

‘Black, white?’

‘White, no sugar. Thanks.’

Funicelli breathed a sigh of relief as she finally disappeared. At a push he might have got away with the phone bug with her still watching, but the other two would have been more difficult. He had both in place — one under the sofa, another behind a sideboard — within forty seconds of her turning away, then started on the phone bug. He’d have to hurry: the last thing he wanted was her coming back in and asking, ‘What’s that?’ Or why was he tampering with the handset rather than the cradle? As it was he’d been nervous about the few minutes he’d had to spend up a telegraph pole outside to disconnect her line. If she’d seen him through the window, fine, that tied in with his story now. But he was more worried about a real Bell engineer passing and seeing him. His uniform looked authentic enough, but a van with logo had been impossible to arrange: he’d parked his plain white van twenty yards along so that it was obscured from the Donatiens’ view by some trees.

His hand shook slightly as he positioned the bug behind the earpiece and connected it. Sound of footsteps starting back along the hallway. He clipped back the handset cover and tightened its one connecting screw, then quickly shifted to putting the phone cradle casing back on as she walked in. He gave the cradle a few more screwdriver turns as she put his coffee on a side table.

‘Thanks. There were a couple of wires touching that could have caused a problem, so I’ve seperated them. I’ll just check the socket, then I’m done.’ He busied himself undoing the socket and checking connections with a metre between sips of coffee while Odette Donatiens talked aimlessly.

‘…Lot brighter today for a change. I might go out and do some gardening later.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Looks like it could turn out nice.’ He screwed the socket back together and knocked back the last of his coffee. ‘That should be okay now. I’ll just re-connect on the junction box outside — and you’re ready to go.’

She thanked him and showed him out, and after another three anxious minutes on the telegraph pole