The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Roman touched Jean-Paul’s arm. ‘It’s urgent, Jean-Paul. I don’t think this can wait.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ Jean-Paul’s eyes clouded as he registered for the first time the gravity of Roman’s concern. He held one arm out towards the adjoining office. ‘Let’s go in here.’ Then to the caterers: ‘I’ll be back with you shortly.’

  The atmosphere in the fifteen-foot square room was stuffy, austere: part power-broker, part intellectual. Directly behind Jean-Paul’s desk was his diploma in maths and art from University of Montreal, and a framed thank-you letter from one of Canada’s most notable past Prime Minister’s, still a Montreal resident, for Jean-Paul’s heavy campaign funds in the late 70s. The far wall was lined with books: Flaubert, Dostoyevsky, Voltaire, Joyce, Orwell, Zola, Rand, Proust… Proulx. Jean-Paul the avid reader, whereas Roman had hardly got past The Three Musketeers. Roman had always felt uncomfortable in this room: probably not intentional, but everything seemed to shout down at him that he was the lightweight intellectual of the family.

  Jean-Paul pressed his fingertips together in a pyramid. ‘So… tell me.’ He opened them out for a second. ‘What’s the problem?’

  As Roman explained about Donatiens being taken in for questioning, Jean-Paul’s expression darkened. His eyes shifted uncomfortably to some papers at the side before coming back to Roman. ‘Are you sure your contact’s reliable? That he hasn’t made a mistake.’

  ‘No, I’m sure. He’s been spot-on every time before. And he works in the same building at Dorchester Boulevard. So it’s not the sort of thing he could make a mistake about.’ Roman let the information settle a little deeper, enjoying watching Jean-Paul squirm at the thought of golden boy possibly being tainted, before he asked: ‘So he hasn’t mentioned anything about it to you?’

  ‘No… no, he hasn’t’ Jean-Paul was still distracted, turning possibilities around in his mind. ‘But then I’ve only just got back… and as you can see things have been more than a little hectic.’ He gestured towards the adjoining room. ‘Maybe it’s something he’s planning to tell me about later. Maybe too nothing much happened, so it wasn’t worth raising the alarm straightaway.’

  ‘And maybe the Pope’s dating Sharon Stone.’ Roman leant forward, raising a sharp eyebrow. ‘He was in there three hours, Jean-Paul. Three fucking hours! The RCs could know every single financial transaction worth shit and what every one of us has for breakfast.’

  Jean-Paul sighed heavily. Maybe Roman was right, but Jean-Paul was also keenly aware of the growing animosity between Roman and Georges; he needed to be sure this wasn’t just Roman axe-grinding for the hell of it. ‘We’re not involved in crime anymore, and Georges wasn’t involved either in any of the money-laundering – so what’s to tell?’ He waved a hand towards Roman. ‘This is probably all about that night with Leduc again.’

  Roman flinched and sat back. Always the same these days: when it came to the crunch, Jean-Paul invariably sided with golden-boy and threw it all back in his lap. ‘Three hours, Jean-Paul? What did he do – show them his family snaps?’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Even if it was all innocent, you’ve got to admit – he should have told you.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Jean-Paul nodded solemnly.

  Roman could tell that he was starting to teeter. ‘And that Leduc incident could easily unravel the wrong way. If they’re not convinced it was self-defence, I could go down for twenty. For ordering it, you’d get the same. They’ve probably been pressing Donatiens that they know he was there, but if he turns Crown evidence they’ll give him immunity against prosecution as an accomplice. And then with the finances – once they’ve got the full picture of all the legitimate stuff, how long do you think it’s going to take them to trace back to the…’

  Jean-Paul held a hand up; a Priest dispensing blessing. ‘Okay, Roman… okay. You’ve made your point.’ His tone was worn, tired. All he could do was defer judgement: there were just too many open interpretations to get out the way first before he’d be convinced that he should mistrust Georges. ‘I’ve pencilled in that I’d phone him about four o’clock before he heads off to get ready for the party, to catch up on business while I was away. I’ll leave a few long gaps and pauses, and let’s see if he fills them. If not, then we can start worrying.’

  Elena grabbed the phone at the start of the second ring.

  ‘He thinks he’s found something at last.’ Megan’s voice at the other end: excited, slightly breathless.

  ‘Where did he find it in the end?’

  ‘Westminster registry.’

  ‘Right. That’s great.’ Elena too found her breath caught slightly. The first call two days ago, only thirty hours after she’d given Megan the go ahead, had been to say that Terry, her search man, had found nothing in either the Kilburn or Hampstead registries. They’d trawl through the other North London registries before spreading the net wider.

  ‘But before we get too carried away,’ Megan continued. ‘It’s not an exact match. The name he’s found is George Georgallis. And the birth date entered is not exactly the same either: it’s four days later, April 19th, with the registration itself entered on the 23rd April. But the certificate is marked, adopted, which is what first made it leap out for Terry.’

  Elena was uncertain. Georgallis was a common name among the Cypriot community, and with the few days difference it could easily be someone else. Then the thought suddenly hit her: choosing the name George would mean that the family name would continue on, regardless of the final adopted family name. And she seemed to remember her father having a Greek doctor friend in Pimlico, which would come under Westminster. ‘Is it a doctor who made the registration? Is there a name and address given there?’

  ‘Yes, uh…’ Megan struggled to decipher the scrawled writing. ‘Looks like a Doctor Manatis or Maniatis. Tatchbrooke Place, London, SW19.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. I’m sure… I’m sure.’ Tatchbrooke Place was Pimlico, if she remembered her London geography: the coincidences were too many. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  ‘Well. Underneath adopted, there’s a note of a temporary care order made in the name of Anthony Georgallis…’

  ‘Yes… that’s my father. He thrust a load of papers in front of me only a week after the birth. I hardly even knew what I was signing, I was still so distraught…’

  ‘That’s okay. You don’t need to appease yourself to us, or explain. It’s just the more we know, the easier it is when it comes to tracing.’ Megan’s voice was cool, soothing; as if she’d dealt a thousand times before with mothers who held back the harsher, more painful details. ‘Then we’ve got a note of a Court order made some five months later at Highgate Court. That would probably be the next most logical search point.’

  Elena felt her trembling start to return. ‘I think I know what it says already.’ She gripped hard at the edge of the telephone table, trying to brace her shaking. ‘I suffered severe depression soon after signing my baby away and made an attempt to take my own life.’ The images were still vivid: the bathroom sliding sideways after she’d taken the pills, her face being slapped hard; but as she tried to focus on her mother above, the bright fluorescent light behind washed away any definition, searing through her eyes like a hot lance. ‘When I recovered, I decided that I just couldn’t live with the same sense of loss and guilt for the rest of my life – I wanted my baby back. But my father said that he’d fight me all the way, and he used the attempted suicide to argue that I was unstable and unfit. I didn’t even bother to show up at court for the final ruling – it was already a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘I see.’

  Despite Megan being battle-hardened and probably having heard every possible story – Elena could swear she heard a faint swallow from the other end.

  From downstairs came the muffled tones of Gordon’s voice: speaking to another business client while on the other line she unravelled the secrets of the past she’d long held from him. At the local shops the day before, she’d suddenly panicked that
Megan might phone while she was out, Gordon would pick it up and, if the wrong thing was said, the secret would be out straightaway. But if the trace was successful, she’d have to tell him anyway, and the mounting dread of finally having to spill all to Gordon hit her in full force.

  When no call had come through the rest of that day, she began almost to wish that there would be no trace found; then at least she would never have to tell Gordon. Their lives would continue as before: happy, albeit for her, incomplete.

  ‘But that’s not the only thing those Court papers might show.’ Megan’s words were suddenly measured, purposeful. ‘They might show the family who adopted your son.’

  Elena felt a sudden tight constriction in her chest. She swallowed hard, as if she hadn’t heard right and that might clear it. She’d been prepared for weeks or even months of searching, and likely even then nothing at the end of it. It was as if someone had casually told her she had a winning lottery ticket in her coat pocket. It just seemed too easy to trust. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not a hundred percent – but there are strong chances it’s registered there, particularly if the adoption was arranged at the same time. We’ll know soon enough.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Well, normally it can take anything from a few weeks to a few months. But Terry has his way of speeding things: urgent contact needed because of a serious congenital disorder, rare blood group sharing, things like that. Quite honestly, it’s best not to ask. I just leave it to him as to the best and quickest method to get what he wants. Any luck, he should have something within five or six days, certainly within a week.'

  In the end it was only four days before Megan called back with some names: Nicholas and Maria Stephanou, and an address in Canterbury, Kent. Terry was checking it out as they spoke. ‘Twenty-nine years, so probably they’ve moved. But at least it’s a name and a start point for him to track from.’

  Suddenly Elena had a new name to mutter under her breath: George Stephanou. Still it didn’t help: no image came to mind for her to cling to. But at least now she felt more alive, full of hope: marked contrast to the doldrums of the past week.

  Though later that afternoon she was back again in the doldrums. She’d just left her local corner store after being brought up to date on village goings-on by Mrs Wickens, its shopkeeper of twenty-five years, in her normal shrugging and winking ‘Yar know what I’m saying’ style. Elena’s step was lively, brisk – the air was fresh, the sky bright, she was still smiling from Mrs Wickens’ stories – everything seemed to be going right at last.

  Then Nicola Ryall’s dark blue Range Rover drifted by. Lorena was in the back and she saw Elena straightaway. Their eyes locked, and Lorena swivelled quickly around so that she could continue staring back. Her small hand slowly reached out and touched the inside of the back glass, as if she was trying to make invisible contact, and Elena felt a sharp stab of guilt. This past week she’d consumed herself with nothing but her own problems, leaving Lorena all but forgotten. The girl’s last hope probably now gone of ever getting free from Ryall, and Elena hadn’t given her a second thought.

  Just before fading from view, Elena thought she saw Lorena silently mouth something. It looked like ‘Help me.’

  Georges went back across with Simone’s drink, a Campari and lemon, as the man in the light grey suit with bright floral tied moved away.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Georges asked Simone.

  ‘Jaques Delamarle. Local politician, something to do with Cultural Affairs, if I remember right. My father deals with him now and then because of his heavy jazz festival contributions – but he’s known him for years. He’s an old family friend and also knows Lillian: that’s why he’s here.’

  ‘No political advantage being sought then?’ Georges raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No. I don’t think my father would dare try it here.’ Simone smiled and took a sip of her drink. They’d both noticed how over the past year Jean-Paul had increasingly courted political favour. ‘If Lillian got even a whiff that he was turning her birthday party into part of his image bolstering campaign, she’d have his head on a plate next to the suckling pig.’ The three-man combo at the end of the room started up again, launching into an upbeat Latin version of ‘Besame Mucho’, and Simone had to raise her voice slightly. ‘He saves all of that for open house days or business and charity functions.’

  There were only about ten people dancing – most people seemed keener on eating, drinking and talking for the past hour or so, though invariably Lillian and her new ‘friend’ Max were among the first on the floor. Max was a retired grocer whose expansion plans had peaked at two small Outremont stores and a downtown dépanneur before he sold out.

  Jean-Paul looked on and smiled graciously, but both Simone and Georges could still read the silent disapproval carefully shielded beneath. One of Jean-Paul’s few character flaws. Normally extremely broad-minded with little regard for social or class divides, when it came to his mother his class-consciousness was suddenly extreme. Nobody was good enough for her.

  But Georges was more concerned about reading something else beneath Jean-Paul’s smile, after their earlier conversation. It had started out as a standard business update, but then there’d been a couple of questions as to whether everything was okay and ‘did anything else happen while I was away?’ that in retrospect struck him as odd. Not the questions themselves, but the awkward moment’s silence straight after Georges had assured that everything was fine.

  Probably he was just getting paranoid; he was still rattled after the session with Chenouda and perhaps it had come through in his voice. He’d sounded strained, concerned. If Jean-Paul had an inside track with the RCMP, then he’d also know the theory Chenouda was pushing about Leduc and now Savard. He’d have been grilling Roman non-stop since he got back, but things between them seemed to be fine; the smiles and body language were easy and relaxed from the couple of times he’d seen them talk so far.

  The only thing he was still unsure of was whether the smiles were easy from Jean-Paul to him, whether… ‘What…?’

  ‘I said – so here we are. Stuck in the middle,’ Simone repeated. She looked back towards Jaques Delamarle, then towards Roman and Frank Massenat propped up against the back wall, diving into re-filled platefuls of canapés. ‘Clowns to the left of us… jokers to the right.’ Then her eyebrows knitted slightly. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Fine.’ Georges smiled wanly. Jean-Paul’s oddly comical mix at functions: the transition from crime boss to respectable businessman wasn’t fully there yet; the past was still mingling with what Jean-Paul hoped was his future.

  Roman’s Marie was halfway across the room from him talking to two other women, while Jean-Paul’s date of choice for the evening, Catherine, was by his side. He’d met her just before Christmas at ‘The Bay’s’ perfume counter while choosing a present for his then girlfriend. In the three years since burying Stephanie, his second wife, he hadn’t settled emotionally. Hardly anyone was good enough to match up to her either. Though with each one, Jean-Paul initially had high hopes: he was keen to enlighten that Catherine was not just a platinum blonde, perfume-selling wallflower, she was also doing an evening course in Sociology at McGill.

  As the song finished, Lillian and Max came over.

  ‘Big day for these two soon,’ Lillian said. ‘Have you met Max before?’ Lillian asked Georges.

  Georges held a hand up in greeting at Max and smiled. ‘Yes, but only once. Jean-Paul’s last Boxing Day open house.’ Obviously Lillian had forgotten.

  ‘Maybe we won’t be too far behind on the church steps,’ Lillian nudged Max. ‘Anywhere planned for the honeymoon yet?’ Martinique was too hot and humid in July, she informed them without hardly waiting for an answer; so was Mexico. ‘Maybe you should head to Europe. Côte D’Azur’s nice then, or maybe Italy.’

  Simone said that they’d talked about France, but one of those Loire Valley picture-postcard chateaux for the first ten days. ‘Then the Med coast
with maybe a quick look at Tuscany for the rest of the time.’

  She’d barely finished before Lillian, with a quick ‘excuse us’, whisked Max back to dance. Jon and Cynthia Larsen moved in from a few yards away, picking up on the tail end with Cynthia asking if they knew where they’d have the reception yet, and would they use the same caterers as today? Impressive spread, but for Cynthia’s money – no doubt gained from her current haute cuisine courses to raise the level of her already renowned dinner parties – the rack of lamb was a bit dry and some of the canapé pastry a touch over-baked.

  Jon quickly became disinterested and led Georges a yard to one side by the arm. ‘What do you reckon on this Cuban thing then?’

  ‘Well, Jean-Paul mentioned something – but we never really got into it.’ Georges gestured towards the end table spreads. ‘Preparations for this I think took over.’ Jean-Paul had mentioned at the start of their earlier call that he wanted to talk about increased Cuban investments. But then after them catching up on events and Jean-Paul asking if everything was okay, they’d never got around to it. Jean-Paul had abruptly signed off, saying that he had two caterers and a party decorator hovering anxiously at his office door. He had to go.

  ‘Right.’ Jon looked fazed for only a second, then explained: Arturo Giacomelli was interested in funnelling funds into Cuba. He couldn’t do it through the USA, because of the trade embargo. ‘But he could do it through Jean-Paul and Canada.’

  Georges sucked in his breath. ‘We can’t handle money for Giacomelli. It would be back to what Jean-Paul’s been fighting so hard to move away from: laundering and trying to play clean with dirty money.’

  Jon Larsen held up his free hand. ‘We went through all that. This would be totally clean money, straight from the two Vegas Casinos.’

  ‘Right.’ Georges looked down, pondering it quickly as he took a slug of his beer. ‘We’d still have to be careful of not breaching the US embargo. But that wouldn’t be a problem if the money was channelled first through Canada and Jean-Paul’s side of the Vegas partnerships.’