The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Jon nodded. ‘I think that’s one of the options that came up when they discussed it.’

  ‘… But I still think it would be safer to run it all through, say, Jean-Paul’s Mexico companies first, then on through Cuba.’ Georges’ thoughts were running double time as he watched Jon Larsen consider the suggestion. Despite the frantic preparations, obviously Jean-Paul had found time to discuss this with Jon in some depth. Georges began to wonder about Jean-Paul’s abrupt signing off. Maybe he had heard something and was troubled.

  Larsen took a sip of his martini. ‘I suppose that’s got merit. But we’d have to make sure it was in and out under three months to avoid any tax implications. Then too we should think about–’

  ‘Enough shop talk, I think,’ Cynthia cut in. Simone smiled tightly alongside her.

  Jon nodded hastily. ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re right.’

  And they stood as an awkward circle for a second before Cynthia commented: ‘No ice storms this year, at least.’ Then launched into how they’d all coped and survived, respectively, through them last winter.

  As Simone explained that it hadn’t been too bad – when the power lines started going down they’d all simply headed here to her father’s house because he had a generator – Georges was hardly listening. He was looking across and trying to catch Jean-Paul’s eye and in return hopefully get that confident, re-assuring smile that he knew so well; more vital to him now than ever, because it would tell him that everything was okay.

  It wasn’t until some time later that he finally managed to elicit that return smile, but by then Georges had run through so many conflicting emotions he was almost past caring. He’d started to drink quicker, slugging back two beers and two double Southern Comforts in an effort to lose his worries on the mood and flow of the party. He’d danced with Simone a few times and in the middle of the band’s passable rendition of the Beatles ‘And I Love Her’, whispered in Simone’s ear how much he loved her. He’d thought a couple of times of going over and talking directly to Jean-Paul – maybe he could better discern eye to eye if something was wrong. But Jean-Paul seemed to be endlessly wrapped up talking to other people. He’d just finished a long session with Delamarle when one of Lillian’s bridge circle, an elderly surgeon, moved in. Then Jean-Paul’s neighbours, a leading realtor and his twenty years younger aerobics instructor wife.

  At one point Georges caught Roman’s eye and could almost swear that Roman had read his consternation: a direct, challenging look with a faint smile at the corner of Roman’s mouth. All Georges could think of was Savard’s screams on tape, and he was first to look away. The room felt suddenly as if it was closing in: the beat of the music, Jean-Paul’s cold-shoulder, Roman staring at him, the rising cacophony of voices all around, a woman just behind breaking into laughter… all of it seemed to spin in his head, make him dizzy.

  ‘Sorry.’ He excused himself to Simone and headed to the bathroom, splashing some water on his face as he stared hard in the mirror. Strange how quickly he could become an outcast to the extended Lacaille family, a stranger at this gathering. Marked contrast to the camaraderie when they’d all grouped together under this same roof during the ice storms, playing cards and charades: the Lacaille family and their favoured inner circle against a hostile world outside. Now he too was practically out in the cold, along with the ice sheets.

  And it was in that moment, with his frantic, haunted eyes still fixed in the mirror as he dabbed dry with a towel, that he finally decided: he couldn’t take the burden of this secret any longer. He’d have to tell the truth about that night with Roman and Leduc. He didn’t want to tell Jean-Paul directly, that was what he’d been avoiding all along: ratting one brother against the other. But perhaps he could confide in someone in the middle: Simone or Jon Larsen? Which would be best?

  The decision made, he felt as if a sack had been lifted from his shoulders as he emerged. And it was then too that Jean-Paul’s smile finally came in return – just after Georges whispered in Simone’s ear as Frank Massenat trod on Lillian’s foot for the second time during his disastrous attempt at the Bossanova: ‘He doesn’t need to strong-arm people, he just needs to threaten to dance with them.’

  Simone smiled broadly, and as Georges pecked her on the cheek and straightened up, Jean-Paul was smiling over at them. But Georges couldn’t tell whether it was directed just at his daughter, or whether it embraced both of them.

  ‘I know that you already had Social Services on to you asking about Lorena, Dr Tinsley, but this was something entirely separate – more to do with her condition when she first arrived in this country,’ Elena elaborated. ‘As one of the agency workers involved in her placing here, that was more my neck of the woods.'

  ‘I see. Well, what sort of thing specifically?’

  Elena could still sense Tinsley’s caution over the line. She decided to backtrack a bit, filling in some background about Lorena’s sewer days and the severe depravation of the orphanages. ‘She suffered bouts of disturbing dreams in the last orphanage in Bucharest as a result, and I just wondered what signs there might have been of them continuing in England?’

  ‘Surely this is more psychiatric or counselling territory, than a physicians.’

  ‘I know. But they were never severe enough that she was recommended for treatment, so this would really be just a general observation on your part.’

  ‘Well… I, uh, she never actually complained directly about any dreams that I recall… but she did at times seem a bit detached, pre-occupied.’

  Elena could hear the flicking of some papers in the background; she wasn’t sure whether the hesitation was Tinsley showing due caution or just that his attention was only half with her. ‘I mean, did she seem troubled… would you say that she might have been suffering from depression?’

  ‘Depression? A bit of an extreme term for a nine-year old.’ Lightly humouring tone, almost condescending. ‘But she was, shall we say, sometimes distant, lost in her own world. I often had to repeat questions. Though I must say I put this largely down to her getting to grips with the language and also getting used to her new environment.’

  ‘Right.’ She sensed she’d gone as far as she could about Lorena, but from Nadine’s earlier paperwork she’d noted Tinsley’s age: 53. ‘And the other adopted girl, Mikaya – were you her GP as well?’

  ‘Yes, I was. But I thought–’

  ‘And was there any history of depression or upsets there?’ Elena barrelled in quickly with the question, hoping to catch Tinsley off guard. But Tinsley merely continued with his started objection.

  ‘…I thought you were only concerned with Lorena – so I don’t really see what that has to do with anything.’ Defensively questioning.

  ‘Yes, I know. But we’re trying to isolate if this is just a problem with Lorena. Because if there’s been a similar problem with another child of mental detachment and depression – it could be that unconsciously the Ryalls are somehow alienating these children from abroad, not fully embracing and accepting them as family.’ Elena listened to the shallow fall of Tinsley’s breath at the other end, wondering if he’d fall for it. She felt as if she were treading on egg-shells; it was the only plausible story she could think of to get what she wanted. ‘As I say, I don’t think this is something the Ryalls would knowingly have done. It’s just that children can often be very sensitive – particularly displaced children like this.’

  ‘Look, there was something – but it was absolutely nothing to do with the Ryalls, more to do with a boyfriend.’ A brisk, blustery tone, as if Tinsley thought Elena might have heard something and he wanted to ensure she didn’t fill in the gaps the wrong way. ‘What I can vouch for is that Mr and Mrs Ryall supported Mikaya wholeheartedly and unequivocally throughout the whole matter. Beyond that, I think you should speak to the Ryalls directly, or the Social Services.’

  ‘Yes, yes, certainly. I understand.’ My, my, she had touched a nerve. Boyfriend? ‘You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’ She bowed out swif
tly, getting the distinct impression that if she’d pushed an inch more, Tinsley would have hung up on her.

  Elena dialled Nadine Moore’s number straightaway. She was out, so Elena left her number for a call back. She tapped her fingers impatiently for a second by the phone, then went downstairs to pour a fresh coffee. The first few sips and the aroma made her feel a bit more alert; she hadn’t slept well the night before after seeing Lorena pass by.

  No call back had come by mid-morning with more news from Megan, so after half an hour of thinking through tactics, she’d decided to start on trying to help Lorena. Not sure how far she’d get, and feeling a bit like a frantic juggler given her own dilemma – self-examining for a moment if it was just because of the lull, killing time so as not to dwell on her own uncertainty. No, she’d have made time regardless. She couldn’t have lived with herself knowing she’d simply deserted Lorena at the first obstacle; she had to at least give it one last try.

  Gordon was out for a few hours seeing some local clients, so at least the pressure was gone of him lurking around. Megan and Terry’s bill was already up to £830, £300 beyond what she could manage from her own account. She’d made an excuse to Gordon about problems with her car: new disk brakes needed, according to the garage. But what about the next £300, and the one after that; she’d either have to become inventive, or bare all to Gordon. She shook her head: such a momentous secret kept for so long, how could their relationship survive it?

  Two hours later she was sat at the back of Chelborne Sands in Nadine Moore’s car, the two of them like drug dealers or lovers on a clandestine meet. More secrets.

  ‘It’s all there. Everything regarding Mikaya Ryall.’ Nadine passed the file across. ‘I can only let you read the file, not take it anywhere or copy it. Make notes if you like – but if anyone asks you where you got the information, it wasn’t me. Right?’

  ‘Yes… of course.’ Elena was only half listening as she rifled hungrily through the file. Nadine had protested strongly about digging out and sharing the file, and Elena had to push hard: ‘If you’re happy with what Ryall did, taping our conversation; and if, despite that, you’re satisfied he has nothing at all to hide and everything’s alright with Lorena – then fine, don’t help me.’ Nadine had against her better judgement finally relented, though was still muttering and complaining now that she shouldn’t be doing this. ‘I must be crazy. I could lose my job if this got out.’

  Elena’s eyes scanned frantically, leap-frogging for relevant paragraphs. After a moment’s strained silence as she read, she slowly looked up, staring blankly ahead. The beach was deep, and winter winds had blown the sand in banks and ridged eddies. On the stronger wind flurries buffeting the car from the open bay, loose sand was lifted and strewn across the windscreen.

  Nadine put on her wipers to clear it as Elena exhaled slowly; a note of winding down, finality: Pregnant at fourteen, signs of being sexually active for some months previous, possibly longer; mystery boyfriend. It was almost a mirror image of her own background, too close for comfort. A faint involuntary shudder quickly shook away the awkwardness and the similarity: in her own case, there had been a boyfriend, but with Mikaya she’d bet anything that he was invented; a ruse to cover up for Ryall. She noted from the file that the boyfriend had never been named. How convenient.

  She felt suddenly burning with conviction, and angry with herself that but for a chance sighting of Lorena, she might have left her, forgotten, at Ryall’s mercy.

  She thanked Nadine and headed off with the intention of going straight back home, her fury making her drive faster than normal – but as she was passing Mrs Wickens’ store, she decided on impulse to stop. If anyone could fill in the gaps, Mrs Wickens could.

  Mrs Wickens nodded sagely. Yes, of course she remembered the whole affair. No, the boyfriend was never named. A few boys were suggested that young Mikaya was known to be friendly with – but she swore it wasn’t them. ‘She says first of all she couldn’t say who it was – then she says she just couldn’t remember. Rarl mystery.’

  ‘What does she look like?’ Elena asked on an afterthought, about to turn and head off.

  ‘Beautiful girl, stunning. One of the most beautiful oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’

  Cameron Ryall got the first call from Dr Tinsley late that afternoon. The following two calls notifying him that Mrs Waldren had been asking questions around town came the next day, the last prompting, ‘You know, the aid worker who lives with her husband up above the chine,’ as if for a moment he might not be able to place her.

  He’d thought of little else over the weeks spanning the two interviews with Lorena, and now it was all possibly springing back again. Just when over this past week, after the tape and the intervention of Edelston, he’d started finally to relax, thinking it was all over.

  His first thought was to contact Edelston to warn her off, but then Waldren was a free agent, out of their control. And Waldren’s aid agency would likely take no notice.

  He seethed and simmered for hours pondering what to do – his attention to the pressing business matters of the day was sparse and often drifted – before finally deciding that he just didn’t know enough about Waldren to be able to plan the best way to stop her. In the same way that she was digging about his background, he needed to dig about hers.

  He contacted a Chelmsford based private investigator he knew from his old Barrister days, Des Kershaw, who he’d used just a few years ago to dig into the private life of a plant manager he suspected of embezzlement. Kershaw was tenacious and thorough: he wouldn’t rest until he’d stripped bare every facet of Elena Waldren’s background.

  The first couple of days, Kershaw uncovered nothing ground-breaking, mostly filling in the shades of the last twelve years of her married life with Gordon Waldren, her work with the aid agency and their two adopted children, Christos and Katine.

  One thing at least he had in common with the Waldrens, thought Ryall: adopted children. Kershaw’s call had disturbed him halfway through an inspection in their micro-chip section, and he was still slightly breathless from stripping off the protective suit. ‘Nothing juicy then yet? No, right… right. Let me know as soon as you’ve got more… if there is more.’

  Ryall began to worry that nothing worthwhile would come up on Waldren, she was just as she appeared on the outside – the goody two-shoes aid worker with her two adopted children and finance-broker husband, upper-middle and pristine with her ‘Champion of downtrodden children’ halo – and he’d have to think of other ways of striking back at her, stopping her before she got uncomfortably close.

  But Kershaw’s increasingly frequent and fervent calls over the next few days bit by bit quelled his mounting panic, and when the whole picture became clear he realized that he had more than enough ammunition for his purpose: enough to bury Elena Waldren twice over.

  Some of it seemed so unlikely and extreme that he found himself asking Kershaw to repeat segments, pressing if he was sure. Ryall was concerned that Kershaw might have been over-keen to unearth some dirt and had tapped some unreliable sources. But Kershaw was sure of his ground.

  ‘Some of it was hard to find, buried in old articles from Hampstead and Highgate local papers where the George – previously Georgallis – family used to live. Though a couple of incidents managed to warrant small sidebars in the national press. The only word of mouth was an old police contact – but I’ve used him before. He’s reliable. And then the rest is pretty much down to court papers: little room for error there. But when you’ve got the file, if there’s anything you’re unsure about and want me to check again – just let me know. I’d be happy to oblige.’

  There was no need for a call back. Kershaw’s report was thorough, detailed, and made sober reading. Two drug busts and a third for a Greenham Common anti-nuclear demo that went awry. From the press clippings, most of it appeared to be a rich ‘wild-child’s’ rebellion against her strongly establishment father, the founder of what at one stage was Britain’s
9th largest merchant bank, 17th overall among financial institutions. Ryall should have twigged when he first saw the original family name: George. Anthony George, whiz-kid financier of the 70s and 80s.

  But it was the earlier problems – the pregnancy at fifteen and giving the child up for adoption, then the attempted suicide and the Court’s final ruling that she was too unstable, unsuitable to be a mother – that was the most damming, especially given her current work. Ryall wondered just how much of her background she’d come clean about with the aid agency, or in the adoption applications for her two children.

  Giving up her own child, convicted drug addict, attempted suicide, Court-ruled as unsuitable for motherhood: not exactly the best commendations for work with a child aid agency or to adopt children.

  Ryall couldn’t resist a wry smile as he penned his covering letters that night to go with copies of Kershaw’s file: one to Barbara Edelston, one to Elena Waldren’s aid agency – but both to the same effect: that he was still being privately harassed by Waldren over Lorena and, given Waldren’s own history, surely she was the last person to be questioning his rights and ethics as an adopted parent; with an added paragraph to the aid agency venting his surprise that they hadn’t more stringently vetted her background.

  He paused for a moment, wondering whether to send a copy as well to Gordon Waldren, or whether that would be going too far – just how much of her past had she told him – before finally picking up another envelope. She’d been first to draw the battle lines, had been prepared to destroy him. All’s fair in love and… though this time he didn’t bother with a covering note, just slipped a copy of Kershaw’s report inside on its own.

  He sat back, pleased with his efforts. In the background, Prokofiev’s ‘Dance of the Knights’ played. Fitting battle requiem music. Nicole had gone to bed over an hour ago, shortly after Lorena, as usual zonked out on half a bottle of gin and prozac, and suitably unimpressed when he said he had some business to attend to, some letters to write.