‘I see. Only in her dreams.’ Crowley’s tone was vaguely mocking. ‘And what did the social services say?’
Gordon sighed heavily. Crowley seemed intent on throwing out the ballast, making his explanation not just tenuous but almost laughable. ‘The social services worker who interviewed Lorena on two occasions along with my wife in fact recommended counselling. But her supervisor apparently had other ideas – mainly courtesy of Mr Ryall trapping the officer and my wife by taping their last interview with Lorena.’ Gordon forced a tight ‘I bet the Ryalls didn’t tell you that’ smile.
Crowley’s eyes flickered only slightly before recovering. He leant forward, resting his hands resolutely on his knees. ‘But the upshot is that the social services saw no reason finally for Lorena to have counselling. Lorena herself has made no direct accusations, it’s all just in her dreams… so in the end your wife decides to take the law into her own hands and abduct the girl.’
Gordon shook his head firmly. ‘No, no… it wasn’t like that. For God’s sake, you’ve listened to the tape. If Lorena didn’t want help, my wife wouldn’t have–’ Gordon faltered, realizing his voice had raised, he was almost shouting. Crowley’s soft Dorset brogue had a lulling effect, as if this was all just a cosy fireside chat. And his appearance – pressing forty with fast thinning blonde hair, rumpled brown suit which had seen better days – made him seem worn, tired, almost past caring. But his sharp, pale blue eyes warned of stronger metal beneath, and meeting them steadily now it dawned on Gordon that the sharp about-turn with pressure was purposeful: Crowley was getting the rise out of him he wanted. Crowley was obviously going to be a stronger adversary than he’d first judged, but there’d be more than enough to raise Crowley’s hackles over the coming hours: no point in going head-on with him now. Gordon tempered his voice. ‘Well – my wife simply wouldn’t have taken Lorena if it wasn’t something the girl wanted, that’s all. That’s why the tape was made, so that not only was my wife sure of that – but you also.’
Crowley looked back at the cassette recorder. The tape certainly muddied the chances of any clear-cut procedural line. Minutes before arriving to confront Gordon Waldren, his immediate boss, Inspector Turton, raised him on the radio to advise that he’d just had Cameron Ryall on the phone ranting and demanding fast and firm action. Turton had assured that he was taking full personal control of the investigation, but privately to Crowley he admitted that he had no intention of getting hands-on unless or until it was clear that the girl had been abducted or was in danger. This was going to be an interesting conundrum for Turton: Ryall would no doubt scream that she had been abducted, whereas the Waldrens, supported by Lorena on tape, would claim that she hadn’t. The only saving grace was that Ryall might be unlikely to scream too hard and push things to a press appeal, given that the reason for the girl being taken would also no doubt come out. Innocent or not, some tar was bound to stick. And what if the Waldrens were right? His own daughter was only a couple of years younger than that now. The thought made him shudder. He decided to give the soft approach one more try.
‘I can sympathise completely with what’s behind your wife doing this – that is, if her suspicions are right. But if she’s wrong, just think of what she’s putting the Ryalls through right now. And unfortunately it’s not our job to judge whether or not her action might be justified: regardless, she’s broken the law. And so the quicker we can talk to your wife and sort this all out, the better. So again I urge you, Mr Waldren, to tell us your wife’s whereabouts and what car she’s driving?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s more than my life’s worth… I gave my wife my promise. In any case, I don’t know exactly where she is right now.’ Which was partly true: he wasn’t sure if she was still in England or would have crossed to France by now. Would Crowley have already put out an alert? If so and Elena hadn’t yet hit customs, that’d probably be the furthest she’d get. Maybe that was what the Constable outside was waiting for news on. Gordon felt suddenly hot, a faint film of sweat rising on his forehead. He resisted the temptation to check his watch and forced an apologetic smile as he looked towards the window and the intermittent radio squawks from outside. ‘Still, I’m sure that won’t hold you up long from finding out what car she’s driving.’
Crowley grimaced tightly and looked down for a second. He didn’t want to just revert again to a hard line, so he decided to go in-between. At least it would put Gordon Waldren on a tight time leash. ‘Look – you’ve obviously made the tape to argue the case that your wife hasn’t abducted Lorena. To try and keep your wife clear of a jail term for this. And while right now that argument might just wash – as the hours pass with the Ryalls worried sick and screaming for action, that’s going to quickly fade and attitudes will harden. So I’m going to cut a deal with you, Mr Waldren, one that hopefully I can sell to both my superior and the Ryalls: if your wife can get Lorena Ryall back by say–’ Crowley glanced at his watch ‘–Midnight tonight, I’ll recommend that charges for abduction not be pursued, and that we put this all down to an unfortunate mix up. But if not…’
Gordon was shaking his head. ‘I’m not sure that my wife will be in touch any time tonight for me to pass on that message… even if she might agree to returning Lorena straightaway.’
Crowley held Gordon’s eyes for a moment. He seemed to be sincere. At length a reluctant nod. ‘Okay – I’ll stretch that to 10.30 am tomorrow, eighteen hours from now. But already I’m pushing things to the very limit – so try not to let me down. If you can sell that to your wife, you have my word that I’ll do everything I can to make it stick my end. But after that time, I’m afraid, a nation-wide alert will go out and your wife will be tracked down as a common criminal.’
Gordon closed his eyes for a second and nodded. ‘Yes, okay. I’ll do my best.’ He was trembling from the confrontation. It was clear now that after tomorrow morning, Elena was facing a jail term for this, and he was pretty sure already that she couldn’t make it back by then.
‘Well, we at least have hopefully reached some understanding on this, Mr Waldren.’ Crowley left his direct line number, and with a final curt nod left with his assisting Detective and the Constable manning the door.
As they pulled away, the Constable he’d left in the car informed him that vehicle registration had two cars listed for the Waldrens. ‘…And I’ve already eliminated the Suzuki Jeep parked in their drive. Which leaves a Saab 900 – three years old from the registration. What do you want me to do?’
Crowley eased back in his seat and let out a faint sigh. He paused for only a moment. ‘Ask central to put out an all-points alert, county and nation-wide, including customs points.’ Turton’s directive had been to wait until he’d visited the Waldren’s home before putting out an alert, just in case they had Lorena tucked away in a bedroom. Crowley felt a stab of guilt lying to Gordon Waldren, but then so was everyone else: Turton to Cameron Ryall, and no doubt Waldren too. Gordon Waldren probably knew exactly where his wife was right now. But at least it was only a low-level alert for now – missing persons instead of abduction and kidnapping. Turton had advised initial caution. And if they apprehended her before tomorrow morning, Crowley had every intention of keeping his promise about charges not being pressed – if he could convince Turton and Ryall. He’d said only that he’d try his best, no more.
The camera clicked repeatedly as the two naked girls slithered and writhed over Georges laid out flat on the bed.
Viana and the other girl, a luscious green-eyed blonde escort called Eve, started at opposite ends: Viana took him in her mouth while Eve licked his nipples, then they changed position for a moment before Viana slid on top of him, Eve guiding him slowly home. The camera clicked repeatedly, and Roman found himself getting excited looking on from the back of the room, despite the fact that it was Viana. The drug was working as per the recommendation: Georges could still hold an erection, in the same way as a sleeping man having a wet dream, but was out cold, would remember nothing. Roman was probab
ly getting more sensation from just watching than anything Georges might be enjoying.
The photographer had to set up some of the shots: placing Georges’s hands on Viana’s and then Eve’s hips as they rode him, pulling his eyelids open for some shots so that it looked like he was staring up at them. For the rest he made do either with profiles or where it might look like Georges’ eyes were closed in abandon. Viana had taken off her face mask, and at Roman’s instruction the photographer was careful to keep her just in profile, her bruised side concealed.
As they finished, something in the way Roman surveyed Georges’ body on the bed, as if gloating in the control he had over him, made Viana ask what he planned to do with Georges. ‘You promised that you wouldn’t harm him. I wouldn’t have had anything to do with this if I thought you were. You said that it was just to make the cut clean with Simone.’
‘That’s right, that’s right. It’s just a spoiler ‘cause he’s doing the dirty on Simone. But I don’t remember saying nothing about not harming him?’ That teasing, mocking smile which now she knew so well, then his face suddenly became dead-pan, stern. He reached out and lightly pinched her cheek, her bruised side. ‘Don’t worry your head none about what I’m going to do with him. Whatever it is, it ain’t going to happen here. We’ll have him dressed and out of your place in no time.’ One last pinch, harder, which made her gasp in pain. ‘You did good, that’s all you need to think about.’
The sign flashed by: Béthune 8km. A ballad in French played on the radio, the sound on low. Elena would turn it up when songs came on in English, particularly ones Lorena recognized and liked.
Elena looked thoughtfully towards Lorena. They’d stealthily avoided the subject so far, their conversation had been light, incidental, but Elena found her thoughts turning to it more and more, particularly in the silent lulls.
‘You know, if you did want to say anything more about what happened with Mr Ryall – we’re away from there now. You don’t have to worry any more about what you say because he’s hovering in the next room.’
Elena watched Lorena’s expression keenly. Weak sunlight flickered through the trees, Lorena’s light-brown hair intermittently strobe-lit silver, translucent. Lorena bit lightly at her bottom lip, pausing for a second.
‘I was nervous in the interviews, yes… thinking about what he’d say or do afterwards. But that wasn’t why I said nothing then.’ She shook her head. ‘I just couldn’t remember being awake when anything happened… not for sure at least.’
‘It’s okay… you don’t need to explain.’ Watching Lorena’s small face tense, grapple for images that were either out of reach or pushed there by her psyche for her own protection, Elena wished she hadn’t asked. But Lorena simply shook her head again; she appeared too wrapped-up in her own thoughts to take heed.
‘It seemed so real, him touching me, his voice in my ear… I imagined I could almost feel his breath against my cheek. But then when I awoke in the morning, I just couldn’t remember another time that I was awake in the night. And the dreams too had seemed so real… you remember?’ Lorena looked directly at Elena.
‘Yes… I remember.’ Elena’s throat tightened. How could she forget? Lorena’s recurring nightmare was that she was back in the sewers and the waters were rapidly rising. When she couldn’t raise the manhole cover to get free and was fast drowning, she’d awake screaming, her body bathed in sweat. Elena recalled two such nights at the Cerneit orphanage during Lorena’s ten months there after her sewer days, hugging Lorena tight and re-assuring her that she was no longer in the sewers, she was safe. And there were apparently many more nights with similar nightmares when Elena wasn’t present. One of the Cerneit wardens had voiced concerns about Lorena’s state of mind when after a nightmare Lorena had pressed whether the warden was sure that she hadn’t sneaked off in the night back to the sewers ‘…Maybe to look for Patrika.’ Patrika was her closest friend from the sewers who’d drowned one night when the waters rose: the main event which they suspected had triggered the nightmares. The line between the dreams and reality had often been thin in Lorena’s mind, and perhaps Lorena was flagging that now because she was worried that with all the trouble Elena was going to, it might all end up as nothing: any suspicions of Ryall unfounded, all of it just in her dreams. Elena felt suddenly guilty: that wasn’t why she’d asked.
She reached out a hand to touch Lorena’s shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter…that’s what the psychiatrist is meant to sort out. If nothing is happening, at least then you’ll know for sure, one way or the other.’ Elena pushed a smile that hopefully rose above her uncertainty as she looked across. ‘And hopefully be able to sleep easy.’
‘Okay. I understand.’ But from the faint shadows that lingered in Lorena’s face as she took her eyes from Elena to look stolidly at the road ahead, Elena wondered if she did.
A couple of songs later ‘All Saints’ ‘Never, ever’ came on the radio, and Elena turned it up a notch, noticing after a moment Lorena hum along at intervals, the shadows receding. But Elena’s guilt and uncertainty remained. She’d brought up the subject because between their lightweight, inconsequential conversation and the awkward lulls, it felt almost as if they were purposefully tip-toeing around the issue: it was starting to rise as an awkward barrier between them.
But she wondered if part of her had pressed for her own ends. She’d been tongue-tied with nerves practically throughout the Euro-Shuttle crossing and Lorena had done most of the talking. Then with the relief of getting clear on the open road in France, in contrast she’d been more animated, taking over the conversation – until they passed a police car travelling in the opposite direction. A reminder that they were still far from home and dry. An alert could be out with the French police at any moment.
They’d passed only one more police car since, but again it made her pulse race triple-time and put her stomach in knots – and perhaps she was hoping for a quick admission from Lorena so that the nightmare could end here and now. She wasn’t sure she could face many more hours of this assault on her nervous system, a light trembling constantly with her that rose spasmodically to an intense hot rush, her hands at times shaking so hard on the steering wheel that the muscles in her arms ached. But even if there had been a sudden admission and she’d stopped the car and put it on tape, it probably wouldn’t have helped: she’d no doubt have still needed it taped under the guidance of a psychiatrist for it to hold up with social services.
And what now if those sessions revealed nothing conclusive either way? Or, worse still, they leaned towards the likelihood that Ryall was molesting Lorena, but without enough to support that claim with social services. Despite her frayed nerves, at least getting Lorena away was an adventure, a hopeful escape to freedom. How on earth would she be able to return her to the Ryalls if she knew with all certainty what fate awaited her?
The first real break in the case came through just after 7.30 p.m.
Within an hour of returning from interviewing Gordon Waldren, Crowley had a team of five working on and off tracking down Elena Waldren and Lorena. In addition to an all-points police and customs alert, they’d traced all cash-cards and credit-cards in her name, and news finally came in that one of her cash cards had been used fifty minutes beforehand, 19.38 in France. Crowley went through immediately to Inspector Turton’s office.
‘Where?’ Turton asked breathlessly.
‘At a Credite Lyonnaise branch in Bonneval, about fifty miles south-west of Paris.’
‘Where does it look like she’s headed?’
‘At present she’s on a direct line for the south-west coast: Bordeaux or Biarritz.’ Crowley shrugged. ‘But she could easily veer off sharp and head to Brittany, or direct south to Provence or even Spain.’
‘Okay.’ Turton brooded only for a second. ‘Contact Interpol and ask them to put out an alert for her and her car, with special emphasis on the areas you think she might now be travelling through.’
‘Will do.’ Crowley nodded summari
ly and headed back into the harried activity of the squad room. Hectic at the best of times, the Waldren case had added an edge of urgency: it wasn’t often they got a child abduction, particularly not one that started to blaze a trail across Europe.
He had to look up the Interpol number; the last time he’d contacted them had been over eight months ago. As it started ringing, Crowley glanced at his watch: forty minutes or so to process everything through Interpol, and then Elena Waldren would be hunted down in earnest. A British-plated car off-season, it probably wouldn’t take that long. The bonus would come if she used her credit card to pay for a meal or a hotel that night. Either way, Crowley was confident that within hours Elena Waldren would be apprehended.
EIGHTEEN
Jean-Paul swam with more vigour than in his regular pre-breakfast sessions; not faster, but with more determined, cutting strokes, as if he might somehow thrash away the lethargy and pent-up frustration tying-up his muscles and joints.
Roman had interrupted his normal time for a swim, was hot on his doorstep at first light with news on Donatiens, eagerly waving a brown envelope in his right hand. They spent a sober half hour over breakfast while Roman went through the details and laid out the photos in the envelope before him: Last night Donatiens had slid himself away in a private corner with this club girl, Viana, for quite some time. Roman used the opportunity to get his guy into Donatiens’ apartment to place some bugs and, while there, he did a search. ‘And look what he found tucked away in a drawer…’ While Jean-Paul was still frantically making some semblance of the tangle of naked bodies, Roman went on to tell him that Donatiens gave the same girl a lift home: ‘Didn’t leave her place for over two hours.’
The Last Witness Page 29