Another bump and rise, and the passenger said, ‘Quite a few empty slots over the far end there.’
‘Right. Looks as good a spot as any.’
The van straightened, slowed, and Georges felt them turn in and stop.
‘Jesssus, guys… you don’t have to do this.’ Georges was hyperventilating so hard he could barely get the words out.
No answer. Their doors opened, closed, then a second later the back doors swung open. He felt himself being lifted, carried out.
‘For fuck’s sake don’t do this. I’m begging you. Don’t do this!’ Georges shouted out the last. Maybe someone would hear him. But the quaver and tremble in his voice robbed its strength; combined with the muffling of the hood, it probably hadn’t carried far.
‘One last chance, Georges.’ He was still being carried, they were shuffling him into position as they spoke. ‘What did you tell the RCs?’
‘Nothing, nothing… pleassse, you’ve got to believe me.’
They stopped. He felt the cool whip of the wind around his body. Six floors up or an open field? Probably the field: everything else had followed the tape so far.
‘He ain’t gonna talk, so we might as well do it. On the count of three, right?’
‘Right.’
As Georges felt them start swinging him, suddenly he wasn’t so sure – this was just the sort of warped last twist that Roman would love: from the tape him thinking that he’d just be dropped in a field, and then the cruel last-second surprise as he started sailing down a six-floor drop.
‘One… big drop down there, Georges…’
‘No, please… No!… God, no!’ Georges screamed at the top of his voice. He’d hoped to rob them of the last-minute satisfaction of mirroring everything that had happened with Venegas; but in the end instinctive fear overrode, he was blubbering and screaming for his life just the same as Venegas.
‘Two…’
Georges felt himself swinging higher. ‘No… No!’
His stomach suddenly surged again, though this time he couldn’t hold it back. He retched violently, sour vomit clogging his mouth, his nostrils; he started choking, could hardly breath with most of it trapped inside the hood.
‘Three…’
Georges prayed for another black-out so that he didn’t have to feel the sensation of falling, but it didn’t come. And he saw Simone finally turn to him and reach out – her sly smile was gone, she looked concerned, tender, as if there was something troubling her which she couldn’t quite bring herself to say – but her hand missed gripping his, and he started falling. Falling. It felt like a lifetime, but was probably only two seconds before he felt the solid thud of earth against his back. Shock exhalation: combination of relief and getting winded.
A suspended moment to allow adjustment, then, ‘We lied, Georges. You see, we’re really quite generous guys… because you have in fact got a second chance. Now, what did you tell the RCs, Georges?’
Georges was coughing, spluttering, fighting for breath. After a second a weak garbled, ‘Nothing… I promise, nothing.’
‘He’s not going to say anything.’
‘Looks like you’re right.’ Resigned sigh. ‘Shame.’
Faint rustle of movement, then the sound of gun safeties being clicked off. Georges pictured them positioning and pointing their guns.
‘No… no… please!’ Georges mind frantically spun for something apart from pleading that might stop them; but there was nothing, nothing, and facing the inevitable seemed to sap what little clear thought was left along with his resolve: he felt washed-out, desolate, no more than a hollow shell.
‘Sorry, Georges. Roman wanted us to tell you that he never liked you. Always thought you were a smarmy shit. He said it would give him great satisfaction to know that was the last thing you were thinking about. But for us, Georges, it’s nothing personal. Just sorry.’
And at that moment Georges did finally black-out, his psyche thankfully protected him from what he knew from Savard’s tape was coming next: two bullets to the body, one to the head.
TWENTY
‘As I say, listen to the tapes, then call me later on if you have any questions or particular points you want me to put across at tomorrow’s session. Oh, my notes are towards the end of the second tape.’
‘Right.’ Elena glanced at the cassettes in her hand in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, yes, I will. Thank you, Dr Lowndes.’ She smiled and turned with Lorena to the door. A twenty-something auburn receptionist to the side smiled with a silently mouthed goodbye aimed more at Lorena than at her.
‘If not, I’ll see you in any case at eleven tomorrow.’ Dr Lowndes looked keenly between them.
A hulk of a man with wild, grey-tinged blonde hair, Elena thought John Lowndes looked more like an ageing lumberjack than a psychiatrist. The only hint of erudition, apart from the diplomas on his walls, were pince-nez glasses which looked all the more out of place given his size. But he came well recommended from one of the local Dorset psychiatrists in Nadine Moore’s file: apparently, one of Montreal’s better Anglophile child psychiatrists. From his fifteen minute introduction before the one hour session, he seemed very capable, and, though the only clue was his parting smile now, he was obviously also keen to get to grips with Lorena’s problem, if there was one.
‘Yes, see you then. Thanks again.’ Elena headed out with Lorena and took the elevator four floors down to Rue Drummond. They walked a block and a half down to the car park where she’d left the hire car, paid the ticket, and headed east along St Catherine St as she slotted Lowndes’ tape into the cassette player.
The first moments were settling Lorena in and general background, nothing of any relevance, so she tweaked it down a bit as she asked Lorena, ‘Did it all go okay?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Lorena grimaced and shook her head. ‘But I still couldn’t remember anything.’ She sounded annoyed with herself.
Elena reached out and lightly clutched her hand. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only the first session. We didn’t expect alarming breakthroughs straight away.’ But she had at least hoped, and she was silently worried: they didn’t have weeks for endless sessions. Two or three might be all they could cram in before the police net finally closed on them.
Worrying news from Gordon on that front when she’d phoned the Chelborne call box they’d pre-arranged. He’d told her about the heavy swoop search in France related from the friend who’d run decoy; her name had obviously been out on the wire with Interpol practically from the word go. They’d originally hoped that the tape would give them at least twenty-four hours or possibly avert a police search altogether.
How long before they traced the Frankfurt-Brussels-Edmonton flight? Gordon’s bet was at least another twelve or eighteen hours, and they’d probably start trawling Edmonton first. Canada was a big country, but, she’d speculated, ‘What if they always put alerts out nation-wide as a matter of course?’ Gordon fell silent, and his ‘Unlikely’ a few seconds later sounded uncertain. And when she pressed him, he admitted that of course he couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t already traced her flight and her put her name out on the RCMP network, or might do so in only a few hours. Another ‘But unlikely.’
And so her nerves were still on edge with every police car that passed, she found it impossible to relax. The clock was fast ticking down on her getting to the root of Lorena’s problem and finding her son. She’d visited three of the Stevens with initials N, M or G listed in the phone book, all she could fit in before Lorena’s session, but no matches or even remotely hopeful leads there: twenty-six more to go plus the two unlisted Terry had given her, if they were still in Montreal. She shook her head. She must have been crazy trying to do both at the same time under this set of circumstances. The pressure was stifling.
The lack of sleep on top hadn’t helped. She hadn’t slept at all on the flight, and had grabbed barely an hour on the train up from Toronto before the blaring train klaxon as they crossed a series of level-crossings woke her abruptly.
‘… I was trapped, couldn’t lift the cover, couldn’t breathe.’
Elena turned the tape up again.
‘And this was a recurring dream during your time in the orphanages?’
‘Yes… and for a while afterwards.’
‘How long afterwards?’
‘Well… a few months at least.’
‘I see. But by this time you’re settled in with your step-parents, the Waldren’s?’
‘Yes… yes. I was.’
Elena picked up on Lorena’s beat of hesitation as she mentally self-prompted about the false name and story. Elena had presented herself as Lorena’s stepmother concerned about abuse from the stepfather, not an aid worker abducting her. It was the only thing she could think of to get Lowndes to handle the case. Elena smiled conspiratorially at Lorena.
‘… But the dreams started to become different then,’ Lorena continued.
‘In what way?’
‘Well… in the last two, I was able to get the manhole cover open. Get free.’
‘I see. And you felt relaxed then. No problems or concerns with Mr Waldren coming to your room at night?’
‘No.’
As Lowndes’ questions rolled on and it became clear that nothing dramatic was being revealed, Lorena looked at the tape player and then at Elena with an ‘I told you so’ expression. The only small triumph was Lowndes establishing that the return of the bad dreams coincided with Ryall (Mr Waldren) starting to visit her bed late at night. And this time in their original, more worrying form. The manhole cover was once again immovable. She was trapped.
‘…And when you dreamt that your stepfather was touching you – was that part of the same dreams, or separate?’
‘Separate.’
‘The same nights – or different nights?’
‘Different nights. Oh, I…. I think one was on the same night.’
Longer pause this time from Lowndes. ‘Now, I’d like you to think about this question a bit more carefully, Lorena. Now when you awake and remember dreams with your father touching you – do you at any time remember actually being awake when he touched you?’
‘No, I can’t… I’m sorry.’ Faint rustling, as if Lorena was moving or shaking her head. ‘The dreams seemed so real at times, but… but I don’t think I was awake at any time.’
‘Don’t think? Is it possible that you might have in fact been awake, but the sleep either side has muddied your memory?’
‘I don’t know… I’m not sure. I can’t remember.’ Lorena sounded flustered.
‘Well –’ For a moment it seemed Lowndes was going to press more before deciding against it. ‘That’s okay. That’s okay.’ Gently soothing tone.
As Lowndes re-capped on some of the ground when the dreams first started – the real sewer floods they’d suffered and the death of Patrika – Elena turned it down again. It was background she knew all too well, too painfully, and one that she wished she didn’t have to drag Lorena through again now.
Lorena looked wistfully at the tape player and bit lightly at her bottom lip as she cast her eyes down, as if concerned she might have let everyone down.
Elena turned into St Denis, heading towards their hotel. ‘Don’t worry,’ She re-assured. ‘It’s early days yet. Tomorrow might be a completely different story.’
But she could read the questioning frankness in Lorena’s eyes as she looked across: if she didn’t remember, she didn’t remember. How were these sessions going to help?
Jean-Paul picked up the message from Simone on his answerphone.
‘Pa. I know that I’m angry at Georges, verrry angry. And I know you’ve got your own problems with him and I don’t want you to read into this that I’m trying to interferrre in your business – never have done. But I don’t want Georges in any way harmed.’ Brief pause, the sound of traffic in the background. ‘Oh, and I’m sorrry that things were left the way they were earlier. I’ll be back at my place in half an hour. Call me there.’
Breathless, the words punched out as if she was afraid that if she hesitated she’d forget them completely, with a slight slurring on some words. Jean-Paul wasn’t sure if she’d been drinking or it was just due to distress, or both.
Jean-Paul kept the tape rolling: two business calls in between, and then another call from Simone.
‘With you not calling back, I decided to phone Georges’ apartment. No answer. I tried his mobile, but that just rang out too. I’ve tried five more times in the last two hours – still no answer. I’m starting to get worried. You promise that nothing’s happened to him?’ A heavy pause, as if she expected him to offer re-assurance in the gap, then with a ‘Speak to you later’ she hung up.
Jean-Paul anxiously checked his watch: 10.14 pm. After leaving a message on Simone’s mobile, he’d got wrapped up in a meeting with Jon Larsen at their tax lawyer’s office the rest of the afternoon, then had gone for an early dinner with Larsen, part of which was to delicately explain that they might have some problems with Georges. Larsen should shy away from sharing any possibly sensitive business information with him, ‘At least for the time being.’ Until they’d finally worked out how to play everything.
He dialled Simone’s number. It answered on the second ring.
‘Hi, Simone. I’ve just come in now and got your messages. Have you managed to get hold of Georges yet?’
‘No, no. I tried him again just ten minutes ago – but still no answer. Not at home or on his mobile.’
A moment’s tense silence between them as Jean-Paul’s concerns verged towards panic.
‘Please tell me that he’s alright. That nothing’s happened to him.’ Simone’s voice broke slightly with the plea. ‘I know that you’ve had some concerns about him seeing the police, but–’
‘No, no!… Of course I’ve done nothing like that. Do you think I’d be calling back now if I had?’ He sounded more annoyed than he’d intended; but his anger wasn’t aimed at her, more his rising worries about Roman. ‘Look, let me make some calls – then I’ll phone you back.’
‘When?’
‘Give me an hour or so to sort it out. And if Georges turns up meanwhile, call me straight away.’
He hung up and dialled straight out to Roman. No answer at home, so he raised him on his mobile.
‘Roman. We’ve got a problem. Georges has apparently disappeared.’ Jean-Paul honed in intently on the silence and the intonation of Roman’ response.
‘When…Where? How do you know?’
Little indication either way. ‘Simone phoned. She’s been trying frantically to get hold of him the past few hours, can’t find him anywhere. I want you to come to the house right now so that we can sort this out.’ Maybe he could pick up more face to face, from Roman’s eyes and body language.
‘Well… I was planning to go to the Sherbrooke Club to–’
‘I said right now! See you here in twenty minutes.’ Jean-Paul slammed the phone down before Roman could draw breath, let alone respond.
Roman made it to the door at Cartier-Ville in seventeen minutes, slightly flushed after Jean-Paul’s tone on the phone. He was visibly agitated, obviously half-expecting a confrontation: Jean-Paul rarely lost his temper.
Jean-Paul wheeled on him as soon as they’d entered his study. ‘I’m going to ask you the difficult question first, Roman. Have you done anything to Georges?’ He held one hand up, forefinger and thumb close together. ‘Harmed even a hair on his head?’
Roman jolted slightly, looked shocked at the suggestion. ‘No, no… of course not.’
Either he hadn’t or a very good act. But then he’d probably had a few hours to prepare. Jean-Paul shook his head. ‘You know, because it’s just the sort of thing you’d do. You’ve been pressing and pressing for me to do something about Georges, telling me what a danger he could be. But in the end, you just couldn’t wait for the final nod, could you?’
‘No, no… I’m telling you. I ain’t done shit to him.’ Roman held his hands out in exasperatio
n, his face redder still, fit to burst.
‘As father said, always the bull-head. Barging in before you’ve had a chance to put your brain in gear.’
Roman moved a step closer to Jean-Paul, his eyes fixing hard on him. ‘Look – I haven’t touched the fucking creep. Okay? Much as I might have liked to.’ He looked ready to strike out.
Jean-Paul paced to one side, looking away uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know. I come back home to find nothing but frantic messages on my answerphone from Simone. She can’t find him anywhere, is worried sick about him.’ He ran one hand through his hair and sighed. ‘I just don’t know what to think.’
Roman found more confidence with Jean-Paul easing off. He raised an acute eyebrow. ‘I don’t quite see the panic – even if I had done something, which I haven’t. Surely having him taken him out is what you’d have decided yourself in the end anyway? Pleading hearts from Simone or not?’
Jean-Paul looked back sharply at Roman. Was this an attempt at rationalisation because he had in fact done something? With Roman protesting his innocence so vehemently, any further assault was probably pointless. Jean-Paul exhaled tiredly.
‘I was actually thinking more in terms of sending Georges to Cuba to run our business interests there and in Mexico until things cooled down. Not only in respect of Simone, but, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re meant to have moved away from crime. Respectable businessmen don’t go around killing people.’
‘Yeah, and mugs who get ratted on end up spending twenty in Orsainville.’ Roman smiled dryly. ‘I told you the transition wouldn’t be easy, Jean-Paul. Cuba might be a good short-term solution, but in the long–’
‘Whatever!’ Jean-Paul held one hand up abruptly as his felt his anger rising again. ‘That would be my call, not yours.’ He watched Roman flicker his eyes down and shrug with a subdued ‘Yeah, yeah. Sure.’ Jean-Paul took fresh breath. ‘But that’s not the main problem right now. Hopefully Georges might materialise later tonight, but if he still hasn’t shown by tomorrow, if he doesn’t turn up at the office – then I think we’ve got to face we could have a real problem. Georges suspects that we might be rallying against him because he sent Simone in with some wild story to try and turn the tide at the last minute. And if he fears that he’s out in the cold, that’s when he presents the strongest danger to us: he might go to ground for a day or two until he’s worked out what the hell to do, but there’s strong chances he’d prove our worst fears and end up in the arms of the RCMP. And then solutions like Cuba would be out of the window – I’d have to leave things in your hands.’
The Last Witness Page 33