‘Right. I see.’ Roman noticed how Jean-Paul couldn’t even look at him directly, let alone say it – just the tame wave of one hand to signal that Georges might, after all, have to be taken out. He thought it pathetic – death-bed promises to their father over Pascal or not – Jean-Paul used to be so direct, unflinching, someone to respect. This new Jean-Paul, trapped between this recent-found social conscience and what he needed to do to take care of business, he found hard to stomach. His conviction that he should be the one taking the reins of their business couldn’t have been stronger than in that moment. But it was important to keep up the image of acquiescence just a little longer: until the final parts of his double game were in place. He held out his palms. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘If Georges doesn’t show in the office tomorrow, then I want you to find him – and find him fast. Work every street contact you know.’
‘And if and when I do?’
‘Bring him to me so that I can decide what to do.’
But again that tell-tale flinch in Jean-Paul’s eyes that told Roman the decision on that end solution would be difficult, if not impossible, for Jean-Paul to take. He’d read things right all along.
‘… You will probably notice, Mrs Waldren, that although I pushed a bit on the subject of whether Lorena remembered anything happening with your husband while awake, rather than just in her dreams – I wasn’t insistent. I didn’t push too hard. There was a specific reason for this.’
Elena was in her hotel room playing the end of tape notes from John Lowndes. He’d pre-advised that Lorena shouldn’t hear them, so she’d sent Lorena down to the hotel bar to have a coke and some crisps with the promise that she’d join her in ‘eight or ten minutes.’
Pause as John Lowndes drew fresh breath. He was obviously measuring his words carefully. ‘We have a slight dilemma here. If the problem with Lorena not remembering is that she’s selectively blotted it out because it’s simply too terrible to remember – then the only way for us to break that protective barrier and draw the memory out, is to push. But then if we push too hard and it starts to look as if we might have even suggested that particular scenario to Lorena – unfortunately we then get into the muddy area of FMS – False Memory Syndrome. Is it a real memory, or one we’ve planted there?’
Half-defeated sigh from Lowndes. ‘Though there’s nothing conclusive either way at this stage, I’m afraid I must reserve strong concern that your suspicions could indeed have foundation. The main clue to this is that so many of the horrors Lorena has suffered in Romania have in fact been transposed to her dreams. She sees that as safer ground than direct recall. It might also follow therefore that any horrors she feels she can’t face now she also stashes away there. A safe haven to protect her psyche, if you will. But that’s a long way from tangible proof. Let’s hope we have a better day tomorrow.’
She stopped the tape and let her thoughts settle for a second. She was sat on the edge of a king-size bed with a tape player borrowed from the hotel owner, Alphonse ‘Just call me Al’ something. The décor made an attempt at French regency with fake wood beams, mock fireplaces and fleur-de-lis wallpaper, but overall was too garish, heavy-handed. Even the dressing table was mock Louis XV, with the bed a matching four-poster with red velvet trim. The only modern things in the room were the TV and Lorena’s sofa-bed.
But it was just what she wanted: small and faceless, just one of many bow-window-fronted B&Bs in the Latin Quarter. She’d decided to avoid the larger hotels that might list with a central computer register as a matter of course. The only small problem was that Alphonse, a small rotund man with dark Brylcreamed hair and a thick bristling moustache, who also doubled as the hotel barman and receptionist, was discomfortingly gregarious and friendly. He seemed to want to tell them everything about the city – while at the same time drawing out snippets about them, ‘Dorset, huh? Sounds nice’ – practically on sight. Given their situation, she’d have preferred one of those mousy, indifferent desk clerks that barely looked up when you came in or left.
She drummed a few fingers lightly against the cassette player. Great start, she thought ruefully. They needed desperately to push, but their hands could be tied from word go.
She went down to see Lorena. She’d finished her coke, but was nibbling at some peanuts Alphonse had put before her.
‘She was just telling me all about England, the house you have there,’ Alphonse commented.
‘Oh, right.’ Elena went on alarm. Which house had she mentioned: hers or Ryall’s?
‘Sounds like a palace.’
‘Well, not quite. But getting there.’ Probably Ryall’s: their place wasn’t quite so ostentatious. But she was nervous about what else Lorena might have talked about that she could get caught out on. She was eager to leave. ‘Look, sorry. Got to dash now. Long-lost relatives to track down, and not much time left.’
‘What you mentioned earlier?’
‘That’s right.’ She fished her hire-car keys out of her bag, Lorena got up, and they hustled out. ‘See you later.’
They headed in the car towards Avenue Du Parc. If Alphonse was going to show willing, then she might as well use him to advantage. So she’d spun a story about looking for long-lost cousins, ‘the Stevens, previously Stephanou. Greek-Cypriot relatives, from my father’s side.’ She’d shown Alphonse the list of addresses she’d written down, and he’d given her a quick regional guided tour of the city: French to the East, English to the West, with St Laurent as the main dividing line. ‘Except for Outremont just north-west of St Laurent, which is decidedly upmarket and almost exclusively French. Then we’ve got the Jewish community around Main and St Laurent, the Italians of course in Little Italy around St Joseph and Laurier, and the Greeks and Hispanics spread mostly in between. Westmount is the main upmarket Anglophile area, and the few blocks wedged between St Laurent and Du Parc thirty years ago used to be a predominantly Greek area – but now the new immigrants are mostly Portuguese.’
Elena turned off of Du Parc into Rue Milton, then took the second left – the address that Terry had given her as the Stevens’ first address in Montreal – and started counting down: 67, 65…
She pulled in as the house came into view and turned to Lorena. ‘Will you be okay here for a little while?’ She didn’t just mean the few minutes she’d be now, but for the five or six calls she hoped to get in before dinner-time. ‘You’ve got the radio, or the walkman if you like.’ She glanced towards the back seat where it had been left from Lorena waiting during her earlier calls.
‘Uh huh. I’ll be okay.’
Elena patted her hand and got out. The pavement was wide, then three yards of approach path and five steps before the house. Two bells. She rang the bottom one.
A narrow brownstone with half basement, orange-painted window frames on the ground and lower-ground floors, neutral cream on the top two floors. It was obviously now divided into two apartments – but twenty-eight years ago it could well have been all one house.
A small, swarthy woman in dark-grey track-suit and floral head-scarf opened the door. She looked Elena up and down curiously. ‘Oui?’ Then glanced over her shoulder towards her car.
‘I was looking for some old relatives of mine that used to live here, and I wondered if you might have known them or know where they might have gone. How long have you lived here?’
‘Four year now. Why? What their name?’
‘Stevens. But it was a long time ago – over twenty years.’
The woman considered for a moment. ‘No. No know any Steven. Sorry.’
From her appearance and her accent, Elena thought she was probably Arab or North African rather than Greek or Portuguese. The woman seemed to keep her gaze more over her shoulder towards the car and Lorena than meeting her eye directly. But then she too was looking over the woman’s shoulder, taking in the décor in the hallway and what little she could see of a room two-down through a half-open door.
Elena pointed to the top buzzer. ‘A
nd how long have your neighbours been here?’
‘Just over a year. No longer.’
‘Right.’ Twenty-eight years? There’d probably been a dozen or more owners since then. Elena glanced around: bike against the railings leading down to the basement, an infant’s blue plastic tricycle on the six-yard square of front lawn. And it suddenly struck her what had drawn her here, despite knowing that the Stevens would probably have left long-ago; what was making her look keenly around and try to get glimpses of the inside.
She was following in his footsteps, trying to see what life he might have had after she gave him up: good environment, bad? Well cared for or neglected? Happy, sad? She snapped to as she noticed the women’s eyes on her questioningly.
‘Sorry. Thanks for your help, anyway.’ There was no way of her knowing from this postage-stamp of a garden and glimpse of a half-lit hallway almost thirty years on.
The next few hours became an increasingly wearying blur. Practically the same pitch each time: Stevens, previously Stephanou; Nicholas and Maria and baby of only eighteen months, George. Twenty-eight years ago. ‘…Relatives that my family lost contact with.’ A lot of head-shaking, shrugs and hastily closed doors. And with it dark for an hour and a half and her still calling on fresh doors, Lorena started to become agitated.
‘Still more? You haven’t found him yet?’
‘I haven’t seen him in years now: we lost contact completely. It could take a while more.’ Elena smiled sheepishly. With the long flight and perhaps some nervousness about the impending sessions, Lorena had been quieter than normal, more subdued; now she was obviously getting alert and bright-eyed again, and impatient with it. ‘Just a few more, then we’ll go grab a pizza. Promise.’
She managed two more calls – the third was out – before deciding finally to call it a night. It was getting late to keep disturbing people and they were both hungry, with Lorena bordering on cranky, complaining that she’d listened to all three tapes on the walkman and there was hardly anything on the radio. ‘Most of the stations are in French.’ She sounded bemused.
But Elena now realized that it was going to take a lot longer than she’d first envisaged: three not there to call back on out of the ten Stevens so far canvassed, plus eighteen more fresh calls to go. It was going to take her all of the next day, if not spill over into the day after, especially since five of them were in far-flung suburbs.
The only brief respite – a fleeting flash of hope that had caught her breath in her throat – was a man in his twenties swinging open a door to greet her. Dark brown hair, quite tall… but as she looked closer, she realized that he was probably closer to twenty-two or three than twenty-nine. And she quickly discovered that his name was Guy, parents Charles and Madeleine.
But it suddenly struck her that that was easily how it could happen: the right door swinging open, and suddenly he’d be there. Twenty-nine years melting away in an instant: all the years she’d turned her back on him and tried not to think about him, yet in truth he’d hardly left her thoughts for a second; and she’d clutch at him and embrace him hard… or perhaps stand trembling uncertainly for a second before bursting into tears…
But then she was quickly back to the harsh reality of the head-shakes, shrugs and hastily closed doors, with her father’s voice ringing incessantly in her ears: ‘I’ll bury him out of sight and out of reach. You won’t find him.’
TWENTY-ONE
Maurice Roubilliard pulled up in front of the Bar Rodeo with his normal trademark show and flourish: one Harley taking the lead of his gleaming silver 4-wheeler, two more bringing up the rear. His attempt at a Presidential cavalcade: at least in terms of drug-dealing at the street and club levels in Quebec, Roubilliard was omnipotent, all-powerful.
At six-foot-three and two-forty pounds, he cut an imposing figure, with immaculate black leather trousers and matching jacket which was closer to a waistcoat with its arms cut out and only a four-inch silver chain linking it at the front. It looked as if it had been purposefully tailored to show off his biceps and pecs. His age he’d frozen at thirty-eight, but most put it closer to forty-six, with the main sign evident in his fast thinning shoulder-length rust hair. He sported the green and gold Mohawk headband he’d always worn, but now it was pushed further back on his crown to shield his receding hairline. He was now on his fourth hair transplant to cure the problem, but any of his inner circle that spread that well-concealed titbit put their health at risk: vanity went against the ruthless, hard-man image he carefully nurtured, boosted years back by him beating a murder rap with only manslaughter; he served five out of the seven-year sentence, had continued running his drugs network from inside Leferge prison, and had been out now nearly four years.
The 4-Wheeler was heavily customised, with tinted glass – bullet-proof rumour had it – oversized chrome exhaust snaking up one side like a trucker’s funnel, and big wheels that pushed it ten inches higher off the ground. The two girls with Roubilliard stepped down carefully in their high heels. A blonde and a brunette, both stunning and leggy, close to six foot, if more than a little tarty in their dress: matching black leather trench-coats open at the front to show tight silver hot-pants and bubble-gum pink tank-top on the blonde, the brunette with black leather mini, black see-through blouse and black lace bra. The brunette looked about nineteen, but the blonde looked disturbingly young, no more than fifteen.
At a table by the front window of the Rodeo, Roman nudged Frank Massenat and smiled as Roubilliard’s entourage approached. ‘Would you get this fucking guy. Makes you wonder if we’re doing something wrong, we should be flauntin’ it too.’ They’d parked the Beamer discreetly round the corner and had entered quietly. But in their suits and Crombies, they couldn’t help feeling nevertheless as if they’d made some sort of grand entrance: the bar was awash with check-shirts, jeans and leathers, and more than a few eyes had turned to them curiously.
Roman noticed a hooker outside stepping out intermittently to attract passing drivers in hot pants not dissimilar to Roubilliard’s blonde, but with black nylons and a grey fake fur. He couldn’t resist the jibe as Roubilliard burst through the Rodeo’s swing doors. He stood up theatrically, holding his arms out.
‘Hey, hey. Maurissse, Maurissse.’ He clamped his arms around Roubilliard’s bulk in an embrace, then gestured towards the girls as he pulled back. ‘These two come with you, or did you just pick them up outside?’
Massenat guffawed as the two girls scowled, the brunette perching one hand on her hips challengingly.
Only one corner of Roubilliard’s mouth curled slightly, making it clear he thought the humour value was scant. ‘Let me tell you, my friend – these girls are a cut above.’
‘What – you mean they’re ten years younger?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose you could say.’ Roubilliard levered down into the seat opposite with a faint grunt as Roman sat back down. He gestured towards the window. ‘I didn’t know you liked your girls street-worn like those tired pussies out there.’
‘Just I like them to at least finish their schooling so that they pick up on the finer points of my fucking humour.’ Roman eased a ready smile. ‘Still, enough of my pussy preferences. To business.’ No point in riding Roubilliard too hard. The regular drug shipments Roman was middle-managing for Medeiros guaranteed Roubilliard dancing to the strings he pulled; but this was a side issue on which he wanted Roubilliard’s co-operation.
Roubilliard peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and told the two girls to perch up at the bar, he’d join them in a while, and, with only a brief interruption as the waitress came over and they ordered a fresh jug of beer, Roman ran through the fresh dilemma with Donatiens: nobody had seen him in the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t shown up at the office, wasn’t contactable on his mobile and hadn’t left messages with anyone. ‘…And we’ve checked every likely place he could be. He’s completely disappeared. And we need to find him. Fast!’
Roubilliard nodded knowingly and sipped at his beer. ‘Know
s too much, huh?’
‘Yeah, well, we’re starting to get worried about him. He had a little run-in with the RCs recently, and we need to talk to him, that’s all.’
‘Right.’ Roubilliard took another slug of beer and fixed his eyes keenly on Roman, a slow leer rising. ‘Rumour has it that he’s been a problem to you for some while. So maybe this disappearance now is that you finally decided to do something about it: he’s already keeping Venegas company at the bottom of some lake or river, waiting for the Spring thaw.’
Roman sneered and chuckled nervously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be sitting here –’ Roman waved his arm towards Roubilliard’s henchmen at the table behind and the bar at large – ‘Surrounded by a bunch of assholes who look like they’re stuck in a fucking time warp since “Easy Rider” – asking you to find him.’
Roubilliard shrugged. ‘Maybe ‘cause like everything else with our drug deals and Leduc and Venegas – you haven’t told Jean-Paul. He doesn’t know you’ve already offed Donatiens. And so you need to go through the motions now with me to keep up the pretence.’
Roman reached across and gripped Roubilliard’s arm hard. ‘Look – you’re just arms and legs in this. Someone with the right street connections to find this fucker – if he’s still in Quebec. I’m not paying you to think.’
The Last Witness Page 34