The Last Witness (10 page)

  Michel stopped himself, looking keenly towards Nôtre Dame. Maitland’s words suddenly spun back:
‘I don’t see much hope of getting Donatiens to testify. He’s already practically family, and about to become even more so with his impending marriage. Unless we can somehow bring extra pressure to bear…’

  Michel became aware that his hands were balled tight in fists at his side. He willed himself to relax, eased out his breath slowly, unclenched his hands. With Yves’ fresh hopes of a photo ID, it suddenly hit him that he now had an opportunity to pressure Donatiens which might not arise again. Even if Yves finally came up with nothing, he could probably milk it to good effect for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours.

  Michel turned to the phone. He needed to share this with someone, and if he remembered right Chac was on duty roster until midnight. He smiled to himself as it rang out. Chac would comment that he must be crazy pulling in Donatiens for questioning, and then he’d calmly explain.

SIX

Cameron Ryall looked from the dining-room window as their car approached up the drive; much the same position he’d stood in when they’d first visited. Except that now he was angry.

  Angry at himself, angry at young Lorena, or at this new social worker and the ‘save all the world’s children’ aid worker who had no doubt wound her up into action in the first place – Lorena’s ‘friend’. Ryall’s anger spun and bounced wildly in his head without firm direction; he wasn’t anywhere near calm enough to focus it on any one thing.

  Classical music played softly in the background – Vivaldi’s ‘Allegro from Spring’ – but it did little to introduce an air of calm. The blood still rushed through his head a beat too fast and his hands trembled slightly, and so he had to forcibly will that calm, close his eyes and take deep breaths, self-prompting: You mustn’t let them see that you’re troubled. Take control.
Control.

  He felt strangely giddy, as if through that lack of control – as on the few occasions he could recall it happening before, if only for seconds or minutes that passed like laboured hours in which he’d bounce, lightning speed, every possible angle – he’d been cut adrift from all good sense and purpose. He rallied every nerve and fibre of his body hard against it now.

  His wife Nicola was even more agitated, though through fear rather than anger. She hadn’t wanted to face them a second time, she’d barely weathered the ordeal of their first visit and had asked him to beg off her presence now with the excuse of a crushing migraine or flu. At least that might tie in with the reason why he’d again visited Lorena’s room: ‘Sorry. My wife’s still sleeping off the bug.’ But that might skirt too close to the truth, and invite the questions: Is she ill often? Is she regularly under prescription from the doctor for anything? Does she suffer from depression? Her secret drawers of valium, prozac, amphetamines and sleeping tablets – prescription or otherwise – or the hidden bottles of gin – which so often pushed her into a stupored haze to take her to her bed early. And, besides, it was more vital now that they put on a united front. He’d told Nicola that she’d just have to compose herself. She had to be there beside him.

  Ryall took a deep breath. But his salvation would be with Lorena. He was angry that now she’d called them twice, but in the end she’d never betray him. Betray their secret. Because, in the end, there was no secret that she could recall. No memory of bad things happening; just wild imaginings. And once those imaginings were finally put to the test and brushed aside, the abiding image left was that he was a good father; a trusting, responsible, caring father. Who had raised two children not his own and done it well. A prominent, well-respected local citizen who gave generously to local charities, particularly those involved with children’s welfare. He could almost imagine the heads shaking in local village shops if, heaven forbid, news of this outrage ever leaked out: ‘Surely not? Mr Ryall’s such a nice, caring, generous man.’ God, they had some nerve to put him through this.

  The car was beyond his angle of vision now, but he heard it stop and its doors open, close. A steady breeze swayed the trees and rhododendron hedge, and white caps danced in the bay ahead.

  He was guilty only of loving Lorena more than he should, but was that wrong? And he’d protected her from the rest, her mind was blanked to it. No. Lorena would never betray him. But he had to ensure that it all ended here, now, because with repeated visits Nicola would surely crack. He closed his eyes tight for a second –
never betray him. Never
– and had just started to feel the first waves of calm descend as the door bell rang. He turned off the Vivaldi and went to answer it.

‘So. The nights that Mr Ryall came again to your room were last Thursday and…’ Nadine Moore’s pen poised over her pad. ‘When was the other?’

  ‘Three or four days before that…’ Lorena’s eyes flickered slightly: trying for precise recall, or troubled at the memory? It was difficult to tell. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

  They were in the same music/play room as before, and between Nadine’s questions the pauses were long, the silences heavy. Nadine’s pen could be clearly heard scratching across her pad. She seemed to be making more notes than before.

  Elena sat to one side and slightly behind Nadine, and after the initial hellos had said nothing throughout. Again, Nadine settled Lorena into the mood with general questions about how school and home life had been since their last visit, before circling around to the key point of her stepfather’s repeated visits to her room.

  ‘And why did he come to your room on those occasions?’ Nadine looked up at Lorena pointedly each time her scribbling ended. ‘Was it because you had more bad dreams?’

  ‘No, not on the first occasion.’ Lorena shook her head. ‘He noticed that I was troubled about something at school. He was worried that I might be being bullied – but it was nothing, just a bit of an argument with a couple of other girls. We only talked about it a bit at supper, so he came to my room later to talk some more.’

  ‘And on the second occasion?’

  Lorena cast her eyes down. ‘Yes. That time it was a bad dream. It was very late too, I…’ She looked as if she might continue, but then the thought went or she decided against it.

  Nadine took the opportunity to make another note, then asked, ‘On either occasion, did Mr Ryall offer any explanation of why he’d come to your room rather than Mrs Ryall?’

  ‘The first time, no. We were talking about the school problem earlier, so perhaps he just thought it normal that we continue talking later.’ She shrugged. ‘He didn’t need to explain.’ Lorena paused, as if allowing for Nadine to make another note. But Nadine stayed looking at her expectantly. She continued. ‘The second time he mentioned that Nicola wasn’t well. She’d gone to bed early, you see… and it was very late then.’

  ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘One or two O’clock… I’m not sure. I’d lost track a bit with sleeping and then the nightmare.’

  Elena noticed Lorena’s hands clutching and playing with the hem of her T-shirt. Kikambala Beach Club, Mombasa, from a beach holiday last Easter. After a lifetime of uncertainty, the girl now with supposedly everything. But Elena could read the underlying signs; she’d seen the same shadows in Lorena’s eyes before. Lorena was as uncertain and fearful now as she was back in those dark orphanage days.

  ‘And on that first visit to your room,’ Nadine pressed the point. ‘Though nothing was mentioned directly by your stepfather – how was Mrs Ryall that night?’

  Lorena had to think for a moment. ‘I don’t think she was very well then either. She’d had a bad cold for four or five days, maybe even a week… and one night she went to bed even before me.’

  ‘And what time do you go to bed?’

  ‘Nine to nine-thirty in the week. Ten at the weekend.’

  Elena’s hand clenched tight in her lap. So far everything was tying in with what Cameron Ryall had said in their twenty minute pre-session with the Ryalls:
‘I wouldn’t have gone to Lorena’s room at all if my wife hadn’t been incapacitated on both occasions. She was down with the flu and took to her bed early for most of the week.’
But maybe something would come out now, Elena thought, as Nadine came on to what had actually happened with Ryall on those visits.

  Lorena looked troubled, her eyelids flickering heavily as if she were trying to focus on an indefinable object slightly to one side on the floor.

  Nadine prompted, ‘It’s okay, take your time… starting with the first visit. What happened then?’

  Finally: ‘That first time not much, really.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We talked about the problem at school, and I kept telling him it was nothing. I was eager for him to go, you see. But it took a while before he was finally convinced… and then he reached out and stroked my brow, saying “You’d tell me if something was wrong, or if this happens again, wouldn’t you”.’ Lorena looked directly at Nadine and then quickly down again. ‘I answered, “Yes, of course”… but I think he sensed I was nervous about him touching me, and he quickly took the hand away.’

  ‘Now, and this you should think carefully about, Lorena: did Mr Ryall touch you anywhere else on the body that night?’

  ‘No,’ Lorena answered quickly, though hesitantly.

  Nadine stayed looking at her directly for a moment before the next question, even though Lorena engaged eye contact only briefly. ‘And did Mr Ryall stay in your room for long after that?’

  ‘No. He left almost straightaway then.’

  ‘I see.’ Nadine looked down finally and made some notes.

  Elena shared the disappointment she felt hit Nadine in that moment. But she also sensed a deft, purposeful circling in by Nadine, and unconsciously she found herself sitting forward, expectant, as Nadine came on to Ryall’s second room visit. More had apparently happened then.

  ‘Did he soothe your brow again on that occasion?’

  ‘No. He shook me gently out of the dream by my shoulder.’ Lorena crossed her chest with her right hand to her left shoulder. ‘Then he held me by the hand, or maybe the wrist – I can’t remember exactly – and told me, ‘It’s okay…
it’s okay.
’

  The room fell deathly silent, both of them wrapped up in the explanation, anticipating the revelation of what Ryall did next. But Lorena trailed off then, and Nadine had to prompt, ‘Then what?’

  ‘Everything wasn’t too clear then…’ Lorena shook her head helplessly. ‘Except in the dream.’

  ‘The dream?’ Nadine asked incredulously. ‘What, another dream?’

  ‘Yes, yes… But it was different this time,’ Lorena grappled to explain, sensing mounting doubt from Nadine. ‘This time it wasn’t like before with me trapped in the sewers, in the darkness… This time Mr Ryall was touching me, his hand going lower down my body, with him still saying, “it’s okay…
it’s okay.
” Trying to comfort me.’

  Elena noticed that Nadine seemed caught aback by the plea in Lorena’s voice that the dream was somehow significant, when very obviously Nadine was thinking just the opposite. Nadine held up one hand: a stop sign. ‘Let me get this clear. Did Mr Ryall at any time touch you like this outside of the dream? Were you at any point – if only for a minute – awake when any of this happened?’

  ‘I don’t know… I…’ Lorena was flustered by Nadine’s freshly assertive tone.

  Elena felt for Lorena: she was only a child, and bad dreams had been associated with so much of the sorting and filing of her troubled past. It was probably difficult for her to grasp how anyone else wouldn’t attach the same importance to them. She was clutching again at the hem of her T-shirt, though this time Elena noticed her hands were shaking. Finally: ‘No, I… I can’t remember being awake when this happened.’

  Nadine looked round briefly to Elena. A ‘we won’t get anywhere with this’ expression. She pressed again with Lorena, ‘This is important… think hard.’

  Lorena’s eyes flickered, again searching for illusive clarity – but again nothing slotted into place. ‘I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I don’t think I was awake then.’

  ‘Don’t think?’

  Lorena closed her eyes for a second as she reluctantly let loose the last strand. ‘I’m pretty sure I wasn’t...’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry.’

The furthest Lorena was likely to go towards denial, but it was enough: there was simply no niche left from which they could claw back. Elena could see it all slipping away. Nadine’s shoulders sagged, her pen suddenly frozen from continued notes. After all, there was only one thing left to write: CASE CLOSED. Elena felt suddenly desperate that it might all end here. She decided to intervene.

‘Lorena, this is twice now you’ve called us. But if all of this is happening only in your dreams – we just can’t help you.’

  ‘But sometimes it seems so...
so real,
’ Lorena protested. ‘As if it is actually happening. And it frightens me. I told you – I don’t want him to come to my room anymore.’ She shook her head in annoyance, as if throwing the blame back to them.

‘We told Mr Ryall to stay away from your room,’ Nadine offered. ‘But on these two occasions your stepmother was ill. I’m sure he’d stay away otherwise, so it shouldn’t be a big problem.’ Nadine bit at her bottom lip, and Elena read the unspoken thought that could have been added: But what to do when Mrs Ryall was ill again?

  Elena felt a twinge of panic. It seemed wrong for it to all end like this now, as if they’d hardly tried at all. She pictured Nicola Ryall sat with her hands clasped tight together, saying less than even last time. Her mood nervous, agitated. Everything had tied in so neatly: his wife’s illness, then Ryall mentioning that he was sure it was all just in Lorena’s imagination, possibly linked to her continuing problem with nightmares
. ‘It’s probably all just a call for attention. I assure you nothing untoward is actually happening.’
Now both statements had been supported.

  Nadine sighed, concurring, ‘Elena is right in that we can’t do much with what we have.’ Nadine forced a re-assuring smile that came across more thinly than she’d have probably liked. ‘But at least if all of this is only in your mind, we have the comfort that nothing is really happening. You’re not at risk.’

Elena bit at her bottom lip. Her own mother sat there saying nothing, afraid to go against her father. The same obdurate, dogmatic grip in which he’d held nearly all the family and had guided so many of their lives.
So real
. Elena wondered if Lorena was trying to tell them without really telling them. The dreams were a safe mid-ground. ‘If something’s happening, you’ve got to tell us,’ Elena implored. ‘Has Mr Ryall been talking to you, telling you not to say anything?’