The Last Witness (29 page)

  ‘I see.’ She swallowed slightly, then asked Gordon to play them. ‘ I should hear them.’

  ‘Okay, one second.’ But Gordon sounded hesitant, as if worried the effect they might have on her. A rustling and clicking as Gordon set it up, then Lorena’s frail, uncertain voice.

  ‘Elena…
Elena…
I thought you were going to help me. Since you came to the house… I… I’ve heard nothing… and Mr Ryall is still coming to my room. Please,
please…
if you can hear me, pick up the phone…’ A moment’s silence, then the sound of soft whimpering before the line went dead. A short beep, then her voice again.

  ‘… He… he doesn’t touch me when he visits… maybe he’s frightened to since you visited. But he does touch me in the dreams… and they’re so real…
sooo
… I… I don’t know what to do.’ A pause, a sniffle as she battled to control her tears.
‘Please…
if there’s anything you can do, Elena
.
I’m sorry to call you like this… but I don’t know who else to call. If you’re there…’  The tears had finally stopped; only shallow breathing as Lorena waited on expectantly for the phone to be picked up before finally she gave up.

  Elena took a second to compose herself as Gordon lifted the receiver away from the dull dialling tone. She pictured again Lorena reaching out her hand to the back window of Nicola Ryall’s Range Rover; but nobody was there to grip on to that hand, to help her.

  Elena took a fresh breath. ‘How did you get on with Mikaya?’

  ‘I finally found someone in the village ready and willing to speak up: Joe Hawley at the garage. He had a run in with Ryall over a bill last year. Apparently, Mikaya’s at Durham university – hardly anyone down here sees anything of her anymore. I’ve phoned the university twice now and left messages, but no return call as yet.’

  Elena sighed. ‘Might still prove fruitful, but I’m not sure we’ve got the time now to wait.’ They’d agreed that the best way to help Lorena was through finding out more about what had happened with Mikaya. Gordon had offered to start digging while Elena was in London looking through her father’s things. But now with Lorena sounding so distressed, she began to reassess: Mikaya might well decide not to speak to them now or at any time, and they had to do something quickly. She outlined her new plan.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Gordon said after a pause; as if unsure for a second that she was serious. ‘It’s far too risky.’

  ‘Maybe so. But look where I am now from not taking risks, not standing up to my father. Twenty-nine years without seeing my own son, and too afraid to admit that I’ve even got a son to anyone – just so that I
don’t have to face it myself. Pathetic. If something is happening with Ryall and I do nothing, I’d never forgive myself. Lorena could end up in a few years time where I found myself – so screwed up that she empties a bottle of pills down her throat as the only way out. And Ryall’s just like my father: the only way is to make a stand, push back. Otherwise they’ll just steam-roller straight over you.’

  ‘I still don’t like it.’ Only a few ways Gordon could see it going right, and far too many of it all going horribly wrong. But he could tell that her mind was made up: he might as well start thinking of ways to help her, try and reduce the risk. Whichever way the chips fell, one thing looked certain: from this point on, their lives were going to be very different.

SIXTEEN

Viana wore a mask covering her bruise for her dancing that night: bright turquoise feathers with cream tinges, it covered one eye and swept in a semi-circle down one side of her nose and across just under her left cheekbone. She’d had it made especially by a friend who made costumes for the annual Caribbean carnival.

  She’d felt self-conscious at first, as if people could somehow see the ugliness of the swelling on her face behind the mask, or guessed that she was covering something. But as she realized people were none the wiser, and that with some it even heightened the mystique, the allure – made her stand out from the other girls – she relaxed back into her normal rhythm.

  She saw Georges turn up an hour after opening, but she didn’t want to rush over. Roman had assured her that he should be staying for the evening, or even if he did leave for a while to eat, he was going to be back to do the take at closing. She bided her time, kept half an eye on him between dances. For the first fifty minutes he was busy with a technical guy checking all the cash registers, just as Roman had said would happen. She waited until about fifteen minutes after the technician left before sidling over. Georges was sat at the bar nursing a beer while Azy was at the far end serving another customer.

  ‘Hi, Georges.’ She perched on the bar stool next to him. ‘You should come by more often. We always get stuck with that goon Roman.’

  ‘Trouble with the cash registers.’ He waved his beer towards the bar register and smiled back. He wasn’t sure what was more important: her paying him a complement, or taking a swipe at Roman while he wasn’t there.

  ‘Ah… and we thought it was because you couldn’t keep yourself away from us all here.’ She mocked a hurt expression.

  ‘Yep, that’s it.’ He raised his glass in acknowledgement and took a quick slug. ‘Couldn’t keep away from that smile, Viana.’ He remembered all of the girl’s names, even though he came by the club at most twice a month. He thought it was important in a trade where they were usually treated impersonally: pieces of meat just to gawk at. He often talked with the girls, and Viana had been as free and easy with the smiles and talk as any of them. But what had stayed with him most was that along with another girl, Amparo from Costa Rica, noble aims lay behind their work: they were both helping their families out. Amparo simply because of their dire poverty, while Viana was saving for surgery to help her mother’s crippling arthritis. ‘How’s your mother now? Closer to having the money together?’

  ‘Yeah. Quite close now. Thanks.’ She flinched slightly at the mention. This sting tonight would go a long way towards helping pay. Nor did Georges have any idea that if it wasn’t for her habit, she’d have probably had the money together months back. She was touched also that he remembered: Roman
never
asked about her mother. She hoped that this was all, as Roman said, just to split Georges from Simone because he was fooling around; that Roman wasn’t thinking of harming him. With the still tingling ache behind her mask to remind her what Roman might do if she let him down, she pushed the worry from her mind: like so much else in her life, what choice or control did she have? Her fleeting concern at least seemed to have set the right tone. ‘Georges… there was something else I wanted to talk to you about. A little problem that I…’ She looked up as Azy started down the bar towards them. Roman had stressed to keep it all out of earshot of Azy. She looked to one side. ‘Can we go over there maybe and talk.’

  Georges nodded with a tame smile: he could see that she looked troubled, was conscious of prying ears. They moved two booths away from the bar.

  She ran through the story exactly as Roman had coached: a club visitor who she’d made the mistake of dating; he’d became difficult and possessive, started shouting that he didn’t want her working at the club anymore while she was going out with him. She’d tried to break it up the night before ‘…and we ended up arguing. Things went from bad to worse, and that’s when he hit out. Gave me this…’ She lifted up her face mask. She was careful to keep her back to Azy, who was no doubt keeping half an eye on them; although Azy would have clearly seen Georges’ pained flinch as the ugly bruise was exposed. She bit lightly at her lip as Georges sucked in his breath. ‘I was worried that he might be waiting by my place again tonight. So I was wondering if… if you might be able to run me home tonight… see me safely to my door.’ The right emotions were easy to turn on: seeing Georges’s reaction to her bruise brought home just what a mess Roman had made of her; she was close to tears again. ‘If it’s not putting you out any… you see, normally I would–’

  Georges clasped her hand. ‘No, no… it’s okay. I can run you home.’ Georges’ eyes searched hers a moment longer. Her fear was genuine, and if her intention was to hit on him she would have chosen another time: with her face half mashed up, she wasn’t at her most alluring. ‘But what about the other nights I’m not here? What will you do – get Roman to run you back?’ He looked past her shoulder. ‘…Or Azy maybe?’

  She held up one hand. ‘No, I don’t want either of them to know about it. You know what Roman’s like if he found out – he’d half kill the guy. And Azy’s real strict on us dating clients because of past problems: he’d feel that he had to tell Yves or Roman. I’ve laid on my cousin to pick me up most nights… it’s just that he couldn’t make it tonight.’

  ‘No, it’s okay – I’ll run you.’ Georges gave her hand one last re-assuring pat before pulling his away. ‘I’ve got to nip out for something to eat, but I’ll be back later to do the take.’

  ‘Roman’s not doing it tonight?’

  ‘No. With the problem with the registers, I wanted to do the tally tonight: no point in us both being here. I phoned him an hour back.’

  Viana let out a slow breath as if a burden had been eased. ‘That was another thing I was worried about, having to cover with Roman. If he asked about the mask, I was going to have to lie to him, tell him I fell down some stairs.’ She forced a nervous smile. Everything was going how Roman planned, and hopefully she’d feigned her side well: Georges looked convinced, settled. But as she turned slightly, she was aware in her side vision of Azy still looking over at them. ‘I’d better get back now. Thanks again, Georges. See you later.’ She touched his sleeve and headed off towards the far side of the room, quickly slipping back into her normal seductive sway as she roamed for fresh dance clients.

  She hooked a client after only a minute, but as she started to dance her nerves began to build. She noticed Georges was back at the bar talking to Azy; she was sure Georges wouldn’t say anything, but what if Azy read between the lines? Azy looked up at her for a moment before moving along the bar to serve another customer. She closed her eyes, tried to absorb herself in the mood of the music and her dancing. 

  Twenty minutes later, straight after another check with Azy of the bar cash register, Georges left. Viana waited ten minutes more, then went to her mobile in her handbag and put through the pre-arranged call to Roman.

  ‘It’s done. He’s gone now – but he’s coming back to pick me up later.’

  ‘Okay. Good stuff. We’ll be sitting outside. See you later.’

  But wondering if Azy suspected something each time he looked over and thinking ahead to what she’d have to do, her agitation hadn’t abated. Her hand was shaking heavily as she tucked her mobile back in her handbag.

  The passing hours didn’t help. She took a shot of vodka in each of the three cokes she had after 11pm, but still her hands were shaking, her stomach in knots. She even took a quick snort of coke in a washroom cubicle, but all that did was sharpen her focus, her sense of apprehension: Georges was one of the nice guys, one of the few that took the time out to show any interest in her welfare, what might lay beneath her skin. What if Roman did intend to harm him?

  When they were getting near closing and Georges still hadn’t returned, she started to hope that he wouldn’t show. That he’d had second thoughts about them being alone together, worried that she might come on to him. As for Roman, she’d have done her bit: it wouldn’t be her fault if Georges didn’t show. Surely Roman wouldn’t take it out on her?

  The pros and cons tugged at her, but any clarity seemed out of reach beyond the pounding of the music and a slight buzzing in her head: she wished now she’d laid off the drink and cocaine, and registering the slight frown from the client before her, she realized that her pre-occupation had made her pause for a second in her dancing. She picked up the rhythm again, and halfway through a second dance for the same client, Georges walked in. By that time her nerves were so out of control that all she could manage was a small wave and a tight, nervous smile.

  She became more concerned that Azy had picked up that something was wrong when he finally wiped down the bar and just before leaving came over to her and another girl, Lucy.

  ‘Everything okay, girls?’

  ‘Yeah, my boyfriend’s coming by to pick me up,’ Lucy answered.

  ‘I’m waiting on my cousin,’ Viana said quickly.

  Azy nodded and said smiling goodbyes to them and Georges, who was busy finishing the register tallies; but Viana couldn’t help noticing that Azy’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer than Lucy.

  Viana arranged with Georges that just as a precaution she’d leave a minute earlier and wait a block down for him to pick her up.

  Georges too picked up on her nervousness, seeing her hand shake as she slid in the car and shut the door behind her – though he put this down to apprehension that her boyfriend might be waiting for her.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Georges assured. ‘He sees me roll up with you – and even if he
is
there he’s going to disappear pretty sharp.’

  ‘Can you stay inside with me maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, just to make sure?’ Viana asked. Her nerves put a faint croaky tremble to her voice: just the right touch. She looked across at him expectantly: with this last cog in place, the dye would be cast, no turning back. ‘A few nights back he rang my bell five or ten minutes after I showed up.’

  Georges paused only for a second. ‘Yeah, sure.’ He took his eyes from her back to the road. He could see that she was deeply perturbed, which made him feel safe: romance was the last thing on this girl’s mind.  

Walmerton
School

   
Founded 1894

The school plaque was discreet, gold lettering on a small, black-painted board by the main double playground gates. A smaller school than Chelvale Primary where Katine went, though nothing between them academically: perhaps the school’s longer heritage had attracted Ryall. Elena had only visited once before, five years ago when deciding where to send Katine.

  But she was far more nervous now than she was then, even though that meeting had been terrifying: the school’s atmosphere austere, stuffy, and the interviewing headmaster no less so, with the accent on rules and tradition more than any ambient needs of the pupils.

  Crossing the school playground, it was almost deathly silent, only some faint birdsong from some nearby trees: the quiet before the storm of the lunchtime bell and the playground being filled with a mass of shrill voices suddenly let loose. But now all Elena was conscious of was the fall of her own footsteps beyond her heavy heartbeat. For a second they fell in unison, sounding ominous, like approaching soldiers in step, and she changed pace slightly… through the main door, into the corridor. A faint echo for ominous effect now: Elena could hear her own laboured breathing coming back to her, with the muted murmur of voices straining through the pale cream walls.

  The classroom doors were all marked with types of tree: oak, ash, beech… Elena found Lorena’s classroom four along: elm. She didn’t want to hover by the small glass look-through and possibly gain the teacher’s attention too early – so she went a few yards past and sat on the nearest bench seat.     

  She pondered whether she’d planned everything okay. She’d chosen the regular weekly time when Nicola Ryall went to the hairdressers and then had a long lunch with her newly acquired charity-circle friends. Gin and tonic do-gooders whose nearest appreciation of the gritty reality of children starving was through a Catherine Cookson novel. Mrs Ryall would be indisposed two-and-a-half hours, maybe three, and normally kept her mobile off. Elena had tried just twenty minutes ago: it went straight into a ‘caller unavailable’ recorded message.

  Then she’d phoned straight through to the school and, posing as Mrs Ryall, left a message that Lorena had to go to a dentist’s appointment at 1pm. ‘Our housekeeper will come and pick her up at lunchtime.’

  Elena hoped and prayed she’d managed a reasonable proximity to Mrs Ryall’s voice; but then how many times in the year might Mrs Ryall phone and speak to the school? Maybe two or three at most. Mrs Truett, the school secretary, merely asked if Lorena would be back for class later in the afternoon, or the next day?

  ‘Tomorrow now, I think,’ Elena answered. ‘Though if she can make it back in time for the last lesson today, I’ll make sure she’s returned.’

  From Mrs Truett’s reaction, nothing seemed to have jarred, be untoward. But what if someone else from the school was now looking out and knew what Mrs Ryall’s housekeeper looked like? Or what if they’d managed to raise Mrs Ryall on her mobile to check, or…

  The ringing bell crashed into her thoughts. On impulse she stood up, looking out expectantly. A door at the far end was the first to open. A few children emerged with a teacher’s voice booming from beyond – but as the main mass appeared, the other doors too were opening and spilling out children. Within seconds, the corridor was awash with a cacophony of small voices and movement.