John Matthews - The Last Witness

‘How often do you have these nightmares now?’ Nadine asked.

‘Sometimes I’ll have none for two weeks or so. Then two or three might come only days apart.’

‘And is it always Mr Ryall that comes to see to you, or does Mrs Ryall sometimes come?’

Lorena shook her head. ‘It’s usually him. She usually only comes to me when he’s away somewhere on a trip.’

‘And does Mr Ryall visit your room late for any other reason now apart from the dreams? Does he read you some stories still?’

‘No, no stories anymore. But sometimes he comes to my room just to talk — you know, asking about schoolwork, how I’m getting on. Things like that.’

‘Does that happen often?’

Lorena shrugged. ‘Mainly when he’s been away somewhere and hasn’t seen me for a few days. Apart from that, not much.’

Nadine asked a few more questions, trying to get it clear just how often Mr Ryall visited her room late at night. One way or another, Ryall managed to visit at least once a week, sometimes twice a week.

‘How about when Mr Ryall is around you at other times? Do you feel comfortable then?’

‘Yes, it’s… it’s okay.’ A flicker of uncertainty for a second, then Lorena shrugged nonchalantly. ‘No problems.’

‘And Mrs Ryall? You get on well with her?’

‘Yes.’

‘You never feel uncomfortable around her at any time?’

‘No.’ Lorena smiled faintly, as if the question was slightly ridiculous.

Elena watched Lorena intently throughout the exchange. The atmosphere in the room became tenser with each question, and Elena’s emotions were seriously divided. A chink of uncertainty in Lorena’s eyes, and she’d feel like screaming: ‘Stop shying away, covering up! If you don’t say something, speak up, we can’t help you. You’ll stay trapped here at Ryall’s mercy.’ But when Lorena appeared sure-footed and confident, it would hit that other part of her that wanted desperately to believe that nothing was happening; though maybe she too was selectively erasing, unwilling to accept any possible horrors after what Lorena had suffered in Romania.

Nadine took a fresh breath. ‘So, more or less, all of your problems stem from your discomfort with Mr Ryall coming to your bed late at night now that you’re older. Is that about it?’ Nadine tapped her pen on her folder as she waited on Lorena’s answer.

Lorena merely nodded, chewing lightly at her bottom lip.

‘So, if and when you have these bad dreams, if we ask that Mrs Ryall comes to you rather than Mr Ryall — I suppose that would solve your problem.’

‘I suppose it would.’ Lorena fluttered her eyes down in submission for a second before looking up again. Embarrassment at having wasted their time, or still holding back on something? It was difficult to tell.

‘We’ll see what we can do.’ Though Nadine didn’t know where she’d even start; she could hardly reproach Ryall for showing due care and concern for Lorena. And telling Ryall that he couldn’t tuck his favourite stepdaughter in bed after a few days away would be even more absurd. She pressed one last time, if nothing else to save later criticism from Elena that she might not have been thorough. ‘And are you absolutely sure there’s nothing else troubling you concerning Mr Ryall — either connected with him coming to your room late at night, or otherwise?’

Lorena’s eyes flickered, as if she was searching for something that was finally just out of reach. ‘No, no… there’s nothing. That’s it.’

But by the way Lorena looked fleetingly back towards the closed door, as if towards the Ryalls in the drawing room beyond, Elena knew in that instant that something was wrong. Cameron Ryall had coached Lorena, or for some reason she was covering up for him.

Savard’s body was found at 5.43 am., only yards from the taxiway of an old abandoned airfield two miles south of Longueuil. An area used by the man who discovered the body for early morning training of his greyhound.

The first police arrived at 6.18 am, and within twenty minutes had been joined by two more squad cars, forensics and a meat-wagon. The call to Michel came through just after 6 am, disturbing him from barely two hours’ sleep. He’d spent till 1 am with his team back-tracking and trawling some likely spots for Savard, and sleep had been difficult in coming; Savard’s voice on tape and the images that went with it had kept him turning uneasily.

Michel arrived minutes after the meat-wagon. The first dusk light had only just started to break, so Michel took a torch with him. The photos being snapped of Savard’s body cut starkly through the near darkness, competing with the flashing beacon on a nearby squad car. The only other light was from torchlight playing and the headlamps of two vehicles left on, one pulled close to Savard’s body.

Three of the police squad and everyone from forensics, Michel knew. One of the homicide Sergeants, Lucien Feutres, looked up as he approached.

‘Michel.’ Brief smile that fell into a shrug and stern grimace. ‘Rough break. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah. I know.’ Michel nodded dolefully, looking around. ‘Thanks.’

Savard’s body was heavily illuminated by the headlamps, blue spray body outline markings already made in the snow — so Michel played his torchlight mainly to each side.

‘Who found him first?’

Feutres glanced back and pointed with one thumb. ‘Guy over there. He was walking his dog. Want to speak with him?’

Michel looked at the figure at the back of the milling activity, probably finished his questioning a while ago and wishing now he hadn’t found the body and subjected himself to fifty minutes of standing around in the cold. His greyhound looked equally as bored, tongue lolling as it looked to one side.

‘No, no, it’s okay.’ Normally, he would have had a chain of questions, and a hundred more for forensics: How many shots? Time of attack? How did he get here? But he knew practically everything from the wire tape.

He played his torchlight around again as Feutres went over to tell the man he could go. He picked out quickly the repetitive circles of tyre tracks, but it took a moment more to find the main thing he was looking for: a ramp made up of packed snow thirty yards away; sharp slope one side, gradual, almost imperceptible decline, the other. They hit the sharp side on each loop, and Savard gets the sensation they’re rising up through the car park.

His gaze swung back to the main circle of light and Savard’s body. It was curled almost in foetal position, a light dusting of snow covering it from a fresh fall overnight. The hood, pulled back to the crown for photo-identification, was dark blue, and Savard’s hands had been tied in front by rope. There were a number of other small things he could have clarified at this point, but he also knew now why he was shying from asking the questions: each answer would bring back Savard’s screams too vividly, when already they were still ringing in his ears. He would read the reports later and make a few calls; some distance at least.

An arctic wind whipped across the flat expanse of grass and overgrown taxiways. Michel felt it cut through him like an icy hatchet, taking his breath away. His eyes watered.

Michel took one last lingering look at Savard’s body, and slowly closed his eyes. They’d obviously headed due south straight over the JaquesCartierBridge rather than downtown. Roman and Jean-Paul Lacaille had played them for mugs at every turn: the finder smashed, the wire left in place and traffic sounds played, the snow ramp. Savard was already practically dead as they’d watched through binoculars him waiting on Roman Lacaille — only they hadn’t known it.

You’ll be safe. We’ll be watching every moment, guarding your back. Weeks of meetings before Savard was finally confident enough to go ahead. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you,’ they’d assured. Yet Savard had died like a trussed chicken, his final moments filled with terror.