Except for one thing: the fear Elena had seen in Lorena’s eyes in the restaurant. That was difficult to fake. She herself was full of concern and panic for what the next day held, but what she’d seen in Lorena in that moment went far beyond that. Whether something was happening with Ryall or not, it was certainly real in Lorena’s mind. So why after all these sessions couldn’t she recall anything?
The thought had a loop effect: there was no real answer and so it just went around, and Elena let it because it was soporific, pushed her closer towards sleep. She finally dozed off after half an hour, her last thoughts on what she might wear for her meeting tomorrow. Something clean-lined and respectable, but at the same time not too cool and formaclass="underline" it should be soft-edged, maternal. She’d glanced at the weather forecast before getting into bed to help her decide.
Overnight lows of 4 or 5, 10 or 11 by mid-morning, rising to highs of 13 or 14.
For some reason she found the numbers replaying in her thoughts halfway through the night, jumbling with a segment from one of Lowndes sessions: ‘And he was saying some numbers… seven… eight.’
Elena was suddenly wide-awake again, her breath falling sharp and fast. Magic acts! She sat up and looked at the bedside clock: 3.26 am. Barely two hours sleep.
She felt like waking Lorena, screaming out loud that she thought she’d found the key, and they’d both jump up and down excitedly and wake the rest of the hotel. But she needed to know for sure — so she threw on some clothes, grabbed her bag and headed for the nearest phone box. She used her global call card and dialled her home number.
Gordon, initially pleasantly surprised, almost relieved to hear her voice — perhaps he’d been half-expecting another call from Crowley — berated her for breaking their call policy.
‘This couldn’t wait,’ Elena said, still slightly breathless from the rush to the booth. ‘Besides, I’ve used a global call card. It’ll be scrambled through some faceless exchange in Virginia. I could be calling from anywhere in the world.’ She told Gordon what she needed to know — Ryall’s background with children’s magic acts — and why. ‘Where did your investigator get that from?’
‘From some old newspaper clipping, I believe.’ No, he hadn’t send them through; but, yes, Gordon could get hold of him now. ‘He works from home. Phone me back in fifteen minutes and I’ll see what he’s got.’
Six minutes later Gordon had the fax through: three newspaper clippings in total. He scanned rapidly through, his blood running cold as he came to the reference two-thirds of the way into the second article. Elena’s hunch had been right! He tapped his fingers on the table by the phone and read through more thoroughly as he waited on Elena’s call back.
Elena’s nerves had been wound too tight to do anything more than pace agitatedly back and forth ten yards either side of the call box to kill the time; once again she was slightly breathless. All she could manage was ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ when Gordon told her. She’d hoped that she’d be right; but another part of her had hoped desperately that she’d be wrong. She sighed heavily, felt the last remnants wash away from her. ‘The rest now I suppose will have to be sorted out on the psychiatrist’s couch.’
Gordon again wished her good luck for tomorrow as they signed off. ‘Thanks.’ Hopelessly inadequate for one of the biggest days of her life: decision day now on two fronts. But she felt too numbed and shell-shocked to say anything else.
She stood for a moment by Lorena’s bed before getting back into bed herself: Lorena didn’t appear to have stirred, even notice that she’d been gone. She realized then that she couldn’t say anything: it could later be said that Lorena had merely filled in the gaps to suit. She’d only be able to tell Lowndes, then they’d just have to hold their breath to see if events followed the nightmare path they feared. But the strongest emotion she felt looking on at Lorena gently sleeping was that she was sorry, so sorry for ever having doubted her.
THIRTY
Funicelli located a telephone junction box in a service slip-way fifteen yards along from the Hotel Montclaire, the hotel where the English woman was staying. The box also appeared to service three or four other buildings in the first stretch of Rue Berri.
He picked through and found the wires and switches for the Montclaire, then started making the connections. Four minutes, five tops, he estimated. But four or five minutes in the open by a busy street was a lifetime. He’d been uneasy just in the couple of minutes up the telegraph pole outside the Donatiens. But that had been Beaconsfield, peaceful suburbia; now he was in one of the busiest parts of Montreal. The hustle, bustle and the sheer number of things he had to keep a watch out for made it an entirely different proposition.
He’d chosen to do it early: 8.08 am. Telephone engineers often started at 8.00 am, but by the time their rosters were done and they were clear of the depots, the earliest calls were usually after 8.30 am. So he shouldn’t have to worry about a Bell Canada engineer passing and asking what he was doing.
But the rest of the city was coming rapidly to life: the flow of traffic and people passing was increasing, the occasional passer-by throwing him a glance. An East Indian by the deppaneur on the corner, possibly its owner, studied him thoughtfully for almost thirty seconds before going back inside the shop.
Funicelli was sweating cobs, his hands trembling on the wires within the first two minutes. This was a nightmare. But Roman had been insistent that they get a bug on the woman’s line.
‘We’ve got to know what progress she makes with Chenouda. If anything’s going down, it’ll probably be decided within the next few days.’
That was the other thing Funicelli had to worry about. That no faults were reported on any lines within that time to make engineers open up the junction box and discover his bug. They couldn’t risk leaving something like that inside the box for any length of time.
For the last minute he hardly paid attention to who might be passing or looking at him, his concentration was fixed intently on securing the last few wires in place.
He glanced at his watch as he slammed shut and locked the box. Four minutes twenty-two. Not bad. He let out a slow sigh as he walked down to his white van parked round the corner, but still his hands were shaking slightly as he opened its back doors and threw his tools inside.
He nodded briefly to Frank Massenat parked ten yards back on the far side as he jumped in the driver’s seat. Funicelli had kept look-out on the hotel until 10 pm, then Massenat had taken over for overnight.
Take the van back, change, breakfast, coffee, and check his cousin hadn’t burnt down his shop while he was away, then he’d return to take over again from Massenat at 10 am.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Massenat commented as they changed over. ‘Except that at half-three she suddenly comes out and makes a call from that booth over there. Then she paces up and down as if her ass was on fire before making another call. Then back to the excitement of watching people sleep.’ Massenat shrugged. ‘And no signs of life yet this morning.’
But just over an hour later that changed as Funicelli watched her leave the hotel, girl in tow. She made a quick call from the same booth Massenat saw her use, then hailed a taxi. Funicelli followed through the mid-morning traffic two or three cars behind. A light drizzle started falling halfway along Rene Levesque and he put the wipers on intermittent. He’d already phoned Roman two hours ago to tell him that the bug had been successfully placed, but as he saw the taxi pull up outside RCMP HQ on Dorchester Boulevard, he took out his mobile to call again. Roman would want to know this news straight away.