Except that by then there’d be no reason for any more photos for his wall; all chances of getting Donatiens to testify would have been long lost. In fact in only an hour or two he might know it was all over, if…
Michel stopped himself, looking keenly towards Notre 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.’