Her eyes filled, and the tears flooded rapidly over. She dabbed at them, thinking she had it under control, but suddenly her body was convulsed with racking sobs, competing with the trickling of the nearby stream. The tears felt cool against her skin with the breeze, and she rocked gently, muttering, ‘Christos… Christos. I’m sorry… so sorry.’
The wind in the treetops drowned out her voice, which made her plea seem all the more lost, insignificant. She was alone; alone with her secret in the one place that since childhood she felt she could be alone and secretive. But for one of the first times she no longer felt cocooned and protected, but adrift, vulnerable. The magic was fading. She’d kidded herself all along that she’d chosen it as a sanctuary from the craziness of the world outside, when in reality she’d merely used it to bury the memories of what she’d done; and now she could almost feel them seeping back out of the trees and damp earth to haunt her. Your only son… and you let him go. How could you?
She shook her head, bit hard at her lip, trying to shake away the silent whispers of recrimination. Maybe as she searched she might get a clearer image of Christos in her mind, something to cling to that would help fill the crushing void inside, and the magic would start to return. She wiped at her tears and started her way slowly back up the steep slope of the chine. Her step was heavy, her legs starting to ache only halfway up, and she couldn’t help dwelling on the task ahead. Making her way from a place of such long-buried secrets into the open. It wouldn’t be easy.
ELEVEN
‘Look, Jean-Paul. I’ve got to speak with you.’
‘I know, you mentioned. But can’t it wait till later. You can see how crazy everything is now.’ Jean-Paul turned away, pointing over to the far side of the conference room. ‘No…no! The main flower arrangement should go in that corner.’ Then he addressed two men laying white cloths on long trestle tables to the side. ‘The gravlax should go in the centre, with the canape’s around. Then on the next table the side of lamb and the suckling pig…’
‘I can see… I can see.’ Roman felt awkward enough with the subject he had to broach, but this army of flower-arrangers and caterers hovering around made it all the worse: so many men in one room with female mannerisms and affectations; it wasn’t natural. It made him feel uncomfortable, out of place, like a gorilla surrounded by a flock of dancing flamingos.
He’d hoped to speak to Jean-Paul directly upon his return from seeing Art Giacomelli in Chicago. There was a full day spare before preparations started for their mother’s birthday party that evening. But Jean-Paul had at the last minute delayed a day, so in the end the only opportunity was now, in the midst of preparations. Once the party started, there wouldn’t be an opportunity; and even if there was, Jean-Paul wouldn’t thank him for taking the edge off the celebrations.
Roman touched Jean-Paul’s arm. ‘It’s urgent, Jean-Paul. I don’t think this can wait.’
‘Right. I see.’ Jean-Paul’s eyes clouded as he registered for the first time the gravity of Roman’s concern. He held one arm out towards the adjoining office. ‘Let’s go in here.’ Then to the caterers: ‘I’ll be back with you shortly.’
The atmosphere in the fifteen-foot square room was stuffy, austere: part power-broker, part intellectual. Directly behind Jean-Paul’s desk was his diploma in maths and art from University of Montreal, and a framed thank-you letter from one of Canada’s most notable past Prime Minister’s, still a Montreal resident, for Jean-Paul’s heavy campaign funds in the late 70s. The far wall was lined with books: Flaubert, Dostoyevsky, Voltaire, Joyce, Orwell, Zola, Rand, Proust… Proulx. Jean-Paul the avid reader, whereas Roman had hardly got past The Three Musketeers. Roman had always felt uncomfortable in this room: probably not intentional, but everything seemed to shout down at him that he was the lightweight intellectual of the family.
Jean-Paul pressed his fingertips together in a pyramid. ‘So… tell me.’ He opened them out for a second. ‘What’s the problem?’
As Roman explained about Donatiens being taken in for questioning, Jean-Paul’s expression darkened. His eyes shifted uncomfortably to some papers at the side before coming back to Roman. ‘Are you sure your contact’s reliable? That he hasn’t made a mistake.’
‘No, I’m sure. He’s been spot-on every time before. And he works in the same building at Dorchester Boulevard. So it’s not the sort of thing he could make a mistake about.’ Roman let the information settle a little deeper, enjoying watching Jean-Paul squirm at the thought of golden boy possibly being tainted, before he asked: ‘So he hasn’t mentioned anything about it to you?’
‘No… no, he hasn’t’ Jean-Paul was still distracted, turning possibilities around in his mind. ‘But then I’ve only just got back… and as you can see things have been more than a little hectic.’ He gestured towards the adjoining room. ‘Maybe it’s something he’s planning to tell me about later. Maybe too nothing much happened, so it wasn’t worth raising the alarm straightaway.’
‘And maybe the Pope’s dating Sharon Stone.’ Roman leant forward, raising a sharp eyebrow. ‘He was in there three hours, Jean-Paul. Three fucking hours! The RCs could know every single financial transaction worth shit and what every one of us has for breakfast.’
Jean-Paul sighed heavily. Maybe Roman was right, but Jean-Paul was also keenly aware of the growing animosity between Roman and Georges; he needed to be sure this wasn’t just Roman axe-grinding for the hell of it. ‘We’re not involved in crime anymore, and Georges wasn’t involved either in any of the money-laundering — so what’s to tell?’ He waved a hand towards Roman. ‘This is probably all about that night with Leduc again.’
Roman flinched and sat back. Always the same these days: when it came to the crunch, Jean-Paul invariably sided with golden-boy and threw it all back in his lap. ‘Three hours, Jean-Paul? What did he do — show them his family snaps?’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Even if it was all innocent, you’ve got to admit — he should have told you.’
‘I know, I know.’ Jean-Paul nodded solemnly.
Roman could tell that he was starting to teeter. ‘And that Leduc incident could easily unravel the wrong way. If they’re not convinced it was self-defence, I could go down for twenty. For ordering it, you’d get the same. They’ve probably been pressing Donatiens that they know he was there, but if he turns Crown evidence they’ll give him immunity against prosecution as an accomplice. And then with the finances — once they’ve got the full picture of all the legitimate stuff, how long do you think it’s going to take them to trace back to the…’
Jean-Paul held a hand up; a Priest dispensing blessing. ‘Okay, Roman… okay. You’ve made your point.’ His tone was worn, tired. All he could do was defer judgement: there were just too many open interpretations to get out the way first before he’d be convinced that he should mistrust Georges. ‘I’ve pencilled in that I’d phone him about four o’clock before he heads off to get ready for the party, to catch up on business while I was away. I’ll leave a few long gaps and pauses, and let’s see if he fills them. If not, then we can start worrying.’
Elena grabbed the phone at the start of the second ring.
‘He thinks he’s found something at last.’ Megan’s voice at the other end: excited, slightly breathless.
‘Where did he find it in the end?’
‘Westminster registry.’
‘Right. That’s great.’ Elena too found her breath caught slightly. The first call two days ago, only thirty hours after she’d given Megan the go ahead, had been to say that Terry, her search man, had found nothing in either the Kilburn or Hampstead registries. They’d trawl through the other North London registries before spreading the net wider.