The Last Witness (24 page)

  Though a few hours later she was far more concerned about Cameron Ryall’s control, his influence over much of Chelborne. She’d quickly shook off her own disappointment: if she couldn’t help herself, at least she could still help Lorena. Mrs Wicken’s words preyed heavily on her mind:
‘One of the most beautiful Oriental girls I’ve ever seen.’

  Perhaps Ryall hand-picked these girls for their sheer beauty – God knows there were enough of them, an endless sea of children with angelic faces and big eyes that the rest of the world had forgotten. He’d get them into his trust at first, soothe their brow, some seemingly innocent gentle stroking, then would gradually build up until they were thirteen or fourteen, the age Mikaya had been when she became pregnant, and then… Elena convulsed at the thought. But why didn’t they speak out against him? With Lorena, she could understand: she was too young, too frightened, and probably not too much had happened yet; and what had, she’d blanked from her mind.

  But Mikaya had been old enough to speak out, especially given the horror of her pregnancy – yet still she’d stayed quiet. What hold was it Ryall had over them?

  She realized she couldn’t possibly know without finding out more about Mikaya, so she’d headed back into Chelborne. After seeing Mrs Wickens the day before, she’d filled in some gaps at the local dress shop and at the health store. But it was all minor stuff: the school Mikaya went to, what clothes she liked; yes, they knew about the whole messy business with the pregnancy, but no, there wasn’t a particular boyfriend they could point to as a likely culprit. ‘We haven’t seen much of her these past couple of years,’ Mrs Frolley at the dress shop finished thoughtfully. ‘Now that she’s away at university.’

  Now, visiting Mrs Frolley again to ask ‘Which university?’ – Mrs Frolley was a closed book. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ Becoming quickly flustered. ‘I think I’ve said more than I should in any case… and I’m rather busy now.’ Red-faced, Mrs Frolley scurried away to attend to a customer.

  A shop-girl at the health store, after going back and checking, informed her that Mrs Boyle was busy stock-taking and couldn’t see her – so she’d rested her hopes on the ever-reliable Mrs Wickens.

  But the reaction with Mrs Wickens was much the same, albeit handled with a more open, folksy reprimand. ‘When I tell you things, it’s in all trust and confidence. I don’t expect it to be used in all strange manners.’

  Elena tried to appeal to Mrs Wickens’ maternal instinct, with her having raised four children of her own. ‘This isn’t about any personal clash I might have with Mr Ryall. It’s about the welfare of a young girl who I believe could be under threat. Serious threat.’

  Mrs Wickens shook her head. ‘I don’t believe any of it for a moment. Mr Ryall’s a good man. He wouldn’t dream of doing anything like that. He’s been very good to my Rolly these past years.’

  It hit Elena with a jolt in that moment: Mrs Wickens’ husband, Roland, worked at Ryall’s local plant. With a business of that size in a small village like Chelborne, no doubt numerous relatives of other villagers and shopkeepers were employed there. After all, Ryall was by far the area’s largest employer. A saving hero to fill the gap after the years of decline in the local fishing industry. Few locals wanted to think badly of him.

  A spark of recognition reflected back through Mrs Wickens’ eyes, and she turned away with a slight flush, busying herself with re-arranging her counter newspaper display. ‘Well, you know… we each have our own to take care of.’

  And it was driving away from Mrs Wickens’, rounding the bluff, that the build up of frustrations and obstacles finally became too much, and the tears hit. She’d been working against the grain, against the impossible, for days and weeks – for decades if she counted the lost, forgotten time that she’d blanked Christos from her mind, hadn’t even troubled to search for him – and only now was that realization hitting her face-on.

  Her father’s hand reaching across the years to still grip tight, affect her life; and now Ryall’s tentacles spreading across Chelborne, blocking, strangling her progress.

  The bay ahead became misty and blurred as her eyes swam, and she had to pull over. Maybe that was the key with her painting, that slightly blurred, Monet look – but it barely raised a smile at the corner of her mouth, her spirits couldn’t be buoyed this time; and she sank deeper down, sobbing uncontrollably. She cried more for the lost years with Christos than for this dead end now; after all, she’d only lost a week to discover that she would never make good on the twenty-nine years lost. And for Lorena, it was more the sense of frustration and powerlessness than sorrow. She thought she’d shaken free of her father’s grip years ago, but she’d been fooling herself all along. And now she was facing the same again: another powerful man, and she was unable to prise loose his grip to be able to help Lorena.

  She shook her head, biting back the tears. Maybe Gordon was right: she’d allowed the dividing lines between Ryall and her father to become muddied, confused; it wasn’t healthy, would only get in the way of her being objective, having a clear view.

  Clear view. She wiped again at her eyes, dabbing her cheeks with the back of one hand, and once again the view of the bay ahead was clear. She only wished her troubled thoughts could as easily have been cleared.

  After a moment she swung the car out again and continued on down the slow decline towards Chelborne Bay, clinging to the one consolation out of the whole mess: at least now her secret would remain forever buried, no reason for its exposure. Her life with Gordon and the children, like the view ahead, would continue much as it had done: bright, untroubled, with few worrying clouds.

TWELVE

Jean-Paul turned from Georges as he poured the drink from a decanter on the side cabinet.

  ‘One thing my brother does have good taste in. Brandy.’ Jean-Paul brought the glass over to Georges seated towards the end of the long table. Jean-Paul’s own glass was already in front of his position at its head. He raised it and smiled. ‘Santé!’

  ‘Yes. Cheers.’ Georges savoured its mellow burning as it sank down. An aged Ragnaud-Sabourin that Roman had bought for Jean-Paul at Christmas just past. Georges glanced back towards the door. ‘Isn’t Jon joining us?’

  ‘No, this is more family talk than business.’ Jean-Paul looked directly at Georges for the first time.

  ‘Oh, right.’ Georges should have guessed from the late hour and the brandy. A soft, mellow glint to Jean-Paul’s eyes, no hostility; but Georges thought he’d picked up a faint underlying concern, it wasn’t quite the uncompromising embrace he’d been seeking. ‘I thought this might have been about Giacomelli and Cuba. I talked briefly about it with Jon at the party last night.’

  ‘Yes, well… we can discuss that maybe tomorrow. Jon didn’t have much free time today.’ Jean-Paul glanced briefly past Georges’ shoulder, his train of though broken for a second. Then a faint smile creased the corner of his mouth. ‘Old man Vito Giacomelli apparently lost a packet down there when Castro took over and all the casinos closed. Art agrees with your assumption that when finally the trade embargoes lift, property prices there are going to skyrocket… and I think he’s tickled by the idea of making back some of the money the old man lost there. What we’ve got to do now is turn all of that nostalgic pay-back into a sound business proposition, and a clean way of doing it…
if
there is one.’ Jean-Paul took a swig of brandy and stood up, started pacing. ‘As I say we’ll talk more about it when Jon’s here.’ Fresh breath, and Georges was unsure whether the pacing was Jean-Paul getting his thoughts moving, or nerves, anxiety. ‘But it was in fact my recent visit with Art Giacomelli that prompted this meeting now. You know that Art has been following closely this bid of ours to change the nature of our business, move away from crime and become totally legitimate, clean?’

  ‘Yes, I… I know at least that you’ve confided in him about it more than anyone else. And that he’s the crime boss your family has maintained the closest ties with over the years.’

  Jean-Paul clasped his brandy glass as if he were praying, then waved one hand away expressively. ‘This isn’t just about old man Vito and my father running liquor and cigarettes across the border in the fifties, or how close our families have been since… or even at the power level with how that association helped us later with our problem with the Cacchiones…’ The hand groped emptily at the air for a moment, and Georges sensed something difficult coming. Jean-Paul was normally conversationally fluid, no gaps between his thoughts and words, and yet now he was struggling. ‘Art was particularly helpful and supportive when Pascal died.’

  Georges just nodded and looked down, sensing it was best not to interrupt the flow. Maybe that was the awkwardness: Pascal’s death. All Georges knew of the whole affair, imparted from Jon Larsen – Jean-Paul had never broached the subject directly – was that Giacomelli had intervened to stop their war with the Cacchiones after Pascal was shot. As reputedly America’s most powerful crime boss, he had that influence. When Arturo Giacomelli said stop, people stopped.

  ‘Yes, he’s interested in how we progress, how successful we are… because if it works for us it can work for him and maybe others. A sort of test case if you will.’ The hand started in motion again. ‘But it goes deeper than that… a lot of it tied in with Art’s thoughts, hopes and ambitions for his own family. Probably you don’t know too much about them?’

  ‘Well… only that he has a son, Vincent, who works closely with him in the business.’

  ‘Yes, Vincent, dear Vincent, who has given his all to his father… yet hardly gets a mention in praise.’ Jean-Paul looked sharply, directly at Georges. ‘But what you probably didn’t know is that Art has another son, Paul, and a daughter, Mia. Okay, Mia has never really come into the frame – she’s now at some college doing a fashion photography course, and there’s no expectation in any case on women coming into the family business. But what about Paul? He’s never in the news like Vincent, because he’s not involved in the family business – he’s at Annapolis with the Navy – but listening to Art you’d think that Paul was his only son. Paul this, Paul that. Paul could be a Navy Commander one day, did you know? He says it with such pride in his voice, as if that was the only thing of real importance to him. Totally neglecting the fact that his other son will one day run a multi-million dollar crime empire and continue his legacy, each and every day risking a bullet through the head for the privilege. And why, why?’ Jean-Paul threw his free hand towards Georges as if he was flinging dice. ‘…Why is he so blinkered, with eyes only for one son?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Georges shrugged, easier now that Jean-Paul had found his flow, but still unsure where it was all heading.

  ‘Because he’s the son that’s managed to escape and make his own way, find some success outside of the family business.’ Jean-Paul sat back down and looked thoughtfully into his brandy glass for a second. ‘Oh sure, everyone looks at people like Vito and Art as the tough guys, the wise guys – but it never gets any easier. They start tough, no question: fronting longshoremen with bill-hooks and Union strong-arms wielding baseball bats, getting their first blood, then later more killings over turf or to rise up the ranks – some of it hands-on with having to pull a wire through a man’s neck – but it never gets any easier.’ Jean-Paul relaxed open the hand he’d clenched suddenly tight. ‘Because as the money rolls in, their private, home lives become softer: they move out of their old neighbourhood, buy a house with a pool and a gardener, their wives get their hair done each week and have private fitness and yoga instructors, and their kids go to college and get an education. Suddenly the mean streets where it all started become but a distant dream. And with all that, when they sit back and look around them–’ Jean-Paul waved his hand in a half-circle. ‘It starts to hit them as ludicrous why they should still fear getting the wrong side of a bullet, still have to look over their shoulders.’ The hand pulled back in and Jean-Paul shrugged. ‘Sure, they themselves probably accept that fear of a bullet, they’ve lived with it from day one as part of the package, the ‘territory’. But they start to expect something better for their family. For them, they want that fear gone; they don’t want them to have to live the same way they have. That’s why Art was so outraged with what happened to Pascal – because Pascal was never really involved in the business, he was just on the fringes doing some bookkeeping. If his music career had been more successful, he wouldn’t even have done that. So Art saw him as someone on the edge who
almost
escaped – but never quite made it. Still they got him. Art was outraged because he felt that if they could do that – they were only a step away from yanking Paul from Annapolis and putting a bullet through his head. And the golden rule has always been hands off family outside of the business. That’s why when Art intervened with the Cacchiones, the white flag came up so quickly. They’d broken the rules, and knew it.’ He swilled his brandy and took a quick slug. ‘Though by then it was too late for Pascal.’

  ‘I understand.’ Georges cast his eyes down for a second. Though it was more the general ethos he understood: he had no idea until now that Giacomelli had taken such a personal interest in Pascal’s death because of how it might relate to his own family.

  Jean-Paul forced a wan, philosophical smile. ‘The only problem is, it’s not so simple: fate, circumstance gets in the way. Sometimes the kids don’t do so well at college, or they show a natural leaning towards the business, or, like Vincent, they start getting into trouble with other things; and the parents think – if they’re going to go down that route anyway, they might at least go down it professionally, in an organized way. But what starts to form in the parents mind is a black and white yardstick: the successes escape, the failures with little or no choice – despite all the education and privilege heaped on them to keep them away – end up in the family business. That’s why Art talks all the time about Paul, with hardly a word for Vincent.’

  Georges nodded. He recalled Jean-Paul once consoling Jon Larsen, who was upset that his son had dropped his law studies to pursue a career in palaeontology, relating how Carlo Gambino’s children hadn’t followed him into the business, one of them opting for the totally polarised, un-macho world of dress design.
‘Gambino didn’t fight against it, because he knew at heart his children wouldn’t be right for it. That’s why John Gotti was nurtured to finally take over after Castellano: he came from the same mean streets as Gambino, his edge hadn’t been softened by two generations of money and education.’

  ‘But then you get all the times when it’s not so black and white – all the grey areas like Pascal and me, where we end up in the business by default. Pascal because our father found out his bookkeeper was cheating him, and he needed someone he knew he could trust for a while before getting someone new.’ Jean-Paul shrugged. ‘…Though Pascal ended up staying much longer. And me because he feared that Roman wouldn’t have the right acumen for the business, or temperament – that he was far too headstrong. And then of course what happened with Pascal ended up supporting that judgement.’ He waved his brandy glass. ‘You know that my father partly blamed Roman for Pascal?’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ They’d touched on the subject before, but never in such depth or so heartfelt. The only emotional plea ever put to it had been when Jean-Paul and Jon Larsen first convinced him to join the fold, explaining why this bid to clean the business was so vital, so close to the family’s heart. It wasn’t just a passing whim. And suddenly it hit Georges why Jean-Paul was covering it all now: Something
was
wrong, was concerning Jean-Paul, and he was testing loyalty. But was it just a suspicion, or had Jean-Paul heard about Chenouda hauling him in? Which way to play it?

  ‘So hopefully now you can see why cleaning this business is so important, not just to me but so many others like Art Giacomelli. A possible solution for the generations to come, aside from them simply having to step outside of the family business to get their father’s approval. Because the problem is not really with them, but the nature of the business. And the fact that nobody wants to leave a legacy to their children that might end up getting them killed.’

  Georges laid one hand flat on the smooth polished table to stop it trembling.
Which way to play it?
Jean-Paul had circled in so well. Georges had always felt the terrible burden of this commitment, the fear of letting Jean-Paul down when he knew how much it all meant personally to Jean-Paul… that burden growing by the day with his withheld secret. Then had come the knowledge that their progress was suddenly of interest to other leading crime families, bets and pre-judgements were being made on each side; but at least he’d been able to view all that as one step removed from the fray. Now suddenly it was of
personal
interest to Art Giacomelli. He wouldn’t just be letting down Jean-Paul, but also America’s most powerful crime boss. It was as if Jean-Paul had purposely chosen it as the perfect extra pressure to apply. He moved the hand to trace one finger around the base of his brandy glass, his brow creasing: measured concern.

  ‘I knew how important this was to you from the outset, though I must admit I didn’t know that it was also something so close to Giacomelli’s heart. I thought he was just a close friend and interested observer, nothing more.’ He chose his words carefully, sensing that he was tip-toeing through a minefield. ‘But my commitment was made on what
I
think about that aim, not anyone else. If I didn’t believe wholeheartedly in it and see it as a challenge, I wouldn’t have joined you – it’s as simple as that. And that commitment remains as strong now as on day one.’

  Jean-Paul slowly nodded in understanding. He proffered one palm towards Georges. ‘It’s just that sometimes it can be difficult joining a family like this. It’s easy to feel like an outsider, as if there’s nobody you can confide in.’

  Confide in.
Now there was little doubt remaining. ‘Yes… I know.’ He swallowed hard; his collar felt suddenly tight, a hot flush rising up through his neck to his face. ‘And at first, I must admit that was difficult. Particularly the close relationship you had with Roman: the feeling that I might be somehow interfering, coming between you by changing the direction of the business.’

  ‘And now?’ Jean-Paul opened out both palms: a priest welcoming confession.

  Georges swallowed hard again, a light sweat coming to his brow. It was as if he’d been steadily pushed in a corner with each word domino played by Jean-Paul. He’d been expecting:
‘So if you ever feel the need to confide in anyone, don’t forget I’m always here for you.’
But instead Jean-Paul had done it with just two words; two words as that final feather on the scale to hopefully make him crumble, the burden of his betrayal suddenly too much. But it would seem conveniently trite just to blurt it all out and turn turtle on what he’d struggled to avoid all along – setting brother against brother – and would likely come across as little more than a desperate cheap shot under pressure. And what if he was reading the whole thing wrong, just getting paranoid, and this little heart to heart was completely innocent, had simply been prompted by Jean-Paul’s recent visit with Giacomelli? But if he said nothing or got the tone wrong, Chenouda’s warning could soon hold frighteningly true: Jean-Paul’s protection would quickly evaporate and he’d be out in the cold, at Roman’s mercy. He traced the same finger back and forth again by his brandy glass… Which way to play it?…
Which way?…
before looking back directly at Jean-Paul, the right words finally in place.