Free The Last Witness by John Matthews

originally due to the expense of canvass, so therefore the need to re-paint over old paintings or the false starts of works in progress. For Elena, she enjoyed the luxury of being able to paint over her errors until she reached perfection. She considered herself not that good an artist – despite now two local exhibitions and one at a small Notting Hill gallery when they were in London – and so for her the layering became in part a device behind which she could shield her lack of ability. Nobody would ever know.
    The one thing she shared with the Old Masters was the rich texture and depth gained through the many layers. But as now she carefully dabbed and stroked, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated rather than relaxed. Her hand started to shake on the brush. The therapy this time wasn’t working.
    Elena could only catch a glimpse of sea beyond the far ridge of the chine, a heavy grey-blue almost merging with the mist and cloud. Far different to the Ryall’s broad sea panorama seven miles up the coast – but Elena couldn’t help contemplating if Lorena was looking from her bedroom window at the same dull, brooding sea, wondering if anything was happening or whether she’d been left alone and forgotten.

    ‘You don’t think I should pursue it, do you?’ Elena looked at Gordon directly as she toyed with the last of her dessert.
      She’d tried to broach the subject twice earlier: the first time Shelley McGurran, her boss at the agency, had phoned; the second time her daughter, Katine, walked into the kitchen halfway through them talking while preparing dinner.
      They’d let the children leave the table early to watch TV with their desserts; they were now out of earshot in the adjoining lounge.
      ‘It’s not that I think you’re wrong. Your suspicions may very well be right – something is happening.’ Gordon gave a small shrug. ‘After all, you know Lorena better than most. It’s just that from your position there’s little you can do – you’re out of the loop now. And if, as you say, Social Services can’t do anything, you’re just going to get frustrated trying to pursue it.’
       Elena held Gordon’s gaze for a second. Obviously her two false starts earlier had given him time to prepare: he’d chosen the route of lesser confrontation, not wanting a heated debate over whether or not her suspicions might be right.
    ‘But if Social Services can’t or won’t help her – who else is there to help her? Who else does she know in this town?’
      ‘I know, I know.’ Gordon held one hand up, sighing, as if exasperated that despite his efforts he’d still hit a confrontational wall. ‘I think you’re right to try. But unless you budge Social Services to your way of thinking, how far are you going to get? Even if you convince them something is happening – regardless that it’s based only on a hunch over a worried look from Lorena – they’ll still need something concrete to be able to pursue it.’
      As always, the voice of reason. But as much as she knew that, annoyingly, Gordon was probably right – what hit her strongest, like the many times he’d been right before, was his smug, know-it-all overtone, which would usually draw out her instinctive rebelliousness. Though through twelve years of marriage she’d learnt to curb her worst traits, so all that resulted now was her lightly chewing her bottom lip as she looked back down at her dessert.
      Sudden awkwardness with the silence; when she lifted her head she glanced through the open archway to the lounge. Christos, twelve, their eldest by four years, was pointing to something on the TV and making a comment to Katine, who was just out of view.
      Elena shook her head. ‘I mean, my God, she’s only eighteen months older than our Katine. If anything is happening, she must feel so… so helpless. And vulnerable.’
      Gordon reached across the table and clasped her hand. ‘Maybe they’ll hit on something through