The Last Witness (35 page)

  It put the first smile of the day on her face – but a sudden worry, one thing she hadn’t thought of before, gripped her then: her father’s uncharacteristic anger as he’d bit back about Georges, his comment about Roman providing proof, no doubt the photos, and their concern about Georges giving information to the RCMP. As much as she despised what Georges had done and probably never wanted to see him again, that was a far stretch from wanting to see him in any way harmed. She reached to her pocket, then remembered she no longer had her mobile. She paid and made her way uncertainly out of the bar, looking for the first phone booth.

‘They’ve got her!’ Sally beckoned Crowley excitedly and covered the phone mouthpiece with her other hand.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Paris Orly airport. They stopped her at customs just ten minutes ago.’ She lifted her hand free and turned her attention back to the phone.
‘Oui… oui. D’accord
. Yes… I see.  We’ll wait on your call back then.’ She let out a tired breath as she hung up. ‘They’re just getting someone to question her officially. They’ve got a fair few English speakers at customs, but apparently they had to wait on a National Police officer with sufficient rank and good enough English for the purpose.’

  ‘And she’s got the girl with her?’

  ‘Sounds like it from their description. Girl with long brown hair of ten or eleven.’

  ‘Great!’ Crowley clutched the air by his shoulder into a fist. He decided to use the lull to phone Turton, who’d called just twenty minutes before to complain that he’d had Ryall on grilling him again.

  Turton agreed that it was good news. ‘I didn’t even mention the Montrichard hotels fiasco when he called. Just said that we had some good leads in from France and were confident that she’d be apprehended soon.’

  ‘Yes, well at least finally looks like we’re…’ He faltered. Across the room Sally had answered her phone again. Her face rapidly clouded. She glared towards him and waved urgently. ‘… we’re there. But, uh… perhaps best not to say anything to Ryall until we have the interview confirmation through. We’re waiting on that now. Yes… should be no more than ten or fifteen minutes.’ Sally’s expression told him he’d need that time to unravel whatever this new problem was. He hung up and darted across. ‘What now?’

  Sally exhaled heavily as she dropped the bombshell: close call, but not her. The woman’s name was Walden, not Waldren. Janet Walden. ‘Apparently the alert went out just on the surname, the customs officer misread it on the passport, and everything trickled down wrong from there… until the police officer went to interview her in the detention room.’

  ‘Middle name?’

  Sally glanced at her notes. ‘Eileen. Oh… and the girl with her is twelve, not ten.’

  Crowley grimaced tightly. It wasn’t her. This time it was an error rather than a deliberate foil, but he was starting to develop a healthy respect for Elena Waldren: obviously she hadn’t just leapt for the first border post and airport options, she’d planned things through. He went back to his maps and tried to put himself in her position. If he’d had a false trail blazed through the middle of France, where in reality would he have headed? He’d better come up with at least some sensible suggestions before he phoned Turton back.

The two men in the black Econoline held eighty yards back from the St Laurent bar, practically the last clear view that could be had of its entrance. A discreet distance, with the van’s tinted windows adding an extra discretion.

  The man in the passenger seat was on his mobile. ‘They’ve been inside almost two hours now.’

  ‘Still hang on. They can’t be much longer, and this might be the best shot we’ll get.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Will do.’

  ‘Wait till he’s heading home, or at least the two of them are parted and well clear of each other – then make your move. And make sure you grab Monsieur D, not the friend.’ A lighter tone to the voice, but falling short of a chuckle. The line was digital and hopefully secure, but still he was careful not to say Donatiens’ name.

  ‘Not much chance of that. We’ve got the photo right in front of us.’

  ‘And make sure you’re not seen.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have ski-masks on and we’ll pick a quiet spot. And we’ll have the hood over his head before he has a chance to even turn around.’

NINETEEN

Eight beers and half a bottle of Kentucky bourbon between them and they’d put half of Georges’ and the world’s problems to rights, but still hadn’t come up with any answer to his dilemma with Jean-Paul. Georges stared miserably into his tumbler and rattled his ice.

  ‘For God’s sake, why doesn’t she call?’

  ‘Perhaps she still will.’ Mike Landry knew it sounded lame at this stage: according to Georges, she was meant to call him over six hours ago. But Mike had already spun through most of the options: Perhaps she got tied up at work; perhaps things got delayed and she wasn’t able to see her father till later; perhaps she tried to get hold of him and missed him; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But Georges was adamant: No, she’d have made sure to get hold of him one way or the other. She knew how important this was to him. Something was wrong.

  ‘No, I don’t think she’ll call now.’ Georges chewed at his bottom lip. After trying her countless times, late afternoon he phoned Mike Landry. Landry was an old friend from university and they’d also worked together at Banque du Quebec: the only person he could think of turning to with this dilemma. They arranged to meet at 5.30 pm at the
‘Gipsy’
, one of the new wave of bars on St Laurent. ‘I think I was right about last night being some sort of set up.’

  ‘Can’t you remember
anything
that happened after blacking out at this girl’s place?’

  ‘Almost nothing until I was in the foyer back at my place with the lobby guard fishing through my pockets for my keys.’ The guard informed him that a taxi had dropped him off just ten minutes beforehand. No, the taxi driver hadn’t said where he’d been picked up from.
‘Don’t you know yourself?’

  ‘And a gap of almost two hours lost in between?’

  ‘Yeah. But as I said, all I can recall are hazy fragments.’
Viana naked on top of him, but then the feel of someone else’s slow tongue licking him, someone lower down just out of view. And a man’s voice… Yeah, that’s it… that position. Hold it for a second.
Then nothing until the foyer. But it all had a dreamlike, surreal quality, and when he fell asleep later in his own bed it was Simone naked on top of him, writhing. But the heat and sweat from her body suddenly became Leduc’s blood, an expanding pool spreading across his stomach, his thighs … and it was Roman’s voice from the side, taunting:
Yeah, that’s it… you do it. You kill him for me.
He awoke abruptly and made strong coffee. He’d had barely three hours sleep and his nerves were ragged. As he’d told Mike after going through everything over their first drinks: he just couldn’t be sure now whether the earlier images were real or just another dream. He shook his head. ‘Then as the hours passed with still no call from Simone – that’s when I began to fear the worst about last night.’

  Landry pulled a tight grimace as he looked at his friend. Georges’ hands were shaking, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused from drink and lack of sleep. He was a wreck. But they’d already raked over everything twice over, and now there was little for him to offer as encouragement or sound advice. Georges was practically beyond consolation.

  When Georges had first aired the problem, Landry had felt uncomfortable with the burden and commented flippantly, ‘I thought it must be something pretty serious for you to phone me out of the blue.’ But it quickly went the wrong way, descended into heated banter. Well, just that I haven’t heard from you for over three months. He’d been busy. Busy? ‘When’s the last time you saw your parents?’

  ‘I was planning to go out and see them this weekend or next, as soon as this all blew over.’

  ‘Yeah. But when’s the last time?’

  ‘Christmas-time.’ Georges closed his eyes solemnly, accepting the point: early on in his relationship with Simone when he’d been lauding Jean-Paul, Landry had voiced that he should be careful not to see Jean-Paul as a surrogate father, a larger-than-life figure to make up for his stepfather’s shortcomings and ups and downs over the years. Georges bit back that it wasn’t all one-way, things hadn’t been made any easier with his stepfather in turn trying to dress down Jean-Paul because of his criminal background. ‘And to my old chums at Banque du Quebec, I was suddenly a total no-go area. They daren’t be seen near me in case word got around that they were associating with a supposed money-launderer. Always one eye on that next promotion, huh? It was only you that didn’t give a shit, because we went all the way back to university.’

  Landry agreed that that was the case with a lot of them. ‘But not everyone. People like Gerry Marchant, for instance – he couldn’t have given a shit either. In fact, he found the whole thing quite glamorous. But you put up the barriers just as much, Georges. As soon as you got in deep with the Lacailles–’

  Georges gripped Landry’s hand tight on the bar counter at that moment. ‘Look – this isn’t just about social ostracising because I’m worried about being cast out of the Lacaille’s precious golden circle. I’m afraid for my life, Mike. But if you don’t want to help…’ Georges got up from his bar-stool, but Landry clutched at his shoulder, sitting him back down.

  Yes, of course, he wanted to help. What were friends for? ‘Just that it would be nice to see you now and then outside of the latest hot problem.’

  But now there was little help Landry could offer and few consoling words beyond ‘maybe he was jumping to conclusions’ and ‘maybe she’d still call.’ He felt redundant, merely along for the ride while Georges steadily drowned and spilled his woes; no more use than a confessional priest, except that instead of Three Hail Mary’s he was telling Georges that perhaps he’d drunk enough and should think of heading home. A few hours rest and he’d probably feel better, get a clearer view on it all.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’

  Georges wasn’t so drunk that he needed support, but he definitely needed encouragement from his bar stool. With his morose state and a finger of bourbon still in his glass, he looked reluctant to leave. He finally knocked it back as Landry paid, and they headed out.

  The two men in the Econoline saw them as soon as they were a yard beyond the giant gypsy dancing figures that marked the bar’s entrance.

 
‘Okay. Which way they headed?’

  ‘Looks like towards Donatiens’ car.’
They’d agreed at the outset that a good spot to snatch Donatiens would be the side street where he’d parked. It was quiet, not much activity. The friend was parked further up on the opposite side of St Laurent.

 
‘Shit… looks like the friend’s staying with him.’

  ‘They’re stopping. Maybe they’re going to split up now. Oh, great. Choose now to give the  fucking
Gettysburg
address.’

  The fresh air on St Laurent had cleared Landry’s thoughts a bit. ‘I think you should tell Jean-Paul everything. Bare all to him in the same way that you have to me.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. I’m here to rat on your brother because maybe you’re daughter didn’t put the point across properly. Oh, and whatever happened with that club girl last night, if anything – I don’t remember a thing. I was drugged and out of it.’

  ‘I know. But it’s probably your only chance. And maybe something in your account will strike a chord, throw some doubt on whatever Roman’s spun about it all. Enough at least for Jean-Paul to hold back until he’s checked it out.’

  Georges met Landry’s gaze evenly. He was serious. ‘So when am I meant to spill all of this to Jean-Paul?’

 
‘Come on. Come on. Move it!’

  ‘Not tonight. You’re in no fit shape. And besides, Simone might still call and clear up the whole mess.’
Still trying to sell the hope of her calling.
‘…Or maybe meanwhile you’ll get hold of her. If not, go see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

  A keening wind along St Laurent stung Georges’ face, made his eyes water. Landry was practically the only thing in focus among a blur of café signs, street-lights and the streaming tail-lights of passing cars. He started shaking heavily, though he wasn’t sure if it was with cold, or exhaustion and nerves. Only half a day with Simone’s back perhaps turned to him, and he felt so alone, deserted. At least the drink helped numb the pain a little; he could feel its effect more now with the cold air, and swayed uncertainly in the wind. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

   Landry reached towards him. ‘Look – I don’t think you should be driving. Let me run you home.’

  Georges put one foot back, steadying himself before the hand connected. ‘What, you? You’re almost as bad as me.’

  Landry shrugged as Georges smiled incredulously at him. Not exactly true: Georges had drunk at least three to his two; he’d felt it his duty to keep a clear head so that he could throw an incisive light on Georges’ problem. Not that it had helped. ‘Then at least grab a cab.’

  ‘No, no.’ Georges held one hand up. ‘I leave my Lexus in that side street – by midnight the wheels and the radio will be gone… if not the whole car. Maybe that’d be the best thing: thrown in a cell for the night for drunk driving. Safest place for me.’ He smiled crookedly and swallowed down the tail-end of a belch, holding up his hand again at Landry’s concerned expression. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy. Can’t be more than a dozen blocks.’

 
‘That’s it… come on.’
They watched the friend step back, a few more words spoken between them, then with a parting half salute the friend turned to cross St Laurent. Donatiens continued on the same side towards the turning thirty yards away where he’d parked.

  The driver fired up the engine and looked in his wing mirror. Two cars passing, then a gap – but the next car was approaching fast. He waited for it to pass.

  Donatiens was pacing briskly, only eight yards from the turning as they pulled out.

  Their every move from this point in had been pre-choreographed. The passenger went into the back of the van and picked up a ski-mask and a black cloth hood. He slipped on the ski-mask and crouched expectantly by the van’s back doors, ready for the signal to jump out.

  The driver moved slowly for the first ten yards until Donatiens turned into the side street, then he sped up the last distance. He pulled over to the centre line for the left-turn and waited for a passing car… but just as he started to turn, had edged forward a yard, a parked car five down pulled out. It beeped and they stood uncertainly nose to nose for a moment before it swung lazily around him.

  ‘Shit!’ The driver clutched the wheel hard as he finally made the turn. Donatiens’ friend further up had looked around briefly but didn’t seem to dwell on them. He was already at his car, had the door half open to get in.

  Donatiens hadn’t looked round, but the problem was that he had gained eight or nine yards meanwhile. They’d agreed that the best time to grab him was just before he got in his car – but now he was only yards from it, bleeping it open. 

  The driver accelerated hard down the street, his pulse racing as Donatiens reached out, opening his car door. The driver kept in close to the parked cars, hoping that at the last minute Donatiens might push the door back and stay pinned tight by his car until they’d passed, afraid of getting his door creamed: they’d brake sharp just past, swing the back doors open, and…

  But Donatiens went for the second option of jumping in swiftly and shutting the door before they reached him.

  The driver slowed and finally screeched to a halt ten yards past, his breath falling hard with the adrenalin rush of the near miss.

  ‘What now?’ Ski-mask pressed anxiously. Through the back window, he saw Donatiens starting up.

  But the driver stayed frozen with indecision a second more before suddenly slamming the van into reverse. ‘We block him in! Duck down out of sight!’

  The van sped back and stopped sharp with its back four feet beyond Donatiens’ front bumper.

  The driver watched in his wing mirror Donatiens quickly check if there was enough room behind to reverse and still swing out. There wasn’t: only two or three feet leeway at most. Donatiens’ lips pursed tight as he pressed his horn.

  A curtain pulled back briefly from a window four houses along, but little other attention drawn: nobody out walking on the side-street and the few passing on St Laurent thirty yards behind didn’t look over. A trickle of sweat ran down the driver’s forehead. Hold tight.
Hold tight.

  The horn blared again, and Donatiens’ head came out of the window. ‘Come on! Shift it!’

  Ski-mask hissed from behind, ‘Yeah, come on. Let’s get out of here. He’ll wake half the fucking neighbourhood!’

  ‘Just a second more. Just keep out of sight.’ The curtain four along stayed still, and no other movement that the driver could see. But he was sweating profusely, his nerves close to bursting point, and he was ready to accelerate hard away as soon as the next beep sounded. He saw Donatiens’ hand raise again – but this time it was to swing the door open as he came out shouting.

  ‘Come on… move will you? Move! I can’t get…’

  ‘Okay…
Now!’

  Ski-mask burst the back doors open and had the hood over Donatiens’ head before he’d finished the sentence, one hand clamping hard over his mouth. The driver leapt out and they bundled him quickly into the back and sped off.