The Last Witness

by John Matthews

‘…Only my daughter.’

  Sound of a radio playing. ‘Yeah, I see… okay.’ A young girl’s mumbled response which Michel couldn’t discern. Michel’s nerves eased back.

  The elevator to the far left was the first to arrive. Four people got out, gave the assembled group a cursory glance, then moved off three in one direction, one in the other. The back of Michel’s neck ached with tension. Come on Donatiens, don’t slip away from me as well. And he was about to turn and add something to try and retrieve the situation when Donatiens finally spoke.

  ‘…If I come down to you without a lawyer, you appreciate I’m not going to answer any questions.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Michel assured. ‘We’ll simply play you the tape and tell you why we think you’re in danger. If you have any comment on that, fine.’

  Maury leapt across as the elevator doors started closing and they sprang quickly open again.

  They stood as an awkward tableau for a moment with Maury half-in, half-out of the elevator. Then finally Donatiens nodded.

  ‘Okay, okay… how long will we be?’

  ‘An hour or so, no more.’ Michel held Donatiens’ gaze steady, trying to keep any flinch from his eyes. He knew it was a lie: once Donatiens was in his grasp, he’d be lucky to get out this side of nightfall.

  After a moment a resigned nod and another ‘Okay,’ from Donatiens, and Michel held one arm out like a bell-boy.

  ‘She’s telling the truth, Michel. He’s not here.’

  It was the first time Chac had addressed him directly. Michel felt any last vestiges of hope slip away, his stomach sinking again, this time in tune with the elevator’s fall.

  Michel pressed the receiver’s button. ‘How long does she think he’s gone for?’

  Chac asked, and Michel heard the woman reply that he hadn’t said. ‘But he packed and took with him a large kit bag – if that’s any clue.’

  ‘You hear that?’ Chac confirmed.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘Probably. But let me come back to you in a couple of minutes.’ He had an idea forming, but he’d prefer to air it out of earshot of Donatiens. He’d wait for Maury to put Donatiens inside the car and hold back outside a moment to talk with Chac.

  With the silent lull following and Michel’s expression thoughtful, almost morose, as the elevator doors opened Donatiens asked, ‘Something wrong?’

  Michel smiled wanly. ‘Yeah. I just heard Madonna gave the spot to someone else.’

  Within ten minutes of Michel calling Chac back with his thoughts about Venegas, Chac called Dorchester Blvd HQ to put out a general alert for Roman Lacaille’s black series 7 BMW.

  The alert hit first all squad cars on Montreal Island, Montérégie, Laval, Laurentides and Lanaudière, then minutes later was spread to up-province Quebec.

  Venegas’s sudden departure might have been purely co-incidence, but if he had somehow got warning that he was being moved in on, Michel was betting good money that Roman Lacaille was involved. ‘Check his usual haunts, and if there’s no luck put out an alert for his Beamer. It’s distinctive, can’t be too difficult to track down.’

  No news had fed back by the time Michel led Donatiens into a private room. Setting up the tape and having Donatiens brought a coffee killed another eight minutes, but still nothing. Michel’s unease returned. It promised to be a tense session, but knowing that Venegas was loose out there somewhere added an extra edge. If anything broke, he was going to be excusing himself a fair few times from the interview room; part of the key was not letting Donatiens know the state of play with Venegas.

  The other thing pressing hard now on Michel, an increasing leaden cloak of suspicion that seeped like cold rain through every muscle, making him shudder, was that if Venegas had received a warning – which then might also explain how Roman Lacaille knew that Savard was in with them – then just who in his department could be the leak?

  Roman Lacaille held his speed steady at 65 mph on Highway 40 towards Trois Rivères and Quebec City.

  ‘Where is this cabin?’ Venegas asked, glancing briefly across from re-tuning the radio as the Montreal easy-listening FM station they’d been listening to began to crackle and fade.

  ‘About eighty miles north. Lake Shawinigan, just beyond Trois Rivères. In the summer it gets busy, but this time of year it’ll be deserted. It’s ideal.’

  ‘Is it a family cabin?’ Venegas raised an eyebrow. ‘I mean – is it going to be an option they might easily jump for?’

  ‘What, you think I’m stupid.’ Roman waved one hand off the wheel, as if with another quick flip he might just slap Venegas. ‘It’s a friend of a friend’s. They ain’t going to trace it in a hurry.’

  Venegas had always unsettled Roman. The product of a Sicilian mother and Venezuelan father, he had tight-knit curls and thick lips which might have been sensuous if they weren’t so out of place with his button-bead dark eyes and hardly any eyelids. But then he hadn’t chosen Venegas for his social companionship, it had been his reputation as an ice-veined hit man – which made Roman all the more unsettled now thinking of what lay ahead. Venegas had put on a baseball cap to hide his trademark curls and shield part of his face; obviously he was concerned that photos might already be out on the wire.

  Venegas looked across hopefully from beneath the cap’s peak as Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called’ came across. ‘Is that okay?’

  Roman shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’ll do.’ The other brief flash choices had been Waylon Jennings, some hip-hop and a religious programme; but most of all the repetitive sound-burst changing grated on Roman’s nerves, given everything else swimming around in his mind.

  Getting Venegas away had been frantic: his warning phone call, then Venegas packing a bag and getting clear with probably only minutes to spare before the RCMP arrived at his door. At Roman’s instruction, Venegas had walked two blocks from his apartment and grabbed a cab to a Boulevard St Laurent café, where Roman caught up with him ten minutes later. Venegas threw his kit bag in the back seat, and they sped north.

  The first few miles, particularly crossing the Anuntsic Bridge, had been the worst. The tension tightened his nerves until the pulse throbbing at his temples ached. Still now he was tense and watchful for patrol cars, and his speed: several cars passed doing 70 mph or more, but just as many were going slower. He wanted to be as faceless and nondescript as possible among the traffic flow.

  Venegas was looking out thoughtfully over the snowbound landscape. ‘Is the cabin heated?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a wood-burning stove. And apparently there should be plenty of chopped logs at the side.’ Roman looked across. ‘But anyways, you’re not going to be stopping there long. Ten days, two weeks for the heat to die down, time too to get a fake passport – and then you’ll be gone.’

  ‘Do you know where to yet?’

  ‘Martinique – I know a few places there. Or maybe Yucatan or Cuba; we’ve been doing some business there recently.’ Roman shrugged. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet.’ He was making it up as he went along. He knew that Venegas wasn’t going to make it any further than eighty miles north. But he was becoming increasingly anxious as the miles rolled by knowing that Venegas was armed to the teeth: a semi-automatic in his kit-bag and a 9mm in his inside pocket. Roman had asked what Venegas was carrying by-the-way, as if he might make up any shortfall. Roman had two guns with him: a .44 in his inside pocket and a .38 in his glove compartment.

  ‘Martinique sounds nice,’ Venegas said absently.

  ‘Yeah,’ Roman agreed. He welcomed the light conversation to ease his nerves; it might also help Venegas chill out. Venegas had noticeably calmed form the first frantic half-hour of their drive, but at moments his gun hand was still skitterish – clenching and unclenching on his knee or starting a move towards his jacket with the occasional car passing close. Roman could do with relaxing that hand a notch more. ‘Our mom goes down there regularly. She gets any browner and picks up any more patois, s
he’ll be a native.’

  ‘How long would I have to stay away?’

  ‘Could be a while. Eighteen months, maybe more for something like this to blow over.’

  ‘Beaches good down there?’ Venegas asked, thinking ahead to swaying palms and white sand when nothing but snow rolled past their window.

  ‘Yeah, real good. Mom stays in the south of the island, le Diamant, and there’s a beach there that…’

  Roman broke off at the moment, noticing for the first time the squad car hanging four cars back.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked as Roman’s eyes flickered repeatedly to his rear-view mirror.

  ‘Blue and white. But whatever you do don’t look round.’ Roman noticed Venegas’s gun hand, which had slowly relaxed with the tropic-isle talk, clench tight and tense again on his thigh. ‘Hopefully won’t be a problem.’

  ‘I thought you said your plan would work.’ Venegas stared stonily ahead.

  ‘I thought it would.’ But as the squad car moved up closer to only two cars behind, Roman had his doubts. He could picture them checking the registration, then they’d pull up just behind and the siren would wind up for them to pull over. Venegas’s gun hand sneaked inside his jacket.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Roman fired Venegas a warning glare. ‘They’ll have a pump-action pointed at the back of our heads before they even step out.’ He glanced back in his mirror to see the squad car ease up just behind.

  ‘We’ve got to do something.’ Venegas’s eyes shifted frantically, at one point towards his kit-bag in the back with the semi-automatic. ‘Can’t just let them take me like this.’

  Roman’s brow sweated, trying to weigh up the squad car and what Venegas might do next. Still no siren as yet. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Roman hissed under his breath, as if the car behind might hear. ‘Why do you think they’re hanging back? They’re radioing for back-up. Even if they decide to pull us over on their own, the cavalry will be here before your gun’s even stopped smoking.’

  Roman’s jaw tensed as the squad car pulled out from behind and started edging up alongside. Roman wasn’t sure whether to keep staring straight ahead or glance over as you might with any car that passed close. Venegas’s face too was a tense, frozen study, now turned slightly away – but at least his gun hand had eased away from his jacket and was rested back on his thigh. The squad car pulled directly level, and Roman finally went in-between and cast a brief sideways glance without hardly shifting his head. But the passenger seat officer paid little notice to them, he seemed wrapped up talking to the driver.

  They eased by in only seconds – though for Roman it felt like torturous minutes, expecting the siren to suddenly wind up or another officer to pop up from the back seat and point a pump-action through the window at them – and then they were past.

  Roman didn’t speak again until they were thirty yards clear.

  ‘See, told you.’ He let out a long, slow breath. ‘My plan with switching cars worked.’

  Roman Lacaille’s black BMW was stopped eighteen minutes earlier on Boulevard Viau, en route to Carlo Funicelli’s shop in St Leonard – he wouldn’t return to listen in to Donatiens again until that night.

  Frank Massenat was driving, and three squad cars converged – two following who raised the siren to push them over and another that arrived seconds later from the opposite direction.

  Five guns were trained on Massenat and Funicelli while they were summarily searched, faced away, hands on the roof of the car. No guns were found: Massenat knew that even a simple carrying violation could get him six months. And when their names were found not to match those of the alert, the lead Constable put a call back in to Dorchester Boulevard.

  Chac came on within a minute, and fired a chain of questions relayed through the Constable.

  ‘Where’s Roman Lacaille now, and why are you driving his car?’

  Frank Massenat answered that he didn’t know where Roman was, and he only had the car because it had to go to a garage later. ‘It’s playing up. Ticking noises from the engine.’

  ‘What’s Roman driving now?’

  ‘I don’t know. He said he was going to hire a car.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Pardon. Don’t know that either.’

  Chac didn’t believe any of it for a minute, but there was nothing he could do. He instructed the Constable to let them go, then headed for the interview room to tell Michel the bad news.

  Venegas’s photo came up on the small TV at the back of the counter by a display of sweets, and Roman tried not to look too interested as the cashier totted up the last of the groceries in his basket. Morning news on TQS, one of the main Quebec TV stations; the sound was on low and Roman could hardly pick out what was being said.

  He’d turned off the freeway for Lac Shawinigan and stopped at the first gas station with adjoining store to pick up groceries for Venegas’s stay. Venegas wouldn’t be needing any of it, it would all end up in his own kitchen cupboards – but it was important to keep up the illusion, not give any reason for Venegas to become suspicious or tense. For the same reason he’d made the journey alone. Frank Massenat in the back seat might have sent the signal that it was a one-way trip.

  ‘Fifty-eight dollars, forty. Merci.’

  The news had moved on to a light plane crash near Jonquière as Roman paid and got his change.

  His breath showed heavy on the cold air making his way out to the car. He wondered whether to say anything to Venegas about the news flash, but decided finally against it. It would only make Venegas edgy and tense again. He’d only in the last twenty minutes managed to get Venegas’s nerves settled back to anything near normal after the patrol car edging past. Venegas was starting to think of two weeks quiet rest in a log cabin, then off to Martinique. Keep him thinking that way.

  ‘There.’ Roman dumped the bags in the back seat, started up and pulled out. ‘Should keep you going for a while.’ He gave a brief glance in the rear-view mirror before joining the road. The front of the car and Venegas had been faced away; even if someone had paid heed to the news flash, Roman doubted they’d have noticed Venegas.

  ‘What did you get?’ Venegas asked.

  ‘Coffee, bread, some burgers, tuna, a few tins of salmon.’ Roman waved one hand theatrically and smiled. ‘You want fresh fish, just cut a hole in the ice and put a line down.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Venegas fired back only a half, sly smile, and Roman wasn’t sure whether Venegas was questioning that there were fish there, or the fact that Venegas the back-woodsman cut such an unlikely image. He reminded himself not to get testy. Keep Venegas relaxed.

  ‘Sure. Plenty of fish down there, winter and summer. Just cut a hole, smile down at ‘em, and they’re leaping up out at you already.’ Roman chuckled.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Venegas sounded unconvinced as he looked away, blandly surveying the passing scenery.

  If that’s what it took, playing the oaf, thought Roman, then fine. Venegas was more relaxed than he’d seen him all journey. ‘A couple of summers ago, even Franky had a try and caught some fish. One look from him you think would scare them away. You know what we call him?’ Roman looked across. A sign flashed past: Lac Shawinigan, 8 miles. Venegas shrugged and smiled back weakly. Roman chuckled. ‘Franky-stein. All he needs is a bolt through the neck…’

  Roman kept the banter up on and off for the next few miles, with Venegas providing the occasional comment and smile, and Roman felt his jaw start to ache with the effort of forcing a smile beyond the tension drawing his nerves increasingly taut as they got closer to Lake Shawinigan. Roman felt as if his nervous system was plugged in directly to every minute detail: the thrum of the wheels on the road, Venegas’s slow blink as he surveyed the snow-bound landscape, Venegas’s left hand moving up… past his jacket to rub his nose as he turned to Roman.

  ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble with all this for me?’ Venegas said.

  With the silent lull after the chain of banter, Rom
an wondered whether Venegas had picked up on his tension. ‘Nooo… no problem.’ Roman pushed an easy smile and waved one hand from the wheel. ‘The fix you’re in is directly as a result of you doing something special for me. It’s down to me to put right, no question.’ He stared the message home, keen to re-assure Venegas; but he couldn’t discern any wariness in Venegas’s eyes. He looked back sharply to the road. The turn off for Lac Shawinigan showed fifty yards ahead.

  He slowed, indicated – though no traffic was approaching and only a single car was just visible a quarter of a mile behind – and swung in, gripping the wheel firm to stop his hands from visibly shaking. A rough track, in the summer is was bumpy, but now thick snow had evened it out. No visible tyre tracks: nobody had been down here in recent hours.

  ‘Which cabin is it?’ Venegas asked.

  Roman was thrown for a second. The one and only time he’d visited three years back it had been summer, the tree foliage thick; now foliage was sparse and the ice-bound lake and the cabins were visible through the trees. ‘Oh, uh… the third on the right,’ he made a guess. He remembered only it was on the right, but wasn’t sure between the third and fourth cabin. It hardly mattered: Venegas wouldn’t be making it that far.

  The cabin was a friend of Frank Massenat’s and his one visit had been to thrash out a drugs deal with the head of the bikers, Roubilliard. He wouldn’t have risked bringing Venegas out to a Lacaille family cabin. But now following Venegas’s gaze towards the lake and the cabins, he saw something that worried him: what looked like smoke rising from the fifth cabin along… someone was out here! Then it was lost behind some fir trees as he came up to the car park spread out on their right. No vehicles there.

  Roman swung in. ‘See… told you. Nobody around this time of year. You won’t see anyone now till end of April, May.’ But Roman was still wondering about that smoke, eager to get another glimpse. A line of fir trees bordered the edge of the car park and the first ten yards of pathway towards the lake; he’d have to wait until they walked past them.