The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Michel didn’t answer, he just continued staring straight through Donatiens, a faint smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, as if he could read the bluff. After a second he stood up, started pacing. ‘There was a specific reason why Savard was there that night to meet with Roman. You see, we could have gone with what we already had: Savard claiming that Roman shot Leduc, with you there beside him at the time. But Savard wasn’t actually in the car when it happened, and then too we’d have had the problem of winning over Roman’s likely plea of self-defence. Chances were we wouldn’t have been able to nail him. Roman claimed that Leduc had a gun, you see. It was there on the car floor by the time Savard reached the car.’ Michel looked back hard at Donatiens from the end of the table ‘But then you’d know all about that – you were right there with him when it happened.’

  Georges shook his head. ‘You know I’m not saying anything without a lawyer present – that was our arrangement.’ Georges glanced towards Maury for support. Maury had stopped doodling and started making notes. Not that there’d be much to note: Georges had no intention of saying anything.

  They were sat at a bare pine table with six chairs around. Minimalist Ikea to match the modern, Spartan lines of Dorchester Boulevard. An informal interview, so it had been agreed at the outset that it wouldn’t be taped. Georges was relieved also that there were no wall mirrors; nobody was looking in from another room.

  Michel rested his hands on the end of the table. ‘The main purpose of the meeting that night was for Savard to draw Roman out on the issue of the gun, try and break his self-defence cover. You see – Savard was pretty sure Leduc didn’t have a gun that night.’

  Georges looked down, hopefully shielding his flinch and the shadow that crossed his eyes in that second. Chenouda’s gaze was penetrating, unsettling; he could feel it searing through, probably reading volumes into his unsettled reaction.

  ‘Then again, you’d probably know that too,’ Michel aired. ‘Since you were right there beside him.’

  Georges was on his feet, his chair grating back abruptly. ‘Lawyer, lawyer, Chenouda – or I’m walking.’

  Michel ignored the protest, barrelled on. ‘And you know why Savard was sure Leduc didn’t have a gun? Because as Leduc got into his car for them to go to the meeting, Savard saw what was in his ankle sock: it was a note-book, not a gun. A black note-book.’

  Georges wished now he hadn’t stood; his legs felt suddenly weak, unsteady. ‘Is that so?’ he challenged, but his tremulous undertone defeated any intended bravado. Chenouda wasn’t fooled for a minute. Chenouda not only knew, he seemed pretty sure of his ground that Georges knew too; it was unnerving.

  ‘The other thing is – that gun on the floor?’ Michel’s tone rose questioningly. ‘Smith and Wesson 6900. Savard never remembered Leduc carrying a gun of that type. But it was one of Roman’s favourites for a compact, second gun.’

  Georges shook off a faint shudder as Chenouda’s glare burnt through him. He should never have come along; he’d walked into a lion’s den, a trap. He sat back down and let out a tired, worn sigh. ‘I want to leave. This isn’t what we agreed I came here for. I was just to listen to your tape, you apparently had some warning about the danger I was in – and that was it.’

  ‘Oh yes – your warning.’ Michel waved one hand in a dramatic sweep. ‘Do you really think Roman’s going to let you live after the trouble he’s gone to getting rid of every other witness to that night? And you pose far more of a threat than Tremblay or Savard. They could only put Roman there – you were right beside him.’ Michel stared the message home. ‘You’re the only one to know that it was cold-blooded murder rather than self-defence.’

  Georges cradled his head in one hand, massaging his temples. There was a lot of merit in what Chenouda said; in fact, too much merit, adding ballast to the silent demons gripping him since that night with Leduc. But he didn’t want Chenouda to know that he’d hit a nerve and risk falling deeper into his trap. He wanted somewhere at least a few blocks away over fresh coffee, or perhaps a shot of something stronger, to be able to self-examine, alone, what he really thought. He didn’t even trouble to look up this time. ‘You’ve played the tape, you’ve issued your warning – can I go now?’ A worn, flat tone.

  ‘Can I go now?… Can I go now?’ Michel parodied. ‘You’re a fucking stuck record.’ He waved a hand to one side. ‘Sure, be my guest. Go out there and let Roman kill you.’

  Georges looked between Chenouda and Maury, hardly believing he was being let go so soon, before getting uncertainly to his feet. ‘I’m not convinced Roman had anything to do with Savard’s death. So I’m afraid I just don’t see the danger the same way you do.’

  ‘Not convinced?’ Michel raised an acute eyebrow. ‘I thought you bankers were meant to be sharp guys. Oh, and I forgot–‘ He put one hand up, a stopping motion. ‘Pretty soon we’re going to know for sure whether Roman had anything to do with Savard or not. Which was actually the other reason why I asked you in right now.’ Michel drew fresh breath and explained about Venegas being ID’d from a Jaques Cartier Bridge camera; he was being sought as they spoke. Michel glanced at his watch: almost an hour since they’d gone to Venegas’s apartment, twenty minutes since they pulled up Massenat in Roman’s BMW. Chac and his team were now parked within eyesight of Venegas’s apartment entrance and a province-wide alert was out. How much longer before he showed? ‘We expect him to be pulled in any minute.’

  Georges sat slowly back down again. ‘So if you’ve got him – what do you need with me?’

  ‘What I need is for you to see this as your last opportunity. With Roman fingered by Venegas, he’ll likely go down for Savard and Leduc – because without one there isn’t motive for the other. And we’ve got Savard on record putting you right beside Roman when it happened. So the minute we cuff Venegas – you’re just one beat away from going down for accomplice to murder.’ Michel stared the threat home, seeing the alarm rise in Donatiens’ eyes before Donatiens became uncomfortable and averted his gaze. ‘Unless, that is, you give us your account first. Now’s your chance. Maybe your only chance.’

  Georges ruffled his hair brusquely before looking back directly at Chenouda. ‘We’re into lawyer territory again. And we agreed at the outset I wouldn’t be answering anything where I might need a lawyer.'

  Michel ignored it. He sensed that he was close to breaking Donatiens. Just a turn more on the screw. ‘I might be wrong – but I don’t think you’d have willingly gone along with Roman, knowing that he was about to murder Leduc. That isn’t your role in the Lacaille organization. And witness to self-defence is not even a misdemeanour. But with you staying quiet, it’s starting to look more and more like it was murder.’ Michel held one hand out, an invitation. ‘If you come clean, I’ll make sure you don’t even see a cell door. But if not…’ Michel waved the same hand towards more uncertain, worrying alternatives.

  Georges felt the small room closing in on him tighter. His pulse was racing and there was a constriction in his throat making swallowing difficult. He couldn’t believe how quickly everything had been turned around on him. An hour ago he’d been heading to his office, now he was only a step away from a jail cell. Depending on what move he made next.

  Michel felt the conflicts tugging at Donatiens like raw electricity in the air; he was hovering close to the brink. Just one more push should do it. ‘You need to share this with someone for another reason, Georges. Every minute you keep this secret to yourself, you pose a threat to Roman. While he can’t breathe easy – how much longer do you think he’s going to let you breathe? With the secret out, that problem goes too. You get rid of the death threat and the jail cell in one.’

  Georges had to admit, it was tempting: no more double game with Jean-Paul and wondering what Roman might do next, no more dreams in the middle of the night with Leduc’s blood sticky against his skin, no more… Georges suddenly stopped: Jean-Paul! His main anxiety all along had been his guilt over not telling Jean-Paul, and this woul
d just constitute further betrayal. He owed Chenouda the same as Roman: nothing!

  Georges shook his head. ‘If this was just about Roman, fine. But I work for Jean-Paul, not Roman.’ Georges felt the escape rope firmly in his grasp, felt it pull back some of his clawing nerves. ‘I would do nothing to betray the trust Jean-Paul has put in me, and believe me, it’s reciprocated. Even if I did have reason to fear Roman, he wouldn’t be able to make a move on me without sanction from Jean-Paul. Which won’t be forthcoming – now or at any time. So while I appreciate your concern about my safety – thank you, but it’s misplaced.’ Georges forced a hesitant smile.

  Michel’s jaw tightened. At times he could look upon Donatiens as the business innocent caught up in the Lacaille’s wolves’ den; at others, like now, he was the smooth, smug money-launderer hiding the Lacaille’s dirty millions and laughing up his sleeve at the RCMP. And when that view held sway it angered him all the more because, unlike Jean-Paul and Roman, Donatiens had had a choice: he was outside of their world and had a highly-paid respectable job with a bank. He could have simply turned his back.

  Michel sneered thinly. ‘Jean-Paul and Roman have worked side by side now for over twenty years. They’ve been through hell and high water together, buried both their father and their younger brother in the name of a crime empire that’s survived now two generations. If it comes to the crunch and that’s threatened – do you really think Jean-Paul’s going to take your side over Roman’s just because you’ve turned some good trade these past few years and you’re shacked up with his daughter?’

  ‘We’re to be married, in case you haven’t heard.’ Georges tone was indignant. ‘But where all your theories fall apart is that they’re not even involved in crime anymore.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? The bikers are still getting their supplies to distribute. It’s business as usual. And a lot of the old Lacaille contact names, like Leduc, keep cropping up.’

  ‘It’s Cacchione, or a new independent. Maybe even more than one.’

  Chenouda’s sneer was back. ‘You and I both know that Medeiros won’t go near Cacchione. And he wouldn’t trust these levels of transactions to some new kids on the block. He’s dealing with old friends; and with Cacchione out of the picture, that leaves only the Lacaille family.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? That’s what me being brought in was all about. To make money from legitimate enterprise so that they didn’t need crime. After Pascal was shot, everything…’ Georges faltered, his voice trailing off. He was getting drawn out by Chenouda, heading into areas he shouldn’t be talking about. ‘Look – we’ve covered much more here than we agreed. I’ve got to go.’ Georges stood up and smiled tightly. ‘Earn some more legitimate money.’

  Michel shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure. Cool your heels for a while in one of our cells while we pick up Venegas – then you’re free to go.’

  ‘What?’ Georges voice was strained with incredulity. ‘You said before I could go straightaway.’

  ‘Oh, did I say that? You know, that’s the problem with not running a tape. You never can keep track from one moment to the next.’ Michel’s voice was heavy with sarcasm; then his tone suddenly became low, threatening. ‘You must be kidding. You know now we’re onto Venegas. As soon as you walk out of here, you could put a call through to Roman and ruin our operation. And if you want to call a lawyer, fine – he’ll only tell you the same: that under section 359 we’re allowed to hold someone up to twelve hours when an active operation might be threatened.’

  ‘You bastard, Chenouda.’ Georges glared back hard. ‘You knew all the time you were going to do this. You planned it.’

  Michel moved in closer. ‘No. I pulled you in to save your neck from Roman – which you don’t seem to appreciate. And also because this is your last chance to save yourself from a charge of accomplice to murder. Once we’ve pulled in Venegas, that chance has gone. So now you’ve got some free time to contemplate the wiseness of talking or not.’

  Georges met Chenouda’s hard stare evenly. The nerves were back somersaulting in his stomach and tightening his throat, and his first instinct was to continue fighting back. But the roller-coaster ride of the last half-hour had drained him and the situation seemed almost too surreal for comment, so that all that came out in the end was, ‘This is ridiculous,’ huffed on a weak exhalation. ‘So when do you expect to be picking up Venegas?’

  Michel turned away slightly. ‘A half hour. Maybe an hour or two. Who knows?’

  Georges’ shoulders slumped at the prospect of possibly hours in a jail cell. ‘You knew it all the time,’ he hissed. ‘You knew that–’

  ‘We don’t have time for this now,’ Michel cut in brusquely, holding one hand up. ‘… I’ve got an operation in progress to get back to. All I can say again is use the time wisely to re-think whether it’s worth taking an accomplice to murder rap for the Lacailles.’ He stared the weight of the message home one last time, but still he couldn’t tell if he’d made any inroads.

  He repeated Donatiens’ right to a lawyer, but Donatiens merely fired back defiantly, ‘If I’m not going to talk, what’s the point?’ before Maury led him away.

  Michel sat down slowly in the silence of the interview room. The exchange had exhausted him. Hopefully some time in the cells would weaken Donatiens’ resolve; he’d get a taste of what the next few years might be like if the chips fell the wrong way for him, and crumble.

  The confrontation had given him more the measure of Donatiens, but still he wasn’t sure: the business innocent, or the smooth money-launderer? Maybe the next few hours with Donatiens within arm’s each in the cells below would help provide some clarity for both of them.

  Elena stared into the churning water over the side of the ferry rail.

  A faint mist obscured landfall at the far end of Poole harbour and the open sea at her back. The short ferry hop had come to symbolise for them freedom, escape from all the madness of the world outside, but now it felt as if they’d merely been escaping reality and the veil had finally been lifted on just what a waste half her life had been.

  Elena had protested with Edelston that surely the fact alone that Ryall had taped their last meeting showed his guilt. Edelston didn’t agree. Ryall suspected that Lorena was being led and cajoled into admitting something that just hadn’t happened, was purely in her dreams, and the tape had born out that concern.

  Elena had launched one last desperate assault. ‘That’s what we’d hoped for in recommending psychiatric assessment. It would have separated the dreams from the reality and cleared up any doubt once and for all.’

  ‘That as may be. But due to your over-eagerness and over-stepping the line, that chance I’m afraid has now gone.’

  She shook her head. Nothing more she could do for Lorena; unsure now whether the leaden weight sagging her shoulders was because she felt to blame, or the sense of redundancy and helplessness. But was it too late to save herself?

  When she’d first made the ferry hop, she’d been with her parents and younger brother. She’d been only eight years old, and imagined that she was sailing away to a magical, mystical land; that the short strip of sea separated them from an entirely different world. It became all the more magical when she discovered the chine. They’d been on the beach and she’d gone deep inside, out of sight, and she’d lost track of time wrapped in its cool, shaded embrace, sitting by the gently running brook while a squirrel eating a berry on a nearby branch looked at her curiously. She’d been gone for over forty minutes, her parents berated her when she emerged. They’d been frantically looking for her, worried that he might have drowned. Her father’s anger was strongest, and finally it boiled over. He landed an increasingly hard flurry of smacks on her backside before her mother intervened. It was just one of many volcanic eruptions of her father’s constantly stern, bubbling temperament, and her and her brother spent half their lives in fear of ever provoking it.

  The first time she’d made the ferry journey with Gordon had been fif
teen years ago. They’d been going out together for only three months, then after that made the habit of coming down every spare weekend in the summer months. Gordon was working in the City at the time, and for him the short ferry hop symbolised separation from the mad cut and thrust of the finance markets that consumed him all week. A year after they were married, they bought a weekend cottage in Chelborne, only two miles from where they now lived.

  Then six years ago came Gordon’s heart attack and his decision to leave the City and them move to the area permanently. They put out requests with local estate agents, and details of the house overlooking the chine came through their letter-box four months later. They stayed in the weekend cottage while improvements were made, Gordon started a small investment brokerage based from home, handling a select few old clients to which were gradually added some local clients, and she also shifted half her London workload to a home desk and computer. When she wasn’t on a plane or truck bound for Eastern Europe, she spent most of her time on the phone, so it hardly mattered whether she was in London or Dorset.

  Gordon’s income was more than halved, but their London house sale had left them with a healthy financial cushion. Most importantly, Gordon felt happier, less stressed, and they both had more quality time to spend with the children.

  Elena shook her head. Each stage in their lives appeared so carefully planned and mapped out – except that half of it had been a lie throughout. And she’d lived that lie now for so long that she could never bring herself to tell Gordon; it would cut him to the quick, summon another heart attack. No, this was a quest she’d have to make alone, in secret.

  ‘Christos Georgallis…’ She muttered the name almost as an incantation under her breath, quickly swallowed on the steady breeze swirling into Poole harbour. Twenty-nine years? She wondered where he was now. She had so much to tell him: that she’d never stopped thinking about him; that she’d always loved him, and that she was sorry, sorry… sorry. She clenched her eyes tight as the tears welled. Oh my God, she was sorry.