The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  But it was too late to leave the queue and turn back – eight or ten people now behind them – they’d be spotted by the guard ahead, singled out. And so she just continued shuffling numbly forward like a condemned person, almost certain now that there would be no last minute reprieve.

  Simone drove blindly for the first twenty minutes, the passing buildings and oncoming traffic blurred with her streaming teams. She was headed downtown, but with no idea where she wanted to go. Certainly not to the office: she’d already begged the morning off with an excuse, and the way she felt she’d probably take the afternoon off as well.

  She didn’t want to see or speak to anyone, or even be near people for a while, so decided in the end to head for Mount Royal Park. She wound her way to the far side of the hillside park and pulled into the parking for the look-outs over East Montreal and towards the North. In the summer, there would always be two or three coaches and several cars. But now, mid-week and barely out of winter, it was deserted all but for two cars and an elderly couple at the last telescope in line. Simone purposely parked furthest away from them.

  She took deep breaths, trying to claw back some composure, but her anger still burned red-raw and her eyes kept filling; she could barely pick out any detail from the blurry landscape ahead. The photos and the deception had been bad enough, but what hurt all the more, what she could never forgive Georges for, was how he’d played her for such a patsy with her father. She felt foolish, used; it made the betrayal far more bitter.

  The elderly couple were ambling back to their car, so she decided to get out. She wiped back her tears and walked across to the rail edge, looking out. There was faint spring warmth in the air from the mid-morning sun, but at the rail a biting wind hit her, making her eyes water again. Snow had all but gone from the city and surrounds, only patches of white could be seen in the distance, towards the totally white Laurentide mountain range on the horizon. She took a deep breath. The isolation was what she wanted to clear her head, but the Laurentides suddenly reminded her of skiing with Georges, and the images on the photos were quickly back, searing through. She needed a drink or three.

  She didn’t want to bump into anyone she knew, so picked out a bar at random on her way through Outremont. She started with a couple of Brandy Collins, but with the effects slow in washing through she went on to tequilas. Two quick shots later and she felt the first glow, her senses mellowing, swimming pleasantly. But she started to feel self-conscious drinking alone among strangers, a few eyes drifting her way and wondering why she was knocking them back so quickly.

  She headed for Thursdays. It was more of an evening haunt with her crowd, she wouldn’t bump into any friends, but at least the barman Miguel would be company and good for some advice.

  She went back onto Brandy Collins, was halfway through the first as she looked up thoughtfully and asked him, ‘Could you go for someone like me, Miguel?’

  ‘Yes, I… I suppose so.’ He was cautious, given the possible connotations: come on to a mob girl one week, end up in the river the next.

  ‘I mean…’ She toyed with her swizzle stick. ‘Do you find me attractive?’

  ‘Yes, of course… you’re a real pretty girl. But you’ve already got someone – Georges. I’ve got strict rules about things like that.’ Not necessarily true, he’d fooled around with a couple of married women; but he thought it was the right thing to say, would keep him clear of the river.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ She pulled a face and looked down into her drink. ‘Shame he’s not got the same rule book.’

  They were silent for a second. Miguel could see that she’d been drinking heavily, but her maudlin mood was the main signal that she wanted him to ask, ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She slowly nodded and pushed a rueful smile. ‘I just found out that Georges has been fooling around, cheating on me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He reached out and lightly touched her arm; the closest with consolation he dared get. ‘He’s a fool, that’s all I can say. ‘If you were my girl, well, for sure I wouldn’t treat you like that.’ He said this with conviction. Another step away from the river.

  ‘Thanks.’ Simone patted Miguel’s hand for a second before it was pulled away. ‘That’s–’ Her mobile started ringing ‘–that’s nice of you to say so.’

  Miguel broke away with a pained smile and went to serve some customers at the far end of the bar. She looked at the display: Georges’ office number. She’d promised to phone him midday to let him know how it went. 1.12pm now: obviously he was curious and wondering why she hadn’t called. Let him stew. She let it ring out, then as soon as it had stopped she switched it off.

  Miguel started to get busy with the lunchtime crowd, so she decided to leave. She didn’t feel like continuing about her problems with others close and, besides, what else was there to say? She knocked back her Brandy Collins and lifted one hand to Miguel, who volleyed ‘Take care now, Simone’ over the fresh people he was serving. The same pained smile. He was concerned about her.

  She ambled down Rue St Catherine, blindly window shopping – her thoughts were still elsewhere – then dived into Eaton’s shopping centre. But some of the shops reminded her of days out with Georges: the boutique where on impulse he’d bought her a dress she liked, the jewellers for her engagement ring… the tears were quickly back again, and she started to feel uncomfortable with so many people milling close, some of them looking at her curiously. She headed out to the street again. She was far too drunk to drive, so hailed a cab to the Latin Quarter. It should be quieter there.

  She dived into an Italian restaurant at the start of Rue St Denis – maybe she’d feel better if she ate something – but could manage only three mouthfuls of lasagne before pushing it away. Though she made good work of the half carafe of red she’d ordered with it, finishing it all. Two calls had come through to her mobile message board since she’d left Thursdays. She played them as she ambled away from the restaurant.

  The first was her father: ‘…I’m sorry everything went the way it did earlier. But I don’t want things just left on that note. Call me back as soon as you can.’

  The second was Georges: ‘I tried to get you an hour ago, but it didn’t answer. Please, if you have news on how it went… I’m getting frantic here, Simone. You know how important it…’

  His wheedling tone pushed her over the edge: she smashed her mobile against a lamppost to one side before the message had finished – then gave it three sharp stomps with her right heel. Fragments of plastic and circuit board splayed across the pavement. A waiter from a Vietnamese restaurant to one side was staring at her, and a group of three further down who weren’t quite in focus. She stepped back as if to detach herself from the mess, but her legs felt suddenly weak, unsteady, and she buckled slightly before righting herself. She fixed her gaze finally on a Labbatt’s sign twenty yards away and headed for it; she had enough of her senses left to know that she probably wouldn’t make it much further than that.

  Her hands were still shaking with rage as they wrapped around her glass, another Brandy Collins. She closed her eyes as she took the first few slugs. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard! And as she opened them again, she noticed for the first time the guy looking over from the end of the bar: late twenties, pony-tail, black T-shirt cut high on his shoulders – totally inappropriate for the weather, but it showed off his biceps and the small tattoo high on his right arm. Why was it men had some homing device to pick out drunken women who might be easy targets? She looked away, tried not to encourage him. Though maybe that’s what she should be doing: pick up some hunk and get him to fuck her stupid, then send Georges the photos. Let him see how it felt.

  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 step
father 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.’