The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Until the problem with Leduc and Jean-Paul’s suspicion. He’d spent hours briefing Leduc beforehand, getting him to painstakingly fill in details in a little black book. They made sure it gave nothing away, would just send Jean-Paul on a few wild-goose chases. ‘You don’t give the book up too easy though – that would look suspect. Wait until I interrupt and start pressing hard, then finally you pull it out of your ankle sock.’

  Roman knew all along that he was going to blast Leduc as soon as he pulled it out. They might have put Jean-Paul off with a smokescreen for a few weeks, but he’d have kept pushing and eventually Leduc would have cracked. Roman was close to breaking out laughing by the third time Leduc wanted to run through the sequence and timing with the notebook, as if it was a dress rehearsal for his big moment. Bigger than he realized.

  Then Tremblay, then Savard… now Donatiens. Maybe there should be a definition in mob handbooks. Felucci’s theorem: the size of the fuck-up minus the number of people involved, times the money and gain squared, shall determine how many finally need to be wasted.

  His wry smile quickly faded. Fifteen months now he’d sweated that one problem with an iron fist and muscle and blood – how it used to be in the old days before Jean-Paul developed a conscience. And he was good at this double game. What he savoured most was that everyone thought he was so dumb, the bone-headed muscle-man, a Neanderthal ‘Moustache Pete’ symbol of the years they’d left behind; and meanwhile he was playing them all like a string quartet.

  But now there was another player in town. One just as sharp at this double game as him – and from what had now happened with Donatiens – obviously equally as willing to bend the rules. Because if he or Cacchione weren’t behind the attempted hit on Donatiens, there was only one remaining option.

  DS Crowley decided to give Gordon Waldren one last push. He called at the house without announcement, having already been told by his men keeping watch that Waldren was in: he wanted this to be eye to eye, to see Waldren’s reaction.

  Crowley started by just asking straightforwardly if Gordon Waldren had had any contact with his wife or knew where she was. ‘No’ to each, and Crowley grimaced as if he’d bitten into sour fruit. He’d stayed standing, saying he wouldn’t be long, and started pacing as he turned the screw.

  ‘You know that when I saw you last time, I said that we’d have to put out a general alert on your wife and Lorena. Well, that was finally done.’ Crowley didn’t enlighten that he’d put it out practically the moment he’d left Waldren: at least the next part was the truth. ‘That was just a missing persons alert, not a criminal one. Then we’d pile on the pressure if we received a specific lead.’ Crowley didn’t feel like going into the fiasco in France either; he didn’t want to give Waldren the satisfaction of knowing that the false trail he’d led there had worked. ‘But we are now coming up to the point where we will have to put out that criminal alert, unless you co-operate.’

  Gordon shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I see the difference. I thought an alert was an alert, and you’d have either put one out by now or not.’ Gordon hoped that his anxiety wasn’t obvious. He was meant to leave any minute, and his pad with notes was still by the phone along with a fax from the private investigator he’d put on Ryall. He made sure not to even glance that direction and possibly bring Crowley’s attention to them.

  ‘The difference is that it will suddenly be shifted to grade one priority. Right now it will be on most police computers courtesy of Interpol. But they get a lot of ‘missing person’ enquiries – enough as it is from their own neck of the woods. So often they’re not given priority. All of that will change by say –’ Crowley theatrically checked his watch – ‘Five pm tomorrow, twenty hours from now, if your wife either hasn’t returned Lorena or confirmed firm, verifiable arrangements that she’s on her way back. That gives you more than enough time to make contact and convince her. After that, she’ll be hunted down in earnest. She’ll be top priority on computers worldwide.’

  ‘I see.’ Gordon gazed thoughtfully towards the window. Taking Crowley at face value, he was concerned. But he couldn’t help wondering if it was all just a ruse for Crowley to be able to set another pressure deadline after the first hadn’t worked: a second bite at the cherry. But Gordon didn’t have time to banter and perhaps draw him out. Crowley had caught him seriously on the hop: he was meant to leave in only a minute for his next arranged call to Elena. He needed to wrap this up quickly.

  ‘Well, if and when she does make contact – I’ll be sure to pass that on.’ Gordon pushed a tight smile. A ‘We’re finished here’ look. But Crowley’s reaction was to take a seat, and Gordon’s heart sank: he was settling in!

  Crowley’s expression clouded, his forehead furrowing. ‘I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this, Mr Waldren. First of all you’re insulting my intelligence by insisting that your wife so far hasn’t made any contact with you – if nothing more than to check on the welfare of her own children. But this now means that she’ll be hunted as a criminal. And the reason that she hasn’t been listed as such to date is down to me – mainly because of the tape you played and your insistence that your wife was not a kidnapper. I decided to take you at your word on that, Mr Waldren.’ Crowley looked across keenly: Waldren was trying to brush the whole thing quickly off, act offhand; but Crowley could tell that beneath the surface he was agitated, off-balance. What Crowley hadn’t mentioned was that the alert status had been mainly for their benefit, not Waldren’s. The tape had been one factor for not listing Mrs Waldren as a ‘kidnapper’, because of possible later problems with the CPS*. But the main reason had been a Metropolitan Police case fifteen months back where an estranged father had abducted his eight-year old son and taken him to Italy. They’d listed the alert as a kidnapping, which rang major alarm bells with the Italian Caribinieri. In the resultant storm-trooper style siege, the father was shot and seriously wounded. The size of the financial claim was only surpassed by the dent to police PR. Turton advised caution, at least for the first alert put out. ‘Now having gone out on a limb for you, I don’t think insulting my intelligence is really a fitting repayment – do you?’

  Gordon nodded solemnly, looking down. ‘No, no… you’re right. I’m sorry.’ He had no doubt anymore that Crowley was either telling the truth or it was a very good bluff. But he had to get rid of him quickly: already a minute over when he should have left, and he should leave at least another two for Crowley to get clear. But no point in trying to make light of it or act indifferent, that was just raising Crowley’s hackles and making him dig in his toes. He’d have to indulge him. ‘Look, my wife has called – but I just can’t say where she is. It really is up to her to decide what to do now. But I will, I promise, pass on what you’ve said and try and convince her to return Lorena.’

  Crowley kept his eyes fixed on Waldren, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a second. ‘I think that would be very wise, Mr Waldren. Because some countries adopt a very serious and aggressive stance with kidnapping. And once the fresh alert has gone out, from that point on charges for kidnapping will almost automatically follow. At this stage while it’s still ‘missing person’ status, we still have the chance of stepping back from the brink.’

  ‘Yes, yes… I understand. Really, as soon as I’ve spoken to her, I’ll pass that on.’ Two minutes over, and counting. His brain was screaming: Go! Go! For God’s sake, just fucking go!

  ‘It would also greatly help your case if your wife gave herself up before we traced her: once we have, I think it would be that much harder to pull back from pressing full charges.’ They’d had great success with checking scheduled flights from all major airports in France and Belgium, but charters were proving more difficult; due to sheer volume they were only halfway through, they still had some way to go.

  ‘I understand.’ Gordon cast his eyes down for a second: hopefully final contrition. Go! Go! Go!

  ‘Right.’ Crowley nodded thoughtfully. He’d probably piled on the pressure as much a
s he could. He thought originally Waldren was trying to brush it all off through indifference – but now as Waldren stood up, he noticed one of his hands shaking. He’d struck a chord: Waldren was so panicked, he couldn’t bear to stay on the subject a second longer.

  Gordon felt a pang of relief as Crowley finally took the prompt and stood up – then quickly tensed again as Crowley looked towards the phone.

  ‘So – Five pm, no later. You’ll phone me before then and let me know one way or the other.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will. Don’t worry.’ Gordon quickly came around, blocking Crowley’s view of the phone and the papers there as he ushered him out.

  Crowley stopped just before the front door. ‘Oh, and another thing. You’re doing your wife’s cause no favours by bothering Ryall’s other daughter at university. He called us to complain.’ Brief strained smile. He didn’t want to give away that they’d been following Waldren.

  ‘Right, right… I’m sorry.’ He opened the door. Three minutes over, two minutes still to wait. He wasn’t going to make it! His nerves were hammering out of control, and for a moment he feared Crowley was going to bring up another last second issue – but then he appeared to think better of it, and with another curt smile and nod – ‘Five pm tomorrow then’ – he left.

  Gordon’s breathing was laboured, heavy, as he shut the door; he had to strain to hear Crowley’s receding footsteps, his car door closing, the car finally starting and heading away. He’d aimed to leave a full two minutes gap, but in the end he counted only fifty seconds before he grabbed the fax and notes by the phone and rushed from the house.

  He put his foot down hard. Six mile drive to the phone box: hopefully he might be able to claw back a minute or so. Crowley would likely have headed in the opposite direction towards Poole; the last thing he wanted was to race past him.

  He screeched to a halt and leapt out. The telephone box was on the opposite side of the road, but he could hear it ringing as soon as he was out of the car. He had to wait for one passing car, then bolted across. But within a yard of the box, it stopped ringing.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know what’s going on? It’s your job to fucking know what’s going on.’

  ‘I tell you, now it’s gone to S-18, there’s a complete shut-down on information on Donatiens here. Not a whisper’s being passed round – everything is being handled by Mundy’s team out of Ottawa.’

  Roman clutched the receiver tighter with Campion’s wheedling tone. He’d phoned through ten minutes ago as a clerk of the Court chasing a file – their usual pre-arranged alert. Campion then left Dorchester Boulevard and headed to a phone kiosk two blocks away to receive Roman’s call-back. ‘Someone must know something. Chenouda is still right at the heart of this, I know. And he can’t possibly be working this alone.’

  ‘No, he’s not alone. But it’s a tight knit group. Only two of his team, Chac Patoine and Maury Legault know anything – because they were apparently handling surveillance on Donatiens when he was snatched. But then Chenouda went straight to S-18. He hasn’t shared anything with the rest of his team, and I don’t even know if Patoine and Legault are still in the information loop now that it’s gone to S-18.’

  ‘Great. Fucking great.’ Roman’s jaw clenched. Just when he needed Campion the most, he was ineffectual, useless. Hopefully the bombshell with Chenouda would shake him up. ‘When I say Chenouda’s at the heart of this with Donatien’s… it’s more than you probably realize.’ He told Campion his theory that he thought Chenouda was responsible for snatching Donatiens to apply the final pressure to get him to testify. ‘Certainly it wasn’t me, and I know for sure it wasn’t Cacchione either – so you tell me. From where I stand, I don’t see any other option left.’

  Only the fall of Campion’s breathing at the other end for a second. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No. Deadly fucking serious.’

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, I know he was desperately trying to get Donatiens to testify… but going to those lengths.’

  ‘Sure? Sure I’m sure. If it wasn’t me or Cacchione – then who the fuck do you think it was? Boy Scouts practising rope-ties for Canada Day?’

  ‘I know. I know. I’m not doubting what you say: it’s just that it seems so… well, so extreme. Chenouda’s whole career would be at risk for a stunt like that – not to mention a healthy jail term on top.’

  ‘So, the Indian’s got big balls – it was him, no doubt. But what I’m getting to is Chenouda couldn’t have pulled something like this alone. He had help, and there must be clues and an information trail there somewhere. If you dig and push some, you’ll find them.’

  Campion sighed.’ You don’t get it, do you? It’s with S-18 now – I’ve got no jurisdiction or reason to push or even ask a single question about this case anymore. And the reason it’s with S-18 is that Chenouda has said he suspects an internal leak at Dorchester Boulevard – so the heat on that front is going to be intense. I’ll be keeping my head low and have my breath held as it is: if I start asking questions and probing, who do you think is going to fall first in the spotlight?’

  They both fell silent for a second. It hit Roman then just how clever Chenouda had been: he probably suspected a leak and needed S-18’s help in any case to put Donatiens in the Witness Protection programme. Yet at the same time putting everything in S-18’s hands out of reach of his own department put an extra camouflage over him arranging Donatiens’ abduction. But Roman just couldn’t leave things on that note; there was too much now at stake.

  ‘Then you’re going to have to take a leaf out of Chenouda’s book. He managed to organize snatching Donatiens without anyone knowing – you’re just going to have to dig without anyone knowing.'

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just too risky.’

  Roman felt his blood boil. He’d first got his hooks into Campion, an assistant Crown Attorney under Tom Maitland, when he learned about his gambling and high-life tastes. He’d have preferred someone in Chenouda’s own department because there were always delays in information filtering through to Maitland’s office, but it was the closest option going. Now he was beginning to feel even further short-changed.

  ‘You know what pilots always say. They say that nowadays the computers and automatic pilots do everything. That they really only need to concentrate for the few moments of take-off and landing; for the rest of the time they just watch the instruments and read a book, whatever. And that ninety percent of their training and the justification for their pay-packets goes into how they might react in an emergency; if, God forbid, something should go wrong. Well, the plane is going down now, Campion – this is when we fucking need you! Otherwise, what’s been the point of the money I’ve paid you these past two years?’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help.’ Campion was suddenly more hesitant, his voice tremulous. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what I can do now with S-18 involved.’

  ‘Well, you work that out and come up with something more positive next time we speak. And if you’re worried about raising too much attention with S-18, then just think on one thing: if Donatiens testifies and me and I go down – what do you think I’m going to say when they ask about my internal contact and there’s the chance of five or seven off of my sentence?’ Roman bathed in the warm glow of the stunned silence at the other end for a few seconds, then hung up.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  When Gordon hadn’t answered the first time, Elena had tried again after a minute or so – thinking that maybe he’d been held up in traffic or had car problems – and on the third try, he’d answered. They’d spent a while swapping respective tribulations and dramas – his with Crowley were almost insultingly trivial compared to hers: now it was decision time.

  Elena was relieved to hear that her flight hadn’t been traced yet, and the level of alert explained why she hadn’t been flagged down by the first squad car. The polic
eman who had approached her had seen her near miss and was merely enquiring if she was okay to drive on or if she needed assistance. But that would all change in only twelve hours: the next one to approach her would be with handcuffs and his gun drawn.

  She was on a phone in the Eaton Centre with Lorena at a table eight paces away in an open food hall area. The clatter and bustle of people eating echoed slightly; she had to cover her other ear at moments to hear Gordon clearly.

  She didn’t notice the man at a far table watching her every move between cappuccino sips.

  ‘If you’re not heading back, will you at least be sending Lorena?’ Gordon prompted. ‘As much as I know you’d like to keep trying – it’s probably the only sensible option left now.’

  ‘I know.’ Sensible? Nothing she’d done so far had been sensible; her whole life in fact, though she’d only discovered it these past few days, had been a nonsense. How was she suddenly going to gain 20/20 vision now?

  Dead ends at every turn, all her options fast closing down; and now she’d reached the stage of inaction through fear, almost fatalistically certain that whichever one she chose it would be wrong. Crowley’s deadline, little chance now of seeing her son, and nothing helpful in the investigative report on Ryall related from Gordon: nothing suspicious about the adoptions or around the time of Mikaya’s pregnancy; the only other link with children was him apparently doing party magic acts to pay his way through university.

  But the bombshell news from the Donatiens about Georges hung like a heavy cloud over most of their conversation. At first all Gordon could manage was ‘Oh Elena,’ followed by a weighty, defeated sigh. Then after a second: ‘I just don’t know what to say.’ That was all she seemed to get these days: silent empathy. The Donatiens so awkward they could hardly meet her eye, and now Gordon winded and lost for words. Only Lorena seemed to be bold enough to talk openly about it, ask her what was wrong; and she’d either fluff around it or openly lie. So in the end there was really nobody she was fully sharing the burden with.