The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  Mundy came on with a gruff ‘What is this?’ – clearly irritated at the intrusion – and Cole sneaked a quick glance at his watch as he explained the problem. Almost an hour and a half into their search: he wondered whether they’d still be in time.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ Roman rubbed his hands together and stomped his feet to fight off the cold.

  He wore a lined bomber jacket – it was still bitter at night in Montreal – but where they were now felt a good ten degrees colder. And with the waiting around, it was starting to cut through more to his bones.

  Funicelli studied the house through the night-sight binoculars: two lights on that he could see. One at the side upstairs which also shone through at the front onto the veranda – probably the main lounge. And the other downstairs at the back. They hadn’t been able to check the far side of the house; although the lake wrapping around was iced over, they’d have been too visible. But they couldn’t see any reflected glow on the lake surface.

  Thirty-five minutes now they’d been waiting for the two men escorting the English woman to leave – an hour and twenty minutes since Jake Kirkham had followed them there. Maybe Roman was wrong. He thought they’d be heading off to a local hotel or, if it was a brief meeting, heading back with the woman – but maybe they were staying the night. The house looked big, but was it big enough to take them all? These places usually had a tight spec: enough room for the guards and the main subject, with not a lot to spare. And already they might have to make room for the woman.

  Funicelli had placated that maybe it didn’t matter. With the gas he was using, it was going to knock all of them out anyway.

  But it was the panicky few minutes between them cutting the telephone and power lines and putting in the gas that Roman was worried about. With only three or four men, one would see to the generator and they wouldn’t dream of leaving less than two guarding Georges or risk sending someone out alone on reconnaissance. But with another two, they’d have the extra manpower to check for anything suspicious.

  Roman had decided to wait, but now the cold and his impatience were getting the better of him.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Roman muttered under his breath. ‘Maybe we should take all the fuckers out at the same time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Funicelli nodded mechanically, still checking through the binoculars.

  Massenat was to Roman’s side with Desmarais and Jake Kirkham hanging a couple of yards back, as if they were only peripherally involved with whatever the three decided.

  Roman had quickly set the tone on first greeting when Kirkham glanced at the blood splatters on one shoulder and arm and asked what happened. ‘I cut myself shaving.’ As Kirkham’s eyes shifted to the heavier splatters on Massenat’s collar and chest, Roman added with the same wry smile: ‘He’s got the same razor.’ The message was clear: Don’t pry. We’re here to get a job done, not answer twenty fucking questions.

  Kirkham’s other two goons they’d left over a mile away at the start of the dirt track leading to the lakeside. Funicelli had given them simple instructions on exactly where and how to cut the electricity and telephones to the house: one advantage in the wilds, everything ran overhead. But they looked like two rejects from Wayne’s World; Roman seriously wondered if they could manage even that without frying themselves.

  ‘Wait!’ Funicelli announced breathlessly, adjusting the sights. Shadow of figures moving across, but as the car interior light flickered on with one door opening, they became clearer. ‘Looks like they’re leaving after all.’

  ‘Great.’ Roman stomped his feet again, but now it was more to mark time: four or five minutes to let them get down the track and clear, then they could cut the lines and move in.

  ‘I know this call is going to seem strange to you – but I didn’t know what else to do.’

  Michel listened as Jean-Paul explained that his original plan had been to spirit Georges away somewhere, possibly Cuba – but he’d suddenly discovered that Roman had other plans. ‘…That’s why I’m phoning now.’

  ‘I know. That’s where I’m heading now,’ Michel said, and the line fell silent for a moment. Before Jean-Paul got the impression that his call might have been wasted, Michel added: ‘But the one thing I don’t know is exactly where the safe house is – only the general area. Did Roman mention anything to you?’

  Jean-Paul was fazed for a second that Chenouda didn’t know the location. ‘Uuh… just some place called Cochrane, Northern Ontario. But no exact address.’

  ‘Cochrane, Cochrane,’ Michel repeated, gesturing towards Stephan, the ERT Constable with the map.

  A moment while Stephan traced one finger about on the map, and then as it settled on one spot he held the map up towards Michel.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got it. We’ve got it!’ Such was his long-ingrained suspicion of the Lacailles that for a second it struck him that Jean-Paul could be giving him a false location. But he could see clearly that Cochrane was in sector 14. Another awkward pause, then: ‘Thanks. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you to call. I owe you a drink for this.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ Jean-Paul agreed, adding dryly: ‘And lifting the threat of a jail sentence from my head wouldn’t be a bad idea either.’

  The line clicked off and Michel looked towards the pilot. ‘Time estimate for Cochrane?’

  The pilot glanced at the map, skewing his mouth as he mulled it over. ‘Fifteen, sixteen minutes.’

  Michel tried to shake off his earlier despondency that they’d be too late. Still they needed to raise Mundy to know the exact location. That call finally came through ten minutes later.

  Michel breathlessly explained their dilemma and Mundy said that he’d phone through to warn them and call straight back. But when Mundy’s return call came, he had crushing news: subdued, defeated tone as he told Michel that the line was dead. He couldn’t get through.

  Michel’s stomach dropped like a stone, his hopes fading again.

  ‘What about mobiles?’ he asked frantically.

  ‘We don’t use them – for security reasons. Too easily tracked and monitored. The secure line is the only line in and out, and it’s already dead.’

  Michel closed his eyes. This time the image of them picking through the bodies was more vivid, difficult to shake off. But the hardest part Michel knew already would be him living with what he’d been responsible for.

  Ascending the stairs, Cameron Ryall had been in two minds what to do.

  It had been one of those days. Three days of being on the police’s back every other hour over Lorena with little or no positive feedback, then suddenly out of the blue they’d phoned mid-afternoon to say she was on her way. From Canada!

  Ryall shook his head. Most of the police search had been centred on Europe, no wonder they hadn’t found her. And now they were fluffing about whether or not to press charges.

  ‘She did give Lorena up voluntarily in the end. And then we’ve got the problem of that original tape left and her explanation of why she took Lorena: what she thought might be happening with her. Mrs Waldren took her to a couple of sessions in Canada, but nothing conclusive came out of that in the end – which is why she’s now returning her. But if we did press charges, no doubt all of that would come out in her defence.’

  The call had come through from Crowley. Obviously Turton found it all too awkward to tackle himself. It was left to Crowley to carefully tip-toe round words like molested or interfered with.

  Nothing conclusive. Ryall wondered just what had happened at those sessions in Canada. He’d have thought that pressing charges against Elena Waldren would normally have been automatic. Maybe more had come out than they were making out; enough at least for them to harbour strong doubts about proceeding against her.

  His step was measured as he made his way up. The thought was starting to rankle: what had come out of those sessions, what did they know? Probably now he’d never know, and did it really matter? If it had been that serious or suspicious, he’d have been the one the po
lice would be charging, or at the least asking some very pointed questions.

  His step was a shade lighter as he reached the top. He’d been in two minds, but finally decided not to go to Lorena’s room. Let her rest for a few days, settle in. But a few paces along he suddenly paused, having second thoughts. He listened out. Faint shuffle of movement from Nicola in their bedroom. She’d hit the gin and pills even heavier with the nervous anticipation of Lorena’s return. She’d be zonked out within minutes. Besides, she’d never interfered, had never dared in all of the eleven years since he’d discovered her secret. He remembered the one time she’d caught him by accident with Mikaya; she just turned from the doorway after a second without saying anything. The mounting neurosis of her carrying the burden of his secret on top of her own showed mainly with her increasing diet of pills and alcohol. It was all that kept her going. Pathetic, but Ryall was long past caring. The most important thing was that she wouldn’t disturb him.

  And Lorena’s first night back after such an ordeal – it was just the time that any father would brow-soothe, reassure. He turned and started towards Lorena’s room, his mouth suddenly dry with anticipation. And he’d desperately missed her: missed the gentle feel of her skin at his fingertips; the soft, even fall of her breath on his cheek as he’d lean over, lightly trace one finger across her closed eyelids just before he counted her back awake. She was totally his in that moment; he had control over practically her every breath.

  He stood stock still for a second, controlling his own breathing now as he looked down at Lorena; then, his hand visibly trembling, he reached out and lightly touched her hair. And in that moment it suddenly struck him how he might find out what had happened in the sessions in Canada.

  Bell’s every nerve-end was as taut as piano-wire as he watched the images on screen.

  And as Ryall started to talk and count Lorena down into a hypnotic sleep, he punched the air with a fist. ‘Yes, yes! Got you, you bastard! First night back, but you just couldn’t wait.’

  ‘…Seven… eight… feeling drowsier now, every limb in your body feeling totally relaxed. Drifting deeper… deeper…’

  Bell was on the edge of his seat as Ryall hit nine and ten, then reached out and lightly stroked Lorena’s cheek and passed the same hand twice only inches in front of her eyes.

  Then silence. Stone silence.

  Bell couldn’t tell whether Lorena was in a real sleep or not. Had Lowndes advice about mentally counting down other numbers worked?

  Bell watched Ryall’s hand. It had made contact again at her shoulder and traced down her arm a few inches, then stopped.

  Some trivia about the trip and Canada and the rough time she’d been through to which Bell didn’t pay much attention – he was too busy watching where Ryall’s hand might travel next. Then suddenly he tuned in to where the conversation was heading.

  ‘…And when you were there you saw a doctor. A psychiatrist. What did you talk to him about?’

  Bell’s whole body went rigid. Ryall was digging for what had happened in the sessions! If Lorena was really under, at any second she’d spill the beans. The whole operation would be over before it had started!

  ‘About my time at the orphanages… the sewers and Patrika. And about my family.’

  ‘I see. Your family. So what did he ask you about them?’

  Oh Jesus. Bell swallowed hard. He tapped one finger repeatedly on the desk by the screen, could hardly bare the tension of everything hanging on what Lorena said next. His eyes were back on Ryall’s hand. It had moved a fraction to lower on her arm, the thumb spread and touching the edge of her breast. But was it enough? Probably not. Could be construed as innocent.

  ‘Come on!’ Bell hissed. ‘Move that hand lower and –’ Then he suddenly stopped, could hardly believe he was egging Ryall on because he feared they might only have seconds left. And it suddenly hit him that if Ryall uncovered their game, realized that they were trying to entrap him – Lorena could be in danger. He glanced anxiously at the phone, wondering whether to call Crowley and stop it all now; except that they wouldn’t get there in time. If the game was up, Ryall would know everything within the next couple of minutes.

  ‘Different things. He… he seemed worried if I was happy with them.’

  ‘Happy with them... happy with them? But what did he ask you in particular about them?’

  Crunch time. Bell’s stomach sank. Their only hope was if Lorena wasn’t really under, could bluff and lie her way through. Ryall’s hand was on the move again: it traced tantalisingly down her arm and across, coming to rest on her stomach. Still not enough.

  ‘He… he asked me if anything bad was happening to me. Anything I didn’t like.’

  ‘What sort of bad things? What did he –’ Ryall suddenly broke off, looking towards the door as the telephone started ringing.

  Late for anyone to be calling, but then this was the night his stepdaughter had returned: maybe a relative or well-wisher. Bell’s pulse raced double-time. Was Lorena awake and fending Ryall off, or relating accurately how the session had gone? With the danger of FMS, Lowndes would probably have avoided directly prompting about Ryall molesting her. But within a few questions, Ryall would unearth the truth. The telephone stopped ringing: either they’d given up or Nicola Ryall had answered.

  And as Ryall looked down again at Lorena and finished his question, Bell leant closer to the screen, his eyes only inches away, following every small movement: the delicate flicker behind her closed eyes, her gentle moistening with her tongue as she spoke. His hands were balled tight in fists, and he unclenched one and lightly touched the screen. ‘Come on little angel, be awake. Be awake.’ But he couldn’t tell either way.

  Jean-Paul noticed the car trailing in his rear-view mirror soon after hanging up on Chenouda. Two cars behind, a steady fifty yards. But he was sure it was the same car he’d seen follow him into Avenue Papineau from Gouin. He’d since taken two more turns, and it was still with him a mile further on along St Denis.

  Just to make sure, Jean-Paul took the next right at Rue Jarry, then left again onto St Laurent heading towards the city centre. It followed at each turn the same steady distance behind – except for the last turn when almost a hundred yards grew between them when they had to wait for a car to pass before pulling out. No doubt left: they were trailing him!

  ‘Why are we trailing around like this?’ Raphael asked from the back ‘I though we were going to Le Piemontais?’

  ‘Yes, we are. We are.’ Jean-Paul wrenched his eyes from the mirror. He’d frightened them to get them out of the house, but he didn’t want to panic them now. He’d told Lillian where they were heading when she’d impatiently asked as soon as they’d started moving.

  But his eyes couldn’t help being drawn back to the car as he noticed it swing out and overtake the two cars in between, closing the gap again to fifty yards.

  As Lorenzo Petrilli cut back in from overtaking the last car, Nunzio asked, ‘Do you think he’s made us?’

  ‘I don’t know, I…’ Then, as he noticed Jean-Paul glance once more in the mirror. ‘Yeah, yeah – looks like it. I think he must have had some kind of warning. The way he left the house like his ass was on fire… and he made us too easily.’

  Nunzio looked at his brother for a second, not sure if he was just making excuses for following too obviously; but what he said made sense. He shrugged. ‘Whatever. We’re going to have to make our move sooner rather than later. Closer to downtown it’s going to get more difficult.’

  Lorenzo nodded. Right now they could make the hit and swing on to one of the cross highways and get away easily. Downtown there’d be more junctions before they could get clear, and more police cars. Lorenzo put his foot down, closing the gap towards Jean-Paul’s car.

  Jean-Paul’s palms were damp on the steering wheel as he watched the car move closer behind. Surely they weren’t going to make a move with his son and mother with him? They’d wait until he was alone. But as he watched the car edge close
r still, that hope began to fade.

  With his repeated glances in the mirror, this time Raphael picked up on his consternation. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Your uncle has sent someone to have me killed. And Lillian would be even more destroyed at discovering this Cain and Abel drama between her two beloved sons. All he said was, ‘What I was worried about earlier.’ Then, towards Lillian beside him in the front, he hissed under his breath: ‘Cacchione!’ The name meant something to her, but not the boy. That’s what it had been about all along: changing their lives so that his son didn’t have to live in the shadows like he’d had to. But now his son was in the middle of it all; in the end the shadows had reached out to him anyway.

  Jean-Paul’s jaw worked tight, cursing Roman: he’d been so eager that everything else had quickly gone to the wind; he’d broken the golden rule: never involve other family.

  Jean-Paul took the gun out of his jacket and held it in his lap as the car edged closer – only twenty yards behind now – feeling Raphael’s eyes on him anxiously. His father the great protector. In reality he hadn’t fired a gun in years, and Roman knew that too: he’d be an easy target.

  The car moved closer – twelve yards, ten – and at that moment its full beam came on, washing them in light. Sudden flash image of him and Roman together as children, playing in the garden on a sunny day as their father called out to them. Happier days. But it faded quickly to the raw reality of the car pressing close behind, almost imagining Roman in the back seat goading them on.

  Jean-Paul put his foot down, trying to put some distance between them. Street-lights and neon flickered past more rapidly. He had to concentrate hard on the road ahead. A car edged out suddenly at a turning just ahead, and he blared his horn and swerved around it. He gained some distance, but it was short-lived; checking his mirror, they were rapidly closing the gap again: fifteen yards, then back to twelve again. He checked his speedo: seventy, and edging up.