‘Yes. The weekend after Canada Day.’
‘Three and a half months.’ Maitland glanced at his file again and pouted thoughtfully. ‘So. If we get an ID, what happens to your plans with Donatiens?’
Michel was thrown. He thought his suggestions about Donatiens had been killed. He held one hand out towards Maitland. ‘I didn’t think you saw Donatiens as a possibility.’
‘Before, no. But if we can get a positive ID on the van passenger and, as you suspect, this in turn leads back to Roman Lacaille – we’ve got the same situation we had before with Savard. Corroborated testimony.’
‘You don’t think Donatien’s testimony would be good enough on its own?’ Michel realized he might be hinting at his doubts about getting an ID match, and added, ‘…or the van passenger?’
‘They’re mutually exclusive.’ Maitland forced a tired expression, as if he was explaining to an errant child. ‘With Donatiens we get Lacaille on murdering Leduc. With the van passenger, we get Lacaille on arranging Savard’s murder. It’s just that from what you’ve said, I don’t see much hope of us getting Donatiens forward to testify. He’s already practically family, and about to become even more so with his impending marriage. Unless we can somehow bring extra pressure to bear. The possibility of something else against Roman Lacaille which might bring out the whole business with Leduc could be what we need to tip the balance on Donatiens testifying.’
‘I see.’ Michel nodded thoughtfully. Except with hopes of ID slimmer than he’d made out, it would likely all fold back in on him, and he’d lose the possibility of Donatiens at the same time. At most he might have earned himself a day’s grace on them closing the file.
Pelletier, sensing that Michel seemed more morose than he should, offered: ‘Sounds like something of a plan at least. If we get an ID.’
‘Yes,’ Michel agreed hastily, snapping himself out of it. ‘It does.’ Be thankful, he told himself: when he’d walked he’d been fighting for minutes, now he had a full day. He’d come out of the execution room still alive: practically a first. Something in what Maitland had said played at the back of his mind, but any clear focus was out of reach; all his thoughts were on how he might turn his one day reprieve into two or even three days.
Michel’s nerves rose to panic level within minutes of leaving the conference room. A fleeting look in Maitland’s eye as Pelletier wrapped up the proceedings that warned him that Maitland might have picked up on his own uncertainty and discomfort. Perhaps he should have come across as bolder and more enthusiastic when he’d confirmed with Pelletier that, indeed, he’d let them know the minute there was news from T104 on the image enhancement. And the reminder of T104 quickened his step now as he made his way along the corridor. He punched the elevator call button brusquely, then twice more after a few seconds.
It was vital he got down to T104 before Maitland decided to put in a progress call. Otherwise the game was up straightaway. The elevator to his right finally pinged. He tapped his fingers impatiently against its side wall as he rode the four floors down, and by the time he hit the first floor corridor he was practically breaking into a run, the rapid clip of his step echoing on the tiled floor.
He deflected a couple of greetings with brief nods and ‘hi’s’ before reaching T104 two doors from the end of the corridor. He spotted Yves Denault, head of T104, a few desks down leaning over a computer with one of his assistants.
On a wall-chart behind Denault’s desk were computer-printed insignias of every known Hell’s Angel and Rock Machine chapter in the Province. Drugs distribution in Quebec invariably followed the same set pattern. The Colombians made the main shipment deals with the local Mafia, who then organized distribution with the bikers: from there it hit Quebec’s bars, clubs and cafés. The Lacailles were the only Union Corse based family operating in Canada; their counterparts invariably had Sicilian or Neapolitan Mafia roots.
Michel explained the dilemma to Denault that he’d played things up a bit with Pelletier and Maitland. ‘So if they call, either be non-committal or, if you can, play it up the same. We can always let them down later.’ Michel shook his head and gave his best harried look at Denault’s raised eyebrow. ‘Sorry, Yves. I just need that extra time right now.’
‘It’s okay, no problem.’ A slow blink of acceptance. ‘I understand. It might come up better than I thought anyway. It’s too early to tell.’
Michel gently patted Yves shoulder in thanks and made his way back up to his office.
The Lacailles’ photos stared down defiantly at him as he sat at his desk and eased out his breath, and he yanked his attention to his family’s photos. Young Benjamin had looked over and smiled radiantly at him from the basketball court within a minute of him arriving. He wondered if the boy noticed how late he was, or whether Sandra would make sure to let him know that his father had almost forgotten, that if it wasn’t for her call he might not have shown at all. It still seemed important for her to score points off of him with the kids. Perhaps because she’d been the one to push for the split, and so she seized on every opportunity to support why: See. You father shows either late or never. No time left for us after his work. Same as always.
On the only occasion Benjamin had asked how he felt now about his mother, at Christmas a few months back, he’d been caught off guard and answered, ‘I loved her, of course.’
‘And now?’
He’d only had time to think about it for a minute. ‘I still do.’ And the spontaneous rush of feeling that flooded back brought a lump to his throat. If he’d had more time to think about it he might have answered more diplomatically: ‘I’m still very fond of her, of course.’ And suddenly seeing young Benjamin’s eyes grappling to comprehend, he’d added hastily, ‘But I made some silly mistakes. Maybe she’ll forgive me, one day.’
Benjamin’s awkward turn away to stare vacantly at the floor told him that she probably wouldn’t. She was still too busy using his back as a dart board, while all he could do was make a chump of himself by saying he still loved her.
Michel’s desk light blinked. He picked it up, and within minutes was immersed back in the hectic cycle of the other cases du jour demanding his attention – a leading drug distribution biker up for his preliminary hearing on attempted murder the next day, a truck-load of smuggled Winstons pulled up going through the Kahnawake Indian reservation – but none of it really sparked his interest. Only one thing he wanted to know now. He checked through computer files and fended the calls numbly, mechanically, until Yves’ call forty minutes later. He felt a momentary lift at the sound of Yves’ voice. Maybe something had broken. ‘How goes it?’
‘Nothing yet. We’ve filled in two strong areas of shadow, but working at these sizes it’s going to take a while. It’s still too early to tell.’
Michel knew the process well from numerous previous photo lifts. They worked at fifteen to twenty times magnification, filled in the dots and patches, then pulled it back down to see how much definition had improved.
Fresh breath from Yves. ‘But I thought I’d let you know that you were right about Maitland checking up. Or rather it was that asshole Campion who phoned through, keen to know how close we were. I said that we were hopeful, but would know more by late morning, early afternoon tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Yves.’ So his twenty-four hour reprieve was secure. For now. Assistant Crown Attorney Campion’s eagerness to step into Maitland’s shoes, sooner rather than later, had made him something of a departmental joke: pathetically fawning with Maitland, and trying to adopt an air of ruthless efficiency and pontification with everyone else, and failing miserably, he was known either as ‘asskiss’ or ‘le petite Napoleon’. At just over five foot and with Maitland towering over a foot above, the popular jibe was that Campion didn’t have to stoop that low to hit his target.
‘Did he ask many questions?’ Michel asked.
‘A couple – but nothing significant. Don’t worry, I covered it well. He went off satisfied.’
‘Sat
isfied’ and Campion didn’t sit well together. Michel could hardly remember him smiling; just a nervous tic which passed as the trace of a grimace and faded quickly.
Yves signed off with the promise of phoning through as soon as he knew something – though that call didn’t come through till the evening, almost three hours after Michel had headed for home. He’d dozed off in front of the TV, and the ringing phone woke him abruptly.
Yves voice at the other end was excitable, slightly breathless. ‘We changed directions slightly, and we hit on something. We weren’t getting anywhere fast with that first frame, we’d pulled it up and down four times and the shadows still obscured too much. So we started looking at other frames.’ Yves paused slightly, as if allowing Michel to catch up.
Michel blinked absently at the TV images ahead, but he was awake and sharply tuned from Yves’ first sentence. He gave an encouraging, ‘Right.’
‘At first we thought the frames further away would be too far for anything clear, and on those closer the angle of vision would be too sharp. But we decided to run through them anyway, and on part of the more distant sequence we suddenly hit gold. The passenger leans forward, only for a second to get something off the dashboard – but it’s enough to lift his face clear of any shadows. It’s a more distant shot, a bit more grain – but with virtually no shadows I think we’ve got chances of an ID from it.’
‘When will you know for sure?’
‘An hour. Two max.’
On the TV, an all day Quebec news channel was playing, with the next three days regional weather in a bottom band of sun, cloud and snow symbols. The building had cable, and between the English and French channels the total was 47. 47 channels and nothing on; Michel had flicked through practically them all before leaving it on news and weather. Michel felt excited by Yves words, but for some reason the images still numbed him, in the same way that they’d pushed him towards sleep shortly after dinner.
Or maybe it was now forced conditioning; each time he’d become wrapped up in the thrall of a possible breakthrough, he’d been let down. Neutral positioning was safer: the free-fall if it all came to nothing was less.
Yves promised to call back when there was more news, and Michel prompted that if it took longer than Yves expected, he should still call, ‘No matter what the time.’
The silence after hanging up brought home the tension of expectancy all the harder. An hour or two more to know if the case lived or died. The image light changes from the TV flickered across the subdued lighting of his apartment, pushed the photo snaps through his mind: Donatiens, Jean-Paul, Roman… then Tony Savard’s terrified face, pleading for his life. An image to match the screams on tape.
Michel stood up abruptly, started pacing to ease his tension. At least here, at home, he was surrounded by only family photos. Angelle blowing out the candles on her fourth birthday cake. Benjamin with his first bike. The whole family together in St Lucia, photographed by an obliging hotel waiter; five years ago now, a year before the split. Michel grimaced tightly. Happier times; it seemed remarkable how suddenly his life had changed.
He lifted his gaze from the photo and looked through the window onto the street. A two-bedroom loft apartment on St Sepulce Street in the Old Town, the extra bedroom had squeezed him with the mortgage and taxes. His original intention with buying in the area, shortly after the divorce decree nisi, was to enjoy a town bachelor pad and the life that went with it. But then he realized that opting for only one bedroom would mean that Benjamin and Angelle would have to sleep on put-up beds in the lounge on the alternate weekends they stayed over. It would be viewed as an entirely selfish move by Sandra, an extra dart in his back. So he pushed himself for the extra room for the kid’s sake.
Outside, a light dusting of snow lay on the street, which was quiet, almost deserted; only the brake lights of a single car edging slowly down towards the riverside. In the summer, the area would be a frenzy of activity, tourists ambling at all times of the day or night among the narrow cobblestone streets, rollerbladers and cyclists along the riverside promenades, the cafés of Place Jaques Cartier where he’d treat the children to dinner and ice cream while they watched the changing scenes of musicians, mimes and milling street activity. Summer in Old Montreal with their father. Some fond memories at least.
Michel liked this old part of town, in architecture the surrounding streets could be turn-of-the-century Paris; a surviving enclave against the skyscraper canyons of downtown. One small spot of Europe amongst square-block architecture that defined practically every city for thousands of miles to the Pacific. And it all started here, thought Michel, looking across the street to the floodlit stone-wall flank of the Basilica de Nôtre Dame, Montreal’s first church.
Michel shook his head. In a few months, as the surrounding streets were humming with summer life, Georges Donatiens and Simone Lacaille would be married there. Not the wedding chapel behind where most well-placed Montrealites got married and was good enough for Pelletier’s own daughter two years back, no. Simone and Georges were Montreal’s golden couple, they’d be married where Celine Dione was married, or not at all. And the RCMP, as with every major crime family wedding, would be mingling with the crowds on the sidewalk and in Place des Armes, taking snaps. More photos for his wall.
Except that by then there’d be no reason for any more photos for his wall; all chances of getting Donatiens to testify would have been long lost. In fact in only an hour or two he might know it was all over, if…
Michel stopped himself, looking keenly towards Nôtre Dame. Maitland’s words suddenly spun back: ‘I don’t see much hope of getting Donatiens to testify. He’s already practically family, and about to become even more so with his impending marriage. Unless we can somehow bring extra pressure to bear…’
Michel became aware that his hands were balled tight in fists at his side. He willed himself to relax, eased out his breath slowly, unclenched his hands. With Yves’ fresh hopes of a photo ID, it suddenly hit him that he now had an opportunity to pressure Donatiens which might not arise again. Even if Yves finally came up with nothing, he could probably milk it to good effect for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours.
Michel turned to the phone. He needed to share this with someone, and if he remembered right Chac was on duty roster until midnight. He smiled to himself as it rang out. Chac would comment that he must be crazy pulling in Donatiens for questioning, and then he’d calmly explain.
SIX
Cameron Ryall looked from the dining-room window as their car approached up the drive; much the same position he’d stood in when they’d first visited. Except that now he was angry.
Angry at himself, angry at young Lorena, or at this new social worker and the ‘save all the world’s children’ aid worker who had no doubt wound her up into action in the first place – Lorena’s ‘friend’. Ryall’s anger spun and bounced wildly in his head without firm direction; he wasn’t anywhere near calm enough to focus it on any one thing.
Classical music played softly in the background – Vivaldi’s ‘Allegro from Spring’ – but it did little to introduce an air of calm. The blood still rushed through his head a beat too fast and his hands trembled slightly, and so he had to forcibly will that calm, close his eyes and take deep breaths, self-prompting: You mustn’t let them see that you’re troubled. Take control. Control.
He felt strangely giddy, as if through that lack of control – as on the few occasions he could recall it happening before, if only for seconds or minutes that passed like laboured hours in which he’d bounce, lightning speed, every possible angle – he’d been cut adrift from all good sense and purpose. He rallied every nerve and fibre of his body hard against it now.
His wife Nicola was even more agitated, though through fear rather than anger. She hadn’t wanted to face them a second time, she’d barely weathered the ordeal of their first visit and had asked him to beg off her presence now with the excuse of a crushing migraine or flu. At least that might tie in with the
reason why he’d again visited Lorena’s room: ‘Sorry. My wife’s still sleeping off the bug.’ But that might skirt too close to the truth, and invite the questions: Is she ill often? Is she regularly under prescription from the doctor for anything? Does she suffer from depression? Her secret drawers of valium, prozac, amphetamines and sleeping tablets – prescription or otherwise – or the hidden bottles of gin – which so often pushed her into a stupored haze to take her to her bed early. And, besides, it was more vital now that they put on a united front. He’d told Nicola that she’d just have to compose herself. She had to be there beside him.
Ryall took a deep breath. But his salvation would be with Lorena. He was angry that now she’d called them twice, but in the end she’d never betray him. Betray their secret. Because, in the end, there was no secret that she could recall. No memory of bad things happening; just wild imaginings. And once those imaginings were finally put to the test and brushed aside, the abiding image left was that he was a good father; a trusting, responsible, caring father. Who had raised two children not his own and done it well. A prominent, well-respected local citizen who gave generously to local charities, particularly those involved with children’s welfare. He could almost imagine the heads shaking in local village shops if, heaven forbid, news of this outrage ever leaked out: ‘Surely not? Mr Ryall’s such a nice, caring, generous man.’ God, they had some nerve to put him through this.
The car was beyond his angle of vision now, but he heard it stop and its doors open, close. A steady breeze swayed the trees and rhododendron hedge, and white caps danced in the bay ahead.
He was guilty only of loving Lorena more than he should, but was that wrong? And he’d protected her from the rest, her mind was blanked to it. No. Lorena would never betray him. But he had to ensure that it all ended here, now, because with repeated visits Nicola would surely crack. He closed his eyes tight for a second – never betray him. Never – and had just started to feel the first waves of calm descend as the door bell rang. He turned off the Vivaldi and went to answer it.
The Last Witness Page 9
