John Matthews - The Last Witness

Early forensic findings had been the biggest body blow. Some blood had been found under the fingernails of Savard’s right hand. The hope had been that Savard might have clawed the neck or face of one of his abductors, or even through their clothing as he frantically grappled at their arms when they swung him. But the report concluded that it was Savard’s own blood. The first shot had struck his chest, and he’d put his hand up defensively to the wound before the final two shots came: one to the neck, one to his head. The report made chilling reading, brought Savard’s screams back too vividly.

Just before signing off, almost as a by-the-way, Laberge informed him that they had to liaise on time because Pelletier wanted Tom Maitland, Crown Attorney, to also be present at the meeting. Michel knew what that meant. While Pelletier might justifiably reach the conclusion that a potentially prosecutable case now looked out of reach, it would carry more weight with Maitland’s legal-eagle viewpoint at his right arm.

Michel knew then why he was delaying: not so much for a fresh lead to salvage something from last night’s disaster — the past track record with the Lacailles had long ago made him cynical — but because he was desperately seeking an angle to convince them, and himself, there was still mileage left in the case. If he presented Donatiens — soon to become part of the Lacaille family — as his only remaining hope, they’d kill the case straightaway.

He took a hasty sip of his sixth coffee of the day, trying to clear his thoughts and focus. But no ready answers came.

The only light relief of the day came when Chac responded gruffly, ‘Well, they can suck my dick,’ when he’d explained the pending dilemma with facing Pelletier and Maitland, fearing that they’d now want to hastily close the Lacaille file.

‘Is that because you’ve already asked everyone else and they’ve said no?’

Chac beamed broadly, despite the barb. And Michel realized then how impossibly intense he’d been all morning. The pall hovering over the squad room each time he opened the door was not just in respect of Savard’s death, but also for the possibly dead case and his feared reaction. Chac was simply glad to see a chink of his old self re-surface.

But the mood died quickly as Chac reminded him that even if he convinced Pelletier to keep the case open, at best it would only give him a few months grace. ‘Once Donatiens is married, it’s game over. And Roman Lacaille knows it.’

His desk phone started ringing. He looked through his glass screen towards the squad room. Christine Hebert was looking over at him, pointing to the receiver.

No doubt Laberge chasing for Pelletier again. A film of sweat broke on his forehead. He couldn’t delay any more. What would he say? Maybe bluff for now, say that they had reliable inside information that Donatiens would soon about-turn and testify. That at least might give him a week or two’s grace to either make good on that claim or come up with something else.

The seed of the idea was still only half-formed as he picked up the receiver at the end of the third ring. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s your wife Sandra,’ Hebert said.

He was caught off guard for a second. ‘Oh… right. Put her through.’ She rarely phoned him. Hebert never termed her ex, despite it now being four years they’d been parted.

Then, with her first words, ‘Michel, you said four O’clock and it’s already four-twenty…’ he pushed back sharply from his chair, suddenly remembering.

‘Oh, Jesus, yeah… I’m right there.’ Basketball championship with a rival school with his son Benjamin, now nine years old.

‘If you couldn’t make it or it was somehow awkward, you should have said so earlier. He’s been looking forward so much to-’

‘I know, I know. I’m there, I tell you. I’ll be with you in under ten.’

‘It’s not often that he has things like this. What happened?’

‘Something came up, that’s all.’ He didn’t want to be specific or shield behind the dramatics of the past eighteen hours: the biggest case of my career has just gone down in flames. Besides, she’d heard it all before. The stake-outs that ran hours over, the last minute suspects and late night emergencies. The steady stream of late nights crawling into bed and so little quality time with her and the children that had finally led to the collapse of their marriage. She’d moved to Montreal so that she could have her mother’s help with babysitting while she went back out to work. He followed ten months later so that he could be nearer his children, but history was repeating itself. Chac had always claimed that his absorption with the Lacailles was partly to fill the void from losing his family, and perhaps he was right. He looked thoughtfully at his desk photo of Benjamin and young Angelle, only six, against the overbearing backdrop montage of the Lacailles. Certainly in the last twenty-four hours, his family hadn’t got a look-in. ‘It’s completely my fault, I’m sorry. But I’m leaving right now.’

He hung up swiftly before Sandra could draw breath to grill him more. He grabbed his coat and was halfway across the squad room as Hebert waved frantically at him.

‘It’s Maggie Laberge again. Wondering whether-’

He held one hand up. ‘I’ll call her back from my car. Ten minutes, no more.’

A bit more time to refine what he was going to say. He thought of little else as he sped through the traffic. How would he know if Donatiens was likely to turn turtle and testify? Their only feed from within the Lacaille camp was Azy Menard, bar manager at their night club on Rue Sherbrooke. Was it likely Donatiens would confide directly in him? No. He’d have to think of a credible go-between to be able to sell the story.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel as he hit a small tailback of traffic at the first stop light on Saint Catherine. The early rush hour was starting, it was going to take him a little longer. Snow flecked with dark-grey slush was banked over the kerbs each side, and the exhaust outflows of the cars ahead showed heavy in the freezing air.

Chac’s words spun back… a few months? The same was true for Roman Lacaille. What would he do? Just bide his time, knowing that soon he’d be home dry anyway. Or was he determined to rid himself of every last witness to that night with Leduc.

‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ Elena pressed.

‘Not at this stage, I’m afraid.’ Nadine Moore let out a tired breath at the other end of the phone. ‘I’ve been in touch with Lorena’s school and GP, told them to let me know if anything appears untoward with Lorena. Physical indications obviously from her doctor, but from the school all they can look out for are mood swings or problems with her work.’

‘And they didn’t tell you of anything they’d noticed already?’

‘No. I’d have phoned you straightaway if there was any news. I know how anxious you are.’ With the silence from the other end, Nadine added. ‘As you said, it was just a momentary look. You could well be wrong — it could be nothing shy; shy;.’

‘No.’ Elena shook her head. ‘I know Lorena too well. There’s something wrong.’

‘Maybe it was just concern about the fuss caused by our visit. She started to think about what might be said to her after we left.’

‘I don’t know.’ Elena felt herself swaying, but only for a second. She reminded herself that she’d only seen that look on Lorena’s face twice before: once recalling some nights in the sewer waking up with rats crawling over her, then the threat of the second orphanage closing and her dread of possibly having to go back to the streets again. Elena knew the difference between fear and concern with Lorena. She was aware of a presence behind her, and glanced back. Gordon hovered by the door to his study. With a taut half smile he turned back in, and she pulled her attention back to Nadine. More emphatically: ‘No. It’s more than that, I know.’