John Matthews - The Last Witness

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 police 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.