John Matthews - The Last Witness

‘I agree.’ Georges felt numb, cold, and found it hard to free either clear thoughts or speech.

Simone rolled off and curled to one side, frowning; but it wasn’t a look of spoilt petulance, more of concern. Warmth, compassion, joie-de-vivre, sharp wit: all the traits that over the sixteen months of their relationship had drawn him more in love with her, when he’d finally dug beneath the preconception — guided as much by his own staunch work ethic and views about her cosseted life, than reality — that she was spoilt.

But, for a moment, he wished that spoilt Simone was back. He could kid himself that life was still just a playful tug of war between her and her father. He could forget what Jean-Paul had just said about Savard, and could ignore Simone’s look of heavy concern, mirroring the panic that must have swept across his own face as he contemplated the chain of nightmare problems that Savard’s death could ignite. He just hoped his first assumption was wrong.

The fat man took the first photo as the couple came out of the apartment.

They leaned into each other a few paces from the building, a quick parting kiss, and the girl ran just ahead. He followed their movements with a quick burst on the camera’s motor-drive. They were an attractive young couple, the girl with long, wavy, black hair, the man close to six foot and athletic looking with dark-brown hair cut short in a spiky crew-cut, and dressed well in light grey suit and black Crombie. Though the fat man knew, from old photos he’d spied in the man’s apartment, that when his hair was longer it also waved slightly, and that the suit — from the many he’d flicked through in his wardrobe — was no doubt Armani or Yves St-Laurent. They say that people are attracted to those with similar features, and certainly there were some similarities between the two: large brown eyes, his perhaps slightly heavier-hooded than hers, but both with the same olive skin tones, hinting of a Mediterranean or Latin background.

She got into a bright turquoise Fiat sports coupe parked just in front, while he went through a side door towards the garage. The fat man took another few snaps as she looked around and pulled out, then a minute later some of the man as the automatic garage doors opened and his grey Lexus edged out.

Simone Lacaille and Georges Donatiens, Montreal’s golden couple, seen at all the right parties and openings — and a few of the wrong ones — and regularly photographed, his own snapshots aside.

The apartment building was in the fashionable Westmount district, and its penthouses — of which Donatiens’ was one — had luxurious split-level atrium living rooms affording breathtaking views over the City and the St Lawrence. After thoroughly searching the apartment eight months back, the fat man had stood for a moment admiring the view, breath misting the atrium glass, contemplating ruefully just how far out of reach such an apartment was on his RCMP policeman’s salary.

The fat man by now knew everything about them, their every last move. She stayed over at Donatiens’ two or three times a week, but always the first night after he’d been away on a business trip. She would head to Lachaine amp; Roy on Rue St Jaques, one of Montreal’s leading advertising agencies, where she was an accounts manager. Her father didn’t have shares in the company — he was careful not to be overt with his influence over her career, she would rebel — but he did have interests in two of its major accounts. Donatiens, first day back, would head downtown to the Lacaille company office on Cote du Beaver Hall, or to the Lacaille residence in Cartier-Ville.

The one and only apartment search all those months back had been at the request of Michel Chenouda, his immediate boss and closest RCMP confidante. They’d worked together as partners when Michel had first arrived from Toronto, but within the year the fat man left the RCMP after a bungled vice bust led to an attempted hit on one of his key drugs informants, and went into private investigation. Technically, he was still private when he’d let himself into Donatiens’ apartment; Michel had already smoothed the way for him rejoining the RCMP, and all the papers were rubber-stamped, but the break-in was ten days before he was handed his badge and gun. No doubt Michel would have loved to have the apartment searched again now, but for the risk: Michel wouldn’t involve a badged officer, and there were no other private gumshoes Michel would trust with something like that.

He’d been a keen amateur photographer in his late teens, and private work had given him the opportunity to hone his skills. The mountain of photos he’d taken of the Lacailles over the past eighteen months, Michel would rigorously scan for tell-tale signs — Simone Lacaille’s engagement ring when it first appeared, new contacts of Roman or Jean-Paul Lacaille not recognized from past file photos — and he’d meanwhile be looking at artistic merit: light, angle, composition.

Now, with Michel’s wake up call at 6.30 a.m., more photos. ‘They’ve just found Savard’s body. I’m here with forensics. Donatiens is the only one left now — we’ll need to shadow him closer than ever.’ Michel was on his mobile and sounded slightly out of breath.

The fat man was worried that it was becoming an obsession. The reason for the obsession he understood, but still it worried him. A dozen or so more photos to add to a file of hundreds, and probably now enough box files of paperwork to fill a truck.

He let out a heavy exhalation as he started up, checked his mirror, and pulled out. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the routine, or perhaps his preoccupation with getting back to the station in time to develop the photos before his meeting with Michel — but he didn’t notice the man parked fifty yards behind, who had pulled up just as he was taking his second stream of photos.

‘Chac! Chac! Good stuff. Good stuff!’ Michel hailed as he watched the fat man pin five fresh photos from his morning’s effort on the corkboard.

The C was soft, so the uninformed often made the mistake that the nickname had an English derivation, from the fact that the man was built like a shack. But it had come from his habit of saying ‘Chacun son gout’ . He’d originally been known as ‘Chacun’ , then finally just ‘Chac’.

Eighteen photos already covered the corkboard, providing a quick-glance photo profile of the Lacailles and anyone vital connected with them.

Michel stood studying the photos from two yards back, then threw a quick eye over the others and back again, as if measuring how they slotted into the whole picture.

‘So, still very much in love,’ he said.

‘Looks that way.’

Michel leant in closer, studying finer detail in the photos. What had he been hoping for? Some small sign of cracks in their relationship, so it might be easier to get Donatiens to testify against the Lacailles. After all, she was only in her early twenties, impetuous, strong-willed, and probably wasn’t yet settled emotionally. Before Donatiens she’d had a chain of different boyfriends, seemed to change them every other month.

Michel shook his head as he studied the look on Simone’s face kissing Donatiens goodbye. Wishful thinking. Their relationship had held solid for sixteen months, and looked stronger now than ever.

But the photo he was finally drawn to most was of Donatiens just as Simone headed away. Perhaps business hadn’t gone smoothly in Mexico, but Michel doubted that was it: the expression of concern suddenly gripping Donatiens looked too heavy, severe. Donatiens knew about Savard.

‘When’s the wedding planned?’ Michel asked.

‘Early July — the eighth.’

Michel nodded thoughtfully, still scanning the photos. He already knew the date off by heart, but a changed date might hint of some cooling off. He was getting desperate.