The Last Witness

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Witness Protection Programme… never to be seen again.’

Elena drove back from Beaconsfield in a daze. Claude Donatiens’ words spun through her head like some mad mantra; though he hadn’t directly said the second part, she’d extracted that from between the lines while he fluffed around and tried to soften the blow: ‘We’re not sure when even we might be able to see him… if at all. We’re going to phone later and find out. Maybe there’ll be a loophole by which we could see him and, if so, hopefully you’d be able to as well at some time.’

Loopholes. Hopefully. At some time. Claude Donatiens just didn’t want to say it straight out — ‘Look — I just don’t think you’re going to be able to get to see him now’ — especially not right on the heels of her heartrending saga of ups and downs that had finally brought her to their door. It would have seemed cruel to push the trap-door lever straight away, much kinder to send her down in the express elevator: she’d get there almost as fast, but she’d hardly feel the motion and she could listen to piped music on the way. Sugar-coat the pill.

She’d spent over an hour at the Donatiens after the bombshell, getting all the background she’d hoped for originally: What was he like? Had they lived here long? Where did they live before? His general home-life, schooling… then later college, girlfriends and work. And every small trait and nuance and what he’d had for breakfast the past twenty-nine years — if she could have kept them on the subject long enough.

Odette brought out some photo albums as guide-posts to the passage of time and events since they’d taken Georges from St Marguerite’s. Georges. Odette explained that the minor name change was because they were a French-Canadian family, his school was Francophile, and they hadn’t wanted it too obvious that he was adopted.

Elena found herself reaching out and gently touching some of the photos as she leafed through: his ninth birthday party, a school photo from when he was twelve, throwing a Frisbee in a park for a red-setter, Odette with one arm around him at a woodland picnic table, a family group photo from a Florida holiday with Georges as a teenager against a marina backdrop… his twenty-first with some college friends spraying him with a shaken champagne bottle. She’d just felt numb, stripped of any emotion with the shock news, but in that moment the tears started to come — though she quickly wiped and sniffed them back, embarrassed. It wasn’t only from all those lost years coming home stronger with the sight and feel of something tangible, a face to finally put to him — but the sudden realization that this now might be as close as she’d ever get to him.

It was all too much for her to bear at one point with Claude and Odette looking on concernedly and Lorena by that time back from playing in the garden to join them, and she got up and went over to the back window, looking out. She’d managed to control from bursting into sobs, but still her eyes were welling strongly and she was having trouble biting it back. The land sloped away at the back and there was a partial view of the lake two hundred yards away between the trees. Claude Donatiens left her alone for a moment before coming alongside to join her.

‘We used to bring Georges to the park by the lake to play when he was younger, and it became something of a dream for us to one day live in this area. We managed to grab one of the last plots going with a lake view.’ Claude was a builder and, reading between the lines, there had been a few ups and downs through the years, their previous homes hadn’t been quite as salubrious — though Claude was eager to point out that they had been comfortable, in good neighbourhoods, Georges’ schooling had been excellent, and he’d been well-provided and cared-for and always loved. But business had been good these past six or seven years, partly thanks to some money from Georges and his financial savvy, Claude conceded. ‘And so we finally built our dream home.’

Elena had the sense in that moment that Claude had somehow displeased Georges, or maybe it was just the awkwardness of their roles muddling: Georges suddenly grown-up, adult and organized, the hot-shot financier, and Claude then the errant dependant. It wasn’t in anything said directly, more in-between the lines or the timing of when Claude fell silent or quickly changed the subject. But perhaps, having spent a lifetime of shadow-dancing around the truth in her own life, that was where she saw everything now: in between the lines and in the silences.

Then came, inevitably, the even more awkward topic of just how Georges went from successful banker to involvement with a crime family. She never asked directly, but Claude seemed eager to make clear that Georges wasn’t in the least criminally inclined. ‘He had a good position, was very solid with Banque du Quebec before joining the Lacailles. That’s why I find this now so hard to take, let alone understand.’ He pointed accusingly to the TV, which had been off since she arrived. ‘He always said that the only reason he’d joined them was because they’d moved away from crime. And it was a challenge. He was very strict about things like that… strong principles. The only problem he ever hinted at was the two Lacaille brothers not always seeing eye to eye — but he said he worked only for Jean-Paul, who he insisted was clean as a whistle and equally as principled. Maybe it will all turn out to be nothing.’ Again he was back to trying to make light of it, lessen the blow that after a lifetime parted from her son, she might now never get to see him.

She shook her head, her eyes welling. Never to be seen again…

The express elevator was still falling, an abyss of dark despair sucking her inexorably down since she’d left the Donatiens. She’d skirted dangerously around the edges at moments during her door-call vigil and at St Marguerite’s — but now the depths of that despair, the gut-wrenching emptiness she felt inside, was total. And after her battles of the past days, her diet of pills and whisky, her lack of sleep and her nerves almost constantly on a tight-rope — she felt completely drained, no reserves left to claw her way back up again.

Besides, it was all over… never to be seen again. What could she do? Claude Donatiens said he’d phone later when he’d spoken to the police — but what was the point of deluding herself by still clinging to hope? From what little she knew, the whole point of witness protection was to keep the subjects away from family and friends — because that was the first place criminals tried to track them.

Never to be seen again…

She gripped tight at the steering wheel and tensed her jaw against it, but still she was falling, the dark edges of the abyss washing in. Traffic was heavier now approaching the centre of Montreal and she had to concentrate. But her eyes were welling faster than she could blink them clear or dab away the tears with the back of one hand… and through her blurred, pastel-wash vision a car appeared out of nowhere and verged across her, or had she swung over slightly as she wiped at her tears? The car’s horn blared, and she braked and swung the wheel away… then suddenly a squeal of tyres and two sharp beeps from the other side, one after the other — and she realized that she’d cut in on something on the inside.

‘Elena… watch out!’ Lorena hit the stop button on her walkman, looking concernedly over her shoulder. ‘There’s a…’

Oh God. Oh God. Elena was shaking uncontrollably, still falling, a kaleidoscope blur of cars and road and buildings, tilting, slipping sideways; she thought for a second she was going to black-out right there with the traffic streaming all around her. She slowed, waiting for the car on her inside to pass — its driver fired her a last stony look — then she pulled across and took the first turn on the left, stopping twenty yards in.

She gave into the abyss totally in that moment, sank down into its darkness as if it were a feather-down duvet. The near accident had jolted away her tears; all that remained was her shaking and a tight, aching knot in her stomach, the only sensation left amongst the overwhelming emptiness she felt.

Last night struggling to get back to sleep after her dreams, she’d vowed silently to her father to find Georges to make good on how she’d betrayed his memory all these years — thinking in that moment how she’d never felt closer to her father, and how oddly ironic it was that finally now, after all this time, they’d found some common ground — and already she’d struck out. Pathetic, really; almost as pathetic as the sham that had been her life so far.

‘Are you okay, Elena?’

And now Lorena’s voice heavy with concern to remind her that in a couple of hours she’d phone Gordon and then let her down too. Another failure.

‘It’s okay… I just need a minute. I’ll be fine.’ A minute? She probably needed twice as long in therapy than even poor young Lorena to sort out the mess of her mind. But only after she’d slept for a week to shake off this tiredness sapping every last ounce of energy; that was her first promise to herself.

She stayed head down, eyes shut a moment more, listening to the steady fall of her own breathing against the ebb and flow of city traffic, as if like a metronome rhythm that might tell her when it was alright to start driving again.

She was slow in shaking off her dark mood, finally lifting her head — but the urgency in Lorena’s muttered ‘Ele!.. and her suddenly aware of a figure by the car, made her look up sharper: brown uniform, one hand by the holster, the other reaching out.

The RCMP officer tapped at her window, signalling her to wind it down. Though suddenly she no longer felt afraid, but strangely relieved that it was finally all over. She could get the sleep she needed, and she wouldn’t have to break any bad news to Lorena: they’d both been victims.

‘You just couldn’t wait, could you? Just couldn’t wait!’

‘No, Jean-Paul, I tell you — you got it wrong. What they put on the news about Donatiens has got nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, yeah. Really?’ Jean-Paul glared back stonily.

Roman flinched under its intensity. Jean-Paul’s jaw was set rigid, and Roman noticed a small muscle pumping repeatedly in his neck. Jean-Paul had started shouting before his study door was barely shut behind them, and for a moment Roman thought he might break with character and start pushing and manhandling for an explanation; what he himself might do if the situation was reversed. Roman could never remember Jean-Paul angrier; and he had to admit the situation looked bad, real bad, whichever way he might try to explain it away. He was still pondering whether to keep protesting or just stay silent and let Jean-Paul burn off steam, when Jean-Paul continued.

‘I mean, we sat in this room not forty-eight hours ago and you swore blind that you had nothing to do with his disappearance, and now this… this!’

‘You gotta believe, Jean-Paul — it wasn’t me. Wasn’t me.’ Roman was shaking his head vigorously. ‘Don’t know shit about it.’

Jean-Paul rolled on as if Roman hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been assuring Simone all along that you hadn’t done anything… wouldn’t do anything without my sanction. Don’t worry, don’t worry...’ Jean-Paul closed his eyes for a second and appeared to almost shudder. ‘All that time lying to her.’

Roman leant forward and slapped the flat of his palm on the desk. ‘You’re not listening, Jean-Paul. I didn’t do it — know nothing about it.’

Jean-Paul flinched only slightly, then he slapped his own hand twice as hard on the desk-top. ‘You’re right, I’m not listening! Because that’s what I did before — fell for every word and the same fucking outraged act you’re throwing at me now. So this time you’re going to have to explain yourself, Roman, and maybe you can start with just who did this if not you? Who?’

The doubt in Jean-Paul’s voice had now reached incredulity, and Roman had rarely heard him swear. It made him more hesitant about his first and most obvious explanation; the second, and what he thought had really happened, would sound even more incredulous. ‘I… I suppose it must have been the Cacchione’s.’

‘The Cacchione’s… the Cacchione’s,’ Jean-Paul mimicked. ‘To blame for Pascal’s death and now conveniently every family problem since: Leduc, Savard…now Georges. Don’t you think they’d have given on up on us by now? Realized that we’re out of crime and no longer pose a threat to them?'

Roman leapt for the hand-grab to build his case. ‘I think you’re right, they probably do realize that. But this isn’t about us and continuing old vendettas — this is more about Medeiros. The Cacchione’s are still dealing drugs for sure — but Medeiros thinks he’s blocked their supplies and pushed them out for good.’ Roman chose his words carefully. He was skirting uncomfortably close to the truth, and didn’t want to unconsciously give away that he knew more than he should. ‘The other main option for the supplies still getting out there is us — so Cacchione is keen to jump on anything, such as this RCMP investigation right now, to keep us in the frame as still involved in crime and still dealing. It throws Medeiros off of the scent.’

Jean-Paul mulled it over, but looked far from convinced. ‘I suppose there’s some sense to it — but how would they know to pick on Georges? Know that he was our weak spot?’

Roman felt himself getting cornered. ‘They could have known from Savard, or maybe that’s my fault: I have at times complained, to Frank and maybe one or two others, that Georges concerns me. Things like that can too easily get out.’ All he could think of: concede to a lesser crime. Perhaps it would also give Jean-Paul somewhere to direct his anger.

‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Jean-Paul swayed for a second before doubt again took grip. ‘And the timing too: how would the Cacchione’s know about the problem with the girl — that at this moment of all moments Georges would automatically think that any attempted hit must be down to us, because he feared he was out in the cold?’

Roman’s collar was suddenly tight, and he felt hot. Finding a clear way through Jean-Paul’s maze of doubt was getting more complicated with each step. ‘Maybe the girl. When I called the club last night, Azy said she hadn’t shown. Maybe she knew something had gone down.’ Originally, he was going to keep that under his hat until he’d found out more; of all people she knew too much, could prove a problem. But he’d grabbed at the first thing in desperation: right now he needed everything he could possibly throw across to break down Jean-Paul’s wall of doubt.

Jean-Paul felt himself swaying again. But then Roman had been equally as convincing last time, then only forty-eight hours later he was left feeling like a mug, Simone’s words ringing in his ears — ‘How do you know Roman’s not done something to him already?…’ This time around he’d make Roman sweat every word, and as credible as Roman might be he’d pass it on to Simone dispassionately, with healthy reserved doubt. Safer stance. He studied Roman levelly. ‘A lot of maybes, Roman — but you’re the only one who knew for sure about Georges’ problem with the girl.’

‘Yeah — so why would I go to all the trouble of telling you about it, only to try and take him out myself?’

‘Because you started to worry that I might not deal with it the way you hoped and have Georges hit. That my idea was leaning more towards getting him away to Cuba until things had settled down.’

Roman leant across the desk. His patience was fast thinning: he’d thrown across every good argument he could think of and still Jean-Paul appeared entrenched. ‘I didn’t know that was the way you were thinking until the last time we were in this same fucking room shouting at each other — after Georges had already disappeared.’

That was true, thought Jean-Paul: the only tangible fact Roman had so far thrown across amongst a sea of maybes.

Roman swept one arm away dismissively. ‘Besides, if I was going to take the fucker out — I’d have made sure to do the job properly. Not left him for the RCs just so he could testify against us. The only person that sort of scenario benefits is Cacchione.’

Jean-Paul nodded and cast his eyes down: Truth number two, but he was dammed if he was going to leave himself vulnerable again. And he was tiring of the argument; they were just going round in circles. The most he’d move to was a mid-ground, reluctant concession. ‘Regardless of whether it’s Cacchione or not — if it wasn’t for your little political background battle with Georges, the situation for Cacchione to take advantage wouldn’t have existed, or for Georges to even think it might be us and end up in the lap of the RCs giving evidence. So whichever way, this falls down to you Roman — with the onus on you finding him now stronger than ever. What news on that front?’

Roman wasn’t comfortable ending on that note, but his nerves were shot from fencing with Jean-Paul and perhaps it was the best he could hope for. He brought Jean-Paul up to date: Nothing yet from the streets, and now it was pretty obvious why not. No call yet from Georges to his parents — but some English woman had called out of the blue wanting to speak to them urgently; sounded real cagey, concerned. Could be something, could be nothing. His guy Funicelli was monitoring their conversation right now — he’d know more in an hour or so.

And for the first time since they’d entered the room, they were pulling in the same direction. But their differences aired and those unspoken through the years — now more than ever to remain so — still hung heaviest in the air. The gulf between them had never been wider.

Of course, Roman knew that it wasn’t Cacchione; he knew that because he’d been working closely with Cacchione for the past three years.

When Jean-Paul had first announced them moving away from crime, he’d thought that he was joking. Then when he realized that he was serious, his first protest was that that would simply leave the whole pie to Cacchione: ‘How’s that going to pay him back for what he did to Pascal?’

Jean-Paul calmly explained, almost as if enlightening a naive child, that it was no longer a matter of pay-back or getting even, that would simply continue the cycle and Pascal’s death would have been for nothing; that if that was the cost, then Cacchione was welcome to ‘the pie.’ Jean-Paul had made a solemn promise to their father, and he wasn’t about to budge. That same condescending tone every time he tentatively raised the issue over the next twelve months, as if Jean-Paul’s new quest was based on moral principles beyond his grasp, and whenever that wasn’t enough Jean-Paul would raise Pascal or their father as final moralistic tombstones to end the argument.

No care or consideration or even a minute’s thought that he might not be happy with their new direction. That as muscle-man and enforcer, the guy who took care of all the messy details nobody else wanted to get their hands dirty with, what place was there for him in a set-up without crime? Head of Security? Made to sound important, but in reality he’d been relegated to checking the takings from their pussy clubs and restaurants, with the occasional excitement on the rare occasion someone got drunk or out of order. And meanwhile golden boy Georges was in the hot seat, the Lacaille family money spread like monopoly confetti on stocks and shares or marina and hotel developments across Mexico and Cuba: all eyes suddenly on him to secure their future fortunes.

And, like he’d warned, Cacchione did take ‘the pie’, fill the vacuum they’d left — until the run-in with Medeiros. It was then that Roman saw his big opportunity. Cacchione’s business died as quickly as it had expanded over the last eighteen months. Cacchione tried a couple of times to establish himself with other suppliers — but two middle-men at the bottom of the St Lawrence later, Medeiros’ message was clear: Cacchione was a no-go area, under no circumstance to be supplied. And with Jean-Paul out of crime, the vacuum was once again there.

Roman contacted Medeiros. His story was that he and Jean-Paul had split the business: Jean-Paul would continue solely with legitimate business and, now that their ‘cooling off’ period had achieved its aim of suitably diverting attention, Roman would quietly revive some of their past enterprises. With the accent on ‘quietly’: officially, they were still out of crime. Jean-Paul therefore wouldn’t at any time contact Medeiros or talk to him about that side of the business, all dealing would be with Roman. And for the same reason they demanded absolute discretion: no mention whatsoever on either side that Medeiros was supplying to them.

Medeiros agreed, but Roman knew that for the other part of the equation he’d need Gianni Cacchione’s co-operation: Cacchione wasn’t just going to sit back and let him freely take over his old territory and contacts, they’d have to work together.

Drugs distribution in Quebec and Eastern Canada was a strict hierarchy: the Colombians and Mexicans provided the raw shipments, the import and business arrangements were handled by the local Sicilian, Neapolitan or Union Corse Mafia, who then used the bikers for distribution. The Colombians wouldn’t deal with the bikers directly: they saw them as renegade and volatile, and at times indiscreet. That was why Medeiros had warmed to his approach, in particular the discretion.

Roman checked his watch as he crossed Avenue Jean Talon. He was driving faster than normal, one finger tapping repeatedly on the steering wheel; he was still wound tight like a coil from the session with Jean-Paul. Twenty minutes before his arranged call to Funicelli, but he wanted to squeeze in another call beforehand: he couldn’t go a second longer without getting an inside track on the current state of play at Dorchester Boulevard.

Discretion was also at the heart of his partnership with Gianni Cacchione, and the tight-rope nature of their duplicity seemed to appeal to Cacchione as much as him: Medeiros thought it was the Lacailles, Jean-Paul the Cacchiones; in reality they worked together and split the proceeds 50/50. And they used independents such as Leduc who previously worked for the Lacailles, or some of Cacchione’s old fold who’d also gone freelance since Medeiros shut them down. But apart from the strong insistence on discretion they passed down the line — ‘You don’t want to end up like the last two dealers that fell foul of Medeiros, do you?’ — these were mid-level soldiers with no possible contact with Medeiros and Jean-Paul: their secret was safe.

Until the problem with Leduc and Jean-Paul’s suspicion. He’d spent hours briefing Leduc beforehand, getting him to painstakingly fill in details in a little black book. They made sure it gave nothing away, would just send Jean-Paul on a few wild-goose chases. ‘You don’t give the book up too easy though — that would look suspect. Wait until I interrupt and start pressing hard, then finally you pull it out of your ankle sock.’

Roman knew all along that he was going to blast Leduc as soon as he pulled it out. They might have put Jean-Paul off with a smokescreen for a few weeks, but he’d have kept pushing and eventually Leduc would have cracked. Roman was close to breaking out laughing by the third time Leduc wanted to run through the sequence and timing with the notebook, as if it was a dress rehearsal for his big moment. Bigger than he realized.

Then Tremblay, then Savard… now Donatiens. Maybe there should be a definition in mob handbooks. Felucci’s theorem: the size of the fuck-up minus the number of people involved, times the money and gain squared, shall determine how many finally need to be wasted.

His wry smile quickly faded. Fifteen months now he’d sweated that one problem with an iron fist and muscle and blood — how it used to be in the old days before Jean-Paul developed a conscience. And he was good at this double game. What he savoured most was that everyone thought he was so dumb, the bone-headed muscle-man, a Neanderthal ‘Moustache Pete’ symbol of the years they’d left behind; and meanwhile he was playing them all like a string quartet.

But now there was another player in town. One just as sharp at this double game as him — and from what had now happened with Donatiens — obviously equally as willing to bend the rules. Because if he or Cacchione weren’t behind the attempted hit on Donatiens, there was only one remaining option.

DS Crowley decided to give Gordon Waldren one last push. He called at the house without announcement, having already been told by his men keeping watch that Waldren was in: he wanted this to be eye to eye, to see Waldren’s reaction.

Crowley started by just asking straightforwardly if Gordon Waldren had had any contact with his wife or knew where she was. ‘No’ to each, and Crowley grimaced as if he’d bitten into sour fruit. He’d stayed standing, saying he wouldn’t be long, and started pacing as he turned the screw.

‘You know that when I saw you last time, I said that we’d have to put out a general alert on your wife and Lorena. Well, that was finally done.’ Crowley didn’t enlighten that he’d put it out practically the moment he’d left Waldren: at least the next part was the truth. ‘That was just a missing persons alert, not a criminal one. Then we’d pile on the pressure if we received a specific lead.’ Crowley didn’t feel like going into the fiasco in France either; he didn’t want to give Waldren the satisfaction of knowing that the false trail he’d led there had worked. ‘But we are now coming up to the point where we will have to put out that criminal alert, unless you co-operate.’

Gordon shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I see the difference. I thought an alert was an alert, and you’d have either put one out by now or not.’ Gordon hoped that his anxiety wasn’t obvious. He was meant to leave any minute, and his pad with notes was still by the phone along with a fax from the private investigator he’d put on Ryall. He made sure not to even glance that direction and possibly bring Crowley’s attention to them.

‘The difference is that it will suddenly be shifted to grade one priority. Right now it will be on most police computers courtesy of Interpol. But they get a lot of ‘missing person’ enquiries — enough as it is from their own neck of the woods. So often they’re not given priority. All of that will change by say — ’ Crowley theatrically checked his watch — ‘Five pm tomorrow, twenty hours from now, if your wife either hasn’t returned Lorena or confirmed firm, verifiable arrangements that she’s on her way back. That gives you more than enough time to make contact and convince her. After that, she’ll be hunted down in earnest. She’ll be top priority on computers worldwide.’

‘I see.’ Gordon gazed thoughtfully towards the window. Taking Crowley at face value, he was concerned. But he couldn’t help wondering if it was all just a ruse for Crowley to be able to set another pressure deadline after the first hadn’t worked: a second bite at the cherry. But Gordon didn’t have time to banter and perhaps draw him out. Crowley had caught him seriously on the hop: he was meant to leave in only a minute for his next arranged call to Elena. He needed to wrap this up quickly.

‘Well, if and when she does make contact — I’ll be sure to pass that on.’ Gordon pushed a tight smile. A ‘We’re finished here’ look. But Crowley’s reaction was to take a seat, and Gordon’s heart sank: he was settling in!

Crowley’s expression clouded, his forehead furrowing. ‘I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of this, Mr Waldren. First of all you’re insulting my intelligence by insisting that your wife so far hasn’t made any contact with you — if nothing more than to check on the welfare of her own children. But this now means that she’ll be hunted as a criminal. And the reason that she hasn’t been listed as such to date is down to me — mainly because of the tape you played and your insistence that your wife was not a kidnapper. I decided to take you at your word on that, Mr Waldren.’ Crowley looked across keenly: Waldren was trying to brush the whole thing quickly off, act offhand; but Crowley could tell that beneath the surface he was agitated, off-balance. What Crowley hadn’t mentioned was that the alert status had been mainly for their benefit, not Waldren’s. The tape had been one factor for not listing Mrs Waldren as a ‘kidnapper’, because of possible later problems with the CPS*. But the main reason had been a Metropolitan Police case fifteen months back where an estranged father had abducted his eight-year old son and taken him to Italy. They’d listed the alert as a kidnapping, which rang major alarm bells with the Italian Caribinieri. In the resultant storm-trooper style siege, the father was shot and seriously wounded. The size of the financial claim was only surpassed by the dent to police PR. Turton advised caution, at least for the first alert put out. ‘Now having gone out on a limb for you, I don’t think insulting my intelligence is really a fitting repayment — do you?’

Gordon nodded solemnly, looking down. ‘No, no… you’re right. I’m sorry.’ He had no doubt anymore that Crowley was either telling the truth or it was a very good bluff. But he had to get rid of him quickly: already a minute over when he should have left, and he should leave at least another two for Crowley to get clear. But no point in trying to make light of it or act indifferent, that was just raising Crowley’s hackles and making him dig in his toes. He’d have to indulge him. ‘Look, my wife has called — but I just can’t say where she is. It really is up to her to decide what to do now. But I will, I promise, pass on what you’ve said and try and convince her to return Lorena.’

Crowley kept his eyes fixed on Waldren, trying to gauge his sincerity. After a second. ‘I think that would be very wise, Mr Waldren. Because some countries adopt a very serious and aggressive stance with kidnapping. And once the fresh alert has gone out, from that point on charges for kidnapping will almost automatically follow. At this stage while it’s still ‘missing person’ status, we still have the chance of stepping back from the brink.’

‘Yes, yes… I understand. Really, as soon as I’ve spoken to her, I’ll pass that on.’ Two minutes over, and counting. His brain was screaming: Go! Go! For God’s sake, just fucking go!

‘It would also greatly help your case if your wife gave herself up before we traced her: once we have, I think it would be that much harder to pull back from pressing full charges.’ They’d had great success with checking scheduled flights from all major airports in France and Belgium, but charters were proving more difficult; due to sheer volume they were only halfway through, they still had some way to go.

‘I understand.’ Gordon cast his eyes down for a second: hopefully final contrition. Go! Go! Go!

‘Right.’ Crowley nodded thoughtfully. He’d probably piled on the pressure as much as he could. He thought originally Waldren was trying to brush it all off through indifference — but now as Waldren stood up, he noticed one of his hands shaking. He’d struck a chord: Waldren was so panicked, he couldn’t bear to stay on the subject a second longer.

Gordon felt a pang of relief as Crowley finally took the prompt and stood up — then quickly tensed again as Crowley looked towards the phone.

‘So — Five pm, no later. You’ll phone me before then and let me know one way or the other.’

‘Yes, yes, I will. Don’t worry.’ Gordon quickly came around, blocking Crowley’s view of the phone and the papers there as he ushered him out.

Crowley stopped just before the front door. ‘Oh, and another thing. You’re doing your wife’s cause no favours by bothering Ryall’s other daughter at university. He called us to complain.’ Brief strained smile. He didn’t want to give away that they’d been following Waldren.

‘Right, right… I’m sorry.’ He opened the door. Three minutes over, two minutes still to wait. He wasn’t going to make it! His nerves were hammering out of control, and for a moment he feared Crowley was going to bring up another last second issue — but then he appeared to think better of it, and with another curt smile and nod — ‘Five pm tomorrow then’ — he left.

Gordon’s breathing was laboured, heavy, as he shut the door; he had to strain to hear Crowley’s receding footsteps, his car door closing, the car finally starting and heading away. He’d aimed to leave a full two minutes gap, but in the end he counted only fifty seconds before he grabbed the fax and notes by the phone and rushed from the house.

He put his foot down hard. Six mile drive to the phone box: hopefully he might be able to claw back a minute or so. Crowley would likely have headed in the opposite direction towards Poole; the last thing he wanted was to race past him.

He screeched to a halt and leapt out. The telephone box was on the opposite side of the road, but he could hear it ringing as soon as he was out of the car. He had to wait for one passing car, then bolted across. But within a yard of the box, it stopped ringing.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know what’s going on? It’s your job to fucking know what’s going on.’

‘I tell you, now it’s gone to S-18, there’s a complete shut-down on information on Donatiens here. Not a whisper’s being passed round — everything is being handled by Mundy’s team out of Ottawa.’

Roman clutched the receiver tighter with Campion’s wheedling tone. He’d phoned through ten minutes ago as a clerk of the Court chasing a file — their usual pre-arranged alert. Campion then left Dorchester Boulevard and headed to a phone kiosk two blocks away to receive Roman’s call-back. ‘Someone must know something. Chenouda is still right at the heart of this, I know. And he can’t possibly be working this alone.’

‘No, he’s not alone. But it’s a tight knit group. Only two of his team, Chac Patoine and Maury Legault know anything — because they were apparently handling surveillance on Donatiens when he was snatched. But then Chenouda went straight to S-18. He hasn’t shared anything with the rest of his team, and I don’t even know if Patoine and Legault are still in the information loop now that it’s gone to S-18.’

‘Great. Fucking great.’ Roman’s jaw clenched. Just when he needed Campion the most, he was ineffectual, useless. Hopefully the bombshell with Chenouda would shake him up. ‘When I say Chenouda’s at the heart of this with Donatien’s… it’s more than you probably realize.’ He told Campion his theory that he thought Chenouda was responsible for snatching Donatiens to apply the final pressure to get him to testify. ‘Certainly it wasn’t me, and I know for sure it wasn’t Cacchione either — so you tell me. From where I stand, I don’t see any other option left.’

Only the fall of Campion’s breathing at the other end for a second. ‘You’re joking?’

‘No. Deadly fucking serious.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, I know he was desperately trying to get Donatiens to testify… but going to those lengths.’

‘Sure? Sure I’m sure. If it wasn’t me or Cacchione — then who the fuck do you think it was? Boy Scouts practising rope-ties for Canada Day?’

‘I know. I know. I’m not doubting what you say: it’s just that it seems so… well, so extreme. Chenouda’s whole career would be at risk for a stunt like that — not to mention a healthy jail term on top.’

‘So, the Indian’s got big balls — it was him, no doubt. But what I’m getting to is Chenouda couldn’t have pulled something like this alone. He had help, and there must be clues and an information trail there somewhere. If you dig and push some, you’ll find them.’

Campion sighed.’ You don’t get it, do you? It’s with S-18 now — I’ve got no jurisdiction or reason to push or even ask a single question about this case anymore. And the reason it’s with S-18 is that Chenouda has said he suspects an internal leak at Dorchester Boulevard — so the heat on that front is going to be intense. I’ll be keeping my head low and have my breath held as it is: if I start asking questions and probing, who do you think is going to fall first in the spotlight?’

They both fell silent for a second. It hit Roman then just how clever Chenouda had been: he probably suspected a leak and needed S-18’s help in any case to put Donatiens in the Witness Protection programme. Yet at the same time putting everything in S-18’s hands out of reach of his own department put an extra camouflage over him arranging Donatiens’ abduction. But Roman just couldn’t leave things on that note; there was too much now at stake.

‘Then you’re going to have to take a leaf out of Chenouda’s book. He managed to organize snatching Donatiens without anyone knowing — you’re just going to have to dig without anyone knowing.'

‘I’m sorry. It’s just too risky.’

Roman felt his blood boil. He’d first got his hooks into Campion, an assistant Crown Attorney under Tom Maitland, when he learned about his gambling and high-life tastes. He’d have preferred someone in Chenouda’s own department because there were always delays in information filtering through to Maitland’s office, but it was the closest option going. Now he was beginning to feel even further short-changed.

‘You know what pilots always say. They say that nowadays the computers and automatic pilots do everything. That they really only need to concentrate for the few moments of take-off and landing; for the rest of the time they just watch the instruments and read a book, whatever. And that ninety percent of their training and the justification for their pay-packets goes into how they might react in an emergency; if, God forbid, something should go wrong. Well, the plane is going down now, Campion — this is when we fucking need you! Otherwise, what’s been the point of the money I’ve paid you these past two years?’

‘It’s not that I don’t want to help.’ Campion was suddenly more hesitant, his voice tremulous. ‘It’s just that I don’t know what I can do now with S-18 involved.’

‘Well, you work that out and come up with something more positive next time we speak. And if you’re worried about raising too much attention with S-18, then just think on one thing: if Donatiens testifies and me and I go down — what do you think I’m going to say when they ask about my internal contact and there’s the chance of five or seven off of my sentence?’ Roman bathed in the warm glow of the stunned silence at the other end for a few seconds, then hung up.