The Last Witness

THIRTY-THREE

‘And she’s already left?’ Claude Donatiens asked.

‘Yes, just about forty minutes ago.’ Michel glanced through his office window to the squad room clock. Seventy percent of the staff had already left, but a faint hubbub rose from those remaining. He’d made so many calls in the past few hours that some of the activity had spilled over. ‘She’s staying overnight and returning tomorrow.’

‘And you’re sure that’s she’ll bring a message for us.’

‘Yes, sure. That was the deal made. Messages for both you and his fiancee.’ Michel had been more concerned with Georges’ fast-growing cold-turkey with Simone, but he’d extended it to cover his parents as well. In only a few months Georges could start to feel the same way about them. The ideal halfway house: Georges gets to meet his long-lost mother and gets messages to his loved-ones as well. Two birds with one stone, and who better for poignancy to pass on the messages. Michel dropped his voice a note. ‘There was just too much danger attached to either yourselves or Simone seeing Georges. This was the best compromise I felt we could make. I hope you understand our position.’

‘Yes, I… I understand. I just hope she keeps to what was agreed and brings the message.’

‘I’m sure she will.’ Listening to the strain in Claude Donatiens’ voice, Michel wondered how much he really did understand, or any parent could. After the note, nothing but wilderness. No contact at all. It was a pretty poor substitute: a single note to fill the space of the long years they’d never see him. Again Michel felt a twinge in his chest at what he’d done, but then what other option had there been? With Georges dead, that loss would have been more final and heart-rending. ‘I’ve already spoken to Georges about the message, and it’s very important to him. And I’ve also got one of my men there to remind him. I’m sure it won’t get forgotten.’

There was a faint buzz and crackle on the line towards the end, and Claude said that he was sorry, ‘I didn’t quite catch that last part. We had a telephone engineer call a couple of days back about a fault, but it seems worse than ever.’

‘I said I’ve got one of my men there as well, so I’m sure the message won’t — ’ Michel stopped mid-track, a lightning bolt running through him. ‘What was that you said? A telephone engineer?’ Michel’s voice was suddenly high and strained.

‘Yes…. uuh, called a couple of days back. Maybe three.’ Claude stumbled slightly with the fresh sharpness to Michel’s tone.

‘I thought I told you to let me know if anything unusual happened. Anyone called to your house out of the blue.’ Michel’s voice was raised; he was almost shouting. A couple of heads turned form the squad room.

‘Yes, but… but this happened before you told us. Before it had even been announced about Georges’ attempted abduction and him testifying.’

‘How long before?’

‘Well, uh, the day before… maybe two days.’

The lightning bolt ran deeper through, hit the pit of his stomach. He felt physically sick, and his hands were shaking so hard that for a moment he feared he might drop the receiver. He should have realized! He’d marked the announcement of Georges testifying as the pivotal point, but Georges had already been missing two days and his stepparents’ home was a logical place for him to make contact. Michel slowly closed his eyes. There was still a chance he might be wrong.

He answered, ‘I don’t know yet’ to Claude quizzing ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘…I’ve got a few calls to make.’ He signed off hastily, looked up Bell Canada’s number, and dialled straight out, giving them the Beaconsfield address and approximate time to check their records for an engineer calling. They said it would take five minutes or so. They’d phone him straight back.

Michel burst out of his office like a whirlwind. He spotted Maury in the corner and signalled him. ‘Grab a guy from Dauphin’s department who knows anything remotely about electronics and head out with him to this address in Beaconsfield.’ Michel hastily wrote down the Donatiens’ address. ‘And if he’s got anyone else spare, they should at the same time head here to check.’ Michel wrote down the Montclaire hotel address underneath and ripped the page from the notepad. ‘I’m looking for telephone bugs planted at each — like now! Pronto! So separate cars to each if Dauphine can spare anyone.’

Maury grabbed his jacket from his chair-back as Michel whirled away. One of his office lines was ringing. Michel grabbed it on the third ring. It was Bell Canada. No, they had no record of a call made at that address or indeed in that street in the last week.

‘Last noted service call in that street was eighteen days ago, at number 1426.’

Michel’s stomach sank like an express elevator, and for a moment he felt dizzy, his legs unsteady. His own voice sounded distant as he said ‘Thanks’ and hung up. Maury was only halfway down the corridor, and already he knew most of the answer. But it was enough to alert S-18 to stop Elena Waldren before she got there, or get a message to the safe-house. By the time Maury got out to Beaconsfield to fully confirm a phone bug, it could already be too late.

But when he got hold of the S-18 control room operator, she advised him that she didn’t have any of that information on her computer, the only people who had that information or could authorise contact were Superintendent Mundy and Inspector Graydon.

‘Then put me through to one of them.’

‘They’re not available right now. Inspector Graydon’s on a week’s break, but I might be able to get a message to Superintendent Mundy later on tonight if it’s urgent.’

Michel ascertained what she meant by ‘later’, then asked her name. He eased a weary sigh. ‘Look Constable Fuller, or Melanie — whatever you’d prefer. In two hours it will be too late. It’s that simple. The mark that Mundy and your department have gone to so much trouble to protect will be dead! Unless you can somehow get a message to Mundy right now, or find some other way to contact the safe-house or the team heading out there now to warn them.’

She started stumbling under the pressure. ‘I… I’m sorry. I’m doing the best I can with what I have. The operation is top security-coded, and there’s just no other information on screen.’

‘I know. I know.’ Michel backed off a step, clutching at his hair. He’d simply got the stone-wall protection he wanted, and there wasn’t a single frame of reference he could think of to guide her. Two S-18 men who apparently made up next month’s guard shift had flown up from Ottawa to pick Elena Waldren up from her hotel and escort her all the way. No idea where they were flying from and no names; nor were any exchanged in the few conversations he’d had with the safe house. That was the whole ethos of the operation.

Constable Fuller drew fresh breath. ‘All I can do is try and raise Mundy. He says that he’s not available — but I don’t whether that means he simply can’t be contacted, or just doesn’t want to be. If he starts shouting, I’ll blame you.’

‘Thanks. But quick, huh. Every second counts on this.’

‘I think I’ve got that clear. I’ll phone you back in ten minutes if I can’t raise him on his phone or bleeper — sooner if I can.’

‘So just the four jobs, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ Santagata shrugged. ‘And then this one now.’

Roman’s mind was racing. Four contracts? Didn’t show much of an allegiance. But then if they were key contracts, ‘Santa Dave’ could be one of Giacomelli’s stars.

‘All pretty much the same as this?’

‘One the same, backing up. The other three hits.’

They fell silent again. Roman kept his gaze straight ahead, watching wisps of mist drift past the plane’s window as they battled through the night sky. He’d asked the questions nonchalantly, as if it was only of passing interest; and he didn’t want to press too hard or ask too many questions. Santagata might latch on that he was angling at something. Guys like Santagata usually had natural antennae for warning signs: it’s what kept them alive. Roman could feel Santa Dave’s eyes on him for a moment before he looked back ahead again.

Roman tried to ease the tension in his body. Massenat was wedged between him and Santagata at the back of the aircraft with Funicelli in the front with Desmarais, but for a moment Roman worried that with the repetitive tapping of one heel and his hand on the same thigh, Santagata might pick up that it was more than just due to the rough flight and what lay ahead of them.

The questions had been sporadic, not only to make them not so obvious, but because for the first half hour the flight had been very bumpy. On the worst parts, as the plane lurched and tossed and rattled, they all fell deathly silent. Nobody felt like talking. Except for Desmarais, who whooped excitedly, ‘Just like riding a wild bronco at Calgary.’ The sight of four tough guys gripped with white-knuckle fever seemed to tickle Desmarais. Roman felt like saving an extra bullet for him.

Then the weather settled a little; there was still the occasional bumpy flurry, but not so wild.

‘It was mainly cross-border jobs in Canada,’ Santagata added after a moment. ‘Art was always worried about me flying back out or crossing the border straight after a hit, especially as I became known. I think otherwise he’d have used me more.’

‘Right.’ Roman nodded solemnly. He felt the tingle rise up through his body until it reached his fingertips. Santagata had said it as if to explain why Giacomelli hadn’t used him more, but at the same time he’d signed his own death warrant. Roman knew every hit Giacomelli had made in Canada, and none of them were major! ‘Santa Dave’ was dispensable. Giacomelli wouldn’t stretch that far to make amends, especially not with himself and Cacchione later declared as a team. Giacomelli wouldn’t risk that level of confrontation over a lone hitman.

But having made the decision, the only question was when? He’d originally planned to do it later: he could claim that Santagata simply got caught in the cross-fire with the RCs. But there’d be too much going on then, too much else to think about. Roman chewed at his lip, and felt Santagata’s eyes on him again briefly, glancing sideways and meeting them only for a second: dark almost black eyes, shielded even more with the weak cabin light. Difficult to read into.

Had Santagata picked up on something? Some invisible electrical signal that ran between them: He’s planning to kill you. So make sure to take him out first. Or had it been a double-bluff all along? Santagata at the same time measuring him for a drop. Jean-Paul never really had believed him about not abducting and trying to kill Georges, and maybe this was the pay-off. After all, that’s what Santagata did most: hits, not playing chaperone.

He felt the sudden pressure of it all like a powder-keg: the bumpy flight, Santagata’s eyes on him intermittently, what lay ahead and the contingencies yet to cover — his nerves wound so tight with it all that his whole body was shaking almost in time with this tin-can rattling through the night. And all because he couldn’t bear living in his brother’s shadow a day longer. If he didn’t make the…

‘Jesus!’ The bottom dropped out of his stomach as the plane fell sickeningly. A sharp shudder as the plane hit the bottom of the drop followed by some heavy tilting and swaying — then it rose again as swiftly until Roman’s stomach was at the edge of his throat.

‘Here goes again,’ Desmarais commented, wrestling with the joy-stick.

They saw sheet lightning out to their right, about five miles away. The small plane bobbed and swayed, but just before the next sharp drop Roman noticed one advantage: Santagata was no longer paying him any attention, his eyes were fixed stonily ahead.

The drop was longer this time, the shudder so hard as it bottomed out that the cabin lights flickered off. Roman decided in that instant to take his chance: he simply might not get as good a chance later! In the darkness he leant forward; and as the lights flickered back on he already had the.22 out of his garter strap and pointed at Santagata’s face.

Santagata took a second to focus on the gun. Distant lightning flickered against one side of his face. ‘What the fuck is this?’

Massenat between them leant back with his hands held by his shoulders. A ‘this ain’t nothing to do with me’ gesture.

Roman smiled slowly. ‘You know those Bond films where he’s got a gun pointed at the bad guy, but he daren’t fire it in case one of them gets sucked out of the plane?’ Roman steadied the.22. ‘That’s the one advantage of these low-flying shit-heaps. We don’t have that to worry about.’

Roman squeezed the trigger as Santagata lurched and reached across. Still he would have got the shot off cleanly, but at that second came another sharp drop, the cabin lights flickering off again.

Then Santagata’s hand was on his arm, pushing it away. Roman struggled to point back at Santagata’s face. Santagata was strong, straining hard, and Roman had to bring his left arm up to get any movement back that way. He daren’t risk another shot on the off-chance: too many danger points it could hit.

The cabin lights flickered back on and he saw a patch of Santagata’s hair matted with blood, a trickle running down his forehead. He’d grazed the skull with the first shot.

Santagata reached for his gun with his other hand; Roman didn’t notice, but Massenat did. He pinned down the gun arm, then whipped his elbow sharply back into Santagata’s stomach. Santagata keened forward with the blow, heavily winded.

All the strength went from Santagata’s body in that same instant, and Roman wrenched his arm free as Santagata’s grip loosened.

Roman grabbed Santagata’s hair and pulled his face back up straight. ‘So it’s goodbye Mr Chips.’ Santagata’s eyes had barely re-focused on him as he put the gun by Santagata’s left eye-socket and pulled the trigger.

Santagata’s head flew back with the impact and Roman was left with some hair in his hand. He wiped it disdainfully on his seat.

Desmarais half-turned, his face as red as his hair. ‘You guys wanna pull stunts like that — least you could do is fucking warn me.’

Roman smiled drolly, his breathing still ragged. ‘Just imagine it’s still the fucking Calgary stampede — but now the cowboys are shooting in the air.’ Roman was glad that something could rattle Desmarais; it was his turn to gloat at the fear in Desmarais’ face.

They sat out the rest of the turbulence in silence, Santagata’s body intermittently double-lit by bursts of lightning. Then Desmarais dropped two-thousand feet so that Roman and Massenat could risk opening the door to get rid of the body.

‘Never did like paying fucking excess baggage,’ Roman remarked as it sailed out.

Massenat chuckled briefly, but the silence was quickly back. They’d weathered one storm, but there was a tougher one yet ahead. And now they were one man down.

Eight minutes later Jake Kirkham called. They’d seen the plane land, and the car had just left the airfield. ‘Two men and a woman inside. I’ll call again when they’ve reached the safe-house. Let us know what you want us to do then.’

When S-18’s Melanie Fuller phoned back after only seven minutes, Michel thought she had good news. But no, Mundy hadn’t responded to his bleeper message yet.

‘It was something else I thought I should pass on straightaway. One of the guys here with a high clearance pass was able to access a bit more information. He says that it’s a sector 14 operation, three-man monthly rotation guard team. Still pretty basic info, I’m afraid — but it might help.’

‘Sector 14? Where’s that?’

‘Northern Ontario. An oblong block stretching between Hearst, James Bay and Iroquois Falls, sixty miles from the Quebec border.’

‘Okay.’ All Michel wanted to do was race to a map, but it was immaterial: he’d already decided that if they didn’t raise Mundy fast, he was heading out there.

‘I’ll call you back as soon as I’ve got something on Mundy. If he doesn’t phone within the next few minutes, we’ll start trawling his regular haunts.’

Michel said that he’d probably be on the move soon. ‘At least make a start on heading to sector 14.’ He gave his mobile number and signed off.

He’d spent the last seven minutes pacing the floor of his office and the squad room like a caged lion, the door open between the two, and spent only another minute continuing pacing before diving for the phone to make the arrangements to head out there.

Sea King helicopter would be the fastest way. One could be brought up from the RCMP and army air-base on Montreal Island within minutes. ‘All that’s needed is a nearby roof-pad.’

Michel got Christine Hebert to arrange the roof-pad and liaise back with the air-base, and two minutes later she confirmed that she’d laid everything on with the West-Laurent Towers just three blocks away. ‘And the chopper’s already left. Said they should land there in about six minutes.’

Michel managed to get everything together with a minute to spare. Breakneck run along the Dorchester Boulevard corridors and down the three blocks with an ERT* team of four — with him still shouting and filling in details as they went — he was breathless as they rose in the elevator to the roof-pad. His heart pounded hard and heavy. No call back still on Mundy’s whereabouts.

He glanced at his watch. They wouldn’t get there for a good hour and a half after Elena Waldren’s arrival. He shook his head. They’d probably be too late: raising Mundy and phoning the safe-house to warn them was still the best bet.

* Emergency Response Team.

Art Giacomelli looked at the numbers on the computer screen. They hadn’t moved for the last fifty minutes. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.

He phoned Jean-Paul and said that he had concerns about ‘Santa Dave’. He didn’t explain exactly why, just asked Jean-Paul to phone Roman and find out where they were at that moment, and then ask to speak to Santagata.

‘Maybe it’s nothing. But I’ll know for sure from what Roman tells you. Phone me straight back.'

Jean-Paul made the call. Roman answered after the second ring, and Jean-Paul asked how it was going.

‘Fine. Everything running to plan. We just landed ten minutes back.’ Roman sounded slightly out of breath, agitated.

‘And you found out the location?’

‘Yeah, it’s about a half-hour run away.’

‘Where did you end up? Where are you now?’

‘Some dead and alive place called Cochrane, Northern Ontario.’

It meant nothing to Jean-Paul. ‘One advantage of Canada’s wilds, I suppose. If you want to hide someone away.’ A second’s pause, then Jean-Paul asked for Santagata to be put on. ‘There’s just a small thing I need to clarify with him.’

‘He, uh… He can’t come to the phone right now. He’s taking a leak in the bushes. Long flight and too much coffee.’ Roman chuckled hesitantly.

Apart from the hesitation, Jean-Paul could clearly hear the engine noise and rush of them on the move, not stopped by the roadside. Roman was lying.

‘I really need to speak to him Roman,’ Jean-Paul pressed.

‘As soon as he’s finished taking a leak, I’ll get him to phone you.’ Roman didn’t trouble to mask his annoyance. ‘That is, if he gets a chance with all we’ve got on.’

The line clicked off abruptly.

Jean-Paul dialled straight back to Giacomelli and relayed how the call had gone.

‘Bad news,’ Giacomelli said on the back of a heavy sigh. Giacomelli explained why. Four years ago Santagata had a hit contract on someone he knew. Problem was the guy was always on the move, but Santagata knew him well enough to be able to buy him a present without making him suspicious. ‘So he buys him one of those satellite watches. You know, the one’s where you can move from one country to the next and it always shows the right time ‘cause it’s linked to a satellite. But it also tells you exactly where you are, within ten fucking yards! It’s that accurate. And if you know the watch’s serial number — which Santa Dave did — there’s a web-site where you can find out exactly where it is. So he knew where the mark was, made the hit, then took the watch back.’ Giacomelli drew hard on his cigar. ‘So tonight he arranged to phone me every couple of hours to bring me up to date — which he’s now twenty minutes over in doing — and he wore the watch and gave me its serial number. And for the last fifty minutes it hasn’t moved from near a place called Holtyre, a good hundred and fifty miles from where Roman says he is now. So either Santa Dave’s thrown the watch out the plane window in disgust ‘cause the battery’s flat, or he’s gone with it.’

‘Let us know if you can remember anything?’

The two police officers had left over an hour ago, but still the words bounced around in Mikaya Ryall’s mind. Remember? That was half the problem: she’d never been able to remember a single thing clearly enough so that she could say, Yes, my stepfather molested me. He came to my room on this night, and touched me here, here and here. It was all just shadows, dreamlike fragments.

But those shadows had haunted every other moment of her life since. It all seemed so real, but when she tried to recall she could only remember it happening in her dreams: nothing she could pass on or tell to anyone else. They’d think her mad. But the shadows would leap out and became all so vivid and real again each time a boy touched her or tried to kiss her. She’d shiver and shrink away in panic, terrified. She’d been called frigid and cold and weird, and a couple of times a lesbian. A few of the boys she’d really liked, and she’d reach out to them tearfully and want to explain: but how could she when the images were only in her dreams?

The tears streamed down her face as she cut through the bed-sheet with the scissors, trying to make sure she kept the strip even as she went.

And now young Lorena as well. Mikaya kicked herself that maybe she should have been bolder earlier and said he was molesting her, then try and fill in the gaps later. But each time she ran it all over in her mind, there were always too many questions she wouldn’t be able to answer: Which nights? Where did he touch you? What did he say? Why didn’t you say anything, try and stop him? She shook her head. Even now with the answer to why her and Lorena weren’t able to respond and fight back, they still weren’t able to do anything concrete. They were still trying to get her and Lorena to recall something from being awake, from real life rather than dreams. ‘Sorry, I just can’t help you. I wish I could.’ Nothing was going to stop him now.

She wiped at her tears with the back of one hand and started cutting the second strip.

Even if she could remember anything, it was too late. Too late. She would never be the same again. She wanted children, loved children. But what would she do? Lay there with teeth gritted, her whole body trembling until the boy had finished? And if she wanted more children, a proper marriage — night after night of the same? It was unthinkable, a living hell.

And now she’d let Lorena down too by not speaking out. She was suffering the same. Probably it would be too late for Lorena as well — she’d go the same way as her. All Lorena had left to cling to was the hope that one day the dreams would fade. Maybe she’d be luckier; for Mikaya they hadn’t, and she knew now with certainty that they never would.

Her vision blurred with tears, she looked up thoughtfully to the handle of the high latch window, wondering if it would hold her weight. She’d have to be quick. Her dorm friends had gone to the Student Union bar to give her time alone with the policemen, but they’d be back soon.

Patrick Mundy regularly had eight to nine hours a week to himself that were sacrosanct, off-limits to any contact from his department, no matter how urgent: his regular card-game, golf round, and going to watch the Senators play. But the last two months, he’d added another few weekly off-limit hours since he started dating Suzie Harrigan.

Twelve years his junior and class all the way. Long auburn hair and large hazel eyes with sweeping lashes that could melt Greenland. Audrey Hepburn and then some. Mundy was in love. But this would be the third time up to bat for him, he wanted to put in the time to make sure that she was the right one; he didn’t want to spend his early retirement in lawyers’ offices sorting out yet more alimony.

So when he was with her, his mobile and pager were switched off; she had his undivided attention. Not that it would have made much difference where they’d gone tonight: Clair de Lune. Popular with high-flyers and government ministers, mobiles and pagers were strictly off-limits. Otherwise the restaurant would have been a cacophony of endless bleeps and rings. What few were brought along and left switched on, bleeped and rung without anyone paying them attention behind the closed door of a back cloakroom.

As they left the restaurant, the air was brisk. Mundy wrapped Suzie’s coat around her. In his own coat pocket his bleeper light flashed, but he hadn’t yet looked at it nor had any intention of doing so. Mundy was strict with his time alone with her: nothing like being dragged away on emergencies every other date to give a taste of things to come and kill all hopes for a future relationship.

‘Where do you fancy tonight?’ he asked. ‘The Glue Pot or the Laurier?’ They usually went to one or the other after dinner: short night-cap at the Hotel Laurier piano lounge or a longer session listening to live blues.

She mulled it over for only a second. ‘Mmmm, The Glue Pot.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

Melanie Fuller was still on switchboard, so most of the calls to track down Mundy had fallen to her S-18 colleague, Brian Cole. He called Clair de Lune twenty-five minutes into his roster, fourteenth on his list.

‘Yes, he was here earlier. But I’m sorry — you’ve just missed him.’ An effete, faintly French accent that sounded faked.

‘When did he leave?’ Cole pressed.

‘About ten minutes ago.’

‘Do you know where he might have gone?’

‘I’m sorry. We make a habit of not chasing our clients from the restaurant to ask where they might be going.’ Mocking tone, the accent more exaggerated. The phone was put down abruptly.

Cole turned and passed the news to Melanie.

She sighed heavily and ran one hand through her hair. ‘Keep trying. Keep trying.’ She checked her watch. ‘It could take him fifteen or twenty minutes to get home, so it’d be worth another try there soon. If not, start working through bars and clubs.’

‘If Roman’s going to make a move, it’ll probably be tonight. Once all of this has gone down, he knows he’d have you to face. Do you want me to send someone over?’

‘No, it’s okay. I doubt there’d be time anyway.’

‘True. But take my advice, Jean-Paul. Either get some protection over there fast, or leave the house. Don’t just sit there like a sitting duck.’

Jean-Paul said ‘Okay’ to put Giacomelli’s mind at rest, but hanging up he couldn’t think of anyone he could call in fast — Roman always took care of that side of things — and the last thing he felt like doing was running scared from his own house. It would feel too much like defeat, like waving the white flag at Roman. Admittance that when it came to the crunch the old ways held sway, all of his new aspirations amounted to nothing.

But then he started to became uneasy, agitated. Was that the pool filtration system, some pigeons alighting from the roof, or something else? Raphael’s footsteps upstairs, or were they coming from another part of the house? He suddenly started to feel the isolation of the big house, feel vulnerable.

He went into his study and took out the SIG-Sauer 9mm from the top drawer. He was aware of his own breathing falling heavy, but kept his listening honed beyond it for out of place sounds. Some faint music now he could pick up drifting from Raphael’s room. Looking out across the dining room and through the windows, a light was on in his mother Lillian’s apartment at the end of the courtyard.

He closed his eyes and gripped the gun tight. His hands were shaking, his pulse racing hard. Some flight away from crime this was. A hitman probably moving in, and he hoped to brave it out when he hadn’t fired a gun in years. And he wasn’t alone in the house. A fine epitaph that would be to all his noble hopes and aspirations: Raphael walking in to see his father or his adversary in a pool of blood, the other with their gun freshly smoking. Maybe his father had been right all along: ‘As much as you might wish to escape the past, the past will never allow you that escape.’

Maybe that’s how it was meant to end, his punishment for being so naive, blindly foolish. Roman had probably been playing him all along, and now he’d won the game. With Roman already closing in, nothing he could do to save Georges. Probably Georges could have been trusted all along, and Georges had in turn looked up to and trusted him — and he’d repaid by turning his back. He might as well have fed Georges to Roman with his own hands. He’d lose Simone without question: she’d never forgive him. And if he tried now to stand this last bit of feeble ground, at the same time he turned his back on everything he’d aimed for. He lost either way. Game, set, match.

He snapped himself quickly out. The thought of Raphael and his mother being there when anything happened overrode all else. He raced up the stairs and rapped sharply on Raphael’s door, swinging it open. Loud wave of techno with a faint beep-beep backdrop.

‘Raphael! We’ve got to go — leave the house!’

‘What? I’ll just finish this game, and-’

‘Now, Raphael! This second!’

Raphael saw a look of panic on his father’s face he hadn’t seen before, then he noticed the gun. He swiftly turned off the game and the music, grabbed his coat and fell in step behind his father back down the corridor. By the time they hit the stairs, they were at a run.

‘We’ll just pick up your grandma, and head off.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘Long story. Long story.’ Jean-Paul said it almost in time with his laboured breathing. ‘We’ll grab a cappuccino somewhere and then I can explain.’

Lillian was slower, more reluctant to leave without explanation, and Jean-Paul had to blurt out that their lives could be in danger to finally light a fire under her. He gestured with his gun as if to say ‘why in hell do you think I’m carrying this.’ ‘We must leave this second!’

He grabbed keys to the Cadillac on the way out — more space, more protection than his new sports Jag — and seconds later they were swinging out of the driveway. Brief pause to open the electronic gates, and then Jean-Paul turned right on Boulevard Gouin, heading for the city.

Cacchione’s men, Lorenzo and Nunzio Petrilli — ‘Lorry’ and ‘High Noon’ — weren’t Cacchione’s first choice, but they were all he could get at short notice. They’d been competent enough on a couple of past jobs, and there were two of them. If one fucked up, hopefully the other would cover.

The Petrillis had arrived outside the Boulevard Gouin mansion just eight minutes ago, and were still checking out the perimeter railings and the house beyond to finalise their plan when the double gates opened and Jean-Paul’s Cadillac swung out.

They were startled, and it took a second for them to kick into action. Lorenzo fumbled before finally firing up the car, then swung around and started to close some of the long gap that had opened up.

Two hundred yards along, Jean-Paul turned left into Avenue Christophe Colomb. He was oblivious to the car lights trailing a steady fifty yards behind as he took out his mobile. Suddenly he’d thought of how he might be able to help Georges. The most unlikely of calls, but it was all he could think of.

He tapped out the number and a woman’s voice answered. ‘Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Dorchester Boulevard.’

‘Staff-Sergeant Michel Chenouda, please.’