The Last Witness

EIGHT

‘811 to 839… Just crossing du Parc. We should be on St Denis any minute.’

‘Read you 811. We’re on St Denis already, heading south towards the St Joseph junction… only about nine or ten blocks away. We’re to wait at the St Joseph junction, is that correct?’

‘Yeah, copy. Don’t proceed into St Joseph until we’re there.’

Michel listened to the 800 waveband progress of the cars heading towards Enrique Venegas. He was in his RCMP standard issue Ford Taurus with Maury Legault as they waited on Georges Donatiens arriving at his Cote du Beaver Hall office.

Maury was busy making the point that his own divorce was worse than Michel’s, or indeed anyone else’s in the squad room, that the knives still out for him from his wife were longer and sharper. ‘You know what she told the children last week? That I used to beat her. I never hit her even once. Once when she threw a saucepan at me, I grabbed her arm to stop her throwing another, but that was it. I never hit her.’ Maury shook his head morosely.

Michel nodded and sympathised at the right moments, but along with most male members of his squad, he’d heard it all from Maury before and, by extension, it struck him as a sad reflection on the high failure rate of department marriages, if this was all it now came down to: bittersweet trumping. My divorce was worse than yours. And so hearing some movement at last over the 800 network came as a welcome relief.

‘Where is he?’ Michel looked at his watch: 8.16 am., when normally Donatiens was in sharply at 8.00 am. He’d found himself becoming increasingly agitated as Maury spoke, not sure if it was the worn topic, the wait for things to start happening over the radio, or Donatiens not showing yet. Surely he hadn’t gone out again to the Cartier-Ville mansion; he’d been there for a morning meeting only two days ago. Maybe he had a breakfast meeting somewhere else.

‘This guy she’s with now is a minor league hockey player. St Laurent Icebreakers or some such shit.’ Maury sneered in disbelief. ‘She tells the kids I hit her, and meanwhile she’s hooked up with a fucking hockey player. I think she’s lost the plot somewheres, been watching too many of his…’

‘Maury!’ Michel held one hand up sharply. He was about to add, ‘I need to concentrate a while,’ but at that moment the radio came alive again — so he just made a chopping motion with his raised hand.

‘… 811. We’re at junction of St Joseph now, and waiting. As instructed.’

‘Copy. We’re just crossing the Rue Rachel junction. Should be with you in under two minutes.’

The voices over the radio reminded Michel of the night chasing Savard. He closed his eyes for a second. Please God, let us keep safe grip on this one. He knew he’d been lucky to even get this second chance; there wouldn’t be another.

‘There he is,’ Maury commented, and Michel opened his eyes to see Donatiens’ Lexus swing into the underground car park.

‘Okay, showtime.’ Michel put on a headset with a small receiver and earpiece one side, so that he could still monitor progress with Donatiens. A mouthpiece snaked around, and he could patch in and speak by pressing a button on the receiver. But the arrangement was that he’d just listen in, unless something pressing called for his input. He’d be too busy with Donatiens.

They flashed their badges at the foyer reception guard and Michel announced, ‘We’ll be going up to the sixteenth floor. Santoine International.’ It was a statement, not a request.

The guard held up his hands, the normal signing-in procedure immediately waived. ‘Sure, sure.’ He swivelled one palm towards the elevator and forced a smile beyond his concern.

They grabbed one within seconds; no others had passed them meanwhile, so they’d wait on Donatiens coming out at the 16^th floor.

‘839… We see you now. We’ll turn here into St Joseph and wait for you to pull behind before proceeding.’

‘Copy.’ Brief static pause, then: ‘Just one perp, huh?’

‘Yeah. But he’ll be armed, and he knows how to use it. So due caution and follow my lead to the letter.’

Michel closed his eyes and let out a slow breath as the elevator rose, trying to ease the tension. Always the way: hours with nothing happening, then too much happening all at once. But there had been no choice but to move on both of them at the same time: once Venegas was in custody, news would travel fast and the Lacaille ranks close tight.

Chac’s voice was on 811 with Phil Reeves driving. They’d have had to wait twenty minutes to assemble an armed back-up squad at Dorchester Boulevard, the quickest option had been to pull a patrol in from Mount Royal and them meet up at the St Joseph junction.

Turning in to St Joseph, they were only three hundred yards from Venegas’s front door. Michel felt his pulse racing with anticipation.

The elevator doors opened. The corridor was quiet as they stepped out: only faint strains of activity from an office at the far end. They both looked back expectantly at the elevator light indicators.

‘…Here we are, Rue Messier. As I say, follow my lead… should be about a hundred yards down, apartment block on the left. We’ll stop about thirty yards short so your car’s not visible.’

‘Copy… okay.’

Chac’s car was unmarked, the back up a blue and white: no point in forewarning Venegas.

The elevator to their far right pinged. Two women in their thirties conversing got off first, followed by Donatiens. The women gave Michel and Maury a brief glance, no doubt in response to their acute attention to the elevator’s occupants — then headed swiftly and primly in the opposite direction from Santoine International.

Donatiens paused after two paces, looking them over, assessing. But Michel waited another second for the women to have faded from earshot. ‘Monsieur Donatiens, Georges Donatiens. Staff-Sergeant Michel Chenouda, RCMP Criminal Intelligence.’ He flashed his badge. ‘There are some matters we’d like to discuss with you concerning the Lacailles.’

A slight flinch from Donatiens, then his eyes darted past them to his office and quickly back again.

Through Michel’s earpiece, the sound of car doors opening, closing. Footsteps picking up pace on concrete, quickly joined by two or three more sets. Michel pulled his attention sharply back. ‘Ah… I don’t think this is something we could do here. Some of it’s quite sensitive information that I don’t think you’d like your staff overhearing. And it also involves me playing a tape for you — which is all set up back at the station.’ Michel held one arm out towards the elevators.

Donatiens’ eyebrows knitted. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No, no. Not at all,’ Michel assured. The hum of an elevator rising, faint shuffling. Chac’s voice: “I’ll knock, and me and Phil will stand to one side, our guns with safety’s off but still holstered. You three stand a yard behind but face-on with guns drawn and pointed with a clear bead on the opening door.” ‘It’s just some information that we need to pass on, but we believe it could be vitally important.’ Michel paused, looking down for a second as if to add suitable gravity to his next words. ‘We’re concerned about your future welfare and safety. We believe you could be in danger.’

‘Concerned about my safety?’ Donatiens shook his head and smiled crookedly; but Michel picked up the underlying strain in Donatiens’ voice, the tone slightly higher. He’d hit a nerve. ‘That’s very gratifying, Inspect-’

‘-Staff-Sergeant.’

‘… Staff-Sergeant Chenouda. But I think you know the rules. Before I can even think of speaking to you, I’d have to have my lawyer present.’

Elevator door opening. Muted, rapid footsteps along a carpeted corridor. Chac’s breathing heavier, expectant. But the only thing Michel had control over now was Donatiens, and it was fast slipping away. His mouth was suddenly dry; he moistened his lips with his tongue.

‘That’s your prerogative, sir. But I only have clearance to play the tape concerned to you. It’s considered privileged information, and we’d have to seriously review how playing it to a lawyer — particularly an organization lawyer — might later effect our case.’ Doorbell ringing, then three sharp raps. Michel’s palms were sweating, his nerves as taut as piano wire. Handling the two at the same time was a nightmare. ‘You might also consider how letting an organization lawyer overhear the tape might effect your own position. And safety.'

It was all there between the lines, thought Georges. ‘And this tape concerns Roman Lacaille, you say?’

‘Yes… that’s correct.’ Brief pause and then another buzz and sharp rapping. Michel bit at his bottom lip. But at least Donatiens was starting to sway.

Georges weighed his options: if he called Perreault, the Lacaille family lawyer, Roman would know about it in seconds flat. If he called an independent lawyer, that in itself would look suspicious, as if he had something to hide. The Lacaille family tentacles reached too far for comfort with city law firms; he couldn’t be sure of using one that would go undiscovered. He could just say no to Chenouda, but then he’d never find out about the tape or the supposed danger he was in. Chenouda had played him well; he had his interest piqued about both, and knew it. The only thing that struck a strange chord was Chenouda’s radio headset complete with earpiece. It was obvious from Chenouda’s eye contact flickering away at moments and his split-second delay with some responses, that he was at the same time listening in to something.

Georges chuckled lightly, partly a release of tension. ‘What is this?’ He pointed to the headset. ‘You auditioning as one of Madonna’s backing singers?’

Michel forced a wry smile. ‘Something like that.’ He had Donatiens hooked, and they both knew it. He didn’t feel inclined to ease off the pressure by slipping into weak banter.

Door opening. Chac announcing himself and asking for Enrique Venegas. ‘I have a warrant here for his arrest.’

‘He’s not here.’ A woman’s voice. ‘You just missed him.’

‘How long ago did he leave?’

‘Ten or twelve minutes ago.’

Georges watched Chenouda’s eyes flicker as he listened in. What was it? Was somebody at HQ instructing him? If he mentions a lawyer, say this. If he’s obstructive, say that. He noticed Chenouda’s eyes cloud after a moment, look worried.

‘I don’t know,’ Georges said. ‘I think if I’m going to come in with you, it’s something I’ve got to think over for a while.’

Michel was gripped with panic. His stomach had sunk upon hearing that they’d missed Venegas, and now it was sky-diving again. Shit. Now he could lose Donatiens as well. But he knew that pressing harder would be the wrong play. Nothing left but to ease off, take a step back.

Michel shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. Our information has it that Roman wants to move fast on this. But if you want to delay and run the risk, fine. You probably know Roman better than me.’ Michel turned to look at the elevator lights.

Maury, who had stayed silent throughout, forced an apologetic smile and shrugged as Donatiens’ eyes fell on him.

‘… We still have to check and see, you understand…’

‘Yeah… okay… okay.’ The woman sounded hesitant, uncertain for a second. Then the jostling and rustling of them moving around the apartment. Michel’s heart pounded hard. Please God, find Venegas hidden in a back room! And now he was playing Russian roulette with Donatiens as well. His legs felt weak, unsteady. He could feel Donatiens’ eyes on him, almost feel his mind frantically hammering: Savard dead, but just how far was Roman prepared to go? And what exactly was on that tape?

‘… What’s that sound from behind the door at the end?’

‘That’s nothing… nothing…’

But the woman sounded nervous, her voice tremulous, and Michel’s heart pounded almost in time with Chac’s laboured breathing as Chac moved towards the door, opening it…

‘…Only my daughter.’

Sound of a radio playing. ‘Yeah, I see… okay.’ A young girl’s mumbled response which Michel couldn’t discern. Michel’s nerves eased back.

The elevator to the far left was the first to arrive. Four people got out, gave the assembled group a cursory glance, then moved off three in one direction, one in the other. The back of Michel’s neck ached with tension. Come on Donatiens, don’t slip away from me as well. And he was about to turn and add something to try and retrieve the situation when Donatiens finally spoke.

‘…If I come down to you without a lawyer, you appreciate I’m not going to answer any questions.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Michel assured. ‘We’ll simply play you the tape and tell you why we think you’re in danger. If you have any comment on that, fine.’

Maury leapt across as the elevator doors started closing and they sprang quickly open again.

They stood as an awkward tableau for a moment with Maury half-in, half-out of the elevator. Then finally Donatiens nodded.

‘Okay, okay… how long will we be?’

‘An hour or so, no more.’ Michel held Donatiens’ gaze steady, trying to keep any flinch from his eyes. He knew it was a lie: once Donatiens was in his grasp, he’d be lucky to get out this side of nightfall.

After a moment a resigned nod and another ‘Okay,’ from Donatiens, and Michel held one arm out like a bell-boy.

‘She’s telling the truth, Michel. He’s not here.’

It was the first time Chac had addressed him directly. Michel felt any last vestiges of hope slip away, his stomach sinking again, this time in tune with the elevator’s fall.

Michel pressed the receiver’s button. ‘How long does she think he’s gone for?’

Chac asked, and Michel heard the woman reply that he hadn’t said. ‘But he packed and took with him a large kit bag — if that’s any clue.’

‘You hear that?’ Chac confirmed.

‘Yeah.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Probably. But let me come back to you in a couple of minutes.’ He had an idea forming, but he’d prefer to air it out of earshot of Donatiens. He’d wait for Maury to put Donatiens inside the car and hold back outside a moment to talk with Chac.

With the silent lull following and Michel’s expression thoughtful, almost morose, as the elevator doors opened Donatiens asked, ‘Something wrong?’

Michel smiled wanly. ‘Yeah. I just heard Madonna gave the spot to someone else.’

Within ten minutes of Michel calling Chac back with his thoughts about Venegas, Chac called Dorchester Blvd HQ to put out a general alert for Roman Lacaille’s black series 7 BMW.

The alert hit first all squad cars on Montreal Island, Monteregie, Laval, Laurentides and Lanaudiere, then minutes later was spread to up-province Quebec.

Venegas’s sudden departure might have been purely co-incidence, but if he had somehow got warning that he was being moved in on, Michel was betting good money that Roman Lacaille was involved. ‘Check his usual haunts, and if there’s no luck put out an alert for his Beamer. It’s distinctive, can’t be too difficult to track down.’

No news had fed back by the time Michel led Donatiens into a private room. Setting up the tape and having Donatiens brought a coffee killed another eight minutes, but still nothing. Michel’s unease returned. It promised to be a tense session, but knowing that Venegas was loose out there somewhere added an extra edge. If anything broke, he was going to be excusing himself a fair few times from the interview room; part of the key was not letting Donatiens know the state of play with Venegas.

The other thing pressing hard now on Michel, an increasing leaden cloak of suspicion that seeped like cold rain through every muscle, making him shudder, was that if Venegas had received a warning — which then might also explain how Roman Lacaille knew that Savard was in with them — then just who in his department could be the leak?

Roman Lacaille held his speed steady at 65 mph on Highway 40 towards Trois Riveres and Quebec City.

‘Where is this cabin?’ Venegas asked, glancing briefly across from re-tuning the radio as the Montreal easy-listening FM station they’d been listening to began to crackle and fade.

‘About eighty miles north. Lake Shawinigan, just beyond Trois Riveres. In the summer it gets busy, but this time of year it’ll be deserted. It’s ideal.’

‘Is it a family cabin?’ Venegas raised an eyebrow. ‘I mean — is it going to be an option they might easily jump for?’

‘What, you think I’m stupid.’ Roman waved one hand off the wheel, as if with another quick flip he might just slap Venegas. ‘It’s a friend of a friend’s. They ain’t going to trace it in a hurry.’

Venegas had always unsettled Roman. The product of a Sicilian mother and Venezuelan father, he had tight-knit curls and thick lips which might have been sensuous if they weren’t so out of place with his button-bead dark eyes and hardly any eyelids. But then he hadn’t chosen Venegas for his social companionship, it had been his reputation as an ice-veined hit man — which made Roman all the more unsettled now thinking of what lay ahead. Venegas had put on a baseball cap to hide his trademark curls and shield part of his face; obviously he was concerned that photos might already be out on the wire.

Venegas looked across hopefully from beneath the cap’s peak as Stevie Wonder’s ‘I Just Called’ came across. ‘Is that okay?’

Roman shrugged. ‘Yeah. It’ll do.’ The other brief flash choices had been Waylon Jennings, some hip-hop and a religious programme; but most of all the repetitive sound-burst changing grated on Roman’s nerves, given everything else swimming around in his mind.

Getting Venegas away had been frantic: his warning phone call, then Venegas packing a bag and getting clear with probably only minutes to spare before the RCMP arrived at his door. At Roman’s instruction, Venegas had walked two blocks from his apartment and grabbed a cab to a Boulevard St Laurent cafe, where Roman caught up with him ten minutes later. Venegas threw his kit bag in the back seat, and they sped north.

The first few miles, particularly crossing the Anuntsic Bridge, had been the worst. The tension tightened his nerves until the pulse throbbing at his temples ached. Still now he was tense and watchful for patrol cars, and his speed: several cars passed doing 70 mph or more, but just as many were going slower. He wanted to be as faceless and nondescript as possible among the traffic flow.

Venegas was looking out thoughtfully over the snowbound landscape. ‘Is the cabin heated?’

‘Yeah, there’s a wood-burning stove. And apparently there should be plenty of chopped logs at the side.’ Roman looked across. ‘But anyways, you’re not going to be stopping there long. Ten days, two weeks for the heat to die down, time too to get a fake passport — and then you’ll be gone.’

‘Do you know where to yet?’

‘Martinique — I know a few places there. Or maybe Yucatan or Cuba; we’ve been doing some business there recently.’ Roman shrugged. ‘I haven’t completely decided yet.’ He was making it up as he went along. He knew that Venegas wasn’t going to make it any further than eighty miles north. But he was becoming increasingly anxious as the miles rolled by knowing that Venegas was armed to the teeth: a semi-automatic in his kit-bag and a 9mm in his inside pocket. Roman had asked what Venegas was carrying by-the-way, as if he might make up any shortfall. Roman had two guns with him: a.44 in his inside pocket and a.38 in his glove compartment.

‘Martinique sounds nice,’ Venegas said absently.

‘Yeah,’ Roman agreed. He welcomed the light conversation to ease his nerves; it might also help Venegas chill out. Venegas had noticeably calmed form the first frantic half-hour of their drive, but at moments his gun hand was still skitterish — clenching and unclenching on his knee or starting a move towards his jacket with the occasional car passing close. Roman could do with relaxing that hand a notch more. ‘Our mom goes down there regularly. She gets any browner and picks up any more patois, she’ll be a native.’

‘How long would I have to stay away?’

‘Could be a while. Eighteen months, maybe more for something like this to blow over.’

‘Beaches good down there?’ Venegas asked, thinking ahead to swaying palms and white sand when nothing but snow rolled past their window.

‘Yeah, real good. Mom stays in the south of the island, le Diamant, and there’s a beach there that…’

Roman broke off at the moment, noticing for the first time the squad car hanging four cars back.

‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked as Roman’s eyes flickered repeatedly to his rear-view mirror.

‘Blue and white. But whatever you do don’t look round.’ Roman noticed Venegas’s gun hand, which had slowly relaxed with the tropic-isle talk, clench tight and tense again on his thigh. ‘Hopefully won’t be a problem.’

‘I thought you said your plan would work.’ Venegas stared stonily ahead.

‘I thought it would.’ But as the squad car moved up closer to only two cars behind, Roman had his doubts. He could picture them checking the registration, then they’d pull up just behind and the siren would wind up for them to pull over. Venegas’s gun hand sneaked inside his jacket.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Roman fired Venegas a warning glare. ‘They’ll have a pump-action pointed at the back of our heads before they even step out.’ He glanced back in his mirror to see the squad car ease up just behind.

‘We’ve got to do something.’ Venegas’s eyes shifted frantically, at one point towards his kit-bag in the back with the semi-automatic. ‘Can’t just let them take me like this.’

Roman’s brow sweated, trying to weigh up the squad car and what Venegas might do next. Still no siren as yet. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Roman hissed under his breath, as if the car behind might hear. ‘Why do you think they’re hanging back? They’re radioing for back-up. Even if they decide to pull us over on their own, the cavalry will be here before your gun’s even stopped smoking.’

Roman’s jaw tensed as the squad car pulled out from behind and started edging up alongside. Roman wasn’t sure whether to keep staring straight ahead or glance over as you might with any car that passed close. Venegas’s face too was a tense, frozen study, now turned slightly away — but at least his gun hand had eased away from his jacket and was rested back on his thigh. The squad car pulled directly level, and Roman finally went in-between and cast a brief sideways glance without hardly shifting his head. But the passenger seat officer paid little notice to them, he seemed wrapped up talking to the driver.

They eased by in only seconds — though for Roman it felt like torturous minutes, expecting the siren to suddenly wind up or another officer to pop up from the back seat and point a pump-action through the window at them — and then they were past.

Roman didn’t speak again until they were thirty yards clear.

‘See, told you.’ He let out a long, slow breath. ‘My plan with switching cars worked.’

Roman Lacaille’s black BMW was stopped eighteen minutes earlier on Boulevard Viau, en route to Carlo Funicelli’s shop in St Leonard — he wouldn’t return to listen in to Donatiens again until that night.

Frank Massenat was driving, and three squad cars converged — two following who raised the siren to push them over and another that arrived seconds later from the opposite direction.

Five guns were trained on Massenat and Funicelli while they were summarily searched, faced away, hands on the roof of the car. No guns were found: Massenat knew that even a simple carrying violation could get him six months. And when their names were found not to match those of the alert, the lead Constable put a call back in to Dorchester Boulevard.

Chac came on within a minute, and fired a chain of questions relayed through the Constable.

‘Where’s Roman Lacaille now, and why are you driving his car?’

Frank Massenat answered that he didn’t know where Roman was, and he only had the car because it had to go to a garage later. ‘It’s playing up. Ticking noises from the engine.’

‘What’s Roman driving now?’

‘I don’t know. He said he was going to hire a car.’

‘Where from?’

‘Pardon. Don’t know that either.’

Chac didn’t believe any of it for a minute, but there was nothing he could do. He instructed the Constable to let them go, then headed for the interview room to tell Michel the bad news.

Venegas’s photo came up on the small TV at the back of the counter by a display of sweets, and Roman tried not to look too interested as the cashier totted up the last of the groceries in his basket. Morning news on TQS, one of the main Quebec TV stations; the sound was on low and Roman could hardly pick out what was being said.

He’d turned off the freeway for Lac Shawinigan and stopped at the first gas station with adjoining store to pick up groceries for Venegas’s stay. Venegas wouldn’t be needing any of it, it would all end up in his own kitchen cupboards — but it was important to keep up the illusion, not give any reason for Venegas to become suspicious or tense. For the same reason he’d made the journey alone. Frank Massenat in the back seat might have sent the signal that it was a one-way trip.

‘Fifty-eight dollars, forty. Merci.’

The news had moved on to a light plane crash near Jonquiere as Roman paid and got his change.

His breath showed heavy on the cold air making his way out to the car. He wondered whether to say anything to Venegas about the news flash, but decided finally against it. It would only make Venegas edgy and tense again. He’d only in the last twenty minutes managed to get Venegas’s nerves settled back to anything near normal after the patrol car edging past. Venegas was starting to think of two weeks quiet rest in a log cabin, then off to Martinique. Keep him thinking that way.

‘There.’ Roman dumped the bags in the back seat, started up and pulled out. ‘Should keep you going for a while.’ He gave a brief glance in the rear-view mirror before joining the road. The front of the car and Venegas had been faced away; even if someone had paid heed to the news flash, Roman doubted they’d have noticed Venegas.

‘What did you get?’ Venegas asked.

‘Coffee, bread, some burgers, tuna, a few tins of salmon.’ Roman waved one hand theatrically and smiled. ‘You want fresh fish, just cut a hole in the ice and put a line down.’

‘You’re kidding?’ Venegas fired back only a half, sly smile, and Roman wasn’t sure whether Venegas was questioning that there were fish there, or the fact that Venegas the back-woodsman cut such an unlikely image. He reminded himself not to get testy. Keep Venegas relaxed.

‘Sure. Plenty of fish down there, winter and summer. Just cut a hole, smile down at ‘em, and they’re leaping up out at you already.’ Roman chuckled.

‘Yeah, sure.’ Venegas sounded unconvinced as he looked away, blandly surveying the passing scenery.

If that’s what it took, playing the oaf, thought Roman, then fine. Venegas was more relaxed than he’d seen him all journey. ‘A couple of summers ago, even Franky had a try and caught some fish. One look from him you think would scare them away. You know what we call him?’ Roman looked across. A sign flashed past: Lac Shawinigan, 8 miles. Venegas shrugged and smiled back weakly. Roman chuckled. ‘Franky-stein. All he needs is a bolt through the neck…’

Roman kept the banter up on and off for the next few miles, with Venegas providing the occasional comment and smile, and Roman felt his jaw start to ache with the effort of forcing a smile beyond the tension drawing his nerves increasingly taut as they got closer to Lake Shawinigan. Roman felt as if his nervous system was plugged in directly to every minute detail: the thrum of the wheels on the road, Venegas’s slow blink as he surveyed the snow-bound landscape, Venegas’s left hand moving up… past his jacket to rub his nose as he turned to Roman.

‘You’re going to a lot of trouble with all this for me?’ Venegas said.

With the silent lull after the chain of banter, Roman wondered whether Venegas had picked up on his tension. ‘Nooo… no problem.’ Roman pushed an easy smile and waved one hand from the wheel. ‘The fix you’re in is directly as a result of you doing something special for me. It’s down to me to put right, no question.’ He stared the message home, keen to re-assure Venegas; but he couldn’t discern any wariness in Venegas’s eyes. He looked back sharply to the road. The turn off for Lac Shawinigan showed fifty yards ahead.

He slowed, indicated — though no traffic was approaching and only a single car was just visible a quarter of a mile behind — and swung in, gripping the wheel firm to stop his hands from visibly shaking. A rough track, in the summer is was bumpy, but now thick snow had evened it out. No visible tyre tracks: nobody had been down here in recent hours.

‘Which cabin is it?’ Venegas asked.

Roman was thrown for a second. The one and only time he’d visited three years back it had been summer, the tree foliage thick; now foliage was sparse and the ice-bound lake and the cabins were visible through the trees. ‘Oh, uh… the third on the right,’ he made a guess. He remembered only it was on the right, but wasn’t sure between the third and fourth cabin. It hardly mattered: Venegas wouldn’t be making it that far.

The cabin was a friend of Frank Massenat’s and his one visit had been to thrash out a drugs deal with the head of the bikers, Roubilliard. He wouldn’t have risked bringing Venegas out to a Lacaille family cabin. But now following Venegas’s gaze towards the lake and the cabins, he saw something that worried him: what looked like smoke rising from the fifth cabin along… someone was out here! Then it was lost behind some fir trees as he came up to the car park spread out on their right. No vehicles there.

Roman swung in. ‘See… told you. Nobody around this time of year. You won’t see anyone now till end of April, May.’ But Roman was still wondering about that smoke, eager to get another glimpse. A line of fir trees bordered the edge of the car park and the first ten yards of pathway towards the lake; he’d have to wait until they walked past them.

Roman got out and swung open the back door. Venegas opened the other side and took out his kit back, but reaching in for the grocery bags Roman paused: with both hands full, he’d be at a distinct disadvantage, especially if Venegas carried his kit bag in his left hand with his gun hand free.

‘Something wrong?’ Venegas asked.

‘Uh… yeah.’ Roman quickly thought of how to even the balance. ‘Last time after a long break the padlock was all rusted — we couldn’t get the key in. We might need something to break it. Hold that for me, would yer?’ He handed one grocery bag to Venegas and put the other under his arm as he went around and opened the trunk. He just hoped Funicelli had a tyre lever, and after a bit of rustling around he found the tool bag tucked in on the left. He took out the lever and shut the trunk.

Roman’s breath showed heavy on the air as they paced away. His mouth was dry, his nerves racing uncontrollably. He could easily have pulled his gun on Venegas before grabbing the tyre lever, but still he needed to know about that smoke. He couldn’t risk it if someone was by the lake.

Their feet crunched on fresh snow: no previous footsteps either that Roman could discern. The path ran for about forty yards to the lakeside. Between the fir trees, he caught flash glimpses of the cabins, but he just couldn’t tell if it was smoke or only mist rising.

Venegas hunched and made a mock shiver. ‘Colder than the city here.’

‘Yeah,’ Roman said blandly: but not half as cold as where you’re going.

For some reason, Venegas had fallen in half a step behind him. Perhaps Venegas had picked up on his vibes, was being wary; or was he just letting him lead the way? But the motion of dropping the tyre lever and swivelling around, would give Venegas too much of an advantage. He needed to get Venegas in front and somehow distracted. Roman’s heart thudded hard and fast, marking almost a double time to his crunching footsteps.

They cleared the fir trees bordering the path and there was a clear view of the cabins again. But still Roman couldn’t tell if it was smoke or mist — which suddenly struck him could be turned to an opportunity. He halted back, slowing his step. ‘Is that smoke I can see rising over there, fifth cabin along? Or just mist. I mean — if someone else is down here, you shouldn’t be here.’

Venegas pulled a step ahead and peered through the trees. ‘No, I… I don’t think so — it’s not smoke. Looks like mist rising to me.’

Roman tensed himself to pull his gun. ‘Are you sure?’

Venegas squinted his eyes more intensely towards the cabin. ‘Yeah… sure. You can see where the sun’s coming through a gap in the trees and hitting the roof and…’

Venegas heard the tyre lever hit the snow and turned to see Roman’s.44 pulled and pointed at him. Roman’s grocery bag followed. Venegas let out a sneering half laugh of disbelief on a burst exhalation. ‘…What is this?’

Roman waved with the gun. ‘Drop the groceries and your bag and keep your hands above shoulder level.’ Venegas met his gaze steadily, defiantly for a second, as if he was measuring options of trying something. Roman waved again with his gun and Venegas finally dropped the groceries and his kit bag.

Roman moved in quickly and took Venegas’s 9mm from his inside pocket and grabbed the kit bag. ‘Thanks. I’ll take the AK too.’ He tucked the 9mm inside the kit bag and prodded the air with his gun. ‘Now let’s move on down to the lakeside.’

With another sneering half snort and a resigned shrug, Venegas finally turned and started pacing ahead. Roman kept three paces behind.

After a moment, Venegas remarked, ‘What, you getting me all the way out here was just to shoot me?’ Venegas said this as if all the small puzzle pieces of their journey out had finally slotted into place. Or did Roman detect a faint note of hope and clinging disbelief in the voice?

‘No, I’m not going to shoot you, as it happens.’ Which was true, he wasn’t. ‘You’re just going fishing.’

Silence, only their footsteps crunching on snow as Venegas grappled to make sense of this. He decided finally to disregard it as a bluff. ‘Come on, Roman. What happened to Martinique?’ Venegas half turned; his eyes pleaded, but his voice carried a partly joking tone, as if he knew he was clutching at straws.

‘Tickets were too expensive.’ Roman fired a trite half smile. ‘…And my mother said she didn’t want to see you there.’

A few more paces, and the inevitability dawned on Venegas. Roman saw his shoulders visibly sag. He started to get desperate. ‘For fuck’s sake, Roman. Come on…’ His voice was shaky with mounting nerves, the words spluttering slightly. ‘You know I wouldn’t talk.’

‘Temptations are huge these days. Especially with the sort of plea deals going to nail people like me and Jean-Paul. Sorry.’

Silence again. Both of them tuned into every small sound from the surrounding woodland and the lake: faint scurrying fifty yards to their right as a bird alighted from a bush, the cawing of a crow in the distance.

Roman’s nerves had settled back a bit from their wild hammering just before pulling the gun, but still he was tense. Lightning-speed reflexes was one of Venegas’s traits. Roman reminded himself not to get too close.

They reached the edge of the lake and Venegas turned. He was noticeably trembling, and Roman wasn’t sure whether from the cold or with what he knew was about to happen.

‘Please, Roman… you don’t have to do this. Your secret with Savard’s safe with me.’ His voice was cracking, almost on the edge of tears.

‘It sure is. Because the secret’s staying here with you. Forever frozen.’ Roman smiled drolly and made a sharp prod with the gun. ‘Now let’s go for a walk on the lake.’

Venegas looked down and around apprehensively.

Roman prompted, ‘Don’t worry, the ice’s thick — it’ll hold you. And I’ll be walking right with you to keep you company.’

Another air stab with the gun, and Venegas finally, reluctantly started heading out. Roman dropped Venegas’s kit bag and followed, keeping a clear four paces behind.

Venegas’s eyes continued darting for options — or perhaps he was unsure that the ice wouldn’t give way at any second. His gaze finally settled on the lake-shore cabins.

‘You know — I think that is smoke coming from that cabin.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Roman didn’t even trouble to look; he wasn’t going to risk taking his eyes from Venegas for a second. ‘I think it’s just you blowing smoke.’

The lake was only half a mile wide, but its fourteen-mile length snaked out of sight in both directions, with a strong river run-off at one end which made its currents lethal. They could feel the wind whip sharper as they went deeper out, shifting the thin layer of snow on the ice in flurries.

At sixty yards from the shore, Roman announced, ‘This’ll do.’

Venegas turned. ‘What now?’ His breath was heavy on the air with the walk and his rising panic; though his eyes were curiously dull, as if part of him had accepted what was going to happen. ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to shoot me.’

‘I’m not.’ Roman allowed himself a last second gloating that Venegas still hadn’t worked out what was planned for him, then slowly lowered the gun and eased off a shot by Venegas’s feet. A burst of snow and ice sprayed up.

‘What the fuuuu…’ Venegas jumped a step to the right like an off-balance flamenco dancer.

Roman fired the next shot the other side and this time heard the ice crack. Another quick shot a yard behind, and with a louder crack Roman watched in satisfaction as a four foot square block broke away. Venegas leapt back in horror from the shifting block, his eyes registering only then what Roman intended.

Roman smiled, easing off a quick shot just behind where Venegas had leapt to. Another heavy ice-crack and leap from Venegas. This was fun, thought Roman: like Riverdance with bullets.

He fired another shot two foot behind and the crack spread still further, the ice-block Venegas was standing on threatening to break away. The panic on Venegas’s face was absolute, and he tried to leap clear — but the sudden thrust of his push-off snapped the last resistance and the block broke free.

Venegas toppled and fell, but with the inertia of his lunge he managed to grip onto the rim of the ice bordering the hole; he was submerged only from the chest down.

The shock of the water hit Venegas like an ice truck. As he frantically scrambled to pull his body out, Roman fired another shot two foot beyond his fingers. A crack, but not enough, so Roman fired again just behind.

Ice and snow erupted and the block fell away. Venegas slipped sideways and tumbled completely under, his arms thrashing frantically at the water. His head bobbed back up quickly, and he managed finally to get a fingers grip on the next solid ice edge.

Roman became frantic. An eight-chamber automatic, he had only two bullets left. It had seemed a good idea at first, making it look like a straightforward drowning rather than a hit; now he began to wonder. But he could see that strong currents were dragging at Venegas, surely he couldn’t last long: he had trouble keeping grip and his face was purple from cold and the effort.

Roman fired again, spewing up an impressive spray of snow and ice, but to his consternation the ice held firm. Roman’s heart pumped wildly. He’d have to get in close to make this last bullet count, and Venegas’s pleading, frantic eyes lifted towards him as he moved in — almost as if Venegas knew this was the coupe de grace.

A large chunk of ice was blown clean away with the shot, and Venegas went with it, his body dragged quickly under by the current.

A suspended moment with only flat water and no Venegas, the faint echo of the shot still reverberating — and Roman was about to turn away when he saw one hand clutch out and grip the ice edge. He stared back desperately towards the shore and Venegas’s kit bag. Too far — Venegas would have pulled himself back up by the time he got back with a fresh gun.

Only one thing for it, he would have to kick Venegas’s hand away — but he couldn’t risk having all his weight close to the edge, so he rushed in and scrambled out almost flat, kicking out in the same motion.

Venegas’s hand held firm, so he kicked again. It was knocked free — but then in horror Roman noticed Venegas’s other hand rise up almost instantly to grip on. And something else in that instant that took his breath away, made his blood run cold: a cracking noise as a yard-long split appeared to one side of where he was laying: any sudden movement and the whole ice-block would split away! He lay inert for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling hard as fear and panic gripped him. And in that moment — appearing almost as a surreal apparition — Venegas’s face below him, wild cod-eyes staring up. Then Roman focused and realized that his shuffling around had cleared a patch of snow and he could see straight through the ice.

Their eyes locked for a second — Venegas perhaps surprised at seeing Roman there so close, or wondering why Roman looked as panicked and afraid as him. But at least now he could fully measure Venegas’s dilemma: the current was tugging at him ruthlessly, so that he was pushed up almost horizontal under the ice, with one hand gripped on hard and trying to pull him back.

Venegas surely couldn’t last much longer like that, and Roman wondered whether to just lay still and watch the last bubbles leave Venegas’s mouth, or take the risk and kick out again to finish him straightaway.

Venegas made the decision for him by making one last frantic pull back towards the hole — his body shifted over a foot beneath the ice as Roman kicked out once, twice, and Venegas’s grip was finally jolted free. Roman smiled and waved as Venegas’s body drifted back past him, unsure whether Venegas’s bewildered, watery focus was able to fix on him or not — and then Roman’s smile quickly fell as another crack sounded in the ice.

He scrambled desperately, only just managing to slither his torso onto the solid ice edge beyond as the block beneath him broke loose, his legs from the thigh down dipping into the icy water. For one terrible moment he thought that Venegas might see his legs dangling in and grapple hold, and he slithered forward breathlessly until his whole body was clear of the water and supported on the ice.

He rolled over, his breath still rasping hard with exertion and the adrenalin rush, and a laugh suddenly broke free, not quite sure if it was Venegas’s expression as he’d drifted past or his own close escape that he found so amusing. A steady, raucous laugh that was faltered only by his fight to regain breath; as the only sound to break the eerie silence of the desolate surroundings — all the birds had alighted the nearby trees with the gunfire — it sounded ominous and out of place. A lone victory cry.