The Last Witness

explained the state of play.

‘Could be just a delaying tactic from Gordon Waldren,’ Turton commented, sucking in his breath: added weight to his deliberation. ‘He knows that she’s made a mistake with the call card, knows that we could well be close to tracing her. So he’s trying to buy some time. But on the other hand, if he’s telling the truth I don’t want a heavy-handed arrest or her cut down in a hail of bullets. So alert the RCMP, but just keep it light-weight for now. Arrange to speak to Waldren at, say, nine tonight, straight after he’s spoken to his wife. And if it appears he’s only mucking us around, get straight back to the RCMP with a grade one abduction alert.’

‘Jerry! Jerry!.. Jerry!’

As Georges walked into the lounge from having grabbed a coffee in the kitchen, Clive and Steve were on their feet watching Jerry Springer, chanting along with the audience as two scraggly blondes tried to tear each other’s hair out. Chac sat to one side smiling. Russell was downstairs in the study watching monitors.

‘Don’t tell me you’re into this shit?’ Georges raised an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee.

‘Yeah, we’re into this shit,’ Clive said defensively. ‘It’s one of our top-bet shows. You never know how many times that bleeper’s going to go.’

As the show wound down and Clive and Steve exchanged some money — Steve apparently held Russell’s stake money — Clive explained. To kill the boredom on safe-house assignments, they’d started betting at first on sporting events: ice-hockey, football, boxing, whatever. Then they’d stretched it to normal TV, with Springer one of the first candidates.

‘We’ve been running bets now for over a year on just how many bleeps and fights there are in one show — closest call wins. The record so far is eighty-four bleeps and twenty-two fights.’

They bet on how many times the dog appeared or the brother called at the door on Frasier, how many tunes were played on Ali McBeal and how often the record needle scratched off halfway through, or whether Kenny would get killed or Chef would sing on South Park. For them the soap opera day suddenly took on a new excitement.

Georges shook his head with a wry smile and went out to the terrace as Friends came on. The running bet was apparently how many times Joey said ‘Hey’ or whether Phoebe would pick up her guitar. The sun was strong enough by midday that you could sit out wearing a thick sweat-shirt, but still it was crisp. Georges’ breath showed on the air.

Chac joined him after a minute. ‘You okay?’

‘Just starting to worry that this is what my life holds from hereon in: watching ice melt and putting bets on the number of F-words on Springer.’ Georges went back to staring out blankly across the frozen lake.

‘I know.’ Chac shrugged. ‘But don’t worry — it’s just the first months until the trial. After, you’ll be re-located with a new identity — be playing golf in the Carolinas or fishing in the Florida Keys with some Jennifer Lopez look- alike on your arm. Or maybe with the language thing, they’ll buy you a new life in the South of France. Things will be looking up again.’

‘Yeah, sounds good.’ Georges nodded dolefully. He confided in Chac more than anyone else. Perhaps because Chac had been with him throughout since the abduction, or maybe it was just his size: broad shoulders and soft edges to cushion problems. ‘But the thing is, Chac, I’m missing her. I’m missing her like hell.’

‘Did you speak to Michel about it?’

‘Yeah. But he says no go. They’ll be watching her too closely, and whatever I said would probably only be used against us at trial.’

Chac joined him in staring out across the frozen lake. Georges had probably explained it better to him than he’d got a chance to over the phone to Michel: just why he was unhappy leaving things on this note with Simone. And it made sense: a sort of closure to that part of his life so that he could get on with this new chapter now. But Chac could also see the risk from Michel’s viewpoint.

‘I’ll try and talk to him about it next time he calls,’ Chac said. ‘Maybe there’s a different angle to play it.’

Crowley’s call came through to RCMP central in Ottawa at precisely 11.08 am EST.

‘No, we can’t narrow it down more than that, I’m afraid.’ And, no, she wasn’t armed and dangerous. ‘In fact they know each other quite well, so the girl is in no immediate danger. But it is urgent we have contact with them and that the girl is returned to her parents.’

Within the hour the alert was logged and put out on the network for the attention of all stations in Eastern Canada, which included Dorchester Boulevard. But Michel Chenouda had already done his checking for Elena Waldren on the system over an hour ago.

Then at 12.52 pm EST, Ottawa received another call from Crowley.

‘We’ve narrowed it down! They’ve gone to Toronto.’

‘You’re sure of that now? Before I make the final change.’

‘Yes, yes… positive. We just got the confirmation through from the airline.’

‘Okay.’ A few key taps, and the alert was amended solely for Toronto and Ontario police. It had been on the Quebec network for less than two hours before vanishing like a dying radar blip.

Hanging up, Crowley was bursting with excess adrenalin and energy. They’d finally traced the flight, a charter from Brussels to Toronto and Edmonton: she’d booked all the way to Edmonton, then changed at the last moment.

Two days with nothing, and suddenly the breaks were all hitting at the same time, the squad room was once again buzzing with it. Often the way.

The squad room was like a morgue.

A hubbub of activity only seconds before, each time Michel Chenouda walked in it fell quiet. This was the pay-back for having put them under suspicion with S-18. Michel felt like picking out individuals and saying I don’t think it’s you or you, or ‘Come on, we’ve worked together years now: I’m not pointing the finger at you, it’s others here I’m not so sure about.’ And then those others would stare at him blankly. Chac and Maury Legault were getting the treatment too, because they were the only ones he’d singled out to trust. He’d had to trust somebody, and they were his longest standing partners. But nobody had any idea just how much he’d trusted them, that they shared his secret of Donatiens’ abduction.

Maury had taken notes during his interview with Elena Waldren, and the squad room had predictably fallen silent as they’d walked back in. Chac thought he’d drawn the short straw getting the main duty guard with Donatiens: unlike him and Maury, he didn’t have kids to see, a failed marriage to try and make good on after the event. But Chac was better off out of it, Michel reflected: at least his isolation was real, tangible. This forced isolation, surrounded by people you knew so well yet were made to feel so apart from and out in the cold, in a way was much harder to take.

He felt guilty having roped Chac and Maury in on his little scheme, subjected them as well to this icy inter- departmental blast. Along with their help, he’d wanted them as sounding boards to convince himself he was doing the right thing: ‘If we just leave Donatiens, Roman’s going to take him out for sure. All we’re doing is advancing what Roman’s going to do to him in a few days. And at the same time we get our witness.’ Chac and Maury had been heavy with doubt and concern at first. There’d been a lot of frowns and forehead-cradling at the terrible risk to their careers, and Michel moved in swiftly with the clincher. ‘What’s the alternative? We know he’s about to die — yet we just sit around and let it happen?’

He’d wanted their honest input, but in the end had shamelessly cornered them, left them little choice: how could they put their precious careers before a man’s life? The reverse of that same coin, once the battle banners had been raised, suddenly made their actions seem terribly noble. They’d put their necks on the line to save Donatiens’. Michel clung to that, recited the same headline justification each time the guilt seeped back.

Because what Michel didn’t want to have to face is that his obsession with the Lacailles might have finally made him step too far. He’d known all along that he was going to corner Chac and Maury, because he couldn’t have done it without them. He didn’t just want head-nods that he was doing the right thing. Chac had in fact helped him choose the two abductors and set things up, then he’d assigned Chac and Maury to watch over Donatiens, allowing just the right leeway for his abductors to get away — until the last moment. Every detail had been painstakingly pre-choreographed and timed.

And now Maury was alongside him in a small back office at Dorchester Boulevard with Chac and Georges at the other end of the line in the safe house. Russell had set up the scrambler and watched a monitor for a second to ensure the signal kept shifting and the line was secure, then left them to it. Their small circle of conspiracy was once again complete.