Yves voice at the other end was excitable, slightly breathless. ‘We changed directions slightly, and we hit on something. We weren’t getting anywhere fast with that first frame, we’d pulled it up and down four times and the shadows still obscured too much. So we started looking at other frames.’ Yves paused slightly, as if allowing Michel to catch up.
Michel blinked absently at the TV images ahead, but he was awake and sharply tuned from Yves’ first sentence. He gave an encouraging, ‘Right.’
‘At first we thought the frames further away would be too far for anything clear, and on those closer the angle of vision would be too sharp. But we decided to run through them anyway, and on part of the more distant sequence we suddenly hit gold. The passenger leans forward, only for a second to get something off the dashboard — but it’s enough to lift his face clear of any shadows. It’s a more distant shot, a bit more grain — but with virtually no shadows I think we’ve got chances of an ID from it.’
‘When will you know for sure?’
‘An hour. Two max.’
On the TV, an all day Quebec news channel was playing, with the next three days regional weather in a bottom band of sun, cloud and snow symbols. The building had cable, and between the English and French channels the total was 47. 47 channels and nothing on; Michel had flicked through practically them all before leaving it on news and weather. Michel felt excited by Yves words, but for some reason the images still numbed him, in the same way that they’d pushed him towards sleep shortly after dinner.
Or maybe it was now forced conditioning; each time he’d become wrapped up in the thrall of a possible breakthrough, he’d been let down. Neutral positioning was safer: the free-fall if it all came to nothing was less.
Yves promised to call back when there was more news, and Michel prompted that if it took longer than Yves expected, he should still call, ‘No matter what the time.’
The silence after hanging up brought home the tension of expectancy all the harder. An hour or two more to know if the case lived or died. The image light changes from the TV flickered across the subdued lighting of his apartment, pushed the photo snaps through his mind: Donatiens, Jean-Paul, Roman… then Tony Savard’s terrified face, pleading for his life. An image to match the screams on tape.
Michel stood up abruptly, started pacing to ease his tension. At least here, at home, he was surrounded by only family photos. Angelle blowing out the candles on her fourth birthday cake. Benjamin with his first bike. The whole family together in St Lucia, photographed by an obliging hotel waiter; five years ago now, a year before the split. Michel grimaced tightly. Happier times; it seemed remarkable how suddenly his life had changed.
He lifted his gaze from the photo and looked through the window onto the street. A two-bedroom loft apartment on St Sepulce Street in the Old Town, the extra bedroom had squeezed him with the mortgage and taxes. His original intention with buying in the area, shortly after the divorce decree nisi, was to enjoy a town bachelor pad and the life that went with it. But then he realized that opting for only one bedroom would mean that Benjamin and Angelle would have to sleep on put-up beds in the lounge on the alternate weekends they stayed over. It would be viewed as an entirely selfish move by Sandra, an extra dart in his back. So he pushed himself for the extra room for the kid’s sake.
Outside, a light dusting of snow lay on the street, which was quiet, almost deserted; only the brake lights of a single car edging slowly down towards the riverside. In the summer, the area would be a frenzy of activity, tourists ambling at all times of the day or night among the narrow cobblestone streets, rollerbladers and cyclists along the riverside promenades, the cafes of Place Jaques Cartier where he’d treat the children to dinner and ice cream while they watched the changing scenes of musicians, mimes and milling street activity. Summer in Old Montreal with their father. Some fond memories at least.
Michel liked this old part of town, in architecture the surrounding streets could be turn-of-the-century Paris; a surviving enclave against the skyscraper canyons of downtown. One small spot of Europe amongst square-block architecture that defined practically every city for thousands of miles to the Pacific. And it all started here, thought Michel, looking across the street to the floodlit stone-wall flank of the Basilica de Notre Dame, Montreal’s first church.
Michel shook his head. In a few months, as the surrounding streets were humming with summer life, Georges Donatiens and Simone Lacaille would be married there. Not the wedding chapel behind where most well-placed Montrealites got married and was good enough for Pelletier’s own daughter two years back, no. Simone and Georges were Montreal’s golden couple, they’d be married where Celine Dione was married, or not at all. And the RCMP, as with every major crime family wedding, would be mingling with the crowds on the sidewalk and in Place des Armes, taking snaps. More photos for his wall.
Except that by then there’d be no reason for any more photos for his wall; all chances of getting Donatiens to testify would have been long lost. In fact in only an hour or two he might know it was all over, if…
Michel stopped himself, looking keenly towards Notre Dame. Maitland’s words suddenly spun back:
Michel became aware that his hands were balled tight in fists at his side. He willed himself to relax, eased out his breath slowly, unclenched his hands. With Yves’ fresh hopes of a photo ID, it suddenly hit him that he now had an opportunity to pressure Donatiens which might not arise again. Even if Yves finally came up with nothing, he could probably milk it to good effect for twenty-four or even forty-eight hours.
Michel turned to the phone. He needed to share this with someone, and if he remembered right Chac was on duty roster until midnight. He smiled to himself as it rang out. Chac would comment that he must be crazy pulling in Donatiens for questioning, and then he’d calmly explain.
SIX
Cameron Ryall looked from the dining-room window as their car approached up the drive; much the same position he’d stood in when they’d first visited. Except that now he was angry.
Angry at himself, angry at young Lorena, or at this new social worker and the ‘save all the world’s children’ aid worker who had no doubt wound her up into action in the first place — Lorena’s ‘friend’. Ryall’s anger spun and bounced wildly in his head without firm direction; he wasn’t anywhere near calm enough to focus it on any one thing.
Classical music played softly in the background — Vivaldi’s ‘Allegro from Spring’ — but it did little to introduce an air of calm. The blood still rushed through his head a beat too fast and his hands trembled slightly, and so he had to forcibly will that calm, close his eyes and take deep breaths, self-prompting: You mustn’t let them see that you’re troubled. Take control.
He felt strangely giddy, as if through that lack of control — as on the few occasions he could recall it happening before, if only for seconds or minutes that passed like laboured hours in which he’d bounce, lightning speed, every possible angle — he’d been cut adrift from all good sense and purpose. He rallied every nerve and fibre of his body hard against it now.
His wife Nicola was even more agitated, though through fear rather than anger. She hadn’t wanted to face them a second time, she’d barely weathered the ordeal of their first visit and had asked him to beg off her presence now with the excuse of a crushing migraine or flu. At least that might tie in with the reason why he’d again visited Lorena’s room: ‘Sorry. My wife’s still sleeping off the bug.’ But that might skirt too close to the truth, and invite the questions: Is she ill often? Is she regularly under prescription from the doctor for anything? Does she suffer from depression? Her secret drawers of valium, prozac, amphetamines and sleeping tablets — prescription or otherwise — or the hidden bottles of gin — which so often pushed her into a stupored haze to take her to her bed early. And, besides, it was more vital now that they put on a united front. He’d told Nicola that she’d just have to compose herself. She had to be there beside him.
Ryall took a deep breath. But his salvation would be with Lorena. He was angry that now she’d called them twice, but in the end she’d never betray him. Betray their secret. Because, in the end, there was no secret that she could recall. No memory of bad things happening; just wild imaginings. And once those imaginings were finally put
