wouldn’t be able to make a move on me without sanction from Jean-Paul. Which won’t be forthcoming — now or at any time. So while I appreciate your concern about my safety — thank you, but it’s misplaced.’ Georges forced a hesitant smile.
Michel’s jaw tightened. At times he could look upon Donatiens as the business innocent caught up in the Lacaille’s wolves’ den; at others, like now, he was the smooth, smug money-launderer hiding the Lacaille’s dirty millions and laughing up his sleeve at the RCMP. And when that view held sway it angered him all the more because, unlike Jean-Paul and Roman, Donatiens had had a choice: he was outside of their world and had a highly-paid respectable job with a bank. He could have simply turned his back.
Michel sneered thinly. ‘Jean-Paul and Roman have worked side by side now for over twenty years. They’ve been through hell and high water together, buried both their father and their younger brother in the name of a crime empire that’s survived now two generations. If it comes to the crunch and that’s threatened — do you really think Jean-Paul’s going to take your side over Roman’s just because you’ve turned some good trade these past few years and you’re shacked up with his daughter?’
‘We’re to be married, in case you haven’t heard.’ Georges tone was indignant. ‘But where all your theories fall apart is that they’re not even involved in crime anymore.’
‘You expect me to believe that? The bikers are still getting their supplies to distribute. It’s business as usual. And a lot of the old Lacaille contact names, like Leduc, keep cropping up.’
‘It’s Cacchione, or a new independent. Maybe even more than one.’
Chenouda’s sneer was back. ‘You and I both know that Medeiros won’t go near Cacchione. And he wouldn’t trust these levels of transactions to some new kids on the block. He’s dealing with old friends; and with Cacchione out of the picture, that leaves only the Lacaille family.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? That’s what me being brought in was all about. To make money from legitimate enterprise so that they didn’t need crime. After Pascal was shot, everything…’ Georges faltered, his voice trailing off. He was getting drawn out by Chenouda, heading into areas he shouldn’t be talking about. ‘Look — we’ve covered much more here than we agreed. I’ve got to go.’ Georges stood up and smiled tightly. ‘Earn some more legitimate money.’
Michel shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure. Cool your heels for a while in one of our cells while we pick up Venegas — then you’re free to go.’
‘Oh, did I say that? You know, that’s the problem with not running a tape. You never can keep track from one moment to the next.’ Michel’s voice was heavy with sarcasm; then his tone suddenly became low, threatening. ‘You must be kidding. You know now we’re onto Venegas. As soon as you walk out of here, you could put a call through to Roman and ruin our operation. And if you want to call a lawyer, fine — he’ll only tell you the same: that under section 359 we’re allowed to hold someone up to twelve hours when an active operation might be threatened.’
‘You bastard, Chenouda.’ Georges glared back hard. ‘You knew all the time you were going to do this. You planned it.’
Michel moved in closer. ‘No. I pulled you in to save your neck from Roman — which you don’t seem to appreciate. And also because this is your last chance to save yourself from a charge of accomplice to murder. Once we’ve pulled in Venegas, that chance has gone. So now you’ve got some free time to contemplate the wiseness of talking or not.’
Georges met Chenouda’s hard stare evenly. The nerves were back somersaulting in his stomach and tightening his throat, and his first instinct was to continue fighting back. But the roller-coaster ride of the last half- hour had drained him and the situation seemed almost too surreal for comment, so that all that came out in the end was, ‘This is ridiculous,’ huffed on a weak exhalation. ‘So when do you expect to be picking up Venegas?’
Michel turned away slightly. ‘A half hour. Maybe an hour or two. Who knows?’
Georges’ shoulders slumped at the prospect of possibly hours in a jail cell. ‘You knew it all the time,’ he hissed. ‘You knew that-’
‘We don’t have time for this now,’ Michel cut in brusquely, holding one hand up. ‘… I’ve got an operation in progress to get back to. All I can say again is use the time wisely to re-think whether it’s worth taking an accomplice to murder rap for the Lacailles.’ He stared the weight of the message home one last time, but still he couldn’t tell if he’d made any inroads.
He repeated Donatiens’ right to a lawyer, but Donatiens merely fired back defiantly, ‘If I’m not going to talk, what’s the point?’ before Maury led him away.
Michel sat down slowly in the silence of the interview room. The exchange had exhausted him. Hopefully some time in the cells would weaken Donatiens’ resolve; he’d get a taste of what the next few years might be like if the chips fell the wrong way for him, and crumble.
The confrontation had given him more the measure of Donatiens, but still he wasn’t sure: the business innocent, or the smooth money-launderer? Maybe the next few hours with Donatiens within arm’s each in the cells below would help provide some clarity for both of them.
Elena stared into the churning water over the side of the ferry rail.
A faint mist obscured landfall at the far end of Poole harbour and the open sea at her back. The short ferry hop had come to symbolise for them freedom, escape from all the madness of the world outside, but now it felt as if they’d merely been escaping reality and the veil had finally been lifted on just what a waste half her life had been.
Elena had protested with Edelston that surely the fact alone that Ryall had taped their last meeting showed his guilt. Edelston didn’t agree. Ryall suspected that Lorena was being led and cajoled into admitting something that just hadn’t happened, was purely in her dreams, and the tape had born out that concern.
Elena had launched one last desperate assault. ‘That’s what we’d hoped for in recommending psychiatric assessment. It would have separated the dreams from the reality and cleared up any doubt once and for all.’
‘That as may be. But due to your over-eagerness and over-stepping the line, that chance I’m afraid has now gone.’
She shook her head. Nothing more she could do for Lorena; unsure now whether the leaden weight sagging her shoulders was because she felt to blame, or the sense of redundancy and helplessness. But was it too late to save herself?
When she’d first made the ferry hop, she’d been with her parents and younger brother. She’d been only eight years old, and imagined that she was sailing away to a magical, mystical land; that the short strip of sea separated them from an entirely different world. It became all the more magical when she discovered the chine. They’d been on the beach and she’d gone deep inside, out of sight, and she’d lost track of time wrapped in its cool, shaded embrace, sitting by the gently running brook while a squirrel eating a berry on a nearby branch looked at her curiously. She’d been gone for over forty minutes, her parents berated her when she emerged. They’d been frantically looking for her, worried that he might have drowned. Her father’s anger was strongest, and finally it boiled over. He landed an increasingly hard flurry of smacks on her backside before her mother intervened. It was just one of many volcanic eruptions of her father’s constantly stern, bubbling temperament, and her and her brother spent half their lives in fear of ever provoking it.
The first time she’d made the ferry journey with Gordon had been fifteen years ago. They’d been going out together for only three months, then after that made the habit of coming down every spare weekend in the summer months. Gordon was working in the City at the time, and for him the short ferry hop symbolised separation from the mad cut and thrust of the finance markets that consumed him all week. A year after they were married, they bought a weekend cottage in Chelborne, only two miles from where they now lived.
Then six years ago came Gordon’s heart attack and his decision to leave the City and them move to the area permanently. They put out requests with local estate agents, and details of the house overlooking the chine came through their letter-box four months later. They stayed in the weekend cottage while improvements were made, Gordon started a small investment brokerage based from home, handling a select few old clients to which were gradually added some local clients, and she also shifted half her London workload to a home desk and computer. When she wasn’t on a plane or truck bound for Eastern Europe, she spent most of her time on the phone, so it hardly mattered whether she was in London or Dorset.
