The Last Witness

with sufficient rank and good enough English for the purpose.’

‘And she’s got the girl with her?’

‘Sounds like it from their description. Girl with long brown hair of ten or eleven.’

‘Great!’ Crowley clutched the air by his shoulder into a fist. He decided to use the lull to phone Turton, who’d called just twenty minutes before to complain that he’d had Ryall on grilling him again.

Turton agreed that it was good news. ‘I didn’t even mention the Montrichard hotels fiasco when he called. Just said that we had some good leads in from France and were confident that she’d be apprehended soon.’

‘Yes, well at least finally looks like we’re…’ He faltered. Across the room Sally had answered her phone again. Her face rapidly clouded. She glared towards him and waved urgently. ‘… we’re there. But, uh… perhaps best not to say anything to Ryall until we have the interview confirmation through. We’re waiting on that now. Yes… should be no more than ten or fifteen minutes.’ Sally’s expression told him he’d need that time to unravel whatever this new problem was. He hung up and darted across. ‘What now?’

Sally exhaled heavily as she dropped the bombshell: close call, but not her. The woman’s name was Walden, not Waldren. Janet Walden. ‘Apparently the alert went out just on the surname, the customs officer misread it on the passport, and everything trickled down wrong from there… until the police officer went to interview her in the detention room.’

‘Middle name?’

Sally glanced at her notes. ‘Eileen. Oh… and the girl with her is twelve, not ten.’

Crowley grimaced tightly. It wasn’t her. This time it was an error rather than a deliberate foil, but he was starting to develop a healthy respect for Elena Waldren: obviously she hadn’t just leapt for the first border post and airport options, she’d planned things through. He went back to his maps and tried to put himself in her position. If he’d had a false trail blazed through the middle of France, where in reality would he have headed? He’d better come up with at least some sensible suggestions before he phoned Turton back.

The two men in the black Econoline held eighty yards back from the St Laurent bar, practically the last clear view that could be had of its entrance. A discreet distance, with the van’s tinted windows adding an extra discretion.

The man in the passenger seat was on his mobile. ‘They’ve been inside almost two hours now.’

‘Still hang on. They can’t be much longer, and this might be the best shot we’ll get.’

‘Yeah, okay. Will do.’

‘Wait till he’s heading home, or at least the two of them are parted and well clear of each other — then make your move. And make sure you grab Monsieur D, not the friend.’ A lighter tone to the voice, but falling short of a chuckle. The line was digital and hopefully secure, but still he was careful not to say Donatiens’ name.

‘Not much chance of that. We’ve got the photo right in front of us.’

‘And make sure you’re not seen.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ll have ski-masks on and we’ll pick a quiet spot. And we’ll have the hood over his head before he has a chance to even turn around.’

NINETEEN

Eight beers and half a bottle of Kentucky bourbon between them and they’d put half of Georges’ and the world’s problems to rights, but still hadn’t come up with any answer to his dilemma with Jean-Paul. Georges stared miserably into his tumbler and rattled his ice.

‘For God’s sake, why doesn’t she call?’

‘Perhaps she still will.’ Mike Landry knew it sounded lame at this stage: according to Georges, she was meant to call him over six hours ago. But Mike had already spun through most of the options: Perhaps she got tied up at work; perhaps things got delayed and she wasn’t able to see her father till later; perhaps she tried to get hold of him and missed him; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But Georges was adamant: No, she’d have made sure to get hold of him one way or the other. She knew how important this was to him. Something was wrong.

‘No, I don’t think she’ll call now.’ Georges chewed at his bottom lip. After trying her countless times, late afternoon he phoned Mike Landry. Landry was an old friend from university and they’d also worked together at Banque du Quebec: the only person he could think of turning to with this dilemma. They arranged to meet at 5.30 pm at the ‘Gipsy’, one of the new wave of bars on St Laurent. ‘I think I was right about last night being some sort of set up.’

‘Can’t you remember anything that happened after blacking out at this girl’s place?’

‘Almost nothing until I was in the foyer back at my place with the lobby guard fishing through my pockets for my keys.’ The guard informed him that a taxi had dropped him off just ten minutes beforehand. No, the taxi driver hadn’t said where he’d been picked up from. ‘Don’t you know yourself?’

‘And a gap of almost two hours lost in between?’

‘Yeah. But as I said, all I can recall are hazy fragments.’ Viana naked on top of him, but then the feel of someone else’s slow tongue licking him, someone lower down just out of view. And a man’s voice… Yeah, that’s it… that position. Hold it for a second. Then nothing until the foyer. But it all had a dreamlike, surreal quality, and when he fell asleep later in his own bed it was Simone naked on top of him, writhing. But the heat and sweat from her body suddenly became Leduc’s blood, an expanding pool spreading across his stomach, his thighs … and it was Roman’s voice from the side, taunting: Yeah, that’s it… you do it. You kill him for me. He awoke abruptly and made strong coffee. He’d had barely three hours sleep and his nerves were ragged. As he’d told Mike after going through everything over their first drinks: he just couldn’t be sure now whether the earlier images were real or just another dream. He shook his head. ‘Then as the hours passed with still no call from Simone — that’s when I began to fear the worst about last night.’

Landry pulled a tight grimace as he looked at his friend. Georges’ hands were shaking, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused from drink and lack of sleep. He was a wreck. But they’d already raked over everything twice over, and now there was little for him to offer as encouragement or sound advice. Georges was practically beyond consolation.

When Georges had first aired the problem, Landry had felt uncomfortable with the burden and commented flippantly, ‘I thought it must be something pretty serious for you to phone me out of the blue.’ But it quickly went the wrong way, descended into heated banter. Well, just that I haven’t heard from you for over three months. He’d been busy. Busy? ‘When’s the last time you saw your parents?’

‘I was planning to go out and see them this weekend or next, as soon as this all blew over.’

‘Yeah. But when’s the last time?’

‘Christmas-time.’ Georges closed his eyes solemnly, accepting the point: early on in his relationship with Simone when he’d been lauding Jean-Paul, Landry had voiced that he should be careful not to see Jean-Paul as a surrogate father, a larger-than-life figure to make up for his stepfather’s shortcomings and ups and downs over the years. Georges bit back that it wasn’t all one-way, things hadn’t been made any easier with his stepfather in turn trying to dress down Jean-Paul because of his criminal background. ‘And to my old chums at Banque du Quebec, I was suddenly a total no-go area. They daren’t be seen near me in case word got around that they were associating with a supposed money-launderer. Always one eye on that next promotion, huh? It was only you that didn’t give a shit, because we went all the way back to university.’

Landry agreed that that was the case with a lot of them. ‘But not everyone. People like Gerry Marchant, for instance — he couldn’t have given a shit either. In fact, he found the whole thing quite glamorous. But you put up the barriers just as much, Georges. As soon as you got in deep with the Lacailles-’

Georges gripped Landry’s hand tight on the bar counter at that moment. ‘Look — this isn’t just about social ostracising because I’m worried about being cast out of the Lacaille’s precious golden circle. I’m afraid for my life, Mike. But if you don’t want to help…’ Georges got up from his bar-stool, but Landry clutched at his shoulder, sitting him back down.

Yes, of course, he wanted to help. What were friends for? ‘Just that it would be nice to see you now and then outside of the latest hot problem.’