The Last Witness

But now there was little help Landry could offer and few consoling words beyond ‘maybe he was jumping to conclusions’ and ‘maybe she’d still call.’ He felt redundant, merely along for the ride while Georges steadily drowned and spilled his woes; no more use than a confessional priest, except that instead of Three Hail Mary’s he was telling Georges that perhaps he’d drunk enough and should think of heading home. A few hours rest and he’d probably feel better, get a clearer view on it all.

‘Come on, let’s get you out of here.’

Georges wasn’t so drunk that he needed support, but he definitely needed encouragement from his bar stool. With his morose state and a finger of bourbon still in his glass, he looked reluctant to leave. He finally knocked it back as Landry paid, and they headed out.

The two men in the Econoline saw them as soon as they were a yard beyond the giant gypsy dancing figures that marked the bar’s entrance.

‘Okay. Which way they headed?’

‘Looks like towards Donatiens’ car.’ They’d agreed at the outset that a good spot to snatch Donatiens would be the side street where he’d parked. It was quiet, not much activity. The friend was parked further up on the opposite side of St Laurent.

‘Shit… looks like the friend’s staying with him.’

‘They’re stopping. Maybe they’re going to split up now. Oh, great. Choose now to give the fucking Gettysburg address.’

The fresh air on St Laurent had cleared Landry’s thoughts a bit. ‘I think you should tell Jean-Paul everything. Bare all to him in the same way that you have to me.’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m here to rat on your brother because maybe you’re daughter didn’t put the point across properly. Oh, and whatever happened with that club girl last night, if anything — I don’t remember a thing. I was drugged and out of it.’

‘I know. But it’s probably your only chance. And maybe something in your account will strike a chord, throw some doubt on whatever Roman’s spun about it all. Enough at least for Jean-Paul to hold back until he’s checked it out.’

Georges met Landry’s gaze evenly. He was serious. ‘So when am I meant to spill all of this to Jean- Paul?’

‘Come on. Come on. Move it!’

‘Not tonight. You’re in no fit shape. And besides, Simone might still call and clear up the whole mess.’ Still trying to sell the hope of her calling. ‘…Or maybe meanwhile you’ll get hold of her. If not, go see him first thing tomorrow morning.’

A keening wind along St Laurent stung Georges’ face, made his eyes water. Landry was practically the only thing in focus among a blur of cafe signs, street-lights and the streaming tail-lights of passing cars. He started shaking heavily, though he wasn’t sure if it was with cold, or exhaustion and nerves. Only half a day with Simone’s back perhaps turned to him, and he felt so alone, deserted. At least the drink helped numb the pain a little; he could feel its effect more now with the cold air, and swayed uncertainly in the wind. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

Landry reached towards him. ‘Look — I don’t think you should be driving. Let me run you home.’

Georges put one foot back, steadying himself before the hand connected. ‘What, you? You’re almost as bad as me.’

Landry shrugged as Georges smiled incredulously at him. Not exactly true: Georges had drunk at least three to his two; he’d felt it his duty to keep a clear head so that he could throw an incisive light on Georges’ problem. Not that it had helped. ‘Then at least grab a cab.’

‘No, no.’ Georges held one hand up. ‘I leave my Lexus in that side street — by midnight the wheels and the radio will be gone… if not the whole car. Maybe that’d be the best thing: thrown in a cell for the night for drunk driving. Safest place for me.’ He smiled crookedly and swallowed down the tail-end of a belch, holding up his hand again at Landry’s concerned expression. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy. Can’t be more than a dozen blocks.’

‘That’s it… come on.’ They watched the friend step back, a few more words spoken between them, then with a parting half salute the friend turned to cross St Laurent. Donatiens continued on the same side towards the turning thirty yards away where he’d parked.

The driver fired up the engine and looked in his wing mirror. Two cars passing, then a gap — but the next car was approaching fast. He waited for it to pass.

Donatiens was pacing briskly, only eight yards from the turning as they pulled out.

Their every move from this point in had been pre-choreographed. The passenger went into the back of the van and picked up a ski-mask and a black cloth hood. He slipped on the ski-mask and crouched expectantly by the van’s back doors, ready for the signal to jump out.

The driver moved slowly for the first ten yards until Donatiens turned into the side street, then he sped up the last distance. He pulled over to the centre line for the left-turn and waited for a passing car… but just as he started to turn, had edged forward a yard, a parked car five down pulled out. It beeped and they stood uncertainly nose to nose for a moment before it swung lazily around him.

‘Shit!’ The driver clutched the wheel hard as he finally made the turn. Donatiens’ friend further up had looked around briefly but didn’t seem to dwell on them. He was already at his car, had the door half open to get in.

Donatiens hadn’t looked round, but the problem was that he had gained eight or nine yards meanwhile. They’d agreed that the best time to grab him was just before he got in his car — but now he was only yards from it, bleeping it open.

The driver accelerated hard down the street, his pulse racing as Donatiens reached out, opening his car door. The driver kept in close to the parked cars, hoping that at the last minute Donatiens might push the door back and stay pinned tight by his car until they’d passed, afraid of getting his door creamed: they’d brake sharp just past, swing the back doors open, and…

But Donatiens went for the second option of jumping in swiftly and shutting the door before they reached him.

The driver slowed and finally screeched to a halt ten yards past, his breath falling hard with the adrenalin rush of the near miss.

‘What now?’ Ski-mask pressed anxiously. Through the back window, he saw Donatiens starting up.

But the driver stayed frozen with indecision a second more before suddenly slamming the van into reverse. ‘We block him in! Duck down out of sight!’

The van sped back and stopped sharp with its back four feet beyond Donatiens’ front bumper.

The driver watched in his wing mirror Donatiens quickly check if there was enough room behind to reverse and still swing out. There wasn’t: only two or three feet leeway at most. Donatiens’ lips pursed tight as he pressed his horn.

A curtain pulled back briefly from a window four houses along, but little other attention drawn: nobody out walking on the side-street and the few passing on St Laurent thirty yards behind didn’t look over. A trickle of sweat ran down the driver’s forehead. Hold tight. Hold tight.

The horn blared again, and Donatiens’ head came out of the window. ‘Come on! Shift it!’

Ski-mask hissed from behind, ‘Yeah, come on. Let’s get out of here. He’ll wake half the fucking neighbourhood!’

‘Just a second more. Just keep out of sight.’ The curtain four along stayed still, and no other movement that the driver could see. But he was sweating profusely, his nerves close to bursting point, and he was ready to accelerate hard away as soon as the next beep sounded. He saw Donatiens’ hand raise again — but this time it was to swing the door open as he came out shouting.

‘Come on… move will you? Move! I can’t get…’

‘Okay… Now!’

Ski-mask burst the back doors open and had the hood over Donatiens’ head before he’d finished the sentence, one hand clamping hard over his mouth. The driver leapt out and they bundled him quickly into the back and sped off.

No other curtains moved in the street and nobody looked over from nearby St Laurent. Seconds later it was as if they’d never been there.