The Last Witness

At six-foot-three and two-forty pounds, he cut an imposing figure, with immaculate black leather trousers and matching jacket which was closer to a waistcoat with its arms cut out and only a four-inch silver chain linking it at the front. It looked as if it had been purposefully tailored to show off his biceps and pecs. His age he’d frozen at thirty-eight, but most put it closer to forty-six, with the main sign evident in his fast thinning shoulder-length rust hair. He sported the green and gold Mohawk headband he’d always worn, but now it was pushed further back on his crown to shield his receding hairline. He was now on his fourth hair transplant to cure the problem, but any of his inner circle that spread that well-concealed titbit put their health at risk: vanity went against the ruthless, hard-man image he carefully nurtured, boosted years back by him beating a murder rap with only manslaughter; he served five out of the seven-year sentence, had continued running his drugs network from inside Leferge prison, and had been out now nearly four years.

The 4-Wheeler was heavily customised, with tinted glass — bullet-proof rumour had it — oversized chrome exhaust snaking up one side like a trucker’s funnel, and big wheels that pushed it ten inches higher off the ground. The two girls with Roubilliard stepped down carefully in their high heels. A blonde and a brunette, both stunning and leggy, close to six foot, if more than a little tarty in their dress: matching black leather trench-coats open at the front to show tight silver hot-pants and bubble-gum pink tank-top on the blonde, the brunette with black leather mini, black see-through blouse and black lace bra. The brunette looked about nineteen, but the blonde looked disturbingly young, no more than fifteen.

At a table by the front window of the Rodeo, Roman nudged Frank Massenat and smiled as Roubilliard’s entourage approached. ‘Would you get this fucking guy. Makes you wonder if we’re doing something wrong, we should be flauntin’ it too.’ They’d parked the Beamer discreetly round the corner and had entered quietly. But in their suits and Crombies, they couldn’t help feeling nevertheless as if they’d made some sort of grand entrance: the bar was awash with check-shirts, jeans and leathers, and more than a few eyes had turned to them curiously.

Roman noticed a hooker outside stepping out intermittently to attract passing drivers in hot pants not dissimilar to Roubilliard’s blonde, but with black nylons and a grey fake fur. He couldn’t resist the jibe as Roubilliard burst through the Rodeo’s swing doors. He stood up theatrically, holding his arms out.

‘Hey, hey. Maurissse, Maurissse.’ He clamped his arms around Roubilliard’s bulk in an embrace, then gestured towards the girls as he pulled back. ‘These two come with you, or did you just pick them up outside?’

Massenat guffawed as the two girls scowled, the brunette perching one hand on her hips challengingly.

Only one corner of Roubilliard’s mouth curled slightly, making it clear he thought the humour value was scant. ‘Let me tell you, my friend — these girls are a cut above.’

‘What — you mean they’re ten years younger?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I suppose you could say.’ Roubilliard levered down into the seat opposite with a faint grunt as Roman sat back down. He gestured towards the window. ‘I didn’t know you liked your girls street-worn like those tired pussies out there.’

‘Just I like them to at least finish their schooling so that they pick up on the finer points of my fucking humour.’ Roman eased a ready smile. ‘Still, enough of my pussy preferences. To business.’ No point in riding Roubilliard too hard. The regular drug shipments Roman was middle-managing for Medeiros guaranteed Roubilliard dancing to the strings he pulled; but this was a side issue on which he wanted Roubilliard’s co- operation.

Roubilliard peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and told the two girls to perch up at the bar, he’d join them in a while, and, with only a brief interruption as the waitress came over and they ordered a fresh jug of beer, Roman ran through the fresh dilemma with Donatiens: nobody had seen him in the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t shown up at the office, wasn’t contactable on his mobile and hadn’t left messages with anyone. ‘…And we’ve checked every likely place he could be. He’s completely disappeared. And we need to find him. Fast!’

Roubilliard nodded knowingly and sipped at his beer. ‘Knows too much, huh?’

‘Yeah, well, we’re starting to get worried about him. He had a little run-in with the RCs recently, and we need to talk to him, that’s all.’

‘Right.’ Roubilliard took another slug of beer and fixed his eyes keenly on Roman, a slow leer rising. ‘Rumour has it that he’s been a problem to you for some while. So maybe this disappearance now is that you finally decided to do something about it: he’s already keeping Venegas company at the bottom of some lake or river, waiting for the Spring thaw.’

Roman sneered and chuckled nervously. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be sitting here — ’ Roman waved his arm towards Roubilliard’s henchmen at the table behind and the bar at large — ‘Surrounded by a bunch of assholes who look like they’re stuck in a fucking time warp since “Easy Rider” — asking you to find him.’

Roubilliard shrugged. ‘Maybe ‘cause like everything else with our drug deals and Leduc and Venegas — you haven’t told Jean-Paul. He doesn’t know you’ve already offed Donatiens. And so you need to go through the motions now with me to keep up the pretence.’

Roman reached across and gripped Roubilliard’s arm hard. ‘Look — you’re just arms and legs in this. Someone with the right street connections to find this fucker — if he’s still in Quebec. I’m not paying you to think.’

Roubilliard gave a more philosophical shrug, as if accepting it as a complement: if Roubilliard’s connections weren’t second to none, they wouldn’t both be sitting here now. By necessity, his drugs distribution network touched every club, clip-joint, neighbourhood cafe or bar dealer in the Province, and his contacts with fences and counterfeiters were also excellent. If Donatiens had gone to ground anywhere, or wanted a false-plated car or false identity and credit cards to be able to moonlight discreetly out of Quebec, Roubilliard would soon know about it.

‘Matters not to me if you’ve already taken out Donatiens — I’m hardly likely to let on to Jean-Paul. We don’t exactly mix in the same circles: he’s only interested in being seen around politicians and city movers and shakers these days, not ex-con bikers.’ Roubilliard raised his glass towards Roman. ‘If you say try and find Donatiens, I’ll try and find him.’

But Roman held the same poker face with just a hint of ingratiating smile: Roubilliard couldn’t tell either way whether he’d already taken care of Donatiens or not.

Session 2.

‘…The tragic incident with your friend Patrika drowning in the sewers was something that intensely upset you? Something you found hard to forget?’

‘Yes… yes, it was.’

‘And what were your feelings about the rest of your time in the sewers outside of that tragedy? Did you feel vulnerable and uneasy, frightened even?’

‘Yes, we did… much so. There were always noises: the rush of water, strange echoes… rats scurrying. We never slept much — it was just somewhere to escape from the cold at night.’

Elena sat in a small annexe seven-foot square listening in on headphones to Lorena’s session in the adjoining room. No window between the two rooms: in front of her was a Nova Scotia Tourist Board poster with a rugged coastline vista. The headphones snaked out of a cassette player rolling to one side, and there was also a microphone before her. Because Lowndes dealt with so many child cases, the room was for parents who might need reassurance that their offspring weren’t being unduly pressured. The microphone was only for necessary prompts or, in extreme cases, for parents to call a halt to the session. Lowndes had urged her only to use it if absolutely necessary, as it tended to interrupt the flow.

In a ten-minute briefing beforehand, Lowndes voiced that having reflected more on the first session, he had strong doubts he’d get anywhere trying to draw directly from Lorena that she might have blotted out unsettling events with her stepfather: his aim therefore was to start with other events and edge in.

‘…And how long did you stay using the sewers as a refuge after Patrika died?’

‘Three months, I think… maybe four.’

‘And were you even more frightened then, knowing what had already happened with Patrika?’