Roman stayed staring at the dead phone for a moment afterwards, cracking some knuckles. The third false alarm already — but this was the first where Roubilliard hadn’t been able to eliminate them himself. At least it meant that Roubilliard was busy, and in a few hours there’d be news too from Funicelli on just why this woman all the way from England was visiting Donatiens’ parents out in Beaconsfield.
The news item came on at 11.32 am. Female newscaster against a backdrop of a faint grey map of Canada with Quebec highlighted in yellow, talking about a RCMP breakthrough in their investigation against Montreal’s Lacaille family. She glanced to one corner as prompt, and the news-clip started of Neil Mundy’s press conference just half an hour beforehand. Mundy sat in the centre flanked by Michel Chenouda and Inspector Pelletier as camera flashes went repeatedly.
The television was at the end of a counter-style deli, the sound on low. One of the three sandwich servers closest to the TV looked up for a moment in interest, and two of his customers seemed engrossed, but hardly anyone else, including Elena and Lorena at the other end sharing a large french-stick sandwich, paid it any attention.
Elena had woken up late, so she decided that they should grab a quick brunch: lunch might be late with them seeing the Donatiens at 1 pm. After the deli they spent twenty minutes window-browsing in Place Ville-Marie before heading out there. Alphonse had told her it should only take thirty-five, forty minutes to get to Beaconsfield, but she wanted to leave some leeway to be safe.
Talk was stilted on the drive, she was far too pre-occupied with what lay ahead to give anything more than brief responses to Lorena, and didn’t instigate any conversation herself. She got there seventeen minutes early, so spent a while slowly cruising the area: a small lake two blocks over with a park one side verging into a pine forest, a parade of shops three blocks in the other direction. They’d passed some messy industrial areas on the outskirts of Montreal on the way there — grain silos, dilapidated warehouses and car dumps — but this was a nice area. A good place to bring up a child. George would have… she shook her head. She was doing it again. For all she knew the directory listing for this address was recent, the Donatiens could have moved several times since they took George from the orphanage.
She spent the last few minutes parked a hundred yards along the road from the house, checking her hair and make-up and that she still didn’t look like a half-crazed heroine addict — then continued the last distance and pulled up outside. She didn’t notice the man in the green Oldsmobile saloon parked thirty yards back, his gaze following her and Lorena intently as they walked up the path to the front door.
She tried to even her breathing as she approached the door, tried to relax — her nerves had mostly settled since last night — but all that pent-up tension was suddenly back in her body ringing the bell and in the anxious few seconds lull before the door opened. Then suddenly she was on remote, her senses bombarded: smiles, handshakes. Claude. Odette. Yes… and this is my daughter, Katine. Come through, come through. Odette was compact and well-presented, and Claude dwarfed her and was heavy-set, but with his broadness and height carried it well. He had a shock of stone grey hair and a ready smile, and Elena immediately warmed to them. Odette offered freshly made coffee, and Elena asked if her daughter could perhaps wait in their kitchen or play in their garden.
‘…Some of what I’ve come about could be a bit sensitive.’ She’d covered with Lorena about the orphanage by claiming her son had some schooling there, and that the Donatiens now were ‘sort of Godparents’ — but if Lorena sat in on their conversation, she’d know the truth. ‘I didn’t want to leave her in the car outside, you see.’
Claude Donatiens nodded knowingly, his expression suddenly more sombre. Odette took over and led Lorena down the hall, asking what drinks she’d like. Claude looked up at Elena in the moment they were left alone and forced a smile; but its openness had gone, he was obviously nervous, concerned — and that same mood prevailed when Odette returned with coffee and Elena launched into the reason for her visit.
Claude and Odette exchanged glances at intervals as her story unfolded, and looked increasingly troubled and uneasy. They asked few questions and fell quickly back to their eyes cast down, heads nodding slowly and sombrely, and the occasional awkward glance between them. At first Elena thought it was just a reaction to the poignancy and drama of her story, but after a while she got the impression that there was something else troubling them, some unspoken cloud of worry that she’d triggered in their minds. And before she even reached the end, Claude Donatiens was shaking his head, his lips pursed tight together.
‘I’m sorry… I thought you knew. Haven’t you heard the news?’ Again those downcast eyes; he could no longer bring himself to look at her directly.
‘What news?’
‘You shouldn’t be so surprised, Claude — it was only on a few hours ago,’ Odette rallied to her defence. ‘She could easily have missed it.’
‘I know.’ Claude nodded and looked up briefly at Elena. ‘It’s just that before you explained, I thought your visit might have had something to do with what’s happened — that you somehow had advance notice, or maybe even had links with the RCMP.’ He ran one hand unevenly through his hair and let out a slow sigh. ‘It’s just the timing threw us… the two things happening at the same time, you understand.’ He shook his head again. ‘And… and after all you’ve been through now.’
‘Why — what’s happened?’ Elena looked keenly between them, and her heart fell. Their looks said it all before Claude Donatiens had finally gathered the composure to explain.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Sorry, Georges. Roman wanted us to tell you that he never liked you. Always thought you were a smarmy shit. He said it would give him great satisfaction to know that was the last thing you were thinking about. But for us, Georges, it’s nothing personal. Just sorry.’
Georges felt everything tilt and slip away into darkness. He wasn’t sure initially how long he’d blacked-out, the first thing he was aware of was the rapid shuffling of footsteps — then as two bangs sounded, he jolted for a second that that was the shots he’d been expecting before realizing it was the sound of the Econoline’s doors closing. He’d probably lost less than a minute. The engine was revved high and there was a sharp squeal of tyres as they sped away. Then the sound of another engine, headlamps playing for a second across his body — the approaching vehicle had obviously disturbed his two abductors.
The sharp slam of two more car doors, then after a second the sound of another car pulling up, and more lights: the stark beam of a torch swung haphazardly on the ground close-by before finally settling on his body. And voices: frantic, jumbled, he found it hard to pick out what was said at first, but as they came close he recognized Chenouda’s voice.
‘Is he okay? Did we make it in time?’
Georges was given fresh coffee and donuts and left for almost two hours to rest before his first de-briefing by Chenouda, which lasted only forty minutes. Georges discovered in that session that Chenouda knew from a contact close to the Lacailles — Chenouda didn’t elaborate who — about him being lured away the night before by one of the Sherbrooke club girls, Viana. They suspected a likely set-up by Roman, so started closely following his movements. Two of his men saw the abduction go down and radioed straight through to Chenouda. They lost the van at one point and there was a scramble to catch up, which was why Chenouda arrived almost at the same time as them.
‘And none too soon by the looks of it. Thirty seconds more and we wouldn’t be sitting here talking now. Your body would be being tagged in the morgue.’