The Last Witness by John Matthews Read Free Book Online

found in the early hours this morning.’
      ‘Oh, I see.’ That killed it instantly. Simone wouldn’t be able to do much with him now, regardless of effort.
      ‘Now I know this falls outside what I originally brought you in to be concerned with. But given the background with Savard, I think it’s something we should discuss.’
      ‘I agree.’ Georges felt numb, cold, and found it hard to free either clear thoughts or speech.
    Simone rolled off and curled to one side, frowning; but it wasn’t a look of spoilt petulance, more of concern. Warmth, compassion, joie-de-vivre, sharp wit: all the traits that over the sixteen months of their relationship had drawn him more in love with her, when he’d finally dug beneath the preconception – guided as much by his own staunch work ethic and views about her cosseted life, than reality – that she was spoilt.
      But, for a moment, he wished that spoilt Simone was back. He could kid himself that life was still just a playful tug of war between her and her father. He could forget what Jean-Paul had just said about Savard, and could ignore Simone’s look of heavy concern, mirroring the panic that must have swept across his own face as he contemplated the chain of nightmare problems that Savard’s death could ignite. He just hoped his first assumption was wrong.

    The fat man took the first photo as the couple came out of the apartment.
      They leaned into each other a few paces from the building, a quick parting kiss, and the girl ran just ahead. He followed their movements with a quick burst on the camera’s motor-drive. They were an attractive young couple, the girl with long, wavy, black hair, the man close to six foot and athletic looking with dark-brown hair cut short in a spiky crew-cut, and dressed well in light grey suit and black Crombie. Though the fat man knew, from old photos he’d spied in the man’s apartment, that when his hair was longer it also waved slightly, and that the suit – from the many he’d flicked through in his wardrobe – was no doubt Armani or Yves St-Laurent. They say that people are attracted to those with similar features, and certainly there were some similarities between the two: large brown eyes, his perhaps slightly heavier-hooded than hers, but both with the same olive skin tones, hinting of a Mediterranean or Latin background.
    She got into a bright turquoise Fiat sports coupe parked just in front, while he went through a side door towards the garage. The fat man took another few snaps as she looked around and pulled out, then a minute later some of the man as the automatic garage doors opened and his grey Lexus edged out.
    Simone Lacaille and Georges Donatiens, Montreal’s golden couple, seen at all the right parties and openings – and a few of the wrong ones – and regularly photographed, his own snapshots aside.
    The apartment building was in the fashionable Westmount district, and its penthouses – of which Donatiens’ was one – had luxurious split-level atrium living rooms affording breathtaking views over the City and the St Lawrence. After thoroughly searching the apartment eight months back, the fat man had stood for a moment admiring the view, breath misting the atrium glass, contemplating ruefully just how far out of reach such an apartment was on his RCMP policeman’s salary.
    The fat man by now knew everything about them, their every last move. She stayed over at Donatiens’ two or three times a week, but always the first night after he’d been away on a business trip. She would head to Lachaine & Roy on Rue St Jaques, one of Montreal’s leading advertising agencies, where she was an accounts manager. Her father didn’t have shares in the company – he was careful not to be overt with his influence over her career, she would rebel – but he did have interests in two of its major accounts. Donatiens, first day back, would head downtown to the Lacaille company office on Côte du Beaver Hall, or to the