The Last Witness by John Matthews Read Free Book Online Page A

Lacaille residence in Cartier-Ville.
      The one and only apartment search all those months back had been at the request of Michel Chenouda, his immediate boss and closest RCMP confidante. They’d worked together as partners when Michel had first arrived from Toronto, but within the year the fat man left the RCMP after a bungled vice bust led to an attempted hit on one of his key drugs informants, and went into private investigation. Technically, he was still private when he’d let himself into Donatiens’ apartment; Michel had already smoothed the way for him rejoining the RCMP, and all the papers were rubber-stamped, but the break-in was ten days before he was handed his badge and gun. No doubt Michel would have loved to have the apartment searched again now, but for the risk: Michel wouldn’t involve a badged officer, and there were no other private gumshoes Michel would trust with something like that.
    He’d been a keen amateur photographer in his late teens, and private work had given him the opportunity to hone his skills. The mountain of photos he’d taken of the Lacailles over the past eighteen months, Michel would rigorously scan for tell-tale signs – Simone Lacaille’s engagement ring when it first appeared, new contacts of Roman or Jean-Paul Lacaille not recognized from past file photos – and he’d meanwhile be looking at artistic merit: light, angle, composition.
    Now, with Michel’s wake up call at 6.30 a.m., more photos. ‘They’ve just found Savard’s body. I’m here with forensics. Donatiens is the only one left now – we’ll need to shadow him closer than ever.’  Michel was on his mobile and sounded slightly out of breath.
    The fat man was worried that it was becoming an obsession. The reason for the obsession he understood, but still it worried him. A dozen or so more photos to add to a file of hundreds, and probably now enough box files of paperwork to fill a truck.
    He let out a heavy exhalation as he started up, checked his mirror, and pulled out. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the routine, or perhaps his preoccupation with getting back to the station in time to develop the photos before his meeting with Michel – but he didn’t notice the man parked fifty yards behind, who had pulled up just as he was taking his second stream of photos.

    ‘Chac! Chac! Good stuff. Good stuff!’ Michel hailed as he watched the fat man pin five fresh photos from his morning’s effort on the corkboard.
    The C was soft, so the uninformed often made the mistake that the nickname had an English derivation, from the fact that the man was built like a shack. But it had come from his habit of saying ‘Chacun son goût’ . He’d originally been known as ‘Chacun’ , then finally just ‘Chac’.
    Eighteen photos already covered the corkboard, providing a quick-glance photo profile of the Lacailles and anyone vital connected with them.
      Michel stood studying the photos from two yards back, then threw a quick eye over the others and back again, as if measuring how they slotted into the whole picture.
      ‘So, still very much in love,’ he said.
      ‘Looks that way.’
      Michel leant in closer, studying finer detail in the photos. What had he been hoping for? Some small sign of cracks in their relationship, so it might be easier to get Donatiens to testify against the Lacailles. After all, she was only in her early twenties, impetuous, strong-willed, and probably wasn’t yet settled emotionally. Before Donatiens she’d had a chain of different boyfriends, seemed to change them every other month.
    Michel shook his head as he studied the look on Simone’s face kissing Donatiens goodbye. Wishful thinking. Their relationship had held solid for sixteen months, and looked stronger now than ever.
    But the photo he was finally drawn to most was of Donatiens just as Simone headed away. Perhaps business hadn’t gone smoothly in Mexico, but Michel doubted that was it: the expression of concern