Ascension Day (42 page)

‘I know. But, like I said – I’m afraid. I just don’t know what to do.’

Confront them
?
Know what to do
?
Afraid
.

Truelle’s hands were starting to shake harder. He clenched them tightly. Maybe it should be him laying on the couch. Maybe he could get one of his old colleagues from
New York
to pull him apart, guide him through what to do. Pull him apart before he fell apart.

He swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘But sometimes, Brad, however hard it might seem at the time – we have to confront our worst fears.’

‘I know.’

‘Otherwise they just become stronger.’

‘I know, Doc… I know.’ Brad biting at his bottom lip, close to tears. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult.’

‘I
know
.’ Truelle in that moment feeling as if he wanted to join Brad in bursting into tears. He dabbed at some sweat beads on his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘And, uh… have you been able to find out why
Gary
is doing this? Why he’s giving you the lines?’

Brad looked quizzically at Truelle, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Yes. We discussed that at my last session.’

‘Of course,
of course
.’ Truelle covered quickly, reminding himself. ‘What I meant was – have you been able to probe more about that with
Gary
? You were never really satisfied with what he said – because you thought that you
were
pleasing your parents with what you did.’

‘I could try, but I don’t think he’d tell me. It’s like… like his little secret, his main hold over me, knowing better than me what might please my parents…’

Truelle knew that he should have stopped the session there. He was far too distracted.

As McElroy had been. Maybe it had been due to Thallerey’s death – but then what had McElroy suddenly thought of to make him cut everything short and head off in such a rush
?
And why on earth had they killed Thallerey? How could he possibly have presented a threat
?

Truelle pressed his hands firmer against his notepad as the shaking ran deeper. But this time the pad simply started shaking as well.

Oh God, help me. Help me
!

Truelle battled his way through the remaining twenty minutes of the session, keeping his comments concise and simple so that he didn’t make any more mistakes.

But when he finally ushered Brad out, his secretary Cynthia, seeing Truelle pale and shaky, enquired, ‘Has it got worse?’

It took Truelle a second to detach from his own thoughts and realize that she was talking about the boy, not him.

‘No, no. Much the same as before with Brad.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just a small fever that seems to have hit me. Cancel and rearrange my last two sessions today, would you?’

He headed back into his office without waiting for a response, went into the adjoining washroom and splashed water on his face as he leant over the sink.

Straightening up, his head was still burning as if about to explode, his eyes pin-pricks unable to fully focus on his reflection. And his hands shaking worse than ever.

Maybe he should head out and get another drink or two to steady them again. But he knew that if he did, it would end up as four or five, and by the next day he’d be on half a bottle; a day or two after that, a full bottle.

And so he stayed in the same position, hands gripped tight to the edge of the sink, as if it were the last planks of a sinking ship that he dared not let go of.

‘Does Durrant know yet that you can’t do any more?’

‘Not yet. I’m heading out there tomorrow to tell him.’

Nel-M had already heard the taped calls once at Farrelia’s, so wound through to the main highlights. McElroy on the phone to Mike Coultaine.

‘So that’s it now? Last time you’ll be seeing him?’

‘Apart from sitting in with him for the BOP hearing, or if there’s something else needed connected with the clemency plea. But that’s going to be the only focus now. From hereon in, it all rests with whether or not Candaret feels generous-hearted.’ 

Coultaine consoled that at least he’d given it a shot before they signed off. Nel-M wound forward to McElroy’s following call to Pat Coyne.

‘…I know that my colleague John Langfranc said that I’d probably be following up on some details. That won’t now be happening – I’ve decided there’s nowhere left to go with it. Apart from the DNA, I just can’t get my mind past Durrant describing that final shot to the head – particularly since you held that back from all releases.’

   ‘I understand. Me neither, and I’ve had twelve long years to think it over.’

‘But thanks for your time and the information you gave.’

Nel-M wound forward to the next call, this time incoming and left on McElroy’s answer-phone.

‘Jac. Jennifer. Jennifer Bromwell. I heard all about your accident. Your sister, Jean-Marie, kept me up to date. I didn’t visit the hospital, because, well, I… I understood your girlfriend was there much of the time. But I hear from Jean-Marie that you’re fine now… so this is to wish you well, and also to ask – and I’d understand perfectly if you didn’t think you were well enough yet for it – about one of those dates we discussed. I sneaked off to see Kelvin a couple of nights back – but there’s something coming up in a few nights that’ll be hard for me to find an excuse for.  So, if you thought you could oblige… call me.’

Nel-M stopped the tape and smiled thinly. Hardly got his pulse back, and McElroy’s convoluted love-life was full-on again: screwing his lap-dancing neighbour while playing charades with this second girl.

Shame though it wasn’t about to get more complicated, thought Nel-M. He’d already started to bring the lap-dancer’s ex-boyfriend, Gerry Strelloff, into play; only a few words spoken on his anonymous call, but effective. And as much as Roche would be pleased to hear that McElroy had finally thrown in the towel with Durrant, Nel-M couldn’t help feel disappointed that they wouldn’t now be taking things to the next stage; his plan for McElroy had without doubt been his best yet. Nel-M picked up the phone.

As it rang, he tapped a finger slowly at its side. Something nagged at the back of his mind about McElroy’s recent calls, but the thought hadn’t sufficiently formed to be worth mentioning to Roche. He simply told it how it appeared: didn’t look like McElroy was going to be giving them any more grief.

24

‘Try… try and remember.’

Durrant looked at Jac levelly. ‘You think I haven’t tried, time and over again these past long years, to remember more – fill the gaps? Haven’t had too much else worth thinking about.’ Durrant shook his head, smiling crookedly. ‘You think it’s all going to magically come back to me just because you’re pushing?’

‘I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in acceptance. ‘But this could be our last shot at this, Larry. Our very last shot.’

‘Don’t you think I know that too?’ Durrant arched an eyebrow sharply. ‘Believe me, I’m trying… raking and going over everything I’ve ever recalled these past years.
Every
damn thing.’

They were on the same side now, pulling in the same direction, but it would have been easy to believe from their often heated exchange of the past half-hour that they weren’t. Still stuck in the same mould of Jac pushing hard and Durrant resisting; except that this time it was Durrant’s lack of memory providing the resistance. Trying to push beyond the shadows that shrouded his life of twelve years ago, the effort creasing and raising sweat on his brow.

The room they were in was hot and claustrophobic. No windows. No one-way mirror with guards looking on. No faint murmur or sounds of the prison beyond – the surrounding walls were sixteen-inches of thick concrete.

Jac had requested privacy from Haveling and had got it in spades. They’d been allocated one of
Libreville
’s ‘Quiet Rooms’. Originally constructed for prisoners who’d gone mad so that their ranting and screaming didn’t disturb anyone, prisoners or guards, they’d hardly been used since the opening of a dedicated sanatorium wing twelve years ago. 

Back in those dark days, inmates would be leather-strapped to beds and chairs bolted to the floor. Now the room was completely bare, and a small table and two chairs had been brought in. Jac and Durrant sat facing each other.

Their voices echoed faintly in the bare concrete room, the silence when they weren’t talking so absolute that when the door spy-hatch had been slid back eight minutes ago – the only guard check so far – it had sounded like a rifle shot, making them jump. On the table between them were Jac’s hand-held recorder, its cassette slowly turning, and his notepad.

Jac took a fresh breath. ‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.’ He flicked back a page in his notes, then to the front again. ‘These regular pool games were usually Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday nights – with no particular pattern as to which night?’

‘That’s right. It was usually
one
of those nights – at most two in the week, but not too often.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Some of the guys didn’t want to get flak from staying out half the week.’

‘You say
some
of the guys. Did that not include you?’

‘From what I remember, I was better after Josh was born.’ Durrant shrugged lamely. ‘But I was still drifting off some nights to other bars.’ Durrant caught Jac’s look. ‘Don’t ask – ‘cause I hardly remembered then, let alone now. The only one that I ended up recalling, probably from reading Coleridge, was the “Ain’t Showin’ Mariner” – along
Marais Street
, if I remember right.’ Durrant smiled briefly, the rest of what he was reaching for sinking back quickly into shadow. ‘Probably changed hands a dozen times since.’ 

Jac made a brief note before looking up again. ‘Anywhere else you can think of?

‘There was a regular poker game I used to go to. But that was always on a Friday,
if
it was on. Sometimes we’d miss a week.’

‘Or
anyone
else that you could have been with that night?’

Durrant thought briefly. ‘Not that I can think of. And that’s not just because it might have slipped from my memory after the accident. I just don’t think there
was
anyone I was seeing then – at least not regularly.’

‘So – no other women then?’

Durrant smiled slyly. ‘I know that was what Franny thought some nights I was out. But no – it was just me and my pool buddies. Or me and a hand of cards. Or me and a bottle. Or, if Truelle’s tape and the evidence is right –’ Durrant’s expression darkened – ‘Me and more house break-ins. Ain’t no damsel suddenly going to come out of the wings to save my ass.’

‘Okay.’ Jac held Durrant’s gaze for a second before nodding his acceptance. ‘Going back to these pool games at the “Bayou Brew”. If you can’t remember which night your game might have been the week of Jessica Roche’s murder – could anyone else there?’

Durrant shook his head slowly. ‘Doubt it. When I was arrested, already six months had passed. Even if I
had
remembered the game then as a possible alibi and the police had talked to the people there – they’d have had problems remembering by then. When I did finally recall the pool games and one of my playing buddies – Nat Hadley – we’re talking three years later, just before the appeal. Coultaine spoke to him on the phone, but he couldn’t remember which night it was that week. Now, twelve years on – forget it.’