The message was patently clear: when the company gods arrived, woe betide any laggers that might hold up proceedings, even for a second.
The ten-minute wait for the juniors, though, was often insufferable. It was intended to give them more time to prepare their notes or get comments clearer in their minds – but more often than not it just gave them more time to dwell and become increasingly anxious.
Jac was no exception, particularly this morning. He’d been turning over and over in his mind just how much to show and tell about Durrant. If he told about the attempted prison break, Beaton might well axe the case; but then if Haveling decided finally to go with the guards’ account of events, the whole thing would come out later. How was he going to cover for that? And he certainly couldn’t reveal that Durrant wanted to die – didn’t want a plea made on his behalf. For sure, Beaton would axe the whole case instantly.
His cell-phone ringing broke his train of thought. He looked at the number: same area code as Libreville prison, but it wasn’t Haveling’s direct number. Durrant!
Jac quickly answered. Perhaps Durrant had had a change of heart, and he wouldn’t have to go through any subterfuge now at Beaton’s meeting.
‘Mr McElroy. It’s about something you said the other day.’
‘Yes.’ Jac felt his hopes rise.
‘About the book that Elden left at the hospital for Marmont.’
‘Pet Sematary?’ Jac subdued his voice to a mumble. He could feel a few eyes on him, particularly Kyle Everett. No calls during the meeting, obviously, but even those prior to it were frowned upon, might disturb the thoughts and note-making of others.
‘Yeah. Well, thing is, Marmont has already read that book – several times. In fact, it’s his favourite book, and he’ll readily quote from it to anyone who’s got the time and inclination to listen. Particularly the scene where the dog’s brought back to life. Apparently, Marmont lost a much-loved pet dog years back, a Golden Retriever – and he’s read and re-read that passage as if wishing the same might happen with his own dog.’ Durrant sniggered lightly. ‘Of course, on the way completely missing King’s underlying message with what eventually happens with the dog.’
‘I see.’ Jac saw quickly where Durrant was heading. ‘You mean there’d be absolutely no point in giving that book to Marmont – unless of course there was an ulterior motive. Such as, say, getting some sort of message to him?’
‘Got it in one, Counselor. Like I said the other day, you’re brighter than I thought.’
‘You’re so kind. But you know, when I first took the call I was hoping it might have been about…’ In his side vision, Jac could now see Clive Beaton and the other partners approaching the ante-room. He broke off from saying more.
After a second, Durrant prompted. ‘About what, Mr McElroy?’
‘You know, about…’ After a peremptory survey of the room, Beaton’s eagle eye settled on him. Jac nodded and held one hand up to indicate he’d be finished post haste. ‘About what we were discussing the other day.’
‘About me wanting to die, Mr McElroy… is that what you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s right – about that. I thought you might have had a change of heart.’ After a quick aside to a colleague, Beaton’s eyes were back on him, keenly. Jac felt himself flush and a tingle rise at the back of his neck. If he was feeling uncomfortable after just a quick glance, how on earth was he going to carry off the subterfuge through the entire meeting?
‘Afraid of saying it, are we Mr McElroy?’ Durrant’s voice was jocular, taunting. ‘Don’t want to face it, so maybe if you don’t even say it – you can push the spectre further away. Like it was a dirty word.’
‘No, it’s not that… it’s…’
Durrant rolled straight over him. ‘Well, I’ve done nothing but face death these past years, Mr McElroy, had precious little else worth thinking about – so it don’t hold any fears for me any more. So that’s why I’m not afraid to say it, use the word.’
‘I understand.’ All Jac could think of was getting off the line. Half the assembled group had already filed through to the boardroom, and Beaton’s stare towards him was now penetrating, bordering on hostile.
‘Yeah, you understand,’ Durrant mocked. ‘So you’ll understand too that having thought about it for that long – it ain’t exactly the sort of thing I’m going to change my mind about overnight.’
‘No, really. I do understand. And I’ll get somebody onto that book thing with Marmont straightaway. But if you’ll excuse me now, I’ve got to go. I’m already late for a meeting.’ Jac rang off and followed Beaton and the last few into the boardroom.
Probably sounded more flippant than he’d intended. I’ve got a meeting to attend, so if you want to die – you just go right ahead. But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to mislead Durrant that he didn’t care that much after all. If as a result Durrant dropped his defences, he might see a clearer way through.
Jac checked his e-mails as soon as he got out of the meeting. Still no reply as yet. He checked first thing every morning and kept half an eye on it through each day, but now four days had passed with nothing, it was starting to look more and more like a prank or hoax. Or a friend or relative of Durrant’s that couldn’t reveal themselves. If it was real, then why not say who they were or somehow back up their claim?
In the end, Jac hadn’t said anything about the dramas with Durrant in the meeting; hopefully there’d be some clearer resolve on both fronts over the coming days, and then he could say something.
Jac didn’t want to call Stratton from inside the office, so told Penny Vance that he was going to grab a coffee. He hit the buttons of his cell-phone as his feet hit the pavement outside.
There’d been a heavy storm overnight, and with the sun burning off the last of the cloud and haze, humidity was high. Early November, but it was still in the seventies. Jac could feel his shirt sticking to his back after only a few paces.
Bob Stratton answered quickly, but there was a confusion of noise in the background from a busy shopping mall or store, and Jac had to raise his voice above the passing traffic as he explained about Marmont and Pet Sematary.
‘So if you think it might be some sort of message, did Durrant give any hint as to what form it might take?’ Stratton pressed. ‘Do we know what we might be looking for?’
‘No, that’s it. All we know is that Marmont has these favourite scenes in the book due to his own dog dying years back, and that it’s odd he should be given a book he’s already read several times…’
‘Especially when he’s still in a coma.’
‘That aside.’ Jac joined Stratton briefly in a muted chuckle. ‘We’re assuming that if he doesn’t wake up – whatever problem exists goes with him. It’s only if and when he does come to… so perhaps there’s a note with the book. Or maybe something inside the book itself. Outside of that, we’re fishing.’
‘And you want yours truly, the fisherman, to head out there and start reading Stephen King?’
‘Yeah.’ Jac stopped by the deli window, held back from going inside. He didn’t want to add to the noise coming from Stratton’s end. ‘As soon as.’
‘The only problem is, I’m not due out there until nine this evening – and I’ve got one of those days ahead of me. The earliest I could rearrange things to get out there is late afternoon: four or five.’
‘Okay.’ Jac recalled that Stratton had an arrangement running with a couple of shift nurses to block any visitors and phone him the minute there were signs of Marmont awakening. ‘But could you meanwhile phone your friendly nurses and ask them to remove any cards and packages from Marmont’s room for you to inspect when you arrive? He’s not under any circumstances to see them.’
‘Will do. And I’ll phone as soon as I have news.’
Jac stepped inside the deli as he wished Stratton luck and rang off. With a busy mid-morning crowd and the steam from the espresso machine, it seemed even hotter than outside.
Shirt sticking to h
is back; the last time he recalled that was when he’d first walked through Libreville prison. Not just from nerves, but as the heat, stench and oppression – the staleness of thousands of caged hopes and emotions – sank through his skin. He felt as if he was still sticky and unclean hours later, even after showering as soon as he got home. That was how he felt after only minutes inside Libreville: Durrant had been there eleven years.
‘Latte and a Danish, Mr Jac?’
‘Yeah, Joe. Thanks.’ His usual daily take-out.
For the first time Jac began to question his own motives. Probably Durrant had every right to want to die; he himself might well feel the same after all those years inside somewhere like Libreville. Was he hoping to save Durrant’s life for Durrant’s benefit, or merely for his own reputation, to stop his first significant case collapsing at the first hurdle?
Bob Stratton found the note straightaway, but it was brief, told him nothing:
Thought you might like to read again your favourite scene.
Remember how the locks and light switches were tagged for your shift? Seek and ye shall find!
The only useful thing was that the note had been slotted as a bookmark in Marmont’s favourite scene – the dog coming back to life. Stratton didn’t need to hunt through to find it.
But there was nothing else on the pages, no underlining, circling or cryptic notes. Stratton flicked through the rest of the book and tipped it upside down in case there were other notes inside, but there was nothing.
He decided to grab a quick coffee from the canteen to clear his throat and his thoughts, and, while sipping, he studied the note again, hoping that something more might leap out at him.
The favourite scene was mentioned, so that was no secret – or perhaps they wanted in particular to bring Marmont’s attention to it. But why mention tagging the locks and light switches? Why was that so important? Seek and ye shall find?
Stratton scanned and re-scanned the note in between sips. Find what? What on earth was there to find in just a three-line note? And why say your shift? Surely there were only two shifts: day and…
Stratton sat up with a jolt, almost spilling his coffee. Night-shift! If they’d put it like that, it might have given too strong a clue to an inquisitive third-party.
Stratton darted down the corridor and found one of his friendly nurses.
‘Josie! Is there a cupboard or store-room that can be grabbed for a moment? Somewhere where it’s dark.’
Josie raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly. ‘Well, you sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.’
Stratton returned the smile, but a flush rose quickly from his collar. ‘No, it’s not that. I just need to be alone with this for a moment.’ Stratton pointed to the book in his hand.
From the way Josie’s eyebrow stayed arched quizzically as she led him along the corridor, he’d made the request seem no less odd.
Stratton found the first word on the second page of Marmont’s favourite scene – highlighted silver-grey in the darkness – then two more on the next page, one on the next, two pages with nothing, then another word. Stratton flicked through almost thirty pages before the highlighted words petered out. He then went back to the beginning to put it all together, making notes on a pad as he went. When he’d finished, he flicked on the store-room light and read what he’d written:
Don’t say anything about the fight until you’ve had a chance to speak to us. It’s important we get our stories straight.
Stratton punched the air. ‘Got em!’
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Josie commented as he exited. ‘I didn’t know Stephen King had that type of scene in his books.’
Only a weak half-smile this time from Stratton. He was too busy concentrating on tapping out Jac McElroy’s number on his cell-phone.
Jac took the call as he was walking along Camp Street, only a block away from his apartment. He’d got used to walking back and forth to work. Just over a mile, it was better than braving rush-hour traffic and paying all-day car-park charges on St Charles Street. Only the firm’s senior partners had reserved places in the back parking lot.
Jac beamed widely as Stratton told him the news from St Tereseville General. To those passing, they probably thought he’d just arranged a hot date. That was tomorrow night, and wouldn’t raise much of a smile.
‘That’s great,’ Jac said. ‘Looks like we’ve got the guards’ account roped and tied, even if Marmont does wake up.’ Then, realizing that probably sounded flippant, ‘Though obviously it would be better if he did – not least for Marmont himself.’ In their brief association, he’d enjoyed Stratton’s offbeat patter. Hopefully Stratton appreciated it being bounced back.
‘If nothing else, so that he can read Pet Sematary for the hundredth time.’
‘Might send him back into a coma again.’
Stratton’s chuckle faded as they came onto the mechanics of just where and when he’d be able to get a written report to Jac.
‘I’m hoping to head back out to Libreville again this weekend,’ Jac said. ‘There’s one final person I want to see who was involved in this. And, combined with your report, that should nail things once and for all with Haveling.’
As Jac swung open the door to his apartment block, the hall light was already on, so he didn’t bother to push the timed switch.
Stratton said that he’d type up his report either when he got back that night or first thing in the morning. ‘It’ll be sitting here for you to pick up anytime after eleven tomorrow. Or, if you’re not going to Libreville until Sunday – I’ve got time to messenger it over to you.’
‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make first.’ Jac had heard that Rodriguez was finally in a fit state to be interviewed, but aside from him verifying Durrant’s account of the guards’ assault, there was another vital reason to see him. ‘I’ll phone you back as soon as I know when I’m heading out there.’
Jac had just reached the top of the entrance stairs as he signed off and was slightly breathless, not just from walking and talking at the same time, but from the adrenalin rush of Stratton’s news.
Only a second later the hallway light clicked off, plunging him into darkness.
Jac reached out and made contact with the wall to one side, feeling his way along. Three more paces to the corner of the corridor, then five or six feet the other side was the light switch. Surely he knew the positioning so off-by-heart now that he could locate it even in the pitch dark?
The fall of his own breathing seemed somehow heavier in the darkness – though suddenly he became aware of some other sound beyond it. He froze and held his breath, listening intently above his own rapid heartbeat. Someone else was there, only a few paces away. Moving stealthily towards him in the darkness.
8
Carmen Malastra was a Don from the old school: ‘Moustache Pete’s’, ‘Don Corleones’ and ‘Dinosaurs’ were amongst the many disparaging terms for them.
Malastra was keenly aware that, in order to survive, he should keep abreast of the times with at least one foot in the modern age: brutally wiping out anyone who got within a sniff of threatening his power base might not on its own be enough.
For years he’d resisted anything to do with modern electronics and computers: that was for his kids, correct that, grandkids, and whenever it played a part in his many business enterprises, well, that was what he employed geeks and nerds for.
Besides, at his age now, the wrong side of sixty, it wasn’t seemly, gentlemanly, to be seen playing around on a computer next to some kid with a nose ring and half his hair dyed flame-orange. He was of a different era, an age where suaveness and ‘style’ still had meaning.
But as soon as that thought hit him, he realized he’d found the key to keeping one foot in the modern age. He took three two-month night courses without saying a word to anyone; his Capos and staff thought that he must have a private lady friend. Very private.
And when he’d finished the courses, he could talk Java, HotMetal, firewalls
and Macromedia with the best of them, his liver-spotted hands flying across the keyboard. But the rest of him still remained very much old school: formal evening suits for dinners and functions; black in winter, white in summer, often with a cummerbund, Aqua di Selva doused liberally on his neck and mixed with olive oil to coat his swept-back grey hair.
The scent of pine and olive trees: it reminded him of playing in the woodlands and farm-fields of his native Calabria when he was a little boy.
The first thing he’d done with his new computer knowledge was go through his accounts, see if he could siphon even more cash out of reach of the IRS. That was when he discovered that some siphoning was already taking place, but heading the other way from his Bay Tree Casino.
Nel-M phoned in the middle of this dilemma, claiming the hit on Ferrer and apologizing for same.
‘He was trying to stiff my Mr Roche outta some funds. Under normal circumstances, we’d of course have come to you first – let you deal with it your own way. But I got into an unfortunate argument with Ferrer, he went for his piece – and I was left with little choice.’
‘I see. Was unfortunate.’ Malastra’s attention was still mostly on his computer screen, trying to pick apart just how the scam had taken place and who was responsible.
‘But as a mark of respect, we felt we should make a contribution. The same amount that Ferrer was demanding – forty thousand – seemed right.’
That got Malastra’s attention. ‘That’s quite a sum Ferrer was after?’
‘Yeah, it was.’
Silence. Nel-M obviously wasn’t going to offer to explain, and Malastra wasn’t going to be clumsy enough to ask.
‘Thank you kindly for the offer – and I accept. It’ll help fill the hole in what Ferrer was pulling in.’ In reality, there’d be no hole; Ferrer had been replaced within two days. And Malastra was glad of the call: it got rid of the nagging worry that it might have been a rival and a turf war was looming. ‘Give my regards to your fine Mr Roche.’
Ascension Day Page 9
