Durrant was lost in thought for a moment. A long moment. A wry smile finally surfaced, though uncertainly, as if the revelation had painted an extra confusing layer to his thoughts that would take him a while to filter anything through clearly. ‘Nice to know someone else out there is thinking about me. Thought you were the only one.’
He asked a few questions for clarification, Jac stressing that while it could be a hoaxer or could be genuine, again, it would no doubt take time to find out which. ‘Time which we don’t have right now.’
Durrant looked down thoughtfully at that point, was slow in looking back up again. ‘Okay, Counselor. There is something that’s given me some “hope”, as you call it. So, bring on whatever paperwork you have to – I’ll sign it.’
Secretive as ever, Durrant didn’t elaborate on what might have given him fresh hope, but equally Jac didn’t pursue it, was eager to tie up the details before Durrant changed his mind. But as Jac shook Durrant’s hand in parting, Durrant reached up and gripped his forearm tight.
‘Promise me, Counselor – on a Bible if that’s what it takes for you to really mean it – after I’ve signed these papers, you won’t just forget about me and leave me here to rot. You’ll do all you can to get me out.’
‘I promise.’ Jac felt the strength in Durrant’s grip, saw the fiery intent in his eyes.
‘Because there’s somebody I’ve been apart from already far too long. And I don’t want to spend the next ten to fifteen with us only being able to clasp fingertips through the holes in a glass screen.’
Jac had phoned Mike Coultaine when he got back to his apartment, but still now he found himself swallowing back a lump in his throat as he thought about the promise he’d made and what it signified to Durrant, Coultaine’s gaze across the marina telling him just how distant and out of reach making good on that promise might be.
‘You can actually see Adelay Roche’s yacht from here,’ Coultaine said, pointing. ‘That gin palace on the end of the second quay.’
‘I see.’ Jac wondered if that’s why Coultaine had arranged to meet him here; at the same time give him a feel for the victim’s family.
‘Never moves far. Roche either has parties on board so that everyone in the marina can see him – or at most it goes no more than a few miles offshore. Always still in sight of the refineries that paid for it.’ Coultaine smiled tightly. ‘Makes this thing look like a bathtub.’
Jac cast a quick eye around Coultaine’s boat. 32ft Bayliner, more than big enough for Coultaine’s favourite pastime of sports fishing. He seemed to have slipped fully into the lifestyle too: blue deck shoes, khaki shorts and denim shirt, with his greying brown hair tied back in a ponytail. A far cry from his cropped-haired, pinstripe-suited days defending Durrant.
‘You know, at one point in the appeal, I really thought we were getting somewhere.’ Coultaine looked keenly at Jac for a moment before his gaze drifted again across the marina and the river beyond; inspiration for distant thoughts, the steady timeless surge of the Mississippi pushing them on. ‘Truelle the pyschiatrist’s testimony, and everything surrounding Durrant’s initial confession, was starting to look shaky. I mean, he still had gaps in his memory about so many other things after his car accident – so how could anyone be sure that his recall about what happened that night was accurate? But his depth of detail of the events that night with Jessica Roche – things that only the killer could possibly have known – killed it, if you’ll excuse the expression.’ Coultaine forced an awkward smile. ‘That and the DNA evidence.’
Jac nodded. Before meeting Coultaine, he’d gone through the trial bundle again to get the sequence clear in his mind: the police working a general suspect list which didn’t include Durrant, his car accident four months after the murder and his resultant partial amnesia and ‘recovered memory’ sessions with Truelle in which details of the murder emerged; then the final damning DNA evidence. ‘Pretty conclusive from what I saw in the trial papers.’
‘Yep. Four blood spots on one of Durrant’s jackets with a hundred per cent match with Jessica Roche’s DNA, found at his house straight after his confession. And on top, witness identification – even though it was from a hundred yards away at night.’ Coultaine shrugged. ‘So however much we might have cast doubt on Durrant’s confession due to the fractured state of his memory at the time – we were never able to shift from the jury’s or the appeal judge’s mind the fact that Durrant must have been there.’ Coultaine looked at Jac with his head lowered, eyes lifted – the look a judge might give above his pince-nez. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’ll find exactly the same. But if you want to give it a shot because of the promise you’ve made to Durrant, or whatever – I’ll gladly give you some names and pointers.’
‘Thanks, that’d be helpful.’ Though Jac wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for; it looked a hopeless quest. Jac started making notes as Coultaine related the key points and contact names, his memory at times stretched as it leapt the eleven-year gap.
‘Lieutenant Patrick, “Pat”, Coyne… that’s it. He headed the investigation. He’s probably long retired by now, he was over fifty at the time. But he had a bright-eyed assistant – Frier or Friar – something like that. Good chance he’d still be around. Truelle you’ve already got, and we had a psychiatrist countering for defence whose name for the moment escapes me. I’ll have to phone you later with that.’ As Coultaine finished, he asked, ‘What’s Durrant given you that might help fight his corner?’
‘He said that he can’t imagine he’d have broken the promise to his wife not to re-offend, especially with their son just born.’
‘That old turkey.’
‘And he has doubts about the jacket with Jessica Roche’s bloodstains. Says almost certainly he’d have worn one of two other jackets for a “job”. Oh, and the gun used – he’s pretty sure it wasn’t one of his. Doesn’t recall it at all.’
‘The jacket he’s mentioned before, except then he just “wasn’t sure”. But the gun’s something new. At the time, he simply didn’t recognize it – but then he didn’t have recall of any gun he’d had with him on past robberies. So at least his memory appears to be freeing up some. Makes a change. Most people’s memories fade with the years. His seems to be getting clearer.’ Coultaine grimaced. ‘But it’s still all supposition: Larry thinks this, Larry believes that. If Durrant’s memory reached the stage where he could actually remember where he was that fateful night apart from at the Roche residence – drinking, playing pool, seeing a mistress, whatever – because all his wife remembers was that he was “out” – then you’d be getting somewhere.’
Jac nodded pensively. ‘Anything you remember from the investigation whereby there might have been another eye-witness that never came forward?’
‘No, not that I recall. But that’s something you could ask Coyne or his side-kick when you speak to them. I suppose it’s possible that if someone else was seen, say by the woman walking her dog, but never came forward – it might not have featured in the police report if they decided it wasn’t relevant. But it’s unlikely.’ Coultaine shrugged, then looked at Jac more keenly. ‘Why do you ask?’
I was there at the time. Jac passed across the best of the three photos from the twelve enhancements Souchelle had sent him; and as Coultaine examined them, at moments turning them as if for a better angle, Jac explained about the e-mails, his close call with catching up with the sender at Internet-ional, and the thought processes he’d run through with Langfranc.
Coultaine pursed his lips, shaking his head after a moment. ‘No, can’t think of anything from the police reports that might fit in with that.’ He handed the photos back. ‘And can’t say the face rings any bells either, from what little I can see there.’
‘I know. Best I could get.’ Jac sighed, his disappointment when the photos first arrived mirrored in Coultaine’s face in that moment. A hundred per cent improvement from the cam shots, but still far from enough for identification; not even wor
th trying for an ‘Anyone recognize this man?’ posting with local newspapers.
Coultaine was lost in thought for a moment, his gaze drifting again across the river. ‘For what it’s worth, I’d throw my bet in with you and John Langfranc there: hoaxer, friend or anti-capital punishment campaigner without doubt look the prime suspects. But the murderer himself, there’s a thought.’ Coultaine raised a brow. ‘Have you told Durrant yet?’
‘Yeah, but just the other day. I stressed that it could well be a hoaxer, so as not to falsely build up his hopes. And for the same reason, I didn’t show Durrant the photos or mention the possibility that it could be the murderer. Thought that might be just too confusing for him at this stage; not to mention cruel, if they didn’t finally come forward.’
‘Yeah.’ Coultaine nodded, grimacing tautly. ‘Confusing and cruel – pretty apt words given that Durrant’s starting to have doubts as to whether he actually committed the murder. And still can’t clearly recall half his life from that time.’
A heavier mood suddenly hung over them, a cooler breeze for a moment drifting in off the Mississippi, as if in sympathy. Though Jac couldn’t tell whether the same thoughts had gripped Coultaine in that instant: Durrant confused, memory fractured, and as the days wound rapidly down towards his execution and his doubts grew about his guilt, a bolt comes out of the blue from someone claiming that he didn’t do it; though, cruellest fate of all, even if they were real, they might well not reveal themselves in time to save his life.
Coultaine introduced a fresh tone. ‘But, you know, with Durrant now remembering more – that could well be the key. He’d started to recall more even by the time of the appeal. I checked out a couple of pool buddies then he’d suddenly recalled that might have been able to give him an alibi.’ Coultaine held up one palm. ‘Didn’t head anywhere in the end – but now, who knows? If you could find that one person to corroborate that he was somewhere else that night – then you’d have struck gold. You’d have something solid to counter the DNA evidence.’
‘True.’ Jac cast his eyes down for a second before looking up absently at half a dozen geese flurrying briefly in mid-river before taking flight again. DNA. Whatever else he might come up with, they were always going to be facing that final stone wall.
‘But, hey, DNA these days,’ Coultaine said as he caught Jac’s expression, ‘Million miles from where it was then – practically its first days. Now with a bit more analysis and tweaking here and there, you could easily get lucky and be able to cast doubt on the original findings. And that’s probably all you’d need to do – cast doubt.’
But Jac knew that Coultaine was saying it mainly to lift his spirits; it was far more likely that it would simply cement the original conclusion. He was kidding himself if he thought he might be able to prove Durrant’s innocence. And worst thing was that Durrant had so little recall of the events of eleven years ago, he was kidding himself too. Had no idea if he was innocent or not.
Nel-M was having one last coffee before heading over to Roche’s with the latest tape offering when Vic Farrelia rang.
‘Another call just came in. Same guy as the other day.’
‘Coultaine?’
‘Yeah, Coultaine.’
Nel-M checked his watch. ‘Okay, I’ll be right over.’ He downed one final gulp, put his foot down hard for the two miles to Farrelia’s stake-out on Perdido Street, and signalled Farrelia to hit ‘play’ as soon as he walked into the room.
‘Got that name of the defence psychiatrists for you: Ormdern. Gregory Ormdern. And Coyne’s assistant’s name is Friele. Dave Friele.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘But if I were you, I’d see Truelle first. Get the sequence right for how it was then: prosecution case, then counter arguments.’
‘He in fact was top of my list. Because it seems to me that everything kick-started with the taped admission in Truelle’s session…’
Nel-M signalled for Farrelia to stop the tape. He didn’t want to be late, he’d play the rest at Roche’s. More than enough to hang McElroy already, he thought, banging his hand against the steering wheel on his way over, clenching and unclenching his fists on his knees as he patiently sat through Roche listening to what he’d already heard on the two calls, as if he couldn’t wait to unfurl them and get them around McElroy’s neck.
‘I daresay, though, it’s not going to be easy, jolting eleven-year-old memories. Because, like I said the other day, while Durrant’s memory might have improved and filled in some of the gaps, others will have faded.’
‘I know. But I promised… which you said a lawyer should never do. Looks like I’m about to find out why.’ Uneasy laugh from McElroy. ‘I’m finding myself torn on this. I don’t want to give in too easily, throw in the towel before I’ve started just because it looks too daunting and hopeless to try and prove Durrant’s innocence. And on the other hand, I don’t want to mislead him and falsely build up his hopes. He deserves better than that.’
‘Well, I’m sure Larry Durrant’s happy to know he still has friends out there batting on his behalf. And I say that for my part, too. I wish I could have done more for him at the time, so it’s nice to see that he appears to be in good hands.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, and for whatever it might help – I’ll do a support letter to go along with the clemency plea: character reference, Durrant making good with his self-education, that type of thing, along with the questionable ethics of executing someone who still doesn’t have possession of the faculties to know if their guilty or innocent… maybe the first time that’s happened. You want to check the records on that, spin it out for even more mileage if you can. When are you putting it in?’
‘Day after tomorrow. Straight after Durrant has signed it.’
‘I’ll make sure to get the letter over to you by then.’
Roche waved a hand for Nel-M to stop the tape.
Silence. Stone silence.
They were in Roche’s ‘Terrace Room’, an over sized conservatory replete with white wicker furniture, palm trees and a white cockatoo in a six-foot high Moroccan-style white cage in one corner. To complete the image, Roche was wearing a white robe with his initials emblazoned in red on one breast pocket. The initials were the only splash of red in the room.
Though it was probably the most tasteful room in the house, Nel-M reminded himself. The rest was oppressively Baroque, with gilded statues of angels and cherubs everywhere, red velvet curtains on every window, and red and gold silk draped over practically every outstretched limb – or other protruding appendage – of the angels and cherubs. Nel-M hated it with a vengeance. It reminded him of a cross between a funeral parlour and a 1920s whorehouse.
The only sounds were the gentle hum of the pool filter beyond the glass and the occasional caw of the cockatoo; though that too seemed to have fallen silent with the stopping of the tape.
‘Last thing we want is McElroy seeing Truelle,’ Roche commented.
Exactly my sentiment, thought Nel-M, but all he said was ‘Yeah.’
‘Probably wouldn’t find out anything, but it’s the sort of thing that might just hit the final panic button with Truelle. Just what we don’t need right now.’
Another ‘Yeah,’ Nel-M contemplating Roche coolly, evenly. After the other day, he wasn’t going to put his head in the noose and try and push Roche this way or that, only to be shot down in flames again. So he’d decided to say little or nothing, just let Roche get there on his own.
‘And we certainly don’t want Durrant getting frisky, starting to remember things he shouldn’t.’
‘Certainly don’t.’ He’d noticed Roche flinch at that juncture on the tape: ‘…while Durrant’s memory might have improved and filled in some of the gaps…’
Roche was anxious now as it hit him for the first time that he wasn’t getting much feedback. He looked at Nel-M expectantly, as if hoping he’d elaborate, but Nel-M just kept the same cool stare straight through Roche. You’re on your
own this time, fuckhead.
‘And… uh, well… looks like we can’t hold back any longer from taking action.’
‘Looks like it.’ Nel-M relishing Roche’s discomfort as he noticed some sweat beads break out above his top lip.
‘Though it appears we’re spoilt for choice there.’ Small chuckle from Roche that fought for bravado, but failed. His breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘Destroy his career, or, as you so aptly put it, a few column inches alongside Raoul Ferrer.’
Nel-M didn’t say anything, simply shrugged.
One hand of Roche’s clutched at his thigh as he struggled with the decision, faint sweat-beads now on his forehead too. ‘Which route do you think we should go?’ he pressed.
‘You know I always leave those sort of decisions to you.’ Nel-M smiled tightly, refusing to be drawn. This time he didn’t need to say anything; the tapes had done it all for him. Hardly any options left now for Roche.
The silence heavy, palpable, Nel-M suddenly aware of something he hadn’t noticed before: gently playing in the background, like the soft, non-descript piped music in an elevator, an instrumental version of ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’.
‘Weighing up not just the best option, but one which will ensure no possible links back.’
‘Obviously.’ Nel-M shrugged.
Roche’s hand rose briefly to rub at his temple before returning to his lap, a small nervous tic appearing at the corner of his mouth. His breathing rattled faintly as it rose and fell.
‘And of course, the best timing…’
Another shrug from Nel-M.
Roche’s mouth dry, his fat pink tongue snaking out to moisten it, his hand clenched back on his knee starting to tremble slightly.
Ascension Day Page 21
