But Nel-M just held the same stare steadily on Roche, wallowing in every small nuance of his discomfort, while on his own knee he started to drum a steady rhythm with his fingers as he waited impatiently on Roche’s final pearls of wisdom.
18
As Frank Sinatra invited Libreville’s inmates to come fly with him and try some exotic booze in far Bombay, Rodriguez might have swayed to it if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times before.
Now with all privileges returned, Rodriguez had his daily 90-minutes back on the prison radio, alternating between a 7 a.m. and a 6 p.m. slot with another prisoner, Tyrone Sommer – or Tired-Drone Insomnia, as he’d been nicknamed – an ex-part-time DJ from a small station in Shreveport who played far too much country music for the inmates’ liking. Sad and lamenting at the best of times – the crops have all failed, my wife’s done left me and my dog just died – it was noticed that the prison suicide rate was far higher during and just after Sommer’s slots.
Rodriguez’ sessions were decidedly more upbeat: Latin, reggae, calypso, rock, latin-jazz, with Carlos Santana his all-time favourite. But over sixty per cent of their respective programmes and playlists were controlled by Haveling: prison activity announcements for the day and evening – which had been the original purpose of setting up the radio slots – followed by ‘uplifting’ religious music, then, interspersed with their own playlist choices, Haveling’s favourite music: swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach.
Within Rodriguez’ and Sommer’s respective playlist choices, Haveling also wielded a heavy guiding hand: no heavy rock, nothing too aggressive and rousing, which left only Santana’s lighter instrumental tracks; and nothing which might have sexual, violent or drugs connotations – which discounted most of the rest of rock music.
With swing, songs from musicals and Bacharach, Rodriguez had a far freer hand – yet even there Haveling had presented them with a list of preferred tunes he wanted playing X-number of times a week, of which Sinatra’s ‘Come Fly With Me’ was one. And when Rodriguez had studied the list in more detail one day – ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, ‘Girl from Ipanema’, ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’, ‘Bali Hai’, ‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose’, ‘Beyond the Sea’ (Darren’s ‘Mack the Knife’ was banned) – he couldn’t help noticing that many of them had overt themes of freedom or far-away places, places that most of the Libreville inmates would never get to see.
Perhaps they were indeed Haveling’s favourite tunes, or perhaps he was slyly rubbing salt in the wounds of their incarceration; like most things with Haveling, you never knew. But you stepped outside of Haveling’s recommended playlist at your peril.
‘He even stopped me playin’ “Moon River” for fuck’s sake,’ Rodriguez once complained to Larry. ‘Thought the line “I’ll be crossing you in style tonight” might give people the idea of escapin’ across the river.’
It was great to have all privileges back, but now that he and Larry were again in general circulation, the risks from Tally and his crew were far greater. The initial guarded, warning looks had now become icy and openly hostile, as if saying, ‘You got lucky a couple of times. But that ain’t gonna be the case for much longer.’ On one occasion, Tally had even tapped his watch to make the message clear. Tally had been thwarted, made to look a fool, and that was something Rodriguez could barely remember happening before, let alone twice. Libreville’s corridors and shower rooms – or even open areas with the right distraction, like the canteen or TV room – were going to be far more dangerous places from here on in. He and Larry were going to have to be extra-vigilant watching their backs.
Rodriguez leant forward to the mike as Sinatra came to an end.
‘And that’s Ol’ Blue Eyes there, croonin’ about places that’ll be all too familiar to all you well-heeled jet-setters here at Libreville. Just lay back on your bunk and fly, fly away. But now it’s time for a touch of my main man, Carlos Santana.’ Rodriguez reached for the record and cued it. ‘Samba… Pa… ti. Played today for a very special lady. And not to be confused with Samba Party, a Swedish film which was tradin’ at some high prices a few months back.’
As risqué as Rodriguez dared get, he sat back and closed his eyes, letting the softly soaring guitar and mellow background bongo suffuse through him. He was ten days late playing the tune, but then he’d been in the infirmary at the time. Better late than never, he thought, wiping a gentle tear from the corner of one eye.
While Carlos Santana’s guitar sailed and cried through the concrete caverns of Libreville prison, Larry Durrant sat up on his bed.
He knew what the tune meant to Rodriguez. He’d played it at his mother’s funeral – along with her own favourite, ‘Besame Mucho’ – four years ago now, late fall, not far from this date, and every year since on the same day. Rodriguez had also played the tune various other times over the prison radio, but with the mention of ‘for a very special lady’, Larry knew that today was significant.
Rodriguez had taken his mother’s death hard. Coming just fifteen months after his incarceration, he’d partly blamed himself. Larry could imagine Rodriguez in the radio room now, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Then, as soon as it finished playing, he’d be back to his lively, bubbly self again, lifting everyone’s spirits, if not his own.
Larry wondered what Francine and Josh would play at his own funeral: Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s going on’, Sly Stone’s ‘Family Affair’? Both songs a decade ahead of his teens, and so long past now, he doubted that Franny even remembered his favourite tunes any more.
Although he had no idea what Josh’s tastes in music were either – maybe something he could broach in future e-mails. But the thought had already mugged him deep inside without warning, too long apart, and a single tear rolled down one cheek at the lost years.
Nobody rushing to work that morning paid much attention to the man in a lightweight grey suit entering the car park on St Charles Street and exiting ten minutes later. He appeared just one of many hurrying to work having parked their cars.
Except the man didn’t head towards an office, he went fifty yards along the street to the nearest kiosk to make a call.
‘It’s all done.’
‘Great. And what’s the best point?’
‘Eight to eleven miles in. But I wouldn’t leave it beyond that.’
‘Okay, got it. Eight to eleven.’ Nel-M clicked off and dialled straight out again.
With another anxious check of his watch, Jac started reading through draft five – six? he’d lost count – of Durrant’s clemency plea. Please, no more changes. No time! And Coultaine’s support letter, which had arrived forty minutes earlier by messenger, he’d managed to give only a light skim, though the postscript had leapt out at him:
Thought you might find the enclosed of interest, found it amongst my old papers. It’ll save you asking Truelle for a copy. Remember, everything started with this.
Jac twirled the cassette tape briefly in one hand before bringing his attention back to Durrant’s plea on his computer screen, but found his eyes drifting back to the tape at intervals.
Finally, the distraction too much, halfway through reading what he hoped was the final, definitive version, he leapt up, grabbed a cassette player from a nearby shelf, slotted it in, and resumed reading again as soon as he pressed play.
‘Session fourteen. Seventeenth of August, Nineteen-ninety-two. Subject: Lawrence Tyler Durrant…’
One of Truelle’s sessions with Durrant. There was a minute’s preamble, settling Durrant down before Truelle hit any real topic: Durrant’s heavy drinking the night of the accident.
‘You mentioned feeling guilty about that. Was that because of what resulted – the accident – or the drinking itself?’
‘Mainly the drinking… because I’d promised Franny, yer know, to stop.’
‘And do you remember drinking other times after you’d promised to stop, or was it just this one time?’
‘There were a fair few other times I recall – all around that same
time. I was goin’ through a real bad cycle, man… didn’t know what I was doing half the time.’
‘And why was that? Or didn’t you know that, either?’
‘Oh, I knew all right – knew all too well. That’s why I tried to bury it… burn it from my mind with as much rum and whisky as I could lay my hands on. But however hard I tried, it stayed with me. I jus’ couldn’t shake it.’
‘Shake what, Lawrence?’
‘More guilt, that’s what.’ Durrant’s breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘More guilt because that wasn’t the only promise I’d broken to Franny.’
‘Guilt over what, Lawrence. What other promise?’
‘I…. I… It’s difficult.’ Durrant’s breathing hissing hard.
‘I know. But perhaps if you unburden whatever it is, you’ll be able to break the cycle.’
Listening to Durrant’s fractured and uncertain breathing, Jac realized that this was one of the sessions where Truelle had used hypnosis to draw out his buried memory. As Durrant struggled with the decision – whether to take the leap or step back – Jac felt as if he was suddenly there with him in the moment, suspended.
He snapped out of it quickly, no time now, stopping the tape and reading the last few paragraphs of the plea. Okay, okay. Plea, Coultaine’s letter, and get there fifteen minutes early to read Haveling’s support letter. He slid the papers into his briefcase, grabbed the tape recorder, and, with a quick wave to John Langfranc who mouthed ‘Good luck’ through his glass screen, skipped down the stairs two at a time.
There was a small hold-up along Esplanade Avenue, but as soon as he was clear of the main downtown traffic, twenty yards after making the turn into Claiborne Avenue, Jac hit play again on the recorder now on his passenger seat.
‘It… it was another robbery, that’s why I felt guilty. And not just ‘cause I’d promised Franny I wouldn’t rob again, but because it went wrong… terribly wrong.’
‘In which way did it go wrong?’
‘There was somebody there when I broke in – a woman. Shouldn’t… shouldn’t have happened.’ Durrant’s breathing erratic again. ‘I… I’d checked for a few nights b’forehand, and there was no car either in the drive – or lights on that I could see. She… she wasn’t mean’a be there.’
‘And where was this house?’
‘…Garden District.’
‘Do you remember the road?’
‘Coliseum Street. But I don’ remember the number exactly. Four hundred and something.’
‘That’s okay, Lawrence. Relax, take it easy. And, in your own time, tell me what happened there.’
Jac became aware of Truelle’s tactic: getting background detail, district, road, because they were easier for Durrant to relate, got him talking more freely. Truelle had obviously worried that if he asked straight out ‘What happened with the woman?’, Durrant might lapse into rapid-breathing catatonia, and that would be all he’d get. Even now with a more general, soft-edged approach, there was a long pause, only the sound of Durrant’s uneven breathing coming over on the tape.
Jac turned the volume up as he hit the start of the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway; with the increased tyre-noise on the rougher road surface, he couldn’t hear whether Durrant had started speaking again or not.
‘As… as I said, there were no lights on at the front, or the side – which is where I broke in. Maybe if I’d gone round the back, I’d have seen a light on… or maybe she’d gone to bed early and there’da been no light on there either.’
‘So you broke in at the side,’ Truelle confirmed as Durrant paused again heavily, as if each time he side-tracked it took a moment to get the sequence clear again in his mind.
‘Yeah. Removed a glass pane and wired through on the frame so as not to break the alarm circuit. Two minutes, and I was in. Took a quick tour t’see where the best stuff was, and found a safe in the library that I reckoned I could break by drilling the lock without too much trouble. And I was just preparin’ for that when I heard something behind me, and she… she was suddenly there. Like… like out of nowhere. Not there one minute… then the next…’
Jac’s hands gripped tight at the steering wheel, feeling Durrant’s tension coming across in waves, as if he was right there alongside him as Jessica Roche confronted him, the police photos filling in the details of the room in his mind. He was suddenly reminded of Coultaine’s words: depth of detail… things that only the killer could possibly have known.
Durrant’s breathing was again erratic as he struggled with the images; or perhaps in anticipation of what he did next. ‘ “What are you doing?” she barked. She was pushy, had me rattled, and strange thing is… I don’t even remember takin’ out the gun, but suddenly it was there between us… her eyes wide, staring at it…’ A heavy swallow, Durrant fighting to get his breathing under control. ‘You know, even then I didn’t plan to… to…’
The pause was even longer this time, and it looked for a moment as if Truelle had lost Durrant completely, his final actions too traumatic to voice, or perhaps part of him in denial that he’d actually done it. Jac tapped two fingers on his steering wheel, counting off the seconds, the sun creeping out from behind a cloud stinging his eyes as it reflected off the water. Jac slipped on his sunglasses and half-opened one window, feeling the warm Bayou breeze tease his hair. But memories of Isle de Rey seemed distant today as he felt himself immersing deeper into the shadows of the Roche residence of twelve years ago.
‘Plan to what, Larry?’ Truelle prompted as the silence prolonged. ‘What happened then?’
Jac tapped out another fifteen seconds with his fingers before Durrant’s voice finally returned.
‘It… it all felt unreal, distant – like it was happenin’ to someone else and I was just looking on. But in… instead of stepping back, she stepped forward… and I… I panicked – did the wrong thing… I didn’t mean to… and… and she was layin’ there then, blood everywhere, looking at me with wide eyes. And she was in pain… real pain… a pitiful, throaty groanin’ that went right through me. So I… I…’
Even though Jac knew what happened next, he found his own breathing rapid and short in anticipation, almost matching Durrant’s, and his hands gripped tight to the steering wheel started to shake. A sign to his right displayed the 10-mile Causeway mark.
‘I didn’t want to… but she was in pain… the blood bubbling up from her mouth… her wide eyes almost pleadin’ with me…’
Long silence again. Ragged, uneven breathing.
‘What happened then, Lawrence? What did you do?’ Truelle’s prompt quicker this time; the edge-of-the-seat listener, impatient for what happened next, in that heated moment holding sway over the trained psychiatrist.
‘She wasn’t meant to be there… wasn’t meant to be… I… I…’
And Jac, impatient too, fast-forwarded in his mind to the close-up police photos of Jessica Roche, both shots fired, stomach and head, sepia-grey blood pools radiating from each.
Whether the image momentarily distracted Jac, or he glanced fleetingly at the tape recorder in expectation of Durrant’s next words, the only warning was a reflected glint striking his eye – something suddenly different in the vista of roadway and sun-dappled lake spread each side.
A truck overtaking, its chrome bumper catching the sun as it veered lazily from its lane towards him, suddenly swung sharply across his front wing, pushing him towards the side-barrier.
Jac swerved, stock reaction, hitting his brakes hard as the barrier loomed before him. But they did nothing, nothing… and in panic he swung the wheel back, but not enough: he hit the barrier at a thirty-degree angle at almost the same speed, feeling himself shunted sharply forward and the airbag exploding against him, along with something else, sharper, harder, against one leg.
Momentary darkness, then the sun and lake seemed to be fighting through a hazy-grey mist. And, as the mist became darker, denser, Jac realized with mounting panic that his car was in the lake and sinking, feeling the first wat
er swill against his thigh as it poured in through the half-open window.
Sinking… sinking… Jac felt as if he was in a washing-machine tumbler, the water swirling in relentlessly, the car swaying, tilting – then as it finally hit the bottom of the lake, a cloud of mud was thrown up, cutting visibility to almost nil. How far was he down: thirty feet, fifty?
Jac frantically tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge with the pressure outside. His heart raced, his breath falling short, the water already up to his waist. Maybe the window, but it wasn’t open enough to get through. He fumbled for the switch in the gloom, found it, pressed it – but after a second it fizzled out with a spark and the window stopped moving. Two-thirds down, maybe enough.
Jac squeezed his head and shoulders into the gap, but the surge of water rushing in was too heavy, impossible to push against. No choice but to wait until the pressure equalized, he pulled back and hoisted up until his head was against the car roof. Water up to his shoulders now, breathing in the last foot of air.
Trying to time it right, the air-gap ten-inches, eight… praying that he wasn’t too far down to make it to the surface, six… and fighting to keep his breathing even – ragged and frantic as it kept time with his racing pulse – so that he had maximum air in his lungs when… four…
Jac made the break then, got his head and shoulders quickly through, his chest… but as he tried to snake his waist through, he felt something snagging on one leg, holding him back. His seat belt or maybe part of the air-bag.
He wriggled hard, desperate to free it, knowing that he was using vital air with each second lost. And as Jac frantically jerked and tugged to get free, the images of Jessica Roche were again there with him, the sepia-grey of the police photos merging with the murky waters surrounding him, clogging his nose, his mouth, suffocating his last breaths.
Maybe because they were the last images in his mind before his car hit the barrier; or because he now shared Jessica Roche’s emotions in those final seconds as Durrant’s gun barrel pressed against her temple. Hoping against hope that she might survive, but knowing in her sinking heart that it was already too late.
Ascension Day Page 22
