Ascension Day

by John Matthews

  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.’

  Thursday night, that was the crucial night. Jac had circled it on his notepad. If Durrant had been playing pool then and had stayed until 10.30, 11 p.m., then he couldn’t have been halfway across town killing Jessica Roche.

  ‘What about the other two in the game?’

  ‘Bill Saunders and Ted Levereaux.’ Durrant blinked slowly. ‘I couldn’t remember either of them back then. Still can’t picture them fully even now – their names were given to Coultaine by Hadley. Coultaine spoke to Saunders, but he couldn’t recall which night it was either, and Levereaux he wasn’t able to contact. He’d moved to St Louis, then apparently on again from the last number given.’

  Jac nodded pensively. He could try to locate Levereaux, it was an unusual enough name that it shouldn’t be that difficult to track down, and perhaps go back also to the other two to try and jog their memories. But, as Durrant had pointed out, what were the chances of anyone remembering after twelve years?

  There’d have been other people there, though, Jac reminded himself: Bar staff, waitresses, perhaps people on set shifts that would have a better chance of remembering which night it might have been. Jac asked, ‘Did Coultaine try any of the bar staff at Bayou Brew?’

  ‘No, he never got into that.’ Durrant shrugged. ‘But again we’re facing that twelve-year gap. Staff all long-gone, bar changed hands, or maybe even isn’t there any longer.’

  But as Durrant’s shoulders slumped, Jac found himself more fired-up. Work rosters, payslips giving working times, maybe even someone who kept a diary? Jac shared his thoughts with Durrant. ‘We’ve only got to find one person who used to keep some sort of written record, and we’ve struck gold. We’re not relying on twelve-year-old memories any more.’

  ‘Yeah, suppose so,’ Durrant agreed, half hopeful, half sneer. ‘Don’t have much else worth trying.’ Then, sudden afterthought, he shrugged and smiled wanly. ‘That is, if they’ve still got those records or diaries after twelve years?’

  Jac nodded soberly, rubbing one temple.

  Something vital and elemental had changed between himself and Durrant since their last meeting. Before, Durrant had been indolent, uncooperative. Now he was helpful, cooperative and finally appreciative of what Jac was doing. There’d been a maudlin moment when Jac started the interview and Durrant looked across at him meaningfully, his eyes moistening.

  ‘I went hard on you last time, and I’m sorry for that. It wasn’t called for. You put your neck out for me, and there’s not many would do that. But with me being such an ass, you might have got the impression I don’t appreciate what you’re doing – but that ain’t so. I do.’ Durrant twisted his mouth as if something still didn’t quite sit comfortably. Only total honesty would do. ‘Or rather, maybe I didn’t last time – but now I do
. You’re all right.’

  But there was still something holding Durrant back, and often he was still defeatist; though where before he’d been couldn’t-care-less and relaxed, now he was tense and anxious. Perhaps it was that death was now that much closer, only fifteen days away, and it was finally hitting him.

  Given that, and the fact that everything tried before had failed, Jac could hardly blame Durrant for looking on the down-side. With contact again from Josh, no doubt he did now want to live, cling to hope, as Jac had earlier sold him so hard on; but, worn down by the trial, the failed appeal, the long years of imprisonment, abandoned by his family for much of it, and throughout it all not even sure whether he had committed the murder or not – he’d probably given up long ago on just how that might be achieved. Distant dream.

  A handful of old pool-buddies and the bar they used to play at now his only remaining hope.

  Jac spent a while filling in details, those that Durrant could remember, then stopped the tape.

  Faint rustling, shuffling.

  Alaysha went to the door and looked through the spy-hole. Nobody there. She cupped one hand over her far ear to mask the sounds of Molly watching Rugrats in the lounge. No sounds now, either.

  Second time in the past half hour she thought she’d heard something. Probably just people passing on the corridor or Mrs Orwin shuffling around and being nosy, rather than anyone hanging around outside.

  She’d been anxious and on edge ever since Gerry had called at her door, particularly with what he’d shouted through the forced gap. She’d countered quickly that he couldn’t say anything because he’d be implicated too.

  ‘That’s the beauty of it, babe. I was just a go-between, made an introduction. All that was ever passed to me in envelopes at the bar were receipts. It’s the courier they’ll be looking for – and that’s you, babe. That’s you.’

  Then when she’d read the news clipping the other day, her nervousness had leapt to a new level. Maybe Gerry had already said something, and they’d started targeting those involved. Maybe the knock would come at her door at any minute and…

  She tried to put it out of her mind, concentrate on what she should prepare for dinner for herself and Molly. But opening the fridge and kitchen cupboard doors, she found herself staring blankly at their contents, unable to focus on anything. And when the bell did ring a couple of minutes later, it made her jump.

  A voice, partly muffled by the TV, came through the door ‘It’s okay Alaysha… it’s Jac.’

  Molly was quickly on her feet confirming it as Alaysha passed her to answer the door. ‘It’s Jac, Mommy… it’s Jac.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ Alaysha felt the weight ease from her chest. Probably the sound a moment ago had been Jac going into his apartment; or perhaps he’d disturbed whoever was in the corridor, if there was anyone. She slid back the top lock and turned the door handle as she unhooked the chain with her other hand.

  Then, as she caught the shape of who was there, before he’d even looked up fully beyond the baseball cap peak partly obscuring his face – she went to ram it shut again.

  She broke two fingernails clawing the chain back on, but she couldn’t get the door closed the last inch. Gerry’s weight was quickly against the other side, pushing hard.

  ‘So that is his fucking name! Jac! Your new boyfriend.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Stock reaction, breathless from the exertion of pushing against the door, her mind scrambling for how he might have found out.

  ‘Yes, you do. And you sounded real pleased to hear it was him. Never answered the door that quick to me – even when we were at our hottest.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Gerry? You got my lawyers’ letter?’

  ‘Yeah, I got your smarmy fuckin’ lawyers’ letter.’

  He thrust harder against the door as he said it, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. It burst hard against the chain, rattling.

  ‘Is that Gerry, Mommy? Wh… why’s he being like that?’

  Alaysha looked back at Molly a few paces away, pulling anxiously at a few strands of hair, trying to be adult to cope with the situation.

  Alaysha’s anger surged, fuelling a white-hot adrenalin burst. She barged the door back an inch, felt the satisfaction of a grunt from Gerry as he took the impact.

  ‘I won’t have it, Gerry. I won’t have you coming round here terrifying Molly. We’re getting a court restraining order, yer hear? You come round here again – next stop for you is a jail cell!’

  ‘Yeah.’ Challenging, sliding into a mocking chuckle. ‘You do that, and you’re dead, babe. You’re –’

  Gerry broke off as Mrs Orwin’s door opened behind him. And, as he half-turned with the distraction, Alaysha managed to shove the door closed the last inch and flip back the latch.

  There were a few words spoken between Mrs Orwin and Gerry that Alaysha couldn’t make out clearly beyond her ragged breathing and pounding heart. Last time Gerry called, Mrs Orwin had been late in opening her door; no doubt because she’d been watching some soap at 200 decibels.

  Alaysha swallowed, holding her breath for a second, listening. Silence for a second, then a light tapping at her door. Gerry or Mrs Orwin? Alaysha looked through the spy-hole. Gerry was silently mouthing something which she couldn’t make out; obviously he didn’t want to audibly threaten with Mrs Orwin still looking on through the gap in her door. But shielded from Mrs Orwin’s view by his body, the signal he made with one hand was unmistakeable: a gun pointing, his thumb flicking down like the hammer striking.

  Gerry brought his face closer as he mouthed a kiss goodbye, his features warped all the more by the fish-eye of the spy-hole.

  Jac looked at the rain on the café window as he took the first sips of his coffee. Large splatters spaced a second apart – which had been enough to bring him in from the street – teasing, warning of the deluge to come. And when it did arrive a minute later, the patter building like the drumming of impatient fingers before finally bursting loose, Jac could hardly see the street beyond for the water running down the glass; everything became a blurred pastel grey.

  ‘Yo’ okay there, Jac? Maybe wanna ‘nother Po’ boy?’

  ‘No, I’m okay, Henny. Thanks.’

  Then, as Henny saw him look thoughtfully back through the window. ‘Don’ worry. Mack‘ll sho’. He’s slow an’ sometime annoyin’ as hell. But he ain’ forgetful. Not yet, at leas’.’

  Jac nodded and smiled again. ‘No problem. I’m here early because of the rain.’

  Momma Henshaw, more affectionately, Henny, or sometimes Momma Henpeck, because of the café she’d run for the past twenty-five years, The Red Rooster. A regular Ninth Ward landmark, according to some of the locals Jac had spoken to, ‘An’ she one of yo’ best hopes fo’ information’ on anythin’ and everythin’ from ‘roun here. ‘Specially from years back.’

  Jac’s enquiries hadn’t been getting far. The Bayou Brew was now Jay-Jay Cool’s. The new owner, Jay Cole, had been there three years and knew only the name of the guy he’d bought it from, not any of its history before that. ‘And I think he only had the place two years – so I ain’t sure how far back his recall would go, either. But I can give you his name and number.’

  Jac took them, and phoned on his cell-phone minutes later. Miraculously, given his luck so far, it was answered on the second ring: but he too only remembered the name of the owner in turn before him, Rob Harlenson – who Jac had already discovered died two years ago from Bill Saunders, the only one of Durrant’s old pool-buddies he’d so far tracked down. He didn’t know the old staff or the head barman, hadn’t kept any of them on when he took over.

  Jac was particularly interested in Mack Elliott, the old head barman from the Bayou Brew. With Harlenson dead, Elliott might be the only one to know about past staff records and rosters: just who might have been working the night Jessica Roche was killed, and whether that could possibly have been Durrant and his buddies pool night. Saunders didn�
�t know where he might find Elliott.

  Jac looked at the other two names on his pad: Nat Hadley and Ted Levereaux. He’d phoned Hadley yesterday and was told by his wife that he worked night shifts. Jac had left his cell-phone number, but no call back as yet. The trail with Levereaux petered out at his last known address in St Louis; and, while it might be an unusual name, a search in all states south from Missouri to Louisiana had alone brought up one hundred and twelve, seventeen with initials E or T. Jac had phoned nine of the seventeen E & Ts before it got too close to midnight to be calling any more; and, if the phone was in Levereaux’s wife’s name, he’d have to trawl through all hundred and twelve.

  Jac felt worn down by it all: the endless phone calls, delays, dead-ends, the head-shakes as he’d asked about Mack Elliott or any of the old staff at the Bayou Brew. And, as Durrant rightly pointed out, even if and when he did track them down, what on earth were they going to remember after twelve years? Jac had a sinking, desolate feeling that he’d still be tramping the streets of the Ninth Ward and making phone calls that went nowhere as they strapped Durrant down for his injection.

  Only thirteen days left now.

  And as Henny had seen Jac’s hand shaking lifting his coffee cup, his gaze through the window weary and lost, she’d asked if he was okay.

  The light was sinking fast through the window of The Red Rooster, as if mirroring Jac’s mood. He was only able to get to the Ninth Ward at lunchtimes and after work, as dusk was falling; now, second night there, the rain and clouds had smothered the remaining light even quicker.

  The only brief spark of hope had appeared earlier, towards the end of his lunchtime visit when, sixth or seventh head-shake on Mack Elliott or the old Bayou Brew, someone finally pointed him towards Henny’s café. But Henny had already seen him through the window asking questions in the street, with one of her old regulars, Izzy, lifting a bony finger her way, and so she had one hand on her hip to greet Jac as he walked in.