No more than eight or ten paces before a car door was opened and he was thrown brusquely into the back – Truelle trying to recall which cars he’d seen close by as it started up and pulled out. He could feel mucus on his chin, or maybe he’d vomited without realizing it, and the pain in his back had now spread like burning oil to his stomach, razor shards shooting up his spine as his body lurched with two sharp turns, one after the other. A long flat stretch for a while, a half mile or more, and a voice finally came from the front.
‘You know, you should never have had those phone bugs cleared, otherwise we wouldn’t have to do this now.’
Nel M. As much as Nel-M’s voice made Truelle’s skin crawl each time, he felt an odd sense of relief hearing it now: a face at least put to one of his abductors. Two faceless abductors would have been more ominous, worrying. Better the devil you know.
‘We’ve become concerned about what you might have been saying. Because we simply don’t know any more. And that makes us worry perhaps more than we should.’ Nel-M had got part of the idea when he’d looked in his car mirror the other night and seen the hood being taken off McElroy. The other part had been from an interview with Truelle in a psychiatric journal that Roche had got hold of, in which Truelle had talked about drawing out patient’s fears and phobias, with a brief aside about his own fear of heights. ‘Do you like dancing, Leonard?’
‘What? What the hell are yoouuu –’ A cough rose from the back of Truelle’s throat and became a brief coughing fit that he thought for a second would lapse into retching.
‘Nasty cough you got there, Leonard. Maybe some fresh air would help… like somewhere up high. Way up high.’ Nel-M smiled to himself as the silence settled deeper; he could almost hear the wheels in Truelle’s mind turning in time with the thrum of the wheels on the road.
‘Where… where are we going?’ Hesitant, tremulous, as if afraid of hearing the answer.
Silence. Nel-M purposely let it lengthen, let the unknown, the uncertainties multiply in Truelle’s mind as he motioned Vic Farrelia into the next turn, and then, two hundred yards along, pointed out a good parking spot. No words between them, as had been agreed at the outset: this was stretching Farrelia’s call of duty, and so he wanted to remain as anonymous as possible.
They bundled Truelle out from the back, a dozen or so paces counted by Truelle before the sound of a door opening, closing, four more paces and then another door, mechanical, sliding. An elevator.
Nel-M didn’t speak again until the elevator started rising.
‘Like I said, Leonard… somewhere up high. Way up where you and I can get a good view of the city. A real good view.’
But Nel-M knew that Truelle was only half-listening, he was timing and counting in his mind just how far the elevator was rising.
Eighteen floors, Nel-M could have told him, but wasn’t going to; the elevator wasn’t that fast, in Truelle’s mind it probably seemed more.
Out of the elevator, along and through a door, then up the steps to the roof and over to its far side. They stood Truelle up, but Nel-M kept one arm around him, bracing. Again, Nel-M didn’t speak throughout, and he waited a moment now, wanted the air wafting up from eighteen floors below to hit Truelle’s senses.
Nel-M took a deep breath. ‘Real nice up here. And fine view… fine view, indeed. You can see the whole city.’ He knew that his words combined with the heavier breeze on the rooftop had painted enough of a picture for Truelle inside the darkness of the hood. He could feel Truelle’s body trembling in his grip. ‘But you know, we don’t have to do this now… we don’t have to go dancing. If only you just told us where you’ve got those insurance policies held.’
‘What… dancing?’ Truelle’s mind was scrambled. All he could think about was Nel-M’s last words. That view. ‘I… I can’t tell you. You’d just kill me then.’
‘Possibility that I would, I suppose.’ Nel-M was silent for a moment, thoughtful. ‘But you know, Leonard, if you’d seen some of the things I have in my lifetime, you’d know that there’s actually worse things than death. Like pain. And dancing.’
There it was again, thought Truelle: dancing? Had Nel-M gone completely mad, was looking to book a session on his couch? He was still trying to work it out as with an, ‘Okay…. Huuuup,’ from Nel-M, he felt himself being lifted bodily. He thought for one horrible moment – the intake of breath rising sharply in his throat, making him dizzy as it hit his brain – that he was being thrown straight over the edge. But then he felt something firm again under his feet, and Nel-M close, his breath hot against the cloth covering his face; strangely comforting, given how he’d have normally felt about that.
‘Now you’re going to have to keep real close, Leonard, and hold real tight – like we’re dancing,’ Nel-M said. ‘Because this ledge – it ain’t that wide.’
Oh God. Oh God. And suddenly it all made sense to Truelle, and he clung on to Nel-M as if his life depended on it; because now he knew with certainty that it actually did.
Nel-M could have found buildings higher, thirty floors or more, but this was the only one he knew with such a wide ledge running around, just over two foot. Enough for them to move around on, as long as they kept in close. At each corner and in the middle of each side were large Roman urns with squat fan palms. Probably the main reason for the width of the ledge. But there was still a good thirty-foot between each urn for their dance run, Nel-M observed.
Nel-M started moving then, swinging Truelle out for a second to feel the drop – heard him gasp and felt the trembling in his body run deeper – then swung him sharply back in again.
‘So, shall we try again… where have you left those insurance policies?’
‘I… I can’t. It’s… it’s my only pro.. protection.’ Truelle was trembling so hard, he had trouble forming the words, his mind half gone. All he could think of was where he was putting his feet and that drop only inches away.
Nel-M reached deeper behind Truelle’s back as they moved, two steps forward, two steps back, gently swaying. ‘Now, where was it I punched you? There… there, I think.’
Truelle felt the pain rocket through his brain. Nel-M eased off for a second, then dug even harder with two fingers into Truelle’s kidney, heard him groan as the shudder ran through his body, his legs buckling. Nel-M held him upright.
‘Now, don’t you go giving up on me, Leonard. Just as we’re starting to get into the rhythm.’ Nel-M smiled. The only thing missing from making this little scenario a hundred-and-ten per cent perfect, rather than just a hundred per cent: with the hood, Truelle couldn’t see him gloating, his eyes dancing; see how much Nel-M was enjoying it. ‘See what I mean about pain being worse than death, Leonard. Keep that up for a while, and you’d be begging me to kill you. But we’d have to be in a dark basement somewhere for that, where half the neighbourhood couldn’t hear your screams. And I’m a real softy for mood, atmosphere. Much better up here with the city spread below us, dancing.’ Nel-M leant in closer, his mouth only inches from Truelle’s ear, his smile widening as he swore he could all but feel the shudder of revulsion run through Truelle’s body with his next words. ‘Don’t you think, Lenny, baby?’
Nel-M started moving again, more fluidly, dramatically, swaying and leaning Truelle even further over the drop at times.
Truelle exclaimed breathlessly, ‘Please… please don’t do this.’
‘You’re not crapping out on our romantic date already, are you, Lenny? You know, I used to know this chick down at a club on Toulouse Street. Half pure Congo-African, half Spanish Creole… and boy, could she tango.’ Nel-M started moving again. ‘Man, we’d swing up and down so hard and fast we’d clear half the dance floor.’ More elaborate swaying and swinging now, relishing Truelle’s gasps as he hung him over the drop at almost a ninety-degree angle at points. ‘Not like you. All stiff and formal, stumbling on your step. Something worryin’ you, Lenny?’ Nel-M chuckled.
‘Please… I’m begging you.’
‘Wanna die ye
t, Lenny? Think that’s suddenly more appealing?’ Nel-M chuckled again, lower, more menacing. ‘Or have you worked out yet which you prefer: dancing or pain?’
On the last word, Nel-M dug his fingers again into Truelle’s bruised kidney, felt his body jolt as the pain shot through it.
Truelle spluttered breathlessly, ‘I can’t… I can’t tell you.’
Nel-M wondered whether to give Truelle a few more swaying steps, probably his first taste ever of real rhythm, then just drop him over the edge. Last Tango in New Orleans. But the fall-out might not be containable, and there were other things he wanted to know.
‘Okay. Okay. If we can’t do that – then tell me what happened when McElroy came to see you? He’s making out that he stopped doing anything on the Durrant case soon after he saw you. But I’ve got my doubts. Strong doubts. So, what did he say to you, Lenny?’
‘Not much, really.’
‘I mean, did he tell you that he was going to stop digging? Was going to leave everything just with the Governor’s plea?’
‘No – he didn’t say that. But… but also, there didn’t seem much he knew.’
‘And you didn’t tell him anything, did you, Lenny?’
‘No… no. Of course not.’
They started moving again then, but slowly, less flamboyantly. But Truelle was still petrified, fearful that with the slightest false half-step, he’d fall over the edge.
‘So, what did happen in that meeting, Lenny?’
‘Not that much. Not that I can think of.’
That didn’t seem to please Nel-M. The step increased, the swaying bolder. ‘Think, Lenny. Think. It’s important.’
‘Well, he… he seemed concerned about hearing that Doctor Thallerey, Jessica Roche’s obstetrician, had died in a car accident. And an accident too that he’d had himself… thought they might be linked.’
‘You see… you see. You can do it when you try.’ The swaying subsided a little. ‘What else?’
‘I don’t know… not much else, really.’
The step and swaying picked up again. ‘Think harder, Lenny. Like I say, it’s important.’
‘He… he left in such a rush. That’s why there wasn’t… wasn’t much else.’ Truelle was having trouble talking and concentrating on his step at the same time. ‘He nev… never told me what had troubled him so just before he left.’
The step steadied again. ‘Okay. I buy that. Anything else?’
‘With… with what had happened with himself and Thallerey, almost like… like a warning I might be next.’
‘You might be, Leonard.’ Another quick looping sway with Truelle held dramatically over the drop before quickly righting again. Nel-M’s gloat slid into a brief chuckle. ‘You might be.’
‘And he…’ Truelle suddenly stopped himself, worried that this part might bring back questions about his insurance policies.
‘What else, Lenny?’ The swaying step increased once more. ‘Don’t hold back on me now.’
‘He…’ Truelle’s left foot slipped over the edge then, Nel-M quickly pulling him back up tight. But the pain lanced through him again as Nel-M’s hand pressed harder into his back. Truelle took a second to regain his composure and breath. ‘He… he asked me if my telephones might have been bugged. Said he was worried that his might have been…’
Now it was Nel-M’s turn to hyper-ventilate, and he almost let Truelle loose from his grip with the jolt that went through him – or maybe it was as much shoving him away in anger, taking his frustration out on the nearest thing – as everything hit him in a rush: McElroy saying that he’d dropped the case and then the sudden lack of any meaningful calls on his home phone, except one; the one where he’d followed McElroy and nobody had showed up. Not only had McElroy thrown them a curve ball over his bugged phone-line, he’d also no doubt had yours truly followed the other day. Now knew more about himself and Roche than he dared think about.
But one consolation, he thought: He’d get to play out his plan B with McElroy. Roche would now jump for it quicker than… well, quicker than a ‘Psychiatrist falls off the edge.’ One last pause as he pondered whimsically what a shame it was that he wouldn’t now be reading that headline tomorrow, then with one hand he helped Truelle down from the ledge.
‘And thank you kindly for the dance, Mr Truelle. It’s been most… most enlightening.’
26
Torch- and candle-light outside the prison gates.
If Jac didn’t know that there wasn’t long left now until Durrant’s execution, he’d have become aware from the people holding vigil outside Libreville.
Only a small group now, eight or nine, but in the final few days those numbers would swell – local protesters, and an increasing number of anti-capital punishment supporters, mostly from out of state – to probably a hundred strong by the end.
Jac had received the news that the Board of Pardons hearing would be in only two days’ time. It wasn’t the sort of news he wanted to give Durrant over the phone, it warranted face-to-face, and after the news from Rillet there were a few things he wanted to ask Larry directly.
There was also something he needed to pick up after work before heading out to Libreville, so the last of the dusk light was fast fading as Jac hit the Pontchartrain Causeway, a shiver still running through him each time he crossed it.
Ghosts. Even the corridors at Libreville now held them for Jac. Memories of when he’d first headed along their grey, footstep-echoing lengths, shirt sticking to his back, nerves bubbling wildly, to see Larry Durrant for the first time.
Felt like a lifetime ago now. Because now it seemed like they were long-lost old friends, Larry hugging him in greeting before they took up seats each side of the table in the ‘Quiet’ room. Larry’s expression darkened as Jac told him about the BOP hearing in two days’ time.
‘What do you think are the chances?’
‘We’ve put in a strong plea, no denying: good character, strong religious values, your self-educating, and, of course, the key issue of executing someone who even now doesn’t have all their memory faculties. I even sent in a couple of case examples to back that up. But against that we’ve got the thorny problem of Aaron Harvey re-offending. Killing again. There’s a lot of political pressure on Candaret because of that. And so…’ Seeing Durrant hanging on his words with fresh light, hope, in his eyes, Jac side-stepped, moderated what he’d initially planned to say. ‘So it’s all in the balance, Larry. All in the balance.’
Larry nodded thoughtfully, and Jac felt a stab of guilt to his chest. Having told himself that he couldn’t and wouldn’t fool Larry, in the end he’d weakened and done just that: the odds were far worse than fifty-fifty. From what he’d seen in the press and talking with John Langfranc, the political pressure on Candaret was so intense that the chances were probably no better than two or three percent.
But having spent the past weeks giving Larry something to cling to, filling him with hope, Jac couldn’t just come along now and tell him that there was little or no hope. Kill the faint light in Durrant’s eyes he’d only just put there.
Jac introduced a fresh tone. ‘But there’s been movement too on other fronts.’ He told Larry about Mack Elliott and Rillet and his conversations of the past few days. He didn’t mention the crack house or being worried for their lives at one point, because Larry hardly remembered Rillet in any case; a reminder to Jac of how little Larry recalled from his past, how far he might be stretching for what he wanted now. ‘And miracle of miracles, Rillet did manage to dig up his diary from that week.’
‘Oh? That’s great.’
Jac held one hand up, calming, as that hopeful light came back into Larry’s eyes. ‘It’s only given us half the picture, unfortunately. He wasn’t working the night of Jessica Roche’s murder – so he can’t tell us anything about then. But the good news is that the pool game wasn’t one of the nights he was working that week. Otherwise we’d have struck out straight away.’ One trait Jac had gained from his father: look to the br
ight side. When Jac had first heard that Rillet hadn’t worked that key night, he’d felt immediately deflated, especially after the lines he’d put through name after name over the last few days. But then he’d shaken himself out of it, started to look at the other options. ‘So, of course, that means with the pool game taking place on one of those nights remaining, it could well have coincided with the night Jessica Roche was murdered. Out of those nights you used to play – Tuesday, Thursday or Saturday – Rillet was there Saturday, and it wasn’t then. So that leaves just the Tuesday and the Thursday, the night she was murdered. We’ve managed to narrow it down to just two nights.’ Jac held Durrant’s gaze for a second. ‘That’s the other reason I’ve come here now, Larry. To hopefully try and fill in that final gap. I’ve asked everyone else, but not you.’
‘Okay, fine.’ Durrant nodded, something in his eyes lifting, as if only then did it fully dawn on him where Jac was heading. ‘Fire away.’
Jac gave the background to how he’d handled things with Hadley, Saunders, Levereaux and Mack Elliott: putting them in the moment. ‘So, I’m going to ask you the same as them: do you remember where and when you first heard Jessica Roche had been murdered?’
But as quickly as that light had come into Larry Durrant’s eyes, it receded. ‘I don’t know. It’s difficult.’
‘I know.’ Jac smiled tightly. ‘But try. Try. It’s important.’
Larry nodded, applying more thought, his eyes darkening with concentration. ‘I’m not sure, but… but early evening news, I think.’
‘Early evening? Not daytime news or in a newspaper?’
Durrant shook his head. ‘No, don’t think so. I wasn’t working, but I was out in the daytime a lot… looking for work. So I think that’s the first time I’d have seen it.’
‘Think? Don’t you actually remember where and when you saw it, Larry?’ An edge now in Jac’s voice.
‘Don’t know.’ Durrant looked down again, that uncertainty, the shadows worming deeper. ‘That’s how I seem to remember it… evening news.’
Ascension Day Page 31
