Roland Cole was no exception. Over the past two hours, his eyes had lifted twenty times or more to the clock in the Algiers fish warehouse where he and a colleague were busily shifting that day’s shipments onto the right pallets.
‘What’s wrong wit’ you?’ the colleague said. ‘Yo’ got a hot date tonight or somethin’ – can’t wait to leave today?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Cole’s hand went to his stomach where his mounting anxiety had settled like a bucket of eels writhing in acid. ‘Somethin’ I ate last night – it’s half killing me.’ With a meek smile, he rushed to the washroom at the back again; his fourth visit that morning.
‘You timin’ to make sure you don’ shit yo’self?’ his friend shouted after him, chuckling.
Cole closed his eyes and shuddered as he sat on the toilet.
Stealing away the time alone was the main thing. Time alone with his own thoughts, but most of all away from TV, news broadcasts and clocks.
Durrant’s face had been on news broadcasts twice the night before, but even though Cole had made sure not to turn on breakfast news and had rushed past every newsstand on the way in, that image was still with him practically everywhere he looked: around the warehouse, at his friend… at the clock!
Not me, not me… not me! I’m not the man you saw that night!
A thousand times he’d replayed that night in his head: hot-wiring the Mercedes in the driveway as he saw a man run round the corner from Coliseum Street: six-foot, stocky, skin-colour and tone not much different to his own, breathless and jaded as he stared back momentarily. Cole sunk down even lower beneath the dashboard, praying that he hadn’t been seen. And four minutes later, when he was sure the guy was long-gone, he started up the Mercedes and drove off.
Then when Durrant was first arrested, he saw from the news that it wasn’t the man he’d seen that night. He read as much as he could about the background to the case, but there was no possible doubt: the other eye-witness had only seen one man leaving the scene, and the timing matched exactly with the guy he’d seen run past. It wasn’t Durrant!
But the problem was, he couldn’t see a way of coming forward without also holding his hands up to the grand-theft auto. Five to seven years, maybe more if they linked the MO back to other luxury auto-thefts over the past few years.
Cole managed finally to push it to the back of his mind; but then when Durrant’s execution date was set, it was back at the forefront, with a vengeance! And so he sent the e-mails; as far as he felt he could go without putting his own head in the noose.
Cole shook his head, a shiver running through him as he felt his stomach cramp and tighten again. Surely they couldn’t go through with killing Durrant? He’d told them in those e-mails that it wasn’t him! What the fuck more did they want: five to seven years of his own life?
43
Atlanta customs, Miami, Nassau… Havana.
A re-run each time of Jac’s ordeal going through the passport check at New Orleans, perspiring, his stomach doing somersaults, praying that they didn’t notice his hand shaking as he handed over his passport.
But it was worse after the call from Mike Coultaine. Far worse.
Jac had landed at Atlanta an hour and fifty minutes beforehand, had just twenty minutes before boarding for the next leg to Miami, when Coultaine’s call came through. Bad news, Jac. Bad news.
Coultaine explained that while he believed he’d successfully quelled the suspicions of the officer that had called, he thought it worth keeping an eye on. Just in case. And so he’d called an old police contact who owed him a few favours, said that he’d just had a strange call from a certain Joe Rayleigh of Eighth District regarding Darrell Ayliss, an old lawyer buddy of his. Probably nothing, but could he contact him on the QT if anything came up on police radar about it.
‘And he just called a few minutes ago, Jac. There’s an APB been put out for Ayliss. Carrying false identity, false impersonation and fraud.’
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Jac closed his eyes momentarily, glad that he was sitting when the news came.
‘But what’s odd is the “approach with caution” note. Bit extreme for the crimes mentioned… until, that is, my friend told me the contact name on the APB: Lieutenant Derminget! And it all suddenly fell into place and made sense.’
Jac only half-heard Coultaine go on to say that it looked like Derminget had somehow worked it all out: McElroy, Ayliss… the disguise. ‘Don’t know how, but he obviously has.’ The echoing terminal activity and pounding pulse in Jac’s head half-drowned it out.
That pounding heavier still, legs shaky and uncertain, as fifteen minutes later he rose to go through passport control.
And then that same ordeal at Miami, Nassau and finally Havana. Not knowing how he managed to face each one, feeling almost physically sick after passing through each time, his nerves mounting again in flight as he steeled himself to face the next one. So by the time he went through the last check-out at Havana, he was exhausted, emotionally drained.
Part of him felt like jumping in the air or doing a quick fandango in relief and excitement, but his body had hardly the strength left to put one foot in front of the other. His step heavy, laboured, eyes bleary and unfocused from lack of sleep as he headed away from customs – before the guards, no doubt with their eyes still on his back, changed their minds – and sought the car-rental desks.
Closed! Jac shuffled over to the café area at the end, one of the few things open, and on the second try found a waiter with good enough English.
‘They open at seven o’clock, senor.’
Jac looked at the clock on the café wall: 6.23 a.m. His friendly waiter said there wouldn’t be other car-rental companies open yet in the city, most in fact wouldn’t open until 9 a.m., and the train to Sancti Spiritus took eight and a half hours. With already fourteen hours eaten up getting to Cuba, Jac hated to lose even one more minute of what little time Durrant had left – but with little other option, he ordered a coffee and waited, meanwhile checking his phone messages. He’d switched his cell-phone off immediately after Coultaine’s call and hadn’t used it since, worried that with the APB out, the police might be able to zone-track where he was. He risked turning it on now briefly. Only one call: Bob Stratton. New Orleans was one hour behind: 5.31 a.m. He’d call him back in a couple of hours.
Jac finished his coffee and ordered another, his body suddenly craving more caffeine to combat his over-tiredness, kick some life back into it.
Realizing, as he finally got on the road at 7.09 a.m., squinting at road-signs as he sped across a dawn-lit Havana, that he’d have risked falling asleep on the drive without the caffeine. And, having chosen the car-rental company’s most powerful option, an Audi A6, hoping that he could make up the time. The caffeine didn’t help his already wire-taut nerves, his stomach jittery and his hands trembling on the steering wheel, but at least he was alert.
Cienfuegos… Trinidad… Sancti Spiritus… Jac’s route was by now indelibly implanted on his mind. As Jac swung on to Highway A1 and he saw the first sign for Cienfuegos, he put his foot down hard. Six and a half hours driving time, they said. Maybe he could cut that to six or even five and a half hours.
The car-rental companies were already open when Nel-M landed, but he lost time through having to buy a gun in Havana’s old town, an old Browning 9mm, before he could get on the road again.
He was just under four hours behind Ayliss as he hit the start of the A1 highway towards Cienfuegos.
With the call from Glenn Bateson while he was at Miami International waiting for his flight to Nassau – ‘It didn’t work. My guy only managed to injure him… and not that seriously’ – everything hinged more than ever on catching up with Truelle as soon as possible.
If Bateson’s man had been successful, it would have stopped Ayliss dead in his tracks, he’d have probably just slumped his head on his steering wheel in the middle of Cuba as soon as he heard the news. With Durrant already dead, what would have been the point in conti
nuing?
But right now Truelle was like a powder-keg, and if Ayliss had enough time to light the right match, Nel-M had little doubt that he’d explode and tell all. And if so, Nel-M doubted that Roche’s one remaining contingency plan could contain that explosion.
He glanced at the gun on his passenger seat. As so often had happened in his long association with Roche, while Roche troubled himself with fringe details, the core of every problem was left for him to deal with; just as with Roche’s wife twelve years ago that had started it all. Nothing had really changed.
Mack Elliott had drifted out of the Ninth Ward into Bywater because there was a bar on North Rampart that had one of the largest screens around, always tuned to sports, usually football. He’d missed the big Saints game the night before, but there was an early afternoon highlights re-run that he knew they’d have on.
And that’s where he was, cold Beck’s in hand, watching the over sized screen among a lively throng shouting support or derision with the ebb and flow of the Saints’ performance, when the thought suddenly hit him. Highlights! That’s what he’d been watching that night!
It hadn’t been a full game, because the Saints had been playing away in Philadelphia and there was some charity telethon on – but he’d been keen to watch the condensed highlights when they’d come on later. That’s why he’d told the chicken guy to pipe-down!
Mack left his half-finished beer on the counter, went out the back to a pay-phone, got the number of the Times-Picayune from 411, and asked to be put through.
‘Do you have a sporting archives section, perhaps?’
‘We’ve got a general archives section, sir – which would include sport. They should be able to help.’
The girl that looked up the information used a keyword search on the Times-Picayune data-bank, but she could just as easily have found it on the internet. ‘Here it is… Saints v Philadelphia Eagles game. Eighteenth of February, 1992.’
‘Thanks.’ Mack banged a fist on the wall by the phone, closing his eyes for a second. It was that same night! Larry couldn’t have been at the Roche house.
He took the piece of paper from his pocket, Darrell Ayliss’s number, and dialled… but it rang unobtainable, a service provider message telling him to try again later. He tried again, just in case, but it did the same.
He started to panic, beads of sweat popping on his forehead as he checked the time: less than four hours left. He had to get the message through somehow!
He got hold of 411 again and asked to be put through to Libreville prison.
But the woman that answered said that Warden Haveling wasn’t available because of final preparations that day with Lawrence Durrant ‘…and his assistant Mr Folley is right now handling a media conference call regarding the same. But I…’
‘It’s actually about Larry Durrant that I’m phonin’ now!’
‘Yes, sir, and I… I have someone that I believe can still help.’
Some top-dog guard or other, Mack didn’t catch the name. But when after the transfer his voice answered, Mack ran too quickly at first, had to calm himself to get the information across clearly.
Mack Elliott. Bayou Brew bar of twelve years ago with Larry Durrant. Sessions with Darrell Ayliss and Greg Ormdern to try and find out what happened that night. ‘But I wasn’t able to remember what I was watchin’ until just now – and I just checked it out a minute ago with the Times-Picayune. That game was the same night that Larry Durrant was mean’a be at the Roche house. He couldn’t have been there! It wasn’t him!’
‘I understand, sir… and I’m glad you’ve come through to us now with this information.’
‘You gotta stop the execution! Larry didn’t do it! Get hold of the Warden or Governor or whatever it takes to stop it.’ Mack realized he was speaking too excitably again, almost garbling. He took a fresh breath to calm himself, his voice lower, more purposeful. ‘You’ll make sure t’do that? Get hold of the powers that be to stop this now wit’ Larry?’
‘Don’t worry. As soon as I get off the phone, I’ll pass your message directly to Warden Haveling. Get him to phone the Governor or whatever he needs to do to action it.’
‘Thanks… and thank God too that I remembered before it was too late.’
‘Yeah. Thank God you did.’
And as soon as he hung up his end, Glenn Bateson screwed up the piece of paper he’d written on and threw it in the bin a yard away.
‘Good to speak to you, Governor Candaret. Been a while.’
‘You too, Mr Roche. Always good to speak to the more illustrious among my constituents. Especially if they still support and vote for me.’
‘Oh, I do, Governor Candaret. I do. More than you can imagine.’
‘That’s good to hear.’ Both of them were old hats at this, thought Candaret. Both of them knowing that these smooth introductory gambits often meant almost the opposite of what was said. From the heart, Roche would have been more likely to say, ‘You’re a slimy, jumped-up toad whose station in life has risen far above your God-given ability,’ and, in truth, Candaret would probably have said much the same about Roche. But that would have got neither of them what they wanted from this conversation now, which brought Candaret sharply back to wondering what Roche did want by calling him now, the very day of Larry Durrant’s execution. He kept prodding with the niceties, as if he was keeping a rattlesnake at bay with a long stick. ‘Good indeed to hear. And what, pray, might I be able to do for you today, Mr Roche? Or is this just a social call?’
‘The latter, mostly. Though if I’d called earlier, it might have seemed otherwise.’ Roche swallowed, getting his breathing even. Getting the right words in place. ‘You see, if I’d called you before you made your recent clemency decision, it might have looked as if I was trying to pressure you to do the right thing regarding the murderer of my dear wife. But now that you’ve actually made that decision, I felt it only right to thank you for what I consider to be a good and true decision and not shirking from your duty. Making this call now when there’s no longer danger of it being misread – it can finally be taken in the spirit it’s intended. No more, no less than an honest thank you.’
‘I… I appreciate the sentiment. And thank you too – for not earlier bringing any undue pressure to bear. That was very thoughtful.’ Still prodding, though more gently now. Maybe Roche wasn’t as bad as he thought; maybe a heart did actually beat beneath that stone-dwarf shell.
‘And indeed there’s another reason, partly tied into that, why I didn’t call until now.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wondered if the names Amberley, Cleveton, Rossville and Leighgrove strike a bell with you?’
‘Yes, I… I seem to remember a couple of them from my campaign fund list.’ Candaret felt the first nervous twinge in his stomach at where this might be heading. He’d recognized the names far more than he’d made out. Four corporations that, between them, comprised almost half his Presidential campaign fund for the following year.
‘Obviously, I’ve had to go to some lengths to shield my name from being behind those corporations, for two reasons: firstly, the regulatory issues and awkward questions raised by too much funding coming from one source, and secondly, because of what I’ve already mentioned – you might have felt I was putting inadvertent pressure on you to make the right decision regarding my wife’s murderer.’
‘I… I understand.’ Though Candaret wasn’t sure any more that he did. He felt that twinge in his stomach bite deeper as he thought about what would happen if a journalist or Senate committee now uncovered the source of his funding; but, again, if Roche was now raising it as some sort of background threat or pressure, why hadn’t he done that earlier?
‘And that’s also why I didn’t tell you about my involvement in that funding until now. So that you wouldn’t misread it and see it as somehow connected with Durrant, feel unduly pressured. You could accept it with the good and honest grace with which it is intended: you have a good friend out there who would l
ike nothing more than to see you in the White House.’
‘Why… why, thank you. I… I don’t know what to say.’ The first truth to pass Candaret’s lips since they’d started talking. He didn’t. His thoughts were still in turmoil with Roche’s revelation, in particular the timing.
And after a minute more of mutual fawning and treacly niceties as they said their goodbyes, in contrast to Candaret’s still bemused expression as he hung up, Roche beamed broadly.
He’d got exactly what he wanted from the conversation. Even if Ayliss did manage to crack Truelle and phoned at the eleventh hour, it was going to take a hell of a lot now to convince Candaret. Kiss goodbye to the White House and a truckload of regulatory problems one side; an elaborate, hard-to-believe story, the other. No contest.
Don’t pick up any hitch-hikers. Watch out for potholes. Street-lighting is poor or non-existent. And there’s a lack of signposts – particularly beyond Havana.
It was the same road all the way, but at a couple of angled junctions where the continuation was ambiguous, car-rental cautions one and four became at odds, because as soon as Jac stopped to clarify directions, he was asked for a lift. With only one in thirty owning a car and infrequent buses, it seemed that half of Cuba was waiting at street-corners and junctions for the next passing car to catch a lift.
‘Pardone, no possible… problema urgente.’ One hand lifted apologetically as he sped away. And at the one stop he made thirty kilometres before Cienfuegos – to use the toilet and for a hastily grabbed coffee, Coke and ham roll – two dusty workmen looking for a lift took a step back when he had to be more insistent, shouting at them that a man could die unless he hurried. His bastardized Spanish scream of ‘Muerte… muerte!’ making them worry for a second that he was threatening to kill them.
Ascension Day Page 52
