Ascension Day

23

‘ …And her eyes… her eyes.’

‘What about her eyes, Lawrence?

‘She looked up at me then, just before I… I…’ Durrant swallowing hard, his breathing uneven on the tape. ‘And, uh… the damnest thing was, I couldn’t tell if she was angry with me, or was saying thank you for putting her out of her pain. But it stayed with me, you know, that look… I found it hard to shift from my mind as I ran out.’

As Durrant described fleeing and seeing a woman a hundred yards away walking her dog, Jac realized that absolutely everything on tape matched the physical evidence of Jessica Roche’s murder: the shot to the head, the telephone ringing, the witness. The only odd thing was that Durrant never actually described pulling the trigger either time; the gun was there and the blood and pain was described, but Durrant had skipped over the instant of actually pulling the trigger, as if it was too traumatic for him to fully face.

‘That’s it,’ Truelle commented, stopping the tape. ‘I brought Durrant back out at that point and the session ended.’

Jac brought his focus back to Truelle across the desk.

‘…I’m sorry. Dr Thallerey died last night in a car accident. We’re still all in shock here from the news…’

Jac wished now that he hadn’t made the call; at least, not just before his meeting with Truelle. He’d had half an hour spare before leaving to see Truelle, and he remembered that Dr Thallerey was due back from Houston the night before. The news sapped him of all strength, left his legs weak. Worst of all, it numbed his thoughts. And so he’d asked Truelle to play the remainder of the crucial tape with Durrant at the Roche residence. ‘After Durrant’s made the first shot. I’ve already heard up to that point.’ While it played he’d get some breathing space to hopefully clear his thoughts.

Truelle had heavily thinning sandy brown hair, and looked worn, tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, as if he’d taken much of the woe of his patients on board personally. The word ‘seedy’ might have sprung to mind, except that he had a faint tan and his dress was quite dapper, with a navy polo-neck and burgundy corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches that screamed academia or doctor.

Jac sensed an edginess beneath Truelle’s tight, ingratiating smile and professional patina, though perhaps no more than warranted by the adversarial nature of their meeting: Truelle had spoken for the prosecution and Jac represented defence.

But as the tape had played, rather than Jac’s thoughts about Thallerey’s accident settling, they’d gained momentum: surely too much of a co-incidence, his and Thallerey’s accidents so close together? But why on earth was Dr Thallerey seen as a threat? And by whom? After all, he was only Jessica Roche’s obstetrician.

Jac swallowed, cleared his throat. ‘And that was the fourteenth session with Durrant?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many sessions with hypnosis had there been by then?’

Truelle considered for a second. ‘That was the sixth, I believe. Fifth or sixth. We had eight or nine conventional sessions before deciding to try hypnosis in order to dig deeper.’

‘Presumably because you didn’t feel you were getting that far with conventional sessions?’

‘Exactly.’ Truelle’s hands on his desktop, fingertips pressed together in a cradle, parted for a second. ‘Don’t get me wrong. There was some progress conventionally. But I just felt that if he proved a good subject, we’d make progress ten-times faster with hypnosis.’ The hands opened and closed again. ‘He was, and we did.’

‘I see.’ Jac looked briefly at the notes he’d made earlier. ‘How often were the sessions?’

‘Twice a week, normally. Every Monday and Thursday. Except for a couple of weeks where I could only see him once because I had such a busy appointment book.’

Jac nodded. He doubted that under normal circumstance Truelle would have recalled the days that far back; but having to repeat the same thing at both the trial and appeal three years later, it had no doubt become ingrained. Jac nodded towards the tape recorder.

‘And this session, number fourteen, was the last you had with Durrant? You contacted the police straight after?’

Truelle shuffled slightly in his seat. ‘Not immediately after. I wanted a short while to think over the implications, ethics of confidentiality in particular.’ Truelle forced a tight smile. ‘So first thing I did was cancel Durrant’s next session to give me some time to consider. But when I checked, confidentiality didn’t stretch as far as a murder confession. In fact, if I’d withheld the information — I could have been implicated as an accessory.’ Truelle opened and closed the cradle again. Trapped within it. ‘So in the end I had little choice. But, for that reason, there was a two-day delay from Durrant making the confession to my contacting the police.’

Jac rubbed his forehead. If it wasn’t for his earlier notes, he’d have had trouble continuing. But he found it hard to push his focus beyond them, as he’d planned when he first made them: thoughts about Thallerey kept bouncing back, crowding out all else. If both crashes weren’t just accidents, how had whoever was responsible made the connection between him and Thallerey? Thallerey’s name had only come up when John Langfranc interviewed Coyne. And as far as Jac could remember, he himself hadn’t mentioned planning to visit Thallerey to anyone; in fact, he’d only phoned once to Thallerey’s office just before he went back into work that first day back.

‘So, fourteen sessions over two months?’ Jac confirmed. ‘All recorded and with diary entries to match?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Truelle took the tape out of the recorder, and Jac caught the heavy scent of cologne, along with something else. Peppermint? ‘The trial judge ordered that I keep everything relating to Durrant until all possible appeals and pleas were exhausted. Which I suppose would include this plea now.’ Truelle’s smile this time was more hesitant, his cheeks slightly flushed. Reminder perhaps of Durrant’s life hanging in the balance with what they were discussing. Truelle cleared his throat. ‘Is there anything at this stage that might have given you cause for concern regarding the evidence against Durrant?’

‘No. Not particularly.’ Jac contemplated Truelle coolly. From the transcripts, Truelle had been given a hammering at trial and appeal over both the reliability of hypnosis and the ethics of revealing the tape. Despite any residual concern Truelle might have for Durrant, he was obviously more concerned that his reputation might again be brought into question. ‘Except, that is, whether it’s right to execute a man whose mind is still only half-clear regarding what he was doing around that time.’

‘Yes, I can appreciate that.’ Truelle swallowed, his flush becoming deeper. ‘But apart from that, nothing particularly untoward?’

‘No. Nothing untoward.’ From Truelle’s expression, it was obvious he’d had some stabs of conscience about Durrant over the years. Jac eased back. After the grilling at both trials, little point in putting him through it again now; especially if he might later need his co-operation in answering more questions. Jac shrugged. ‘Durrant has some doubts in his own mind about his guilt, mainly because of some promises he made to his family at the time. But that on its own isn’t really sufficient to — ’

Telephone! The thought hit Jac in that instant like a thunderbolt.

He’d called Thallerey from his home telephone that first morning, and been told at the time that he was away till later in the week at a medical convention. That’s how they’d made the link and knew that he was keen to see Thallerey, plus also found out where Thallerey was! The other call he’d made at that same time had been to Truelle.

Truelle, the desk, and the room beyond suddenly seemed more distant, Jac’s ears ringing with the sudden blood-rush to his head. Truelle was eyeing him curiously.

Jac blinked slowly as he fought to regain some clarity.

‘I’m sorry. I… I know this might seem a strange question. But has there been any interference with your phones recently — either here or at your home? Someone perhaps listening in?’

‘No, I… I don’t believe so.’

Slight hesitation from Truelle. Fazed by the sudden change of direction, or something else at the back of his mind? Jac pressed him again. ‘Or anything that’s happened with your car recently that might have looked like an accident on the face of it, or come close to it? Or any other incident where you feel your life might have been put in danger?’

‘Why? In what way?’

As crazy as Jac knew he risked sounding, he felt he had to say something. If they’d monitored and targeted himself, they might well have done the same with others; which meant Truelle could be next. With a fresh breath, he explained about his recent encounter with a truck, his brakes failing and his car plunging into Lake Pontchartrain.

‘I was lucky to escape alive,’ Jac said. Truelle’s face had clouded, his hands now clenched tight together. Jac shrugged, as if to make light of it. ‘The police say that it was an accident, natural failure — though I have strong doubts. And with the call I made just before coming here, in which I learnt that Dr Thallerey died last night, also in a car accident — I now believe I was right to have those doubts.’

Truelle looked perplexed, struggling to make sense of what Jac was saying, and, as he asked who Dr Thallerey was and got Jac’s answer, he in turn blinked slowly, heavily. No doubt thinking along similar lines: why on earth would anyone kill Jessica Roche’s old obstetrician?

‘I… I don’t see,’ Truelle said, gesturing once more with his hands.

‘Me neither, as to why.’ Jac shrugged. ‘All I know is that I phoned to arrange to see Dr Thallerey — then the next day he was dead. And the other person I phoned that same morning was yourself, Dr Truelle.’

Jac saw it hit Truelle then, saw him flinch; but it was almost as if it was a blow he’d been half-prepared for. He looked anxious more than surprised.

‘And you… you think that I might be next?’ Truelle’s voice was tremulous, his attempt at a weak smile lopsided.

‘Of course, it might all be just coincidence.’ Jac grimaced tautly. ‘But it would have been remiss of me not to say anything. Though obviously I’ll know more once I’ve — ’

Jac stopped himself then, struck as to just why Truelle might not have at the same time been targeted. Or at least one good reason why.

And suddenly some of Truelle’s words, rather than politely enquiring, became more ominous: ‘….Anything at this stage that might have given you cause for concern?…But apart from that, nothing particularly untoward? Truelle had been fishing for what Jac might know!

Jac’s pulse throbbed tight at his temples. He had to get out of here now, couldn’t risk saying any more; though with his lips suddenly dry and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, it felt as if he’d hardly be able to.

Jac checked his watch and mumbled an excuse about an urgent appointment he’d suddenly remembered he’d forgot to rearrange, and, with a hasty goodbye and ‘Thanks for the information on Durrant’s sessions,’ he left the office of a somewhat bemused Leonard Truelle.

In on it with them.

The thought haunted Jac over the following days.

He called Bob Stratton from a pay-phone and asked if he knew anyone good to make a sound-bug sweep of his apartment.

‘If it’s just a basic check and sweep, I can do it myself. But if it looks like it’s going to get complicated, I gotta couple of names.’ Stratton arranged to come round his place at six o’clock that evening, straight after work. ‘But let’s first sit in my car parked in front and map out a game plan. We don’t want your snoopers — if you’ve got them — to know what we’re up to.’

Stratton’s car instructions took only a few minutes. Jac followed them as he went ahead of Stratton back into his apartment, put on a CD and turned it up loud.

Bruce Hornsby had been top of the CD stack, and the first track was ‘The Way It Is’. Its heavy piano cadence filled the room as Stratton moved silently and deftly around, swaying a small metal probe from side to side. Stratton kept his eyes glued to its monitor needle as he went.

The atmosphere was tense, the heavy music jarring on Jac’s nerves as he watched Stratton expectantly; no talking throughout, some intermittent hand signals from Stratton only giving Jac half a guide as to what had been found. Stratton finished his sweep just as Hornsby’s second track was starting. He motioned Jac out to the corridor to deliver his verdict.

‘All clear on your open spaces — lounge and bedrooms — which means we don’t really need to be standing here like two CIA spooks. But you were right about-’ Stratton broke off as Mrs Orwin’s door opened across the corridor. Though his “You want something?” stare had obviously been honed to perfection over the years; Jac had never seen her door shut so quickly. ‘As I was saying — you were right about the phone bug. But it’s connection activated — switches on only as you pick up. It’s not picking up anything else you’re saying in the apartment.’

Jac nodded thoughtfully. He’d noticed Stratton keep his finger on the cradle button as he’d lifted the receiver and carefully inspected.

‘So. Just the phone?’ Confirming it as if it was a lesser issue, that he’d somehow got off lightly, belied how Jac felt. A shiver ran up his spine as he thought about the many conversations he’d had that had been listened in to: his mum and Jean-Marie, John Langfranc, Alaysha, and then Rodriguez, Coultaine and his calls to arrange to see Truelle and Thallerey that had finally targeted him to be killed. ‘Okay. Okay.’ Jac eased a burdened sigh. ‘How do we get rid of it?’

‘We don’t,’ Stratton said, shrugging. ‘Not, that is, without them knowing.’

Jac’s eyebrows knitted. With the impact the bug had so far had on his life, he couldn’t bear the thought of it being around a second longer. Stratton gestured towards the apartment; he didn’t want to explain on the corridor. They went back into the apartment and Jac turned down Bruce Hornsby.

‘Think about it, Jac,’ Stratton said. ‘If you’re right in your assumption — whoever’s bugging you has already tried to kill you because they’re afraid of what you might find out. If we remove the bug, they’re gonna panic even more — thinking you’re up to all sorts they don’t know about.’ Stratton shrugged as he viewed Jac’s discomfort. ‘Fear of the unknown. Odds are they’ll try again to get rid of you.’

‘But how will leaving it in help? Especially given the sort of conversations I’m having right now on the Durrant case?’

‘Because you can use it for a handy bit of disinformation.’ Stratton smiled slyly as he saw the first spark of realization hit Jac. ‘You make sure that all vital calls on the Durrant case are made on your cell-phone, and you warn all potential incoming callers of the same: nothing surrounding the Durrant case to ever come in on your land-line here.’ He nodded towards the phone. ‘Then, to complete the picture, having primed a few key people on your cell-phone — you call on your land-line here and tell them that you’re not going to be doing anything further on the Durrant case. You’ve looked at every possible angle, but it appears hopeless trying to prove his innocence. The whole thing now rests with Governor Candaret as to whether he gets clemency or not.’

Jac mirrored Stratton’s smile. ‘So they think I’ve given up, and meanwhile I’ve got free rein without having to worry about watching my back?’

‘Yeah. And you can even play things up some more if you want. You set up a call to your phone here, someone claiming they’ve got vital information on the Durrant case. You’re officially off it, you say — but if it’s that vital, okay. You’ll meet them. They then give you the name of some hotel in Rio or Montevideo and a time for the meet. Meanwhile you sit back here with your feet up and raise a glass, knowing that you’ve sent them on a wild goose chase halfway across the world.’

As uncomfortable as Jac felt leaving the bug in place, the thought of being able to mislead whoever it was, get some of his own back, was irresistible. Jac arched a sharp eyebrow.

‘You’ve done this before?’

‘Yeah.’ Stratton smiled wanly. ‘Just a few times.’

While Jac had been right about the phone bug, he wouldn’t know whether his other suspicion — Truelle being involved somehow — was right until some days had passed. Which brought a smile to Alaysha’s face when he explained the rationale behind his thinking.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Alaysha said, taking the first sip of the red Bordeaux Jac had just poured for her. ‘If over the coming days Truelle is killed or, as happened with you, there’s an attempt on his life — then he’s probably one of the good guys. But if he remains alive, then most likely he’s one of the bad guys. Is that about it?’

‘Yes. More or less.’ Jac shrugged awkwardly. ‘Unless there’s some other reason why, unlike myself and Thallerey, he can’t be targeted.’

Alaysha’s mouth skewed; half quizzical, half humorous. ‘Sounds like one of those old witchcraft trials. If she sinks and drowns, then she’s okay. If she floats and lives, then she must be a witch. You’re not exactly going to be able to phone him after the event and congratulate him on passing the test. “Hey, you’re okay after all. Let’s go for a drink and talk some more”.’

Jac held one hand out, smiling dryly. ‘Unless, that is, like me he survives the attempt.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Alaysha agreed gleefully, taking another sip of wine. ‘Durrant case survivors club. Maybe you can have tags printed, hold a little convention.’

‘I couldn’t have done more with Truelle.’ Jac introduced a more sober tone. ‘I told him what happened with me, and warned him he could be next.’

‘Well, that’s really going to brighten the coming days for him.’

The darker, heavier side of their light banter hit them both at the same time. Alaysha’s expression fell sharply and she reached out and gently stroked Jac’s cheek with the palm of one hand.

‘Oh, Jac. Jac. Have you thought seriously about giving up, throwing in this whole thing with Durrant? I mean, you’re only Durrant’s lawyer, for God’s sake — not his keeper and protector. And certainly not at the risk of your own life.’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I thought about it a lot. Especially in those last days recovering in the hospital.’ Jac took a sip of his own wine as he focused his thoughts, his eyes staying on the glass for a second, as if the greyness of the lake might somehow lay beyond the red. ‘Sure, I was scared out of my wits thinking about how close I came to death. And now I have the knowledge that it probably wasn’t an accident, along with the worry that they might try again. But against that, and not just because I promised to try and help, I can’t shift Durrant from my mind: cut off from his family for eleven years, his life ruined, and his death, now only seventeen days away — unless by some miracle he does get clemency — a certainty. And everyone else has given up on him as a lost cause, deserted him; apart from young Joshua.’ Something tugged at the back of Jac’s mind about Durrant that harked back to his own father’s death; but he just couldn’t bring whatever it was to the forefront. He shook his head. ‘I can’t desert him as well. Especially not now.’

‘What makes now so different to before?’

‘Because however much the evidence against Durrant appears overwhelming, what happened with me and now Dr Thallerey convinces me of one thing: there’s something crucial I’m missing, something these people are keen for me not to find out. If only I could discover what?’

Alaysha shook her head. ‘But it’s not just what, Jac, you have no idea who — who is trying to kill you?’

‘True. That would certainly help. Know thy enemy. I’ll make a note to ask them when they next make contact.’ Then held one hand up in apology as he became more serious. ‘I know what you’re saying, Alaysha. But, like I said, it would be wrong to give up on Durrant right now. Just when I’ve seen the first strong sign that he might be innocent.’

Alaysha looked at him levelly, sombrely. ‘Even though it might end up costing you your life, Jac?’

Jac could see the brewing storm-clouds in her eyes, weighted emotions struggling for balance: one part of her admiring what he was doing in trying to save Durrant’s life, the other questioning the terrible risk he was taking. He couldn’t tell which one held sway.

‘I know. I know.’ Jac closed his eyes for a second in submission, as if accepting some of that weight and concern. She’d already almost lost him once; understandable that she wouldn’t want to go through that again. ‘But hopefully this little ploy of Bob Stratton’s will take their eye off of me, take most of the heat and danger away.’

As Alaysha looked down for a second in muted acceptance, she noticed that her hands were trembling. All this talk of danger and lives threatened had got to her; though not just because of Jac’s plight. She’d read the small entry in the Times-Picayune just the day before: he was noted only as ‘missing’, but now with his family receiving no contact for two weeks, the police were beginning to fear the worst. Her mind had gone into a white-hot spin, wondering when the knock might come at her own door and she’d be next to go ‘missing’. Butterflies of unease writhed in her stomach, made her feel queasy. She gripped her hand tighter on her wine glass to kill the trembling as she raised it and looked up again at Jac.

‘Hopefully,’ she said, and took another sip.

But Jac could see that his attempt at reassurance had done little to shift her concern. The storm-clouds still lingered in her eyes.

‘So, Gary did more lines this week. How many?’

‘Three.’

‘And did you show your parents?’

‘Not at first. But I think they… they kinda guessed. So in the end I did show them what he did.’

‘And were they upset?’

‘A little, sure. But at least now they don’t blame me any more. They seem to accept that it’s Gary doing them — not me.’

Truelle nodded pensively. One of his most intriguing cases. Fourteen-year-old boy, Brad Fieschek, recommended by Social Services due to self-mutilation. Discovered by his parents three months back, although it had probably being going on for some time before that, the marks were thin knife or razor cuts on his arms and sometimes wrists. ‘Lines’, had quickly become his comfort-zone term for them, Truelle discovered; possibly to soften the impact in his mind, because some of the cuts had been so deep that when made on his wrists his parents were convinced that it was a suicide attempt.

But from there, the case became deeper and darker still, because Brad claimed a secondary character, Gary, was making the ‘lines’. Perhaps again to push away what was happening to him — but the worry now was that schizophrenia was developing. And that this secondary character might become increasingly violent: the self-mutilation would get worse.

It was a case that required all of his attention, all his skills; and so he should have known better than to schedule his meeting with Jac McElroy for earlier that day.

Truelle noticed his hand starting to shake again, and pressed his pen firmer on his pad to steady it.

He’d broken the golden rule when — with the excuse to his secretary that he was grabbing a coffee from the deli — he’d had a quick shot of bourbon before his appointment with McElroy. It steadied his hands slightly, but he kept them clasped as much as possible during the meeting to mask any remaining tell-tale signs.

He popped back a few peppermints to kill any smell on his breath, then sprayed himself with some cologne from his office cabinet just to make sure.

But the shaking in his hands was back after talking to McElroy, with a vengeance.

Phones bugged, an attempt on McElroy’s life, Jessica Roche’s obstetrician killed…

He managed somehow to brave it through the one remaining patient session before lunch, then dived out to the nearest bar. What he’d intended as just one more shot quickly became two, then three. The bourbon did little to quell his churning thoughts, but at least took most of the tremble out of his hands.

He looked at them again now: still not too heavy a tremble, not too noticeable. He focused past them to his notepad and took a fresh breath.

‘And, as I suggested last time — have you asked Gary to stop?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because… because, I’m afraid.’ Brad’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘I’m afraid that’ll make him angry, will just make it worse. He’ll give me more lines.’

Looked like he’d taken out those phone bugs and changed his insurance policies just in time. If he hadn’t, he’d have probably gone the same way as Thallerey by now…

‘I can understand that. But you know — as we also discussed last time — if you don’t confront Gary, he’ll just become bolder. It could become worse anyway.’

‘I know. But, like I said — I’m afraid. I just don’t know what to do.’

Confront them? Know what to do? Afraid.

Truelle’s hands were starting to shake harder. He clenched them tightly. Maybe it should be him laying on the couch. Maybe he could get one of his old colleagues from New York to pull him apart, guide him through what to do. Pull him apart before he fell apart.

He swallowed, took a fresh breath. ‘But sometimes, Brad, however hard it might seem at the time — we have to confront our worst fears.’

‘I know.’

‘Otherwise they just become stronger.’

‘I know, Doc… I know.’ Brad biting at his bottom lip, close to tears. ‘But sometimes it’s difficult.’

‘I know.’ Truelle in that moment feeling as if he wanted to join Brad in bursting into tears. He dabbed at some sweat beads on his forehead with the back of one hand. ‘And, uh… have you been able to find out why Gary is doing this? Why he’s giving you the lines?’

Brad looked quizzically at Truelle, his eyebrows furrowing. ‘Yes. We discussed that at my last session.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Truelle covered quickly, reminding himself. ‘What I meant was — have you been able to probe more about that with Gary? You were never really satisfied with what he said — because you thought that you were pleasing your parents with what you did.’

‘I could try, but I don’t think he’d tell me. It’s like… like his little secret, his main hold over me, knowing better than me what might please my parents…’

Truelle knew that he should have stopped the session there. He was far too distracted.

As McElroy had been. Maybe it had been due to Thallerey’s death — but then what had McElroy suddenly thought of to make him cut everything short and head off in such a rush? And why on earth had they killed Thallerey? How could he possibly have presented a threat?

Truelle pressed his hands firmer against his notepad as the shaking ran deeper. But this time the pad simply started shaking as well.

Oh God, help me. Help me!

Truelle battled his way through the remaining twenty minutes of the session, keeping his comments concise and simple so that he didn’t make any more mistakes.

But when he finally ushered Brad out, his secretary Cynthia, seeing Truelle pale and shaky, enquired, ‘Has it got worse?’

It took Truelle a second to detach from his own thoughts and realize that she was talking about the boy, not him.

‘No, no. Much the same as before with Brad.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just a small fever that seems to have hit me. Cancel and rearrange my last two sessions today, would you?’

He headed back into his office without waiting for a response, went into the adjoining washroom and splashed water on his face as he leant over the sink.

Straightening up, his head was still burning as if about to explode, his eyes pin-pricks unable to fully focus on his reflection. And his hands shaking worse than ever.

Maybe he should head out and get another drink or two to steady them again. But he knew that if he did, it would end up as four or five, and by the next day he’d be on half a bottle; a day or two after that, a full bottle.

And so he stayed in the same position, hands gripped tight to the edge of the sink, as if it were the last planks of a sinking ship that he dared not let go of.

‘Does Durrant know yet that you can’t do any more?’

‘Not yet. I’m heading out there tomorrow to tell him.’

Nel-M had already heard the taped calls once at Farrelia’s, so wound through to the main highlights. McElroy on the phone to Mike Coultaine.

‘So that’s it now? Last time you’ll be seeing him?’

‘Apart from sitting in with him for the BOP hearing, or if there’s something else needed connected with the clemency plea. But that’s going to be the only focus now. From hereon in, it all rests with whether or not Candaret feels generous-hearted.’

Coultaine consoled that at least he’d given it a shot before they signed off. Nel-M wound forward to McElroy’s following call to Pat Coyne.

‘…I know that my colleague John Langfranc said that I’d probably be following up on some details. That won’t now be happening — I’ve decided there’s nowhere left to go with it. Apart from the DNA, I just can’t get my mind past Durrant describing that final shot to the head — particularly since you held that back from all releases.’

‘I understand. Me neither, and I’ve had twelve long years to think it over.’

‘But thanks for your time and the information you gave.’

Nel-M wound forward to the next call, this time incoming and left on McElroy’s answer-phone.

‘Jac. Jennifer. Jennifer Bromwell. I heard all about your accident. Your sister, Jean-Marie, kept me up to date. I didn’t visit the hospital, because, well, I… I understood your girlfriend was there much of the time. But I hear from Jean-Marie that you’re fine now… so this is to wish you well, and also to ask — and I’d understand perfectly if you didn’t think you were well enough yet for it — about one of those dates we discussed. I sneaked off to see Kelvin a couple of nights back — but there’s something coming up in a few nights that’ll be hard for me to find an excuse for. So, if you thought you could oblige… call me.’

Nel-M stopped the tape and smiled thinly. Hardly got his pulse back, and McElroy’s convoluted love-life was full-on again: screwing his lap-dancing neighbour while playing charades with this second girl.

Shame though it wasn’t about to get more complicated, thought Nel-M. He’d already started to bring the lap-dancer’s ex-boyfriend, Gerry Strelloff, into play; only a few words spoken on his anonymous call, but effective. And as much as Roche would be pleased to hear that McElroy had finally thrown in the towel with Durrant, Nel-M couldn’t help feel disappointed that they wouldn’t now be taking things to the next stage; his plan for McElroy had without doubt been his best yet. Nel-M picked up the phone.

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.