Ascension Day

38

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… fuck…. fuck!

When Nel-M got round the block, Ayliss was nowhere to be seen. He trawled as far as ten blocks up and four or five each side before finally giving up with the thump of his palm against the steering wheel… fuck!

Twenty minutes already gone, he went to a coffee bar and gripped a steaming cappuccino so hard that he thought the cup might shatter, his eyes fixed steadily, stonily ahead, until he’d killed a further half-hour and was sure all the police and ambulances would have cleared from in front of Truelle’s building.

But when he got back there, Truelle’s secretary said that he wasn’t in. He barged through to Truelle’s office in case she was lying, then asked where he was and what time she expected him back.

‘Don’t know… he didn’t say. For either.’

Faint ring of truth about it, but it wouldn’t get him anywhere pulling out her fingernails. Truelle wouldn’t get back any quicker. He’d just have to sit it out.

Another flat-handed bash of the steering wheel as he got back into his car… fuck! Two more as an hour rolled past and Truelle still hadn’t returned, three each at the two and three hour marks, and then finally, as it got close to office closing time and Truelle still wasn’t back, a machine-gun roll of them as Nel-M felt his nerves finally snapping.

He daren’t even phone Roche or answer his call if he rang. If he told Roche he’d lost both Ayliss and Truelle and that Ayliss’s wife had ended up in hospital, the resultant incredulous gasping fit would send Roche into seizure; one good result from the afternoon, perhaps, but not the one he was after.

He waited another hour in case Truelle was late getting back to his office, left with another flat-handed fuck, one more as he arrived in front of Truelle’s apartment building and saw no light on at his window, and was halfway through another couple at the one hour mark with Truelle still not back, when his cell-phone rang. Vic Farrelia.

A slow smile crept across Nel-M’s face as Farrelia related the call that had just come in on Truelle’s line. Truelle’s second, so far elusive, insurance policy: Chris Tullington, wife Brenda; Vancouver, Canada. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Now they had them both: full house.

Nel-M checked his watch. Both would have to be taken out at the same time, no question, and if possible that very night. But which one did he take himself and which did he leave to Tommy Garrard, who’d so effectively taken care of Dr Thallerey? Vancouver or upstate New York? Not much to choose between them travelling-time-wise.

He called Roche to tell him the good news and see if he had any preferences. Leave him with that last bit of power and decision-making he so coveted.

Every joint and muscle of Melanie Ayliss’s body seemed to scream and ache as she made her way up the steps of the Eighth District station house and approached its front desk at just after 10 p.m.

‘I have a complaint to lodge.’

‘Oh, really?’ A bright-eyed young sergeant called Brennan quickly killed his faint smile and the surprise in his voice as he realized his sarcasm had been lost on the sour-faced woman before him. Rule fifty-eight of the police manual: never joke with heavily-bruised women in neck-braces. He lowered his voice an octave; feigned gravity. ‘And what would that be ma’m?’

‘I had an accident earlier…’

‘Oh?’

She looked at him sharply, unsure whether he was still kidding or not. ‘And part of the reason for it was that I’d just been told that my ex-husband — who in fact I haven’t seen for the past seven years — was on a certain street. But when I looked at who I thought was my ex-husband, it wasn’t him.’

‘And this… this caused the accident?’ It was hard for Brennan to keep the incredulous tone out of his voice, but he kept his face serious, slightly furrowed. Striving to understand.

‘Yes… yes. Because when I saw that it wasn’t him, I braked.’ Melanie Ayliss was striving equally hard to emphasize, make her point. ‘And the car behind went straight into me.’

It was taking every bit of Brennan’s willpower to keep a straight face. Any of the phrases rolling through his head at that moment — ‘Fancy that?’ or ‘Why on earth would they do a fool thing like that? — would have sent him into raptures of laughter, rolling on the floor.

‘The main point I’m trying to make,’ she said, her voice getting testy for the first time, ‘is that someone is driving round impersonating my ex-husband.’

‘Oh, right. I see.’ Brennan was glad she’d extracted the main point from all of this; it might have taken him a while. ‘So this man doesn’t look like your ex-husband, but is nevertheless passing himself off as him?’

‘No, no. It does look like him — well, a close-enough resemblance. But it wasn’t him.’

Brennan blinked slowly. ‘Oh, right. You actually spoke to him?’

‘No, no. I didn’t.’ Testiness quickly verging into annoyance at this wet-behind-the-ears desk sergeant still grasping the wrong end of the stick. Or was he purposely being obstructive? ‘Just that two-second look before… before the car behind went into me.’

This was getting harder by the minute. Brennan ran one hand through his hair, sighing. ‘And you haven’t seen him, you say, for seven years?’

‘That’s right.’ She went to nod, only then realizing that she couldn’t with the neck brace.

‘Yet you’re sure it wasn’t him… even though you say it actually looked like him and you were only able to eyeball him for a couple of seconds?’

‘Yes, yes… a hundred per cent sure.’ Her voice practically a hiss, her eyes narrowing. Having spent two hours unconscious and the rest of the day being scanned, probed, stitched, strapped, and jabbed with a succession of needles, the last thing she needed was another prick. ‘Believe you me, when you’ve been married to someone for twelve years, you know it’s not them in the first millisecond, let alone two seconds. Even after seven years.’

‘Oh… okay.’ Brennan wasn’t about to argue with that.

Her eyes flickered briefly to one side. ‘Also, there… there was no recognition on his face when he saw me.’

What, he didn’t suddenly slam on his brakes as well? But from the glint in this woman’s eyes, her patience worn, Brennan knew that he’d be taking his life in his hands to show even the trace of a smile. He’d be joining her in wearing a neck-brace. ‘And any idea, ma’m, why this other person might be impersonating your husband?’ Brennan made sure, too, to keep any further doubt out of his voice; his best formal procedural.

‘No, uuuh… not really.’ One thing she hadn’t thought about. She smiled tightly. ‘Hopefully that’s something you’ll be able to tell me… when you’ve caught up with him.’

Spinning city lights… spinning all around.

Floating. The sensation pleasant. But suddenly Truelle sensed that something was wrong. The lights were spinning rapidly towards him… and now that horrible, gut-wrenching sensation of falling… falling! Nel-M had taken off his hood just before throwing him from the building!.. falling… falling…

Truelle’s eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright at the jolt of hitting the ground, his breath short, heart pounding like a jack-hammer. And there was a woman’s voice in the background, coming from the lounge — ‘…when you get this message, Lenny… if you could call me…’ — leaving a message on his answer-phone. He jumped out of bed, legs unsteady, everything still spinning slightly around him, ran towards it. ‘Strangely enough, when… when Alan spoke to you a couple of weeks back and got that letter of yours, he talked about us all getting together again and-

‘Hello…. Maggie. I’m here. It’s Lenny… what is it?’ He could tell from her voice that she was distraught, almost as breathless as he was at that moment, sniffling slightly. Then he felt his legs almost give way completely, still falling, as she related the horror of what had happened earlier that night: Alan shot dead. Her and the kids were out at the time, she’d gone to pick their son up from a Scout’s evening and had taken their daughter along for the ride. The police, putting it all together, believe that the alarm on Alan’s car in the driveway was set off to get him outside, then he was taken inside by his assailant and some papers rifled through in his office before he was shot.

‘I… I found him when I came back with the kids.’ Fresh breath to fight back the tears. ‘But the crazy thing is, there doesn’t seem to be anything of value taken.’

Falling… ‘Oh, Maggie… Maggie. I’m so sorry.’

‘Something like this, it’s… it’s unbelievable.’ She forced an ironic snort through her shaky voice and sniffles. ‘That’s why we moved upstate, because we thought it would be safer.’

‘I know… I know.’ Falling… the breath grunting out of him as his legs finally gave way, sinking to his knees as he clung to the telephone table with his other hand.

‘I started my calls at six, not long after the police left. Relatives, friends… and I called you, Lenny, not only because you’re a good old friend of mine and Alan’s, but because I wondered what you wanted done now with that envelope you sent — if I can find where Alan put it?’

‘Oh?’ Not daring to tell this mother of two — this widow — that it probably wasn’t there any longer and that her husband had very likely been killed because of it. Truelle looked towards the clock for the first time: 8.08 a.m.

She forced an awkward, tremulous chuckle. ‘I remember him smiling about it at the time, because you’d given instructions of what to do if anything happened to you… but not what to do if anything happened to him.’

‘Well, I… I hadn’t really thought about that.’ He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. City lights still spinning in his head, along with an image of Alan being shot and Maggie screaming and spilling tears over his prone body when she found him, her two children shaking and fearful in the background. ‘And I… I can’t really think clearly about it now.’ He took a fresh breath. ‘And you… you’ve got other things to worry about right now.’

‘I know.’ Sniffling, the tears close again.

‘There… there’s no urgency. I’ll give you a call in a few days time when I’ve thought about it and things have settled down more your end.’ He sighed heavily. ‘And again, Maggie, I’m sorry… so sorry. If there’s anything I can do over these coming days, anything… don’t hesitate to contact me.’

But Truelle found it difficult to stand up again after they signed off, still gripping to the table as if it was that last raft or the edge of a high building. Oh God… Oh God!

But why now? If they’d known of Alan’s whereabouts all along, then why not just after he’d first sent the envelope? Or maybe it was just a terrible coincidence. People got shot in upstate New York too. Or was it because of Ayliss visiting him yesterday and him then going AWOL. Nel-M fearing the worst and not able to catch up with him, so…

Truelle got up then, in fact leapt back a full two paces from the phone as if it had given him a high-voltage shock, staring back at it accusingly as he recalled the message that had come in the night before from Chris Tullington in Vancouver.

‘Be careful where you call from with anything too juicy or incriminating. Your phones might well be bugged.’ McElroy too had warned him earlier, but he’d already had his lines checked and cleared! Office and home.

He’d also spoken to Chris two weeks back when he’d first sent the envelopes. He racked his brain for what might have been said then, shaking his head after a moment; it hardly mattered now. If for whatever reason everything was going down now, Chris was in danger, and himself: if his line was bugged, they’d now know he was back at his apartment. Nel-M could be on his way already.

He shrank back another pace from the phone, then rushed over to the window, looking out. No Nel-M in sight, nothing else that looked out of place or worrying. He grabbed his keys, a handful of coins from a side-drawer, and leapt breakneck down the apartment building steps. He gave the street a furtive each-way scan, then ran round the corner, finally settling on a kiosk three blocks away, in case Nel-M meanwhile pulled up by his place.

His hand shook wildly as he anxiously fed in the coins and dialled Chris’s number.

‘Hello.’ A woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like Chris’s wife Brenda.

‘Is… is Chris there?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ The tone subdued, grave. ‘I’m afraid something’s happened. Who is it calling?’

Truelle’s stomach plummeted. Something’s happened! ‘It’s, Len… uuuh, a friend. What’s happened?’

‘I’m a RCMP liaison officer, Jackie Melkin. And I’m sorry to have to report that there was a serious incident earlier this morning involving Mr Tullington, a homicide, and his wife’s not able to speak to anyone — because she was injured too in the incident. You say you’re a friend of the Tullingtons… Len, was it? Could I have your full name, please, sir? I have strict instructions to make a list of all callers.’

‘I… uuuh, it… it doesn’t matter.’ He hung up abruptly. Not sure where the conversation would head, or if he’d even be able to talk any more. His writhing nerves had tightened around his chest and throat like a vice, so that he could hardly breathe — all that came out was a strangled, breathless gasp as he clenched his eyes shut and banged one fist repeatedly against the kiosk glass. No, no, no…. no…. no! But you had your lines cleared of bugs! You had them cleared!

He could no longer be sure of that until he’d made one more call; but he didn’t have time now. He had to get away. As far away as possible!

He made a quick stop at a deli for a take-out coffee to clear the dust from his throat and his head-throb from last night, sharpen his senses — though fear and adrenalin seemed to have already done half of that job for him. And running on that high-octane mix of fear, adrenalin, caffeine, and night-before Jim Beams and brandies, within seven minutes he had everything he needed from his apartment packed in a suitcase and was heading back down the stairs.

A final anxious scan of the road outside, having already checked every other minute while packing, then he scampered a block round the corner and hailed a cab to an internet cafe in Metairie where he’d make the rest of his travel arrangements.

Cuba! The remotest-placed friend he could think of — probably the only one of his old friends who hadn’t yet been shot. Not a million miles away, but with US travel restrictions a nightmare to get to: he’d be travelling half the day with stop-offs at Atlanta, Miami and Nassau to get there. Then a six hour drive from Havana.

The arrangements made, he suddenly thought of something he’d forgotten. He couldn’t leave it in his office, yet he couldn’t risk going back there, either. He checked his watch. 8.46 a.m. He called Cynthia’s cell-phone — he’d need to tell her he’d be away for a few days in any case — and instructed her where to find what he needed and the P.O. Box in Cuba to send it to.

‘DHL… immediately you get to the office. And don’t for God’s sake tell anyone where I’ve gone.’

Anyone? She told him about Nel-M’s visit the day before. ‘Big black guy, eyes like a dead frog’s. Seemed to be the day for people barging into your office.’

‘Him in particular don’t tell.’

But Cynthia knew that something was seriously wrong, probably from the breathless, rapid-staccato way he spat everything out, as if afraid a minute later it would be too late; and as the questions started to come, he cut her short.

‘I can’t tell you, Cynthia. I can’t.’ I might have set up an innocent man, and everyone who gets near to knowing about it ends up dead! The stale drink, caffeine and sour bile was like a bubbling quagmire surging up through his lungs. Hard to breathe! The throbbing in his head and body’s trembling was so heavy that it felt as if a limb might fall off at any second. ‘I just need to get away for a few days, that’s all. Just DHL that package straightaway and don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone — you’ll be okay. And Cynthia: be especially careful what you say on the office line. It might be bugged.’

He hung up quickly before any more questions came, and dialled straight out to his friend in Cuba as he went outside and hailed a cab to the airport.

‘Yeah… yeah, Brent… on my way right now.’

‘Be great to see you, old buddy. Been a long time… lot of catching up to do. Four-shot Mojito session, at least…’

Never any doubt. But if he hadn’t been able to stay with Brent, he’d have simply booked a nearby hotel. As his taxi headed towards the airport, he made his last call; the one that had troubled him more and more the past hour.

‘Bell South.’

Truelle explained about the engineers’ visits he’d booked three weeks back to clear suspected bugs from his home and office telephones.

Brief flurry of keyboard taps. ‘Yes… I’ve got them here. Both booked at the same time on the fourteenth of last month.’

Truelle’s hopes raised; then, with a few more taps at her end, quickly sank again as she looked at the next entry.

‘And then both cancelled again the following day.’

‘That’s… that’s not possible,’ Truelle spluttered. ‘I didn’t cancel them, and two different engineers called at the times arranged, both wearing Bell uniforms.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. If those visits actually happened — then we don’t have any record of them here on our computer. The last recorded entry we have is for the two cancellations. And no new times set for alternative visits.’

No point in arguing further with the girl; he now knew the truth of what had happened. How they’d done it.

‘Thanks.’ Falling… sinking deeper into the abyss, his voice little more than a hollow, detached echo rising up through it.

The two engineers had put the bugs in rather than taken them out! From then on, they’d listened in to every word. And when Chris had left the message with his details, he’d signed his own and Alan’s death-warrant.

Truelle shut his eyes as he felt the first tears of the day sting them. Maybe Ayliss was right: if they were clever enough to set all of that up, perhaps they’d set up the DNA evidence as well. And in two days time, he’d have Durrant’s death also on his conscience.

Truelle kept his eyes shut, the tears rolling gently down his cheeks as the taxi sped to the airport. But at least the battle inside his head was over: there were no longer any spinning city lights, only dark demons.

Melanie Ayliss’s enquiry landed on the desk of Joe Rayleigh, a portly, six-three black detective with a constant scowl. He glanced briefly at its opening page as it arrived. He had a stack of murder, rape, missing persons and armed robbery files on his desk; impersonation wasn’t exactly a priority. The only thing to give it a curious edge was that it concerned Larry Durrant’s new lawyer, Darrell Ayliss.

Rayleigh glanced at his watch. Not much he could do about it that night. But at 9.20 the next morning, he called the two places where he thought he might get a contact number or the current whereabouts of Darrell Ayliss.

At Libreville prison, Warden Haveling’s secretary said that it was likely either Warden Haveling or his assistant Mr Folley had a number for Mr Ayliss. But Folley had been on night duty and wouldn’t be in until midday, and Warden Haveling was tied up in a meeting until 10.30 a.m. ‘But I’ll get Warden Haveling to call you back the minute he comes out his meeting.’

Rayleigh left his number and made his second call to Payne, Beaton and Sawyer, the law firm that previously represented Durrant, and was put through to a John Langfranc.

‘No, unfortunately I don’t have Mr Ayliss’s number,’ Langfranc commented. ‘But I know someone who very likely has: Mike Coultaine. He used to work for us and apparently has kept in contact with Darrell Ayliss since. In fact, I understand that it was Mike Coultaine who recommended Ayliss to the Durrant case now.’ The small bit of scuttlebutt he’d found out when he’d called Rodriguez to find out how the BOP hearing had gone.

Rayleigh took Coultaine’s number, and dialled it the second he hung up on Langfranc.

‘Yeah. I know how to get in touch with Darrell Ayliss,’ Coultaine said. ‘In fact I met up with him just a few days ago. What’s this all about? Something to do with the Durrant case?’

‘No, no. Some query to do with his ex-wife.’ Rayleigh was thinking more about the first part of what Coultaine’s had said. ‘You mentioned you met up with him. What did he look like?’

‘Like… like Darrell Ayliss.’ It was obvious from Coultaine’s tone that he found the question odd. ‘Why?’

Rayleigh sensed that he was about to make a serious horse’s ass out of himself unless he explained a bit more. He told Coultaine about Melanie Ayliss’s brief encounter with someone she’d expected to be her ex-husband in a car the day before. ‘And although it was only for a couple of seconds and she hasn’t seen her husband for seven years, she’s got it in her head that the man she saw wasn’t him. So, I have to ask you, sir — do you know Darrell Ayliss well? Well enough, when you met him a few days back, to know whether it was him or not?’

Coultaine exhaled heavily. ‘I shared an office with Darrell Ayliss for three full years, with him no more than a few yards from me. And, unlike his ex, I’ve had the benefit of seeing him far more recently. I’ve visited him in Mexico twice now, the last time just fourteen months back. It was him. There’s no question about it.’

‘Right. Thanks for that, sir.’ Rayleigh chuckled awkwardly. ‘You know, we get these things in… we gotta chase them up.’

‘I understand.’ Fresh breath from Coultaine. ‘But I think you’ll find this is more to do with Melanie Ayliss’s old maintenance battle with her ex-husband. She’s trying craftily to make use of police resources to track him down.’

‘Yeah, yeah…. could be.’ Sounded about right. But he loved it when they were cleared up quickly. ‘Thanks again.’ The second he rang off, he threw the folder onto the ‘Case closed’ pile.

And at Coultaine’s end, as soon as he hung up, he called Jac.