Ascension Day

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