Ascension Day

The only useful thing was that the note had been slotted as a bookmark in Marmont’s favourite scene — the dog coming back to life. Stratton didn’t need to hunt through to find it.

But there was nothing else on the pages, no underlining, circling or cryptic notes. Stratton flicked through the rest of the book and tipped it upside down in case there were other notes inside, but there was nothing.

He decided to grab a quick coffee from the canteen to clear his throat and his thoughts, and, while sipping, he studied the note again, hoping that something more might leap out at him.

The favourite scene was mentioned, so that was no secret — or perhaps they wanted in particular to bring Marmont’s attention to it. But why mention tagging the locks and light switches? Why was that so important? Seek and ye shall find?

Stratton scanned and re-scanned the note in between sips. Find what? What on earth was there to find in just a three-line note? And why say your shift? Surely there were only two shifts: day and…

Stratton sat up with a jolt, almost spilling his coffee. Night-shift! If they’d put it like that, it might have given too strong a clue to an inquisitive third-party.

Stratton darted down the corridor and found one of his friendly nurses.

‘Josie! Is there a cupboard or store-room that can be grabbed for a moment? Somewhere where it’s dark.’

Josie raised an eyebrow and smiled slyly. ‘Well, you sure know how to sweet-talk a girl.’

Stratton returned the smile, but a flush rose quickly from his collar. ‘No, it’s not that. I just need to be alone with this for a moment.’ Stratton pointed to the book in his hand.

From the way Josie’s eyebrow stayed arched quizzically as she led him along the corridor, he’d made the request seem no less odd.

Stratton found the first word on the second page of Marmont’s favourite scene — highlighted silver-grey in the darkness — then two more on the next page, one on the next, two pages with nothing, then another word. Stratton flicked through almost thirty pages before the highlighted words petered out. He then went back to the beginning to put it all together, making notes on a pad as he went. When he’d finished, he flicked on the store-room light and read what he’d written:

Don’t say anything about the fight until you’ve had a chance to speak to us. It’s important we get our stories straight.

Stratton punched the air. ‘Got em!’

‘You look pleased with yourself,’ Josie commented as he exited. ‘I didn’t know Stephen King had that type of scene in his books.’

Only a weak half-smile this time from Stratton. He was too busy concentrating on tapping out Jac McElroy’s number on his cell-phone.

Jac took the call as he was walking along Camp Street, only a block away from his apartment. He’d got used to walking back and forth to work. Just over a mile, it was better than braving rush-hour traffic and paying all-day car-park charges on St Charles Street. Only the firm’s senior partners had reserved places in the back parking lot.

Jac beamed widely as Stratton told him the news from St Tereseville General. To those passing, they probably thought he’d just arranged a hot date. That was tomorrow night, and wouldn’t raise much of a smile.

‘That’s great,’ Jac said. ‘Looks like we’ve got the guards’ account roped and tied, even if Marmont does wake up.’ Then, realizing that probably sounded flippant, ‘Though obviously it would be better if he did — not least for Marmont himself.’ In their brief association, he’d enjoyed Stratton’s offbeat patter. Hopefully Stratton appreciated it being bounced back.

‘If nothing else, so that he can read Pet Sematary for the hundredth time.’

‘Might send him back into a coma again.’

Stratton’s chuckle faded as they came onto the mechanics of just where and when he’d be able to get a written report to Jac.

‘I’m hoping to head back out to Libreville again this weekend,’ Jac said. ‘There’s one final person I want to see who was involved in this. And, combined with your report, that should nail things once and for all with Haveling.’

As Jac swung open the door to his apartment block, the hall light was already on, so he didn’t bother to push the timed switch.

Stratton said that he’d type up his report either when he got back that night or first thing in the morning. ‘It’ll be sitting here for you to pick up anytime after eleven tomorrow. Or, if you’re not going to Libreville until Sunday — I’ve got time to messenger it over to you.’

‘I’ve got a couple of calls to make first.’ Jac had heard that Rodriguez was finally in a fit state to be interviewed, but aside from him verifying Durrant’s account of the guards’ assault, there was another vital reason to see him. ‘I’ll phone you back as soon as I know when I’m heading out there.’

Jac had just reached the top of the entrance stairs as he signed off and was slightly breathless, not just from walking and talking at the same time, but from the adrenalin rush of Stratton’s news.

Only a second later the hallway light clicked off, plunging him into darkness.

Jac reached out and made contact with the wall to one side, feeling his way along. Three more paces to the corner of the corridor, then five or six feet the other side was the light switch. Surely he knew the positioning so off-by-heart now that he could locate it even in the pitch dark?

The fall of his own breathing seemed somehow heavier in the darkness — though suddenly he became aware of some other sound beyond it. He froze and held his breath, listening intently above his own rapid heartbeat. Someone else was there, only a few paces away. Moving stealthily towards him in the darkness.

8

Carmen Malastra was a Don from the old school: ‘Moustache Pete’s’, ‘Don Corleones’ and ‘Dinosaurs’ were amongst the many disparaging terms for them.

Malastra was keenly aware that, in order to survive, he should keep abreast of the times with at least one foot in the modern age: brutally wiping out anyone who got within a sniff of threatening his power base might not on its own be enough.

For years he’d resisted anything to do with modern electronics and computers: that was for his kids, correct that, grandkids, and whenever it played a part in his many business enterprises, well, that was what he employed geeks and nerds for.

Besides, at his age now, the wrong side of sixty, it wasn’t seemly, gentlemanly, to be seen playing around on a computer next to some kid with a nose ring and half his hair dyed flame-orange. He was of a different era, an age where suaveness and ‘style’ still had meaning.

But as soon as that thought hit him, he realized he’d found the key to keeping one foot in the modern age. He took three two-month night courses without saying a word to anyone; his Capos and staff thought that he must have a private lady friend. Very private.

And when he’d finished the courses, he could talk Java, HotMetal, firewalls and Macromedia with the best of them, his liver-spotted hands flying across the keyboard. But the rest of him still remained very much old school: formal evening suits for dinners and functions; black in winter, white in summer, often with a cummerbund, Aqua di Selva doused liberally on his neck and mixed with olive oil to coat his swept-back grey hair.

The scent of pine and olive trees: it reminded him of playing in the woodlands and farm-fields of his native Calabria when he was a little boy.

The first thing he’d done with his new computer knowledge was go through his accounts, see if he could siphon even more cash out of reach of the IRS. That was when he discovered that some siphoning was already