Ascension Day

Early the next morning, while sipping at coffee, Jac took the folded paper from his jacket pocket and spread it out on his dining table.

He’d looked at the printed e-mail and his reply already countless times, had unfolded and folded it back more often than he cared think about; but perhaps without the noise of the office buzzing around him, something might leap out that he hadn’t picked up on before:

I hear you’re representing Larry Durrant. I know that he didn’t do it. It wasn’t him. I know, because I was there at the time. Don’t let him die.

No name, initials or sign-off; just the e-mail address, durransave4 @hotmail.com, and the time and date. Jac’s eyes shifted to his reply:

I need to know more to be able to do anything with this. Who you are? Or at least how and why you were there at the time? Also, why haven’t you come forward before? I need to know more to help save Larry.

Only four lines, but Jac worried that already he’d said too much, frightened the sender off. Yet what else could he have said? He was just telling it how it was. On its own, the message meant nothing: he couldn’t help Durrant with it unless he had more information.

But the other reason he was looking at it again now was because of something John Langfranc had said the other day. With still no reply, he’d finally told Langfranc about the e-mail and they’d brainstormed just who might have sent it — friend of Durrant’s, relative, hoaxer, any of the new supporters he’d found since hitting the press again recently, or capital punishment opponents keen to throw a spanner in the works at the last moment — when Langfranc arched one eyebrow.

‘Of course, one other possibility we haven’t thought of: the murderer himself. That need to confess that criminologists are always talking about. Not to mention guilt — with Durrant getting close now to his final day.’

‘No, surely not. I mean why would he — ’ Then suddenly Jac stopped himself as he thought about the e-mail’s wording: I was there at the time. If it was just a hoaxer, then why not say simply that he knew or could tell them? Why be so bold and say that he was there at the time?

Those same words leapt out at Jac now, until everything else on the page evaporated and that was all that seemed to be there… I was there at the time.

9

For the first ten minutes they skirted around each other, keeping the conversation to safe, inconsequential ground: how long had he been in the States? How was he finding it? Relationships with his mother and aunt? But with that, he found himself choosing his words carefully. He knew that, at least from Aunt Camille’s perspective, she considered the Bromwells to be quite close, and he didn’t want to be too ungracious.

But as Jennifer Bromwell sensed his awkwardness, she reached across the table and lightly touched the back of his hand, their first physical contact.

‘It’s okay. I find her a big snob, too. Sometimes too much to take. So don’t be afraid to speak your mind.’

And Jac, in turn, found her skewing her lip slightly when he asked about her father. He reciprocated by touching her hand back. ‘Look, I don’t even know him. But if I said he was a snob as well — would that make it any easier for you to talk about him?’

They laughed, and from there the conversation flowed easily: family, work, life, France — she’d visited twice, Paris for two days as part of a whirlwind European trip, and a holiday of two weeks spent between Cannes and Monte Carlo. Her work was in the PR and marketing department of a local fashion house.

They’d gone to Le Bon Temps Roule, his choice but under her guidance of liveliness and ambience before haute cuisine. ‘I go to enough stuffy high-class joints with my parents.’

There was a funky jazz trio playing in the back room where they’d planned to go after eating, but all that reached them among the front dining tables was its steady bass beat and the occasional forceful vocals or saxophone burst.

At one point Jennifer paused again more thoughtfully, as if, despite his efforts to put her at ease, something still perturbed her.

‘Look — about my father. My mother too, to a lesser extent. I feel I should say this now, before things get too far on, because if you found out later, you’d only be upset.’ Jennifer glanced briefly towards the bar before looking back at him directly. ‘All of this was my father’s idea, with my mom, as always, meekly backing him up. And mainly because of my boyfriend — who they don’t happen to approve of. Rock musician, you see, but just small gigs here and there. And, as my father likes to put it, not heading anywhere fast. Young lawyer with a blue-blood background looks a much better bet.’ She shook her head briefly and reached out and lightly touched Jac’s hand again. ‘But now that I’m here, don’t get me wrong — I’m glad I came. You’re a really sweet guy.’

Jac resisted filling the gap with ‘But?’ — it would only make her feel more awkward, when it was obvious what the answer was: there wasn’t any sexual spark between them, and wasn’t going to be. He appreciated her boldness in speaking openly and, because it took the pressure off him, he felt the least he could do was return the gesture.

‘Same here with me — with my Aunt Camille doing the pushing. Except in my case it was because I haven’t had a serious relationship the past few years. Not since I split up with my girlfriend in France, Madeleine.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

Her hand reaching out and consoling again. Though Jac wasn’t sure whether the ‘sorry’ was for his split from Madeleine, or because with him not having much of a love-life these past years, he might have expected more from this date now.

Jac shrugged. ‘I don’t do too badly. I get the occasional fresh date now and then.’ He didn’t want her to feel awkward for things not heading anywhere between them, but he stopped short of mentioning he had one of those fresh dates the night after next.

‘Like this one.’ She smiled. She started picking at the breaded prawn and calamares the waiter had just brought up. ‘Lawyer and blue-blood was the bait used to get me here. So, what did Camille use with you?’

‘Money.’ No point in tip-toeing around it; blunt honesty had been the order of the day so far.

‘Oh, that.’ She said it with the disdain that comes only from those who’ve had big money for a while: so used to it that it invokes only boredom, and by now sufficiently well-schooled to be wary of the associated problems and baggage that come with it.

Jac went on to explain the tragic chain of events that led to them leaving France — his father’s financial collapse, illness and eventual death — and as a result being forced to live in Aunt Camille’s grace and favour.

‘What didn’t help also was me choosing to switch from corporate to criminal law. Otherwise things might have been a bit easier financially, and I’d have got my mother and sister out from under Camille’s wing by now.’

Jennifer sipped thoughtfully at her wine. ‘Looks like you take after your father in that respect. You’re not that bothered about money.’

‘That’s exactly what Camille says. That, like him, I’m foolish when it comes to money, a dreamer. As a result, I make bad choices.’

Jennifer shook her head. ‘I wasn’t criticising. I meant it actually as a compliment. Kelvin, my boyfriend, is exactly the same. Just follows his dreams and where his nose might lead him, doesn’t give a damn about money. That’s what makes him so different, so refreshing. The problem I always found was that guys either came sniffing around me because of the money — put more effort into trying to impress my father than me — or they got intimidated by it and were frightened off.’

Jac studied her closely for the first time. More Belinda Carlisle than Britney Spears, a touch of red in her