Ascension Day

that he wouldn’t get a straight answer. But he just couldn’t resist the snipe back.

‘Yes, you’re right — we do have more subtle ways of putting things. I just dumbed it down especially for you.’

‘Ooohh, my, my. We are feeling frisky today.’ Nel-M’s voice suddenly dropped, becoming more menacing. ‘But then if you truly believe that I did waste Ferrer — maybe that’s not the wisest thing to be saying to me.’

‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Truelle said it flatly. It was probably the only bit of truth to pass between them in the past couple of minutes, and he still had strong doubts that the call in itself was the wisest move. He took a fresh breath. ‘Let’s cut to the chase and the main reason for my call now. If you were responsible for Ferrer, and if you and Roche have got it into your minds to do the same with me — then think again. I took the precaution way back of preparing a couple of insurance policies. Everything surrounding us and the Durrant affair, chapter and verse. All in sealed envelopes — only to be opened in the event of my death.’ Truelle paused to let the revelation sink home. ‘So, you see, you and Roche have a great vested interest in keeping me alive. In fact, those envelopes get opened whichever way I happen to go — even in an unsuspicious, unrelated accident. So if there’s been any talk of me being “taken care of” then, literally speaking, that’s exactly what should be happening — if you’ve got any time to spare. Making sure the road’s clear before I cross, or there’s no banana skins in my way… or I haven’t had one too many drinks before I get into my car.’

As Truelle got into his stride of taunting Nel-M in similar mode, giving as good as he got, he felt his nerves ease for the first time since he’d got on the phone. He couldn’t resist a lightly mocking chuckle as he hit the last words — but it died quickly in his throat.

‘We know all about your little insurance policies. Have done for some while now.’

‘What?’ Truelle quickly forced another chuckle to cover his surprise, but feared it had come across as quavering and uncertain. Surely Nel-M was bluffing? They might have guessed he’d somehow covered his back, but they wouldn’t know any of the details. He took a long breath to calm his voice, sound more certain of his ground. ‘I can read you like I read practically every one of my patients. You know nothing.’

‘Don’t kid yourself, Leonard. We know everything, every little move. You see, we’ve been listening, have been for some time now.’ Nel-M paused, smiling slyly as he heard Truelle swallow hard and his breathing become more rapid. Either Truelle was walking fast, or the comment had hit the mark.

‘You’ve been what?’

‘You heard, man. Listening. You know — what you’re meant to do every day with your patients. When I get off the phone from you now, I can go to a little room where a man will replay everything we’ve just discussed. And that’s been the way for many a year now. We got more tapes with labels on them than the Friends re-runs library. Every little detail. Most of it painfully boring — but, hey, some of it, pure magic.’ Nel-M’s jocular, taunting tone was back. ‘Especially where you’ve tried to outwit us and we’ve been listening in, knowing that you’ve failed before you’ve even started.’

‘You’re bluffing,’ Truelle said, but his voice was suddenly hoarse, lacking any conviction. The blood was pounding so heavily through his head that when a large truck rolled past close by, the sounds merged; one thunderous, vibrating roar that seemed to fill the street.

‘You just keep telling yourself that, Leonard. Our little man in his room is laughing himself stupid right now as we speak.’

Nel-M started laughing then, and it too became a roar that merged with the noise of the passing truck — until Truelle cut it short by ending the call.

And left there in the silence of the street as the noise of the truck faded into the distance, at least now Truelle had his answer: he shouldn’t have made the call. His legs felt weak and unsteady, and there was a sudden wave of acid bile in his stomach that made him want to retch. Though when he shuffled to the kerb and leant over, nothing came up.

As he straightened and noticed a man passing on the opposite pavement looking over at him, he was reminded of past times when this had happened. He felt like shouting out, ‘I haven’t been drinking!’ But of the two, sick with fear or from drink, he knew now which he preferred.

He looked pensively back along the street towards Ben’s bar, wondering whether the drink he’d left on the table might not have been cleared away yet.

A faint tremble ran through Jac’s body as he walked back into his apartment after work that evening; a combination of what he’d seen on the video tape from Internet-ional an hour before he left the office — the first undisturbed moment he’d been able to grab on the video player in the boardroom annexe — and his earlier confrontation with Beaton.

‘You see, Mr Beaton, the reason that I didn’t say anything to you, or indeed anyone, was that Warden Haveling specifically asked me not to. Not, that is, until he’d had time to deliberate more on a certain situation with Lawrence Durrant.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, McElroy. I wanted to see you because I discovered you’ve been withholding information from me — and you’re still doing that now.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Beaton… but, as you can see, it’s awkward with my hands tied like this by client confidentiality.’

Before the meeting, Jac had quizzed Langfranc again; but there wasn’t even a hint as to which withheld secret Beaton knew about. So Jac hoped that if he fumbled around vaguely in the opening minutes, Beaton might let it slip — but there’d been several anxious, scrambling moments before he finally did, Beaton eyeing him as if he was some sort of alien bug as Jac explained about the differing accounts between the prison guards and Durrant giving Haveling pause for thought, and, in turn, Haveling asking Jac to maintain secrecy until he’d decided which account had the most validity.

As soon as Jac was inside his apartment, he slotted the video tape in his machine, his jaw setting tighter as it played; then stopped, rewound and played the segment again. Then one final play, this time stopping it at intervals and moving closer to the screen to gauge angles and clarity.

Beaton had made it clear though that he was far from happy, ‘You’ve stretched confidentiality by the thinnest of threads here, McElroy. One more incidence like this, just one…’ his parting words settling as a dull ache of tension at the back of Jac’s neck as he’d returned to his desk; no doubt left in his mind what would happen if Beaton ever found out about Durrant’s death-wish, let alone their planned e-mail ruse.

And Jac felt that same ache now. He went across to the side cabinet and poured himself a brandy, closing his eyes as he felt the first mouthful trickle down. It looked like Mr Mystery had been well aware of the camera’s position — had kept his head tilted down, peak of his baseball-cap obscuring his face on the way in and out — and had chosen a computer with his back to it throughout. There were only a few seconds with a part profile from cheekbone to chin, and only a split-second with slightly more, from bottom of one eye to chin — but it was so fleeting and indistinct that it could still be anyone: Busta Rhymes, 5 °Cent, Martin Lawrence — take your pick.

Jac took another quick slug, trying to focus on what he did have: a video that could fit three hundred thousand male African-Americans in New Orleans, a description that at most would narrow that down by half, an untraceable e-mail address, and a sender that might well have been spooked and so wouldn’t make contact again. Jac rubbed his forehead.

But in that moment, as Jac turned it all over in his mind once more, the images on tape, Tracy’s description and Langfranc’s earlier comment all coalesced, and another unease suddenly gripped Jac’s stomach. While, yes, it could well be a hoaxer or one of Durrant’s friends, from all of that it could also be, as Langfranc suggested, the murderer himself.

Jac noticed his hands start to shake as he opened out the earlier e-mail and read it again:

I couldn’t give my name or come forward before, because I’d have incriminated myself. And that still stands now. But I was there, and I know what I saw. Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche.

Jac bit at his lip. Recalling something else criminologists said — that often those guilty gave a clue to what they’d done by only telling half the truth — along with I was there, another phrase now leapt out at him… I’d have incriminated myself.