“I want… to help, James. I… want to… make things… right. To help catch… the real killer.” He turned and walked out, the guard closing the door behind them as they left, leaving Steph and I alone once more.
“You OK, Jim?” Steph asked. Her tone sounded a little panicky. “You look pale.”
“I feel fine,” I replied, my legs feeling shaky. “Do you believe him?”
“About what? His innocence?”
“No, his visitor.” I sat back down and was about to tell her to forget about whether she thought him guilty or innocent, when the door opened and the governor came back into the room. Another guard followed him in, carrying a large box. He dropped it onto the table with a loud thump then turned and walked back out. Thomas sat on the edge of the desk again, pulled the box closer to him and opened a flap. He reached in and pulled out a red folder, almost an inch thick and jammed full of documents.
“Here is everything we have accumulated on Harry Lightman over the past two decades. There’s another one waiting at the front gate for you. They contain every disagreement, every infraction, every disciplinary issue, every sickness, cold and hiccup. Every person he has ever seen, had visited him and written him. Also, staff rosters and rotations so you know where everybody is, has been and gone to. In short, every possible piece of information we have on him.” He put the folder back in the box, closed the flap and slid the box in my direction. “We have had a total of 47 guards who have been in direct contact with Lightman during his time here. 21 are still currently working here, 12 have moved to other prisons and still contactable, 11 have resigned and moved to other career paths, 1 has moved overseas to England and 2 are deceased. We are available for any questions you have. All of us. Catch this son of a bitch. As quick as you can.” He didn’t bother with formalities or handshakes. Thomas gave us a final glance, then stood and left the room without so much as a good luck or farewell. Steph and I exchanged a glance, read each other’s thoughts perfectly and took our leave.
7.
The drive back to Cider Hill was a quiet one, neither of us speaking. As I stared out at the countryside passing us by, I couldn’t help but wonder whether my doubts had been warranted, whether he was in fact, just an innocent bystander. I was just about to try to remember the moment I first spotted him on that long-ago night, when Steph broke the silence.
“We can’t let him side-track our investigation with his ‘I’m innocent’ routine, Jim. We have to keep focusing.”
“I know. But what if he is?” She butted her cigarette out in the ashtray and turned on me, more aggressive than intended.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. He’s already inside your head, making you doubt something that happened twenty years ago. Fuck!” I nodded, in total agreement. She was right. Within minutes of first seeing him, he had already planted a big, red flag inside my brain that said ‘You Fucked Up’ in giant black letters. I had to push it out of my mind or it would hinder any help that I could offer this investigation.
“I hear you, Constable. Loud and clear.” I tried to smile and found that the grin I managed made her laugh. It sounded nice, a pleasant change to the previous ten minutes of silence.
“How about we catch up for dinner? My place. Say 7.30?” she asked.
“Why, Officer Connor? Are you asking me on a date?” I replied and noticed colour flushing her cheeks. Now it was my turn to laugh a little. “It’s OK, I’m just kidding. I’d love to.” As she pulled over to the kerb in front of my hotel, Steph grabbed a pen and quickly wrote her address on a scrap of paper. She handed it to me, then told me not to be late in a very serious voice. I thanked her, promising to be on time. Fortunately, punctuality had always been one of my strong points.
8.
The taxi arrived shortly after 7. Having no idea what the meal would consist of, I had purchased both a red and a white wine during a quick trip down main street, although I was far from a wine connoisseur, preferring a cold beer with any meal. Turns out, I needn’t have bothered, as to my surprise, Steph was also an ale kind of girl. The taxi drove in to her driveway a few minutes ahead of schedule, I paid the driver and watched him creep slowly up Robertson’s Boulevard and back to the main end of town. When I was sure it was close enough to the time, I climbed the half a dozen steps and knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” Steph yelled from somewhere inside and I let myself in. “I’m just in the bathroom. Help yourself to a beer from the fridge. I won’t be long.”
“OK, thank you.” The house bore the unmistakable aroma of a lamb roast. I had the unimaginable good luck to grow up in a house where a lamb roast was a requirement at least once a week and something I often craved when homesick. If not my curiosity, at least my stomach would be satisfied tonight.
Once I put the bottles of wine on the dining table, I headed to the kitchen to retrieve the beer. The aroma from the roast grew stronger and more intense with each step, making my mouth salivate with anticipation. The kitchen, although small, had everything necessary, including a second, smaller dining table, already adorned with place settings. To my surprise, the table had been set for three. I
