Ascension Day (36 page)

‘Why was that?’

Coyne shrugged with a palm out. ‘Okay, first off it was the one thing that might not fit in with a robbery-gone-wrong theory, more hit-man territory. But that’s also why we held it back from any official releases, press or otherwise – so that we could filter out any false confessions. All we released was that Jessica Roche had been shot twice, apparently while disturbing an intruder. Most people would assume: sudden surprise, blam-blam from five paces, and out. And that’s pretty much what came in.’ Coyne smiled ingenuously. ‘Celebrity murder like that, we actually expected more – but there were six confessions in all. Three were white, one was way off the mark of the eye-witness description, and of course the other two we grilled like all hell. They got all manner of things wrong with internal descriptions of the house, but most tellingly neither of them mentioned the close-up head shot. The only one to describe that was Larry Durrant.’

Coyne was silent for a second, the only sound from a couple of bees hovering by a nearby azalea bush. The muted sounds of the city beyond like a more distant swarm.

‘But we’re getting a touch ahead of ourselves here,’ he continued. ‘Hand in hand with us narrowing down the general suspect list, we also took a closer look at Adelay Roche. My superior, Captain Campanelli, wasn’t at all comfortable with that – felt we’d get all kinds of back-lash from Roche. Word had it that he was pretty buddy-buddy with the Assistant Commissioner at the time. But it’s standard procedure, you know, looking close to home. And Roche wasn’t giving us any grief at that stage – which also struck me as somewhat strange, not running completely true to form.’

Coyne took a fresh breath. ‘But after months of digging into Adelay Roche’s background, we found nothing. No possible link to him killing his own wife, and, most importantly, no motive: no other woman, no arguments, no pressures or problems that anyone was aware of, and no big insurance policy on her – not that he’d need the cash. In fact everyone we spoke to said they seemed very much in love. And to cap it all, they were hopeful of soon having their first child. Mrs Roche was undergoing fertility treatment, with high chances of success, according to her doctor. Perhaps if her doctor had said that the fertility treatment hadn’t gone well and there was no possible hope of future children… then we might have had the seed of something. Or lack of seed, in this case. The Henry the Eighth motive, I think it’s known as.’

Coyne smiled dryly, but noticed that his visitor mirrored it only half-heartedly, as if the subject was too weighty for humour. Or perhaps because of what he’d mentioned when they first sat down.

‘But even if I had gone to Campanelli with that, he’d no doubt have told me that I was being too much of a cynical prick – as often was his wont to do – and I was stretching things too far. Then just as the dust was settling on the Adelay Roche front, he did run more true to form and start screaming why weren’t we making more progress in finding his wife’s killer. Maybe it took him a while to get over the initial shock and become obnoxious again, who knows? Then just two weeks later, Durrant’s confession landed in our laps.’

 ‘And did you feel comfortable with it, you know – given your concerns about Durrant’s MO?’

Coyne held out one palm. ‘I had
some
reservations. But listening to Durrant’s voice on tape, there was only one possible conclusion: he
had
to have been there. So either he was the killer, or a fly on the wall at the time. And when the DNA evidence came in, that sealed it.’

Coyne’s visitor looked faintly crestfallen at that moment, perturbed. It took him a second to decide where to head next. 

‘And the eye-witness?’

‘Incidental by that stage. All she was able to do was provide a general fit for Durrant’s appearance, not an exact ID. Early on, we’d narrowed down our list of hard-hitting robbers to three possibles and put them in a line-up with five others, including two police officers. She was split between three of them – two suspects and a police officer. Which I suppose from a hundred yards away at night, is understandable. So we didn’t want to push our luck with Durrant, otherwise the defence could have had a field day. But, by then, we didn’t need to.’

His visitor glanced absently towards the garden for a second before bringing his attention back. ‘And were there any other witnesses or others on the scene at the time that weren’t mentioned in the police report? Perhaps, say, because they didn’t come forward?’

‘No, the lady with the dog was the only one. Or, at least, if anyone else was there, they weren’t seen by her or any of the Roche’s neighbours we questioned.’ Coyne raised an eyebrow, was about to ask
why
, when his visitor leant forward and passed across three photos.

‘This is someone in touch recently by e-mail, claiming that he was
there
at the time and so knows Durrant’s innocent. Probably a hoaxer, or maybe even a friend of Durrant’s – but you never know. Strike any chords?’

Coyne studied them, grimacing tightly after a moment. ‘Can’t say that they do – even if there was more to pull a match from here.’ Coyne shrugged as he handed the photos back. ‘But, like I say, doesn’t become a factor here: nothing to match to. No other sightings. If there had been, they’d have been in the report.’  

His visitor nodded, his gaze towards the garden this time seeming to stop in mid-space – as if something was hanging there he couldn’t quite bring into focus – before he looked back at Coyne.

‘Thanks for that, Mr Coyne. You’ve been most helpful.’ He switched off the tape recorder and put the photos back in his briefcase. 

‘Perhaps my assistant, Dave Friele, will remember more,’ Coyne said. ‘He’s still with the department, though now he’s moved to Central – Eighth Division. But that’s about all of importance I can think of now, what with the passage of the years... Mr… Mr Langford.’

‘Langfranc,’ his visitor corrected. ‘John Langfranc. It was meant to be my colleague, Jac McElroy, making this call today. But, as I say… with his accident… I… I’ve had to take things over from him.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry to hear about that, Mr Langfranc.’ Coyne grimaced tightly as he stood to show Langfranc out. ‘But feel free to call me if there’s anything else you need clarification on.’

20

‘
…
Shall I tell you about my life… they say I’m a man of the world… I’ve flown across every time… I’ve seen lots of pretty girls…
’

Rodriguez had phoned Jac’s office and been put through to John Langfranc. ‘We wanted to play somethin’ for him here on the prison radio. Felt, yer know… that’s the least we could do. Do you happen to know his favourite tune?’

Langfranc didn’t, but he had a number for Jac’s mother and sister. He’d phone them and ask, and phone Rodriguez straight back. Langfranc hadn’t wanted to give their number to an inmate or get them involved in whatever prison relationships Jac might have forged. 

Langfranc phoned back minutes later, having just spoken with Jean-Marie. There were four choices: Sting’s ‘Roxanne’, Simply Red’s ‘Holding Back the Years’, Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’ or Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Man of the World’

‘The last apparently because it was also his father’s favourite song.’

Rodriguez could only find ‘Roxanne’ and ‘Man of the World’ in the prison record collection, and given his own rap-sheet history and Haveling’s likely reaction to him playing a song about a hooker, there was only one choice left.

‘…
Played today for Jac McElroy… one of those who took the time and trouble to care – because, God knows there’s  few enough o’ them left these days – and paid the price for it…
’

More maudlin a song than Rodriguez would have liked, maybe more ‘tired-drone’ territory, but the words weren’t too bad a fit, perhaps even would have described part of his own life… and he loved that guitar work, reminded him of his main man Carlos S.

With everything that had happened with Jac McElroy, Larry’s emotions were already raw and close to the surface. He lay with his back flat on his bed listening to the song as it played, staring up at the grey ceiling. It had in fact been his suggestion to Rodriguez that they play something for McElroy.

He’d already prayed for him, even though he no longer had an altar: just a four by three foot upright board where his altar used to be, covering the fresh cement laid behind. But he’d used the board to pin-up the photos from his altar that meant something to him. Only five of the religious photos sent by Peretti’s aunt from Perugia Cathedral, though, made the transfer, the majority were of Larry’s family: his mother, father, Franny, Joshua. Most of all, Joshua.

Joshua a year ago, the most recent photo, standing with his mother at the side of a brown Buick, probably Frank’s; Joshua blowing out the candles at his eighth birthday party; Joshua at five or six in front of Orlando’s SeaWorld, again with his mom – Larry aware that often the person who’d snapped the photos had taken his place in their lives; Joshua at three years old, looking up from playing on the floor with some toys.

But the only photos to have any life and movement in them were the two taken shortly after Joshua’s birth: one a week after Francine had come out of hospital, lovingly cradling Joshua in her arms; the other with himself holding Joshua aloft towards the camera, beaming proudly: ‘Look, unbelievable, isn’t it: he’s mine,
all mine
.’

From just those two photos, Larry was able to roll out in his mind everything else that had happened around that time: when the birth was announced in the hospital, his mother bought a cigar and a small bottle of champagne from a nearby liquor store, a ‘Benjamin’ – she didn’t want to encourage him to drink too much, she’d defended when he’d remarked about its size – barely gave them half a glass each to toast with. Rocking Joshua in his arms at every opportunity he got, staring down at his cradle at night in wonderment sometimes for as much as an hour, feeling Josh’s tiny fingers and the gentle fall of his breath against the back of one hand; staying awake sometimes for hours and checking regularly, fearful as he listened out that that gentle breathing might have suddenly stopped; and when Joshua did wake up in the middle of the night, crying, Larry swaying him softly in his arms and humming a Viennese waltz to get him back to sleep – Francine laughing as on one occasion she found him slumped in a chair asleep with Joshua still in his arms, the humming having lulled both of them to sleep…

The images playing clearly on his cell’s grey ceiling, where he’d played most of them through the years.

And then nothing. Nothing but static, frozen pictures. His whole life with Joshua condensed into just a few months, then nothing after that. Larry tried as best he could to shift those other images, give them some movement in his imagination – but he’d never managed to bring any life to them as they scrolled across the grey ceiling.

Only in his dreams sometimes could he imagine talking or playing ball or mock-sparring with Joshua as he was in those photos when he was older, hugging him now and then – and then he’d awake to the cold reality of his cell, a slow tear already at the corner of one eye, even before he faced again the cold, static photos and the tears began to flow more freely. All those lost years.
Gone
. Gone forever.

He’d stare at the photos wide-eyed, as if trying to immerse himself in their world, his body not moving, only his breath slowly rising and falling as the tears streamed down his face. Immobile, static. Frozen. As if somehow if they were both in the same pose, frozen, he would feel closer to Joshua in that moment.

Static
. And that’s probably just how he in turn had seemed through the years to young Joshua.
The
Stone Mountain
. A pitiful grey figure frozen inside his prison cell, with little colour or movement or life that Joshua could attach to it.

In all the years, he’d never told Joshua how much he loved him, Francine neither. Oh sure, he’d told his precious God how much he loved them, many a time… but in all their visits or his letters or e-mails with Joshua, he’d never said it directly. Just talked about day-to-day stuff, How are you? How are things at school? Basket-ball team, huh… New computer, that’s nice… What are you reading these days?... Given a few tips where he could.