Ascension Day (64 page)

What was happening now was probably little different, Jac thought – though too urgent and feverish to be termed love-making. They fucked. They fucked on the floor, on the bed, up against the wall at one point – Alaysha’s gasps and screams so loud that Jac thought the people in the next room would start banging and complaining.

They fucked with a heat and abandon they’d never known before, as if it might be their very last time; and perhaps, like the countless war-torn souls before them, that was because it might be. A bullet around the next corner for Alaysha, and a long-term jail cell awaiting Jac.

They fucked until all those dark shadows and worries finally lifted from them, and there was nothing left in this world that was important except the two of them staring breathlessly at each other only inches apart. Them. This moment.

35

‘Okay….
okay
. You’re there now, Larry… you’re
there
.’ Ormdern’s voice calming, yet with a nervous edge to it, as if he was afraid of losing the delicate thread of thought that had finally been established. ‘Tell me what you see?’

It had taken Ormdern longer to get Larry under than last time, and longer still to get his thoughts focused back again on that vital pool game at the Bayou Brew twelve years ago.

Jac was more conscious now of time fast ticking away against them and started to look anxiously at the clock as Ormdern struggled in those opening moments: only four days left now, and the heat and pressure now far higher with the events of the last few days. Jac took the first sips of the coffee that had been brought in for him and Pete Folley in paper cups a minute ago.

‘Bill… Bill Saunders is there. They’re all there that night.’

As Ormdern realized that Larry was linking back to what he’d covered last time, he gently moved Larry on. ‘Okay, Larry… they’re all there. But I wondered if you could tell me what any of them are doing, apart from playing pool…
anything
that might tell you what day it is?’ As Larry’s brow knitted, Ormdern added, ‘Reading a newspaper, for instance… something with a headline or date on it?’

Larry’s head gently shook after a second. ‘No… not that I recall.’

‘Or maybe even talking about the shooting of Jessica Roche… because that would then definitely place that pool game
after
she was killed.’

Longer pause this time, Larry’s eyelids pulsing heavily. ‘No… nobody’s talking about anything like that.’

The news had come through at midday from Governor Candaret’s office that Larry Durrant’s plea for clemency had been refused.

Jac had phoned Candaret’s office an hour later, and, laying on the smooth Southern Ayliss charm, had tried his utmost to sway Candaret, but he was adamant, immovable: ‘I hear what you’re saying loud and clear, Mr Ayliss, about Larry Durrant’s state of mind and memory at the time,
and
about his good character and development since. But balanced against that, we’ve got the fact that he did finally admit that he committed the crime that night – and even if there were doubts raised about that recall, we have the irrefutable DNA evidence that puts him there at the time of Jessica Roche’s murder. I appreciate the call, though, I really do… though I’m sure you can equally appreciate that this remains a  particularly brutal and heinous crime that I cannot look upon lightly.’

With Aaron Harvey re-offending, the odds had always been against Candaret offering clemency, but now it was official. Now Jac knew with all certainty that this session – whatever Ormdern was able to drag out of Larry’s fractured, shadowy memory from twelve years ago – was probably his very last chance.

‘And the bar, Larry. Who was behind the bar that night?’

‘Lorraine… Lorraine Gilliam and Mack Elliott.’

‘Anybody else? Was Rob Harlenson there that night?’

‘No… no. Don’t see him there.’

Don’t
rather than didn’t. Larry reliving being in the bar as he was twelve years ago, looking around the room.

Last chance
. All the more poignant, meaningful now. Jac had taken Alaysha’s advice to soldier on, and had gone back over all the old Durrant files and case notes for anything he might have missed, spread them out on the floor of his new hotel room the next morning – still switching hotel rooms and cars every day – along with the old crime scene photos.

The first thing that leapt out at him had been a long-shot of the library with Jessica’s Roche’s body at the far end: bookshelves along the right-hand side and serge-green safe on the wall at the end. He went back to the case folders, quickly rifling through all the photos, and eighth print down, there it was: a shot of the hallway – presumably to show the two footprints with faint bloodied edges heading from the library – and at its end, larger than life, a full-length grandfather clock. That’s how and why Larry could have recalled those details in the last session with Ormdern!

After the news from Candaret, he’d arranged to get to the prison half an hour early for a face-to-face with Larry. He slid the library photo across first, asking Larry if he’d seen it before.

‘Yeah. At the time of police questioning, and at the trial.’

‘Thought as much.’ Standard police procedure to show the suspect the victim, gauge reaction. ‘But this one they might not have troubled with at the time.’ Jac slid across the hallway photo.

Larry paused for only a second. ‘Yeah, that one too. They asked me if I recognized that shoe pattern.’

Jac had resisted punching the air; the sound was off between the interview and observation room, but Pete Folley was already behind the glass, looking on.

‘…And what were the bar-staff doing, Larry?’ Ormdern quizzed Durrant now. ‘Anything that was said or done that might pin down the day?’

‘Don’t know about the actual day, but… but a couple of guys turned up in carnival-type outfits. One had a chicken outfit, looked like he borrowed it from someone who’d been advertising a chicken restaurant… then just put it on for carnival. The other had a sequined suit and whited-out face.’

‘Did you know them or had you seen them before?’

‘Didn’t know them…’ Larry thought for a moment, his brow knitting. ‘And can’t remember seeing them before.’

‘And Lorraine Gilliam or Mack Elliott… did it look like they might have seen them before?’

Jac saw immediately where Ormdern was heading; if Larry couldn’t pin down the day, maybe Lorraine Gilliam or Mack Elliott could. Surely it wasn’t every day that someone walked in the bar in a chicken outfit?

‘No, didn’t seem like it. Mack was giving them this look, you know… one he often gave to strangers: what the hell yo’ doing in my bar? Got lost or something? And the outfits and the fact that they gotta bit rowdy didn’t help. In the bars around Bourbon that time of year, nobody would raise an eyebrow… but the Brew was a long way off the main Carnival routes.’

‘You said “rowdy”. What, was there a disturbance?’

Jac clenched his coffee cup, took a quick sip. Something else that might help fix the day in Elliott or Gilliam’s mind. Though no doubt the best hope was with Elliott; when he’d finally got hold of Lorraine Gilliam, she’d been vague about events back then. The session set-up was the same as last time, except that now the sound feed was two-way. If Jac spoke into the mike his end, it fed into Ormdern’s earpiece, in case he picked up on anything vital that Ormdern missed; this was their last chance, so once the moment was gone it was gone for good.

‘Not exactly a disturbance, no real trouble. Just that the guys were getting noisy and a touch outta control, and they started to annoy Mack ‘cause he was trying to concentrate on something on the TV.’ Larry’s face eased into a slow smile. ‘I remember Mack – having told the guys once to keep it down and they were still kicking up – warning the chicken guy to keep a lid on it “if yo’ don’ wanna end up like a Colonel Sanders chicken”. “What’s that?” the guy asks.’ Larry’s smile broadened. ‘Mack gives him a quick flash of the Billy-club he kept below the bar for troublemakers, and says “Battered!”’

Ormdern nodded and smiled briefly. ‘Anything, though, to fix the day or date? Anything mentioned? A Carnival party they were heading to… something at one of the nearby jazz clubs, maybe? Which might then also explain why they were in the area.’

Jac leant forward. A number of clubs held specific themed balls and party nights throughout Carnival; if one had been mentioned, it would pinpoint the night. A moment’s concentration, Larry mumbling incoherently at one point, as if he was mentally sifting through their conversation, before he shook his head.

‘No… no club or party mentioned… not that I can recall, at least.’

‘Anything else happen that night… unusual or otherwise? Anything that might pin down the day?’ The edge, the desperation in Ormdern’s voice now evident. Larry’s brow was knitted again, and, as it looked like his attempts at recall were trawling through fresh air, Ormdern added, ‘
Anything
. However small and inconsequential it might seem.’

Larry’s expression slowly eased. ‘Oh yeah… Nat. Nat Hadley. He was talking about his kid joining a Little League baseball team. Real proud, you know, running him there… watching the kid play.’ Larry’s smile was back again, though more wistful, with a tinge of sorrow. Lost years. ‘Don’t know if it helps much or not… but perhaps it stuck in my mind because I remember thinking at the time: I got all that to come.’

All that to come
. Jac clenched a fist, his other on the coffee cup trembling as he closed his eyes. None of that for Larry had been to come: arrested only six months later, he’d seen nothing since but the inside of a jail cell, had hardly seen his kid. Someone else, different part-time fathers, had cared for Joshua, watched him grow, got his little hugs and kisses on the cheek, taken him to Little League. 

And suddenly that thrumming was back in Jac’s body, as it had been that last night with Larry, clinking brandy glasses together as the tears flowed; his own heartbeat in time with the throb of the prison boilers…
last chance
…
last chance
… the ticking of the clock on the wall joining that beat as he stared at it numbly, trying to think desperately of what to do next…
if
there was anything left to try. The clip-clop of his step from the many times he’d paced Libreville’s endless corridors over the past six weeks, the final accompaniment a rhythmic banging from the cells as he walked along; as he’d headed in earlier that night, many of Larry’s supporters had banged the cell bars with whatever metal objects they could lay their hands on – tin cups, bed-pans – willing Jac on…
save him
…
save him
!

‘Were any days mentioned for the kid’s games? Or perhaps who they were playing?’

Clutching at straws
. It was becoming painful even to watch; the increasing edge in Ormdern’s voice, the heavy pulsing behind Larry’s eyelids as he searched desperately for that one fragment of detail from twelve years ago that might save his life now.

Finally: ‘No, sorry… can’t remember anything being said about dates or times for the kid’s games. Just how proud Nat was, you know… being there for the kid. Supporting him.’

‘I know.’ A concluding tone, Ormdern looking back through his notes and last session’s transcript for anything he might have missed asking about the Bayou Brew that night.

The silence suddenly heavy, stifling, only the sound of flicking pages through the speaker, merging, becoming one with the ticking of the clock and the pounding, thunderous roar in Jac’s head…
last chance
…
last chance
…
save him
…
save him
!

Jac leapt up as the coffee splashed against one thigh. Unconsciously, he’d gripped the paper cup too tight, splitting it.

Ormdern looked up briefly, Jac’s sudden gasp through his earpiece obviously startling him. He went back to his notes for another fifteen seconds or so, though with the silence the pause seemed interminable, before speaking again.