But Jac knew that Coultaine was saying it mainly to lift his spirits; it was far more likely that it would simply cement the original conclusion. He was kidding himself if he thought he might be able to prove Durrant’s innocence. And worst thing was that Durrant had so little recall of the events of eleven years ago, he was kidding himself too. Had no idea if he was innocent or not.
Nel-M was having one last coffee before heading over to Roche’s with the latest tape offering when Vic Farrelia rang.
‘Another call just came in. Same guy as the other day.’
‘Coultaine?’
‘Yeah, Coultaine.’
Nel-M checked his watch. ‘Okay, I’ll be right over.’ He downed one final gulp, put his foot down hard for the two miles to Farrelia’s stake-out on Perdido Street, and signalled Farrelia to hit ‘play’ as soon as he walked into the room.
‘Got that name of the defence psychiatrists for you: Ormdern. Gregory Ormdern. And Coyne’s assistant’s name is Friele. Dave Friele.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘But if I were you, I’d see Truelle first. Get the sequence right for how it was then: prosecution case, then counter arguments.’
‘He in fact was top of my list. Because it seems to me that everything kick-started with the taped admission in Truelle’s session…’
Nel-M signalled for Farrelia to stop the tape. He didn’t want to be late, he’d play the rest at Roche’s. More than enough to hang McElroy already, he thought, banging his hand against the steering wheel on his way over, clenching and unclenching his fists on his knees as he patiently sat through Roche listening to what he’d already heard on the two calls, as if he couldn’t wait to unfurl them and get them around McElroy’s neck.
‘I daresay, though, it’s not going to be easy, jolting eleven-year-old memories. Because, like I said the other day, while Durrant’s memory might have improved and filled in some of the gaps, others will have faded.’
‘I know. But I promised… which you said a lawyer should never do. Looks like I’m about to find out why.’ Uneasy laugh from McElroy. ‘I’m finding myself torn on this. I don’t want to give in too easily, throw in the towel before I’ve started just because it looks too daunting and hopeless to try and prove Durrant’s innocence. And on the other hand, I don’t want to mislead him and falsely build up his hopes. He deserves better than that.’
‘Well, I’m sure Larry Durrant’s happy to know he still has friends out there batting on his behalf. And I say that for my part, too. I wish I could have done more for him at the time, so it’s nice to see that he appears to be in good hands.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, and for whatever it might help — I’ll do a support letter to go along with the clemency plea: character reference, Durrant making good with his self-education, that type of thing, along with the questionable ethics of executing someone who still doesn’t have possession of the faculties to know if their guilty or innocent… maybe the first time that’s happened. You want to check the records on that, spin it out for even more mileage if you can. When are you putting it in?’
‘Day after tomorrow. Straight after Durrant has signed it.’
‘I’ll make sure to get the letter over to you by then.’
Roche waved a hand for Nel-M to stop the tape.
Silence. Stone silence.
They were in Roche’s ‘Terrace Room’, an over sized conservatory replete with white wicker furniture, palm trees and a white cockatoo in a six-foot high Moroccan-style white cage in one corner. To complete the image, Roche was wearing a white robe with his initials emblazoned in red on one breast pocket. The initials were the only splash of red in the room.
Though it was probably the most tasteful room in the house, Nel-M reminded himself. The rest was oppressively Baroque, with gilded statues of angels and cherubs everywhere, red velvet curtains on every window, and red and gold silk draped over practically every outstretched limb — or other protruding appendage — of the angels and cherubs. Nel-M hated it with a vengeance. It reminded him of a cross between a funeral parlour and a 1920s whorehouse.
The only sounds were the gentle hum of the pool filter beyond the glass and the occasional caw of the cockatoo; though that too seemed to have fallen silent with the stopping of the tape.
‘Last thing we want is McElroy seeing Truelle,’ Roche commented.
Exactly my sentiment, thought Nel-M, but all he said was ‘Yeah.’
‘Probably wouldn’t find out anything, but it’s the sort of thing that might just hit the final panic button with Truelle. Just what we don’t need right now.’
Another ‘Yeah,’ Nel-M contemplating Roche coolly, evenly. After the other day, he wasn’t going to put his head in the noose and try and push Roche this way or that, only to be shot down in flames again. So he’d decided to say little or nothing, just let Roche get there on his own.
‘And we certainly don’t want Durrant getting frisky, starting to remember things he shouldn’t.’
‘Certainly don’t.’ He’d noticed Roche flinch at that juncture on the tape: ‘…whileDurrant’s memory might have improved and filled in some of the gaps…’
Roche was anxious now as it hit him for the first time that he wasn’t getting much feedback. He looked at Nel-M expectantly, as if hoping he’d elaborate, but Nel-M just kept the same cool stare straight through Roche. You’re on your own this time, fuckhead.
‘And… uh, well… looks like we can’t hold back any longer from taking action.’
‘Looks like it.’ Nel-M relishing Roche’s discomfort as he noticed some sweat beads break out above his top lip.
‘Though it appears we’re spoilt for choice there.’ Small chuckle from Roche that fought for bravado, but failed. His breathing suddenly more laboured. ‘Destroy his career, or, as you so aptly put it, a few column inches alongside Raoul Ferrer.’
Nel-M didn’t say anything, simply shrugged.
One hand of Roche’s clutched at his thigh as he struggled with the decision, faint sweat-beads now on his forehead too. ‘Which route do you think we should go?’ he pressed.
‘You know I always leave those sort of decisions to you.’ Nel-M smiled tightly, refusing to be drawn. This time he didn’t need to say anything; the tapes had done it all for him. Hardly any options left now for Roche.
The silence heavy, palpable, Nel-M suddenly aware of something he hadn’t noticed before: gently playing in the background, like the soft, non-descript piped music in an elevator, an instrumental version of ‘Fernando’s Hideaway’.
‘Weighing up not just the best option, but one which will ensure no possible links back.’
‘Obviously.’ Nel-M shrugged.
Roche’s hand rose briefly to rub at his temple before returning to his lap, a small nervous tic appearing at the corner of his mouth. His breathing rattled faintly as it rose and fell.
‘And of course, the best timing…’
Another shrug from Nel-M.
Roche’s mouth dry, his fat pink tongue snaking out to moisten it, his hand clenched back on his knee starting to tremble slightly.
But Nel-M just held the same stare steadily on Roche, wallowing in every small nuance of his discomfort, while on his own knee he started to drum a steady rhythm with his fingers as he waited impatiently on Roche’s final pearls of wisdom.
18
As Frank Sinatra invited Libreville’s inmates to come fly with him and try some exotic booze in far Bombay, Rodriguez might have swayed to it if he hadn’t heard it a hundred times before.