She hadn’t shed many tears for Larry over the years. The last had been when his mother died six years ago and it struck her then that he was all alone, nobody left to stand by him. But she hadn’t cried like this since Larry had first been charged and locked in a police cell. Cried herself to sleep every night for a week, and the same again when he was finally sentenced. Cried and cried until all the love and hope had gone and she thought there was nothing left inside but bitterness and anger that he could have done this to her and Joshua. Deserted. Betrayed.
As last time, after receiving Bateson’s call, Nel-M picked up on Darrell Ayliss’s tail as he came off the Pontchartraine Causeway after Ormdern’s second session with Durrant.
This time, though, Ayliss didn’t switch hotels that night, was scheduled to book out the following day at midday, according to reception when Nel-M phoned to check. Nel-M didn’t see the point in sleeping in his car through the night, watching and waiting. Besides, Melanie Ayliss wasn’t scheduled to arrive until late morning the next day. The main event that was seriously going to shake Ayliss’s cage, put him off his stride.
Initially uncertain when Nel-M had told her that her ex was back in town — ‘Maybe I’ve wasted enough time already on that loser,’ — she’d then phoned back three hours later full of fire and pep and ready to go. She was booked on an early morning flight from Portland scheduled to arrive in New Orleans at 11.14 a.m. Nel-M told her to call him again immediately she arrived and he’d tell her precisely where her miserable scum of an ex was at that moment.
Yet having set everything up, Nel-M panicked when he arrived back at the hotel early the next morning: Ayliss’s car was gone from the hotel car park! He phoned reception again, but they said that Mr Ayliss hadn’t checked out yet. ‘As far as we know, his luggage is still in his room.’ Nel-M waited an anxious fifty minutes before Ayliss finally returned, Nel-M slipping down low in his car seat as he watched Ayliss pull back into the hotel car park.
Then the long wait, over two hours, before Ayliss headed out again, Nel-M anxious again because he hadn’t yet received Melanie Ayliss’s calclass="underline" 11.42. More than enough time to have cleared check-out!
He thought Ayliss would be heading to a fresh hotel, but then felt his blood run cold as he followed him to Royal Street, watched him park and walk towards Truelle’s office.
Each time Nel-M had spoken to Bateson, he’d asked him whether he thought anything ground-shaking had come out of the sessions. Neither Bateson nor any of his clique of guards had been present in the interview observation room, but he’d made sure to be standing close by as they all came out, observing expressions. ‘They looked thoughtful, pensive rather than pleased with themselves… for sure nobody was punching the air or rushing to Haveling to tell him anything. So my read on it is no, they didn’t hit on anything.’
So, maybe they were safe for now. Maybe. But that could all quickly change if Ayliss beat Truelle over the head with whatever Ormdern had unearthed at the sessions. Truelle, his nerves already strung-out tighter than piano-wire, wouldn’t last long. He’d crack.
‘For fuck’s sake, come on … phone!’ Nel-M hissed, thumping his steering wheel; and finally, six minutes after Ayliss had gone inside Truelle’s office, Melanie Ayliss’s call came through. Flight had been delayed twenty minutes.
Nel-M gave her the address. ‘And hurry… I just don’t know how long he’ll be there.’
Nel-M gently closed his eyes as he hung up, praying that Truelle could hold out long enough for her to get there and put Ayliss off his stroke.
37
‘Which part of nowand urgentis it that you don’t quite comprehend?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Ayliss… but I buzzed through for you: Mr Truelle is with a patient right now, and I can’t see any slots in his diary for at least two days. I don’t know what else — ’
‘It’ll be too late by then,’ Jac cut in. As he suspected, Truelle was giving him the run around. He glared towards the connecting door to Truelle’s office, and his secretary Cynthia picked up late, too late, the decision he made in that instant. She was a step behind him as he burst into Truelle’s office, swinging the door wide.
‘I… I’m sorry, Mr Truelle,’ she stammered in the background. ‘I told him you were busy, but he — ’
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Truelle exclaimed, his best mock outrage.
‘What, you mean like the meaning of life, Mr Truelle?’ Jac didn’t bother with an introduction; Cynthia had already told him on the intercom that a certain Darrell Ayliss wanted to see him, ‘S ays he’s the new lawyer just taken over representation of Lawrence Durrant.’ ‘Or the meaning of death, as in what you did to Larry Durrant?’
Truelle looked towards his patient, a bemused middle-aged redhead, then back at Jac. ‘You can’t just barge in here in the middle of a session.’ He reached for the phone. ‘I’m calling the police.’
‘Sure… sure. Go ahead. And when they arrive, I can tell them how you set up Larry Durrant.’
Truelle’s hand hovered uncertainly by the phone, then he forced an equally uncertain smile towards his patient. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mrs Venning. I think the only fair thing to do would be to credit you for the twenty-five minutes we’ve had today, and book you in again for a full session within the week.’ Truelle pushed the smile again. ‘So that you get the time we’ve had today free for the inconvenience.’
Mrs Venning got up with a faint smile, as if she was intrigued as to what might happen next and would have loved to hang around to hear it.
Truelle’s gaze settled back icily on Jac as Cynthia ushered Mrs Venning out. ‘Say what you’ve got to, then get out of my office.’
‘Great bedside manner you’ve got there, Mr Truelle. But this little talk of ours today is going to run at mypace and dictate, not yours.’ Jac sly smile quickly faded as he returned the gaze with the same iciness. He watched Truelle’s initial brash bravado quickly evaporate, his mouth setting tightly, anxiously. ‘There’s no doubt continued contact between you and whoever put you up to this — so you probably know already that I had a fresh psychiatrist see Larry Durrant these last few days.’
‘I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The truth. Nel-M hadn’t said anything, though he could easily see why not, fearful that the news might push him over the edge. Panic overload.
‘Gregory Ormdern. You might remember him from the initial trial when he stood up for the defence.’
‘Yes, I remember him.’ Truelle blinked slowly, trying to remain calm, swallowing back against the fireball of nerves brewing in his stomach. ‘But I fail to see what relevance Mr Ormdern now seeing Durrant might have.’
‘The relevance, Mr Truelle, is all contained in Mr Ormdern’s report on those two sessions with Durrant.’ Jac patted the envelope from Ormdern as he laid it on the desk. Truelle continued to blink slowly, as if this was all tiresome and uninteresting, but Jac could read the terror behind his nonplussed facade. Jac might as well have laid a dagger there. ‘You see, all along there were only two ways this cat could have been skinned. Either Larry Durrant was telling the truth and his memory of that night was real, or, if not, it had to have somehow been suggested. “Implanted” — I believe that’s the trade expression.’ Jac paused and smiled tightly. ‘And the only person in a position to do that would have been yourself, Mr Truelle.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Truelle said, a hint of vehemence to lift it beyond stock defence.
Jac rolled on as if Truelle hadn’t spoken. ‘And the main test as to whether that account might have been “implanted” is the amount of incidental detail recalled outside of the murder itself.’ Jac patted the file and smiled again. ‘And guess what Greg Ormdern discovered?’ Jac watched Truelle’s face redden, but it quickly transformed to bluster.