‘No, that’s not okay with me,’ Jac fired back. Durrant’s face was only eighteen inches away, his heavy-hooded eyes drilling home his message, and he recoiled back slightly in surprise. ‘I’m not offering an absolute by pleading to Candaret: freedom or even continued well-being in here for you. I’m even far from convinced that Candaret is going to offer anything. But what I am offering is hope. Hope that he might commute and that in a few years you might be eligible for release. Or that meanwhile something else might come out of the hat.’ As close as Jac dared get to hinting at the e-mail. ‘And for that alone, it’s worth a try. Because even if you weren’t well read, Mr Durrant, you’d remember from your Bible alone that when all the evils of the world were let loose from Pandora’s Box — all that was left was hope.’
‘Greek mythology again, as it happens. Hesiod’s Theogony, if I remember right.’
‘The point I’m trying to make,’ Jac rolled on impatiently, ‘is that you claim you’ve seen all manner of dark things in here over the years, all manner of evil — so maybe that hope at the end of the tunnel is somehow fitting. And that’s what I’m offering. That’s allI’m offering.’ Jac held out one hand in a helpless gesture. ‘But, fine, if you can look me straight in the eye and tell me there’s nothing in life you want to hang on for, no possible hope around the corner in a few months or years — then I’ll walk out of here now and not look back.’
Durrant’s eyes had flickered uncertainly towards the end, as if Jac had hit a raw nerve; but it was only for a couple of seconds, as if what was troubling Durrant was too elusive, pushed quickly away.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Mr McElroy,’ Durrant said at length, shaking his head. ‘But there’s nothing I’m hanging on for. And certainly not hope. I’ve been thinking things through for some while now — probably too long.’
‘Then that makes you a somewhat unique human being, Larry Durrant. Unlike the rest of us. Because you’ll also know from your reading that one of the most basic human desires is the need to know what happens next.’ Jac kept his gaze steadily on Durrant. ‘And do you mean to tell me that there’s not a single thing left you want to live for or are curious about knowing what happens next?’
This time Durrant was quick to hide the flinch by looking down at the table, or maybe it was the intensity of Jac’s gaze, possibly seeing things which Durrant was keen to shield. The private demons of eleven years in Libreville.
‘Unique human being. Been called a few things in my time, but that’s a new one.’ Durrant smiled crookedly, but kept his eyes averted until he hit his last words. ‘But the trouble with that theory, Mr McElroy, is that what happens next in here becomes somewhat predictable.’
Jac absorbed what he saw in Durrant’s eyes for a moment before conceding that there was probably nowhere left for him to go. Whatever was niggling at Durrant in the background, in the end eleven years in Libreville had won out. Made him not wish to endure it a day longer.
‘Well, did my best,’ Jac said, shuffling his papers back together from the table. ‘But one thing I don’t think you’ve thought about fully is Roddy. Seems to me that if you hadn’t reached him when you did in the boiler room the other day — Tally would have had his way with him and he’d now be in a body bag. How long do you think he’s going to last with you no longer there to watch his back? Three months, six?’
For the first time, Durrant reluctantly granted a more open smile. ‘I’ve got to admit, you’re good.’
‘What you mean is, I’m not the hopeless, weak-assed rookie lawyer you thought I was when I first walked in here.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘More importantly, does that mean I might have finally convinced you to pitch for some hope with our dear Governor Candaret?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, either. It might just mean that you’re too young and foolish to know when to quit.’
‘I think you’ve given me a pretty good object lesson on that score, Mr Durrant,’ Jac said, putting the last of his papers in his case and snapping it shut.
‘Yeah, I’m sorry if I went a bit hard on you.’ Durrant grimaced. ‘Because I know you’ve gone to some trouble on this.’
‘Even sent a detective out to St Tereseville General in case Bateson and his cronies got to Marmont before he woke up. And a supposed friend of Marmont’s, Elden, was already out there — though thankfully Marmont was still out. Even left him a book to read for when he woke up: Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, if you will.’
Durrant smiled. ‘Elden is okay. Not particularly one of Bateson’s tight circle. But I appreciate it: if not directly for me, then for how Roddy will be dealt with after I’m gone.’
‘That’s okay.’ Jac proffered his hand and Durrant took it into a shake. ‘I just wish you’d change your mind. Because I think Roddy’s going to miss you — even if he does manage to survive in here with you gone. And your son. Twelve. Vulnerable age.’ That uncertain flinch again, which if he’d been able to read, he might have been able to prise Durrant open more and convince him. But Durrant just nodded dolefully as Jac handed over his card. ‘Call me, please, if you do have a change of heart.’
That look of uncertainty — that deep down there was something that Durrant wanted to live for — was the only hope Jac clung to as he paced back through the prison: ‘Will call, won’t call. Will call, won’t call.’ But with each echoing step and gate clanked shut behind him through the cavernous extremities of Libreville, that hope began to fade.
7
If nothing else, Dr Leonard Truelle was a creature of habit. He read the daily newspapers every morning in his favourite cafe on Iberville Street over coffee and croissants, except when he had outside assessments or clinical notes to review for patients that day, in which case he’d use his morning coffee break for that and delay catching up on the troubles of the world outside until he left work.
But on some occasions, like tonight, those assessment reviews also coincided with his Tuesday and Friday single drink rituals — so he’d then spread out with his papers at a corner table rather than sit up at the bar. But the order of reading, day or night, was always the same: first the majors, the NYT, Washington Postand Chicago Tribune, twelve to fifteen minutes on each, then finally the Times-Picayune, which held his attention for no more than six or eight minutes.
Truelle always felt more connected to the country at large than locally, possibly through having graduated from Cornell and spent his first eight years of practice in New York. He’d only gone to New Orleans when his mother became ill. She’d long since died, but through circumstance, the drink and a mess of other problems, he’d never managed to grasp a time when he was organized or brave enough to return.
He still felt, twenty years on from his last days of practice in the Big Apple, that he was in New Orleans through duty rather than choice. The only things he found solace in were the warmer climes and the seafood. The rest of it — the petty wrangling and corruption of city officials, the environmentalists fighting a losing battle against the oil refineries along the coast — constantly grated, and so he always gave the Picayuneshort shrift as he flicked through.
He was flicking through so rapidly, skimming half-blindly, that he could have easily missed the entry, tucked in the bottom left-hand corner of page fifteen: Raoul Ferrer, 36, financier and businessman, was found dead in an Algiers car lot in the early hours of Friday morning. Early police reports cite the cause as two gunshot wounds from a 9mm calibre weapon to the head. On occasion linked to the Malastra organization, Ferrer…