‘Don’t kid yourself, Leonard. We know everything, every little move. You see, we’ve been listening, have been for some time now.’ Nel-M paused, smiling slyly as he heard Truelle swallow hard and his breathing become more rapid. Either Truelle was walking fast, or the comment had hit the mark.
‘You’ve been what?’
‘You heard, man. Listening. You know — what you’re meant to do every day with your patients. When I get off the phone from you now, I can go to a little room where a man will replay everything we’ve just discussed. And that’s been the way for many a year now. We got more tapes with labels on them than the Friendsre-runs library. Every little detail. Most of it painfully boring — but, hey, some of it, pure magic.’ Nel-M’s jocular, taunting tone was back. ‘Especially where you’ve tried to outwit us and we’ve been listening in, knowing that you’ve failed before you’ve even started.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ Truelle said, but his voice was suddenly hoarse, lacking any conviction. The blood was pounding so heavily through his head that when a large truck rolled past close by, the sounds merged; one thunderous, vibrating roar that seemed to fill the street.
‘You just keep telling yourself that, Leonard. Our little man in his room is laughing himself stupid right now as we speak.’
Nel-M started laughing then, and it too became a roar that merged with the noise of the passing truck — until Truelle cut it short by ending the call.
And left there in the silence of the street as the noise of the truck faded into the distance, at least now Truelle had his answer: he shouldn’t have made the call. His legs felt weak and unsteady, and there was a sudden wave of acid bile in his stomach that made him want to retch. Though when he shuffled to the kerb and leant over, nothing came up.
As he straightened and noticed a man passing on the opposite pavement looking over at him, he was reminded of past times when this had happened. He felt like shouting out, ‘I haven’t been drinking!’ But of the two, sick with fear or from drink, he knew now which he preferred.
He looked pensively back along the street towards Ben’s bar, wondering whether the drink he’d left on the table might not have been cleared away yet.
A faint tremble ran through Jac’s body as he walked back into his apartment after work that evening; a combination of what he’d seen on the video tape from Internet-ionalan hour before he left the office — the first undisturbed moment he’d been able to grab on the video player in the boardroom annexe — and his earlier confrontation with Beaton.
‘You see, Mr Beaton, the reason that I didn’t say anything to you, or indeed anyone, was that Warden Haveling specifically asked me not to. Not, that is, until he’d had time to deliberate more on a certain situation with Lawrence Durrant.’
‘You’re talking in riddles, McElroy. I wanted to see you because I discovered you’ve been withholding information from me — and you’re still doing that now.’
‘ I’m sorry, Mr Beaton… but, as you can see, it’s awkward with my hands tied like this by client confidentiality.’
Before the meeting, Jac had quizzed Langfranc again; but there wasn’t even a hint as to which withheld secret Beaton knew about. So Jac hoped that if he fumbled around vaguely in the opening minutes, Beaton might let it slip — but there’d been several anxious, scrambling moments before he finally did, Beaton eyeing him as if he was some sort of alien bug as Jac explained about the differing accounts between the prison guards and Durrant giving Haveling pause for thought, and, in turn, Haveling asking Jac to maintain secrecy until he’d decided which account had the most validity.
As soon as Jac was inside his apartment, he slotted the video tape in his machine, his jaw setting tighter as it played; then stopped, rewound and played the segment again. Then one final play, this time stopping it at intervals and moving closer to the screen to gauge angles and clarity.
Beaton had made it clear though that he was far from happy, ‘ You’ve stretched confidentiality by the thinnest of threads here, McElroy. One more incidence like this, just one…’ his parting words settling as a dull ache of tension at the back of Jac’s neck as he’d returned to his desk; no doubt left in his mind what would happen if Beaton ever found out about Durrant’s death-wish, let alone their planned e-mail ruse.
And Jac felt that same ache now. He went across to the side cabinet and poured himself a brandy, closing his eyes as he felt the first mouthful trickle down. It looked like Mr Mystery had been well aware of the camera’s position — had kept his head tilted down, peak of his baseball-cap obscuring his face on the way in andout — and had chosen a computer with his back to it throughout. There were only a few seconds with a part profile from cheekbone to chin, and only a split-second with slightly more, from bottom of one eye to chin — but it was so fleeting and indistinct that it could still be anyone: Busta Rhymes, 5 °Cent, Martin Lawrence — take your pick.
Jac took another quick slug, trying to focus on what he didhave: a video that could fit three hundred thousand male African-Americans in New Orleans, a description that at most would narrow that down by half, an untraceable e-mail address, and a sender that might well have been spooked and so wouldn’t make contact again. Jac rubbed his forehead.
But in that moment, as Jac turned it all over in his mind once more, the images on tape, Tracy’s description and Langfranc’s earlier comment all coalesced, and another unease suddenly gripped Jac’s stomach. While, yes, it could well be a hoaxer or one of Durrant’s friends, from all of that it could also be, as Langfranc suggested, the murderer himself.
Jac noticed his hands start to shake as he opened out the earlier e-mail and read it again:
I couldn’t give my name or come forward before, because I’d have incriminated myself. And that still stands now. But I was there, and I know what I saw. Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche.
Jac bit at his lip. Recalling something else criminologists said — that often those guilty gave a clue to what they’d done by only telling half the truth — along with I was there, another phrase now leapt out at him… I’d have incriminated myself.
‘Hi. Bell-South. My name’s Leonard Truelle and I made an earlier call requesting an engineer’s visit to check my line.’
‘Telephone number and zip-code?’
Nel-M gave them, and waited anxiously while the girl checked the details on the computer. As agreed with Roche, he’d left it twenty-four hours from his conversation with Truelle before making the call. If there was no request made, he’d have to back-track quickly and say that he’d instructed his secretary but she obviously hadn’t made the request yet. ‘ Staff these days!’ Then make the same call twenty-four hours later. Nel-M felt the tension ease from his chest as the girl started speaking again.
‘Yes. Here it is. Appointment for an engineer to call at four-thirty p.m. at the number you gave me. And another one here under the same name the following morning, but a different number and address.’
‘Yes, that ones for my office,’ Nel-M said. ‘But the problem is, I didn’t have my diary with me at the time I made the appointments, and I fear those times might now be a problem. You said four-thirty tomorrow for my home visit… and what time was it for my office?’
‘Eleven the following morning, Thursday.’
Nel-M sighed. ‘I feared as much. Something’s cropped up, and I just don’t think I’m going to be able to make those now.’
‘Do you want me to re-schedule them for you?’
‘No, no. It’s okay. If you cancel them for now, I’ll phone in and book them again when I’ve got my schedule a bit clearer. As it is, I might have been worrying for nothing with the checks I wanted made.’