Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

‘Let’s hope so.’

But Jac could see from her tight smile that she was as unconvinced as him.

Rodriguez felt in fine form this morning.

Jac McElroy had made it, the sun was breaking through a thin cloud cover, and the air was clear and crisp. Rodriguez inhaled deeply as he sauntered across the exercise yard. One of the first times the air had been crisp for a long while – Rodriguez liked this time of year. The temperature inside the prison was bearable for once, and hopefully would remain so for the next few months.

Rodriguez fired a quick fake-cap acknowledgement to BC and Larry lifting weights on the far side of the yard. BC was by far the keenest muscle-freak in their little circle, in the yard practically every day. Larry, Theo Mellor and Gill Arneck trained-up at most twice a week, and himself and Peretti, never.

‘Hey, you wanna try this som’ time, Roddy,’ BC called out as he approached. ‘Your arms are startin’ to look like strands o’ spaghetti.’

‘Nah. Might give myself an injury.’ Roddy made a mock grab at his crotch. ‘Would ruin my wild sex life here.’

BC shook his head and smiled. ‘Yer know, Roddy, at times you’re such a pussy.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Roddy shrugged amiably. ‘Like they say – you are what you eat.’

BC and Larry laughed out loud, bringing a glare from Tally Shavell, six yards away at the other end of the muscle yard with Jay-T and another crew brother – the separation between them obvious, nobody else daring to go into that electrified no man’s land.

Rodriguez gave them a guarded sideways glance, and signalled to Larry with a small nod that he wanted to talk: they should move further away from Tally and his crew. They sidled five yards away so that even BC would have trouble overhearing them, but Rodriguez kept his voice low in case.

‘Just got an e-mail in from Jac.’ Having almost lost his life trying to help Larry, suddenly he was ‘Jac’ instead of Mr McElroy; one of them. ‘As you know, his side-kick Langfranc filed last week with the BOP and Candaret, and part of that, Jac reminded me, was talkin’ about your literary expertise. He’d like to send a couple o’ the books you edited to back that up, if that’s okay?’

‘ Edit’sa bit strong a term. All I did was make some comments in the margin and change some words where I felt the same one had been used too much.’ Larry shrugged. ‘But sure, that’s okay.’

‘He expects Candaret to finally spill forth in about two weeks. But apparently the Board of Pardons will haul your ass in front of ‘em four or five days before that. So they’ll be the first you’ll hear from.’

Larry arched an eyebrow. ‘What the hell will they expect from me? Show I’m a literary buff by quoting from Poe and Shakespeare?’

‘Yeah… yeah. “Justice… justice! Where for art thou, justice”?’ Rodriguez’ smile quickly faded as he looked levelly at Larry. ‘No, I think it’s mainly to fin’ out if you’re a reasonable, balanced guy. Reformed character and all that shit. So don’t be your normal indolent, uncooperative self. Okay?’

‘I’ll try.’ Larry smiled lazily.

22

I desperately need you to tell me more to be able to do anything with your communication. As it stands, it could be from anyone: a hoaxer, a friend of Durrant’s… I can’t even begin to put it in front of the DA or Governor. If you can’t give your name for some reason, then we can talk about protection and anonymity. You can also feel safe in initially sharing that information with me under client discretion. If you are serious about helping Larry Durrant, then please come forward. And at the same time I’ll do everything I possibly can to help you.

Jac gave the e-mail one last read through, then pressed SEND.

He’d felt increasingly uneasy just leaving everything on that final, flawed note with his mystery e-mailer: very likely spooked and so no further contact. And when the night before he’d shared his thoughts with Alaysha, finally told her the whole saga, she’d urged him on.

‘Don’t just give up with him there, Jac. Keep pushing, send him more e-mails, try and draw him out. If he isreal, he must have a conscience to have made contact in the first place. Remember that, try and play on that.’

Jac had nodded a slow acceptance, her words in that moment seeming soright. But now, having sent the e-mail, he wondered whether it wasn’t just that added voice to his own thoughts, but because of his other frustrations; the desperate need to keep things rolling positively on at least onefront.

Four calls he’d put in to Truelle’s office, leaving messages, before he finally got a call back. Now there was a further forty-two hour delay – early the day after tomorrow – before he’d actually be able to see him.

‘Sorry. That’s the earliest, I’m afraid. I’m up to my neck with things – that’s why the delay in getting back to you.’

And Dr Thallerey, Jessica Roche’s old obstetrician, was away at a medical convention in Houston till the end of the week.

‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed at these things, so we have strict instructions not to do so unless it’s an absolute medical emergency. Does it fall into that category, sir?’

‘No… no. It’s okay. I’ll contact him when he gets back.’

Jac felt the clock ticking down against Durrant like a tight coil at the back of his neck.

Superficially he looked fine after his accident, except for a slight limp in his right leg. A thigh gash had taken fourteen stitches and his calf muscles had been heavily bruised, probably from when he wrenched his leg free. The doctor said that within a week it should have healed enough for the limp to subside; but what was going on inside Jac’s head was another matter.

Now that the clemency plea had been filed, he was back assisting John Langfranc with other cases and was meant to spend no more than four man-hours a week on the Durrant case, for what Beaton described as ‘residual maintenance’. But Jac found it hard to concentrate on the fresh files before him, and more than a few times he’d noticed John Langfranc look up at him through his glass screen: a searching appraisal that hadn’t yet fully verged into concern; yet.

Sometimes, when Jac tried to focus, the words would swim and merge and become little more than a blur; a grey blur that seemed to draw him in, becoming deeper, darker as he sank through it… and suddenly he’d back in the lake again, lungs bursting , choking for air…

Jac’s line buzzing broke his thoughts.

‘Lieutenant Wallace for you,’ Penny Vance called across the office.

‘Thanks.’ Jac swallowed and took a fresh breath, noticing John Langfranc look through his glass screen as he picked up: the police mechanic’s report on his car dragged up from Lake Pontchartrain! Jac’s brow knitted as he tried to disentangle Wallace’s description of brake fluid pressures and condition of joint threads. ‘What exactly does all of that mean?’

Wallace took a fresh breath. ‘It means that the findings are inconclusive. But if we had to put money on something – it’d be on it being caused by a fault or wear and tear rather than on tampering. Otherwise the thread on the brake fluid joint would have been clean and in perfect condition. It wasn’t – the thread had shorn off.’

‘I see.’ Jac knew that he should have been relieved, but that emotion still felt out of reach, along with any clarity on Wallace’s account. All he felt was numb.

‘Perhaps the joint simply got weakened with time and wear and tear – then with the sudden jolt of you braking hard, it sheared off.’

‘But what about that truck alongside swinging in? And the fact that he didn’t stop?’

‘I know. But it might have been a driver simply distracted or falling asleep, rather than purposeful. And once he’d straightened up, he’d have been past you by then. Might well not have seen what happened to you.’

‘Yeah. Possibility, I suppose.’ Jac sighed resignedly. Might, might, might. He wasn’t convinced. Langfranc came out of his office as Jac thanked Wallace and signed off.

‘Accident,’ Jac said, looking towards Langfranc. ‘Doesn’t look like brake tampering. At least, that’s what he’s putting the money on.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘Yeah.’ Jac nodded dolefully. ‘That’s a relief.’

Schlish… schlap… schlish… schlap…. schlish… schlap…

The monotony of the windscreen wipers was starting to wear on Dr Thallerey’s nerves, might have got close to sending him to sleep, if he hadn’t stopped just forty minutes back for a strong fresh coffee and popped a Ritalin straight after.

He’d decided to drive, because since 9/11 he just couldn’t abide airports any more. One-and-half to two hours before check in, with invariably more delays on top. By the time he’d sat for three hours bored mindless at an airport, he could be halfway there in his car.

He tried to keep to 55 mph, but invariably he’d edge up to sixty on clear, flat stretches. Two hours more, and he’d be home.

Schlish… schlap… schlish… schlap…

Thallerey peered through the intermittent film of water on his windscreen at the murky road ahead. A quarter moon was there somewhere, drifting in and out of heavy cloud cover. His squint suddenly widened, hands gripping tighter to the wheel, as out of nowhere – not there in one sweep of the wipers, there in the next – red tail lights loomed ahead and he had to brake sharply.

Thallerey’s speedo plummeted. He glanced at it as it bottomed out: twenty-two miles an hour! Ridiculous! He edged out. A large double-trailer truck, he’d need a clear, straight stretch to get past it.

They followed a long, slow bend, seeming to take forever, and as they straightened out Thallerey peered through the gloom at a clear stretch illuminated in his headlamps, no curves for at least a couple of hundred yards. He swung out and floored it.

Forty… fifty… he should be past it soon. Longer than he thought… a lot longer. It struck him that he wasn’t making much progress past it; the truck had at the same time picked up speed. He pushed the pedal harder – fifty-five…. sixty… the curve in the road still a good hundred yards away.

Yet still he gained only a few yards, appeared to be in much the same position alongside it, just past the coupling for the rear trailer – which meant that it must now be doing the same speed. Sixty. Deciding that he wasn’t going to make it past, Thallerey eased off the pedal and braked to cut back in – when a sudden blast of lights flooded him from behind.

Headlamps full beam, now a top searchlight switched on as well. Looked like a big four-wheeler, but hard to make out fully beyond the glare. It had obviously swung out to overtake following him, and was now showing full lights as if to say: go on, go on… get past it!

He hesitated for a second whether to go for it, but then saw that the bend in the road was only forty yards ahead. He beeped his horn and hit his brakes again to pull back in behind the truck. But the truck also seemed to slow alongside him, and now the lights behind were even closer, only yards from his back bumper.

He felt his chest tighten, beads of sweat starting to break on his forehead. They had him jammed in! He braked and beeped his horn twice again – but still no give. The truck in turn also slowed, and the four-wheeler beeped back: still jammed tight behind, its headlamps flooding his car.

Then, as if the driver had a sudden change of thought, the four-wheeler pulled sharply back and tucked in behind the trailer-truck. In that split second Thallerey was disorientated – his car still seemed to be floodlit – wrenching his eyes from his rear-view mirror to the road ahead as it hit him just why the four-wheeler had cut back in so quickly: an oncoming trailer-truck suddenly, startlingly clear in the upward sweep of his wipers, bearing down on him. Fast.

At least he’d now also be able to tuck in behind the truck, he reckoned, braking hard. But again it braked to hold him there; and there was one difference between his braking and the truck’s, perhaps because in his panic he’d braked that much harder: his wheels locked and his car started to slew on the wet road.

His last hope, as he squinted against the dazzling white of the oncoming headlamps and every nerve-end tightened and froze the breath in his throat, was that the oncoming truck, seeing him blocking the road, would brake and stop in time.

But it didn’t. It just kept going at the same speed, shunting the front of his car straight through him.

‘Yeah, okay babe. Yeah. Another one.’

Nel-M tucked a twenty-dollar bill into the girl’s thigh garter as elegantly, defying her near-nudity – the garter, stockings and cobalt blue high-heels were all she wore – she lifted her leg alongside his chair.

Coffee skin with a touch of au-lait, eyes almost matching – pale toffee with green flecks – full lips, a teasing slant at the corner of her eyes, chestnut brown hair in ringlets breaking on the curve of her breasts, and a bubble-butt to die for. Up close she was even better than viewed from a hundred yards through a car windscreen, Nel-M considered. Far better. Especially with her clothes off.

Nel-M had remembered why the girl struck a chord, where he’d seen her before: Mike ‘Miko’ Ortega’s ‘Pinkies’ club.

Miko managed four lap-dancing clubs on behalf of Carmen Malastra: three in New Orleans and one in Baton Rouge, of which Pinkies was his latest addition. Miko and Nel-M went back twenty years, to the days when they both worked together providing club security muscle, and he’d called in on Miko not long after Pinkies first opened.

Three years ago now, the girl hadn’t been there then. But Nel-M had reason to visit again eleven months back when Roche wanted to put the squeeze on a planning officer obstructing his application for a new refinery. They’d discovered that he was an on and off visitor to Pinkies, and a few steamy photographs landing in his wife’s lap would be none too handy. The only problem was that no photography was allowed inside the club; unless, that is, you first cleared it with Miko and slipped him a G sweetener.

That was when Nel-M had first seen the girl.

Nel-M swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, as she bent down inches from him, parting her legs and looking back at him for a second before swinging round and, from a half-squat, her breasts only inches from his lap, slowly rose again, swaying as she went.

‘Love Hangover’ played, more his generation. He would like to have recalled dancing to it, but more likely than not he and his wife would have been shouting at each other above it in some disco or other, or Miko and him would have been in a club side-alley pounding some drunk they’d just ejected in time with its beat.

‘Okay?’ the girl mouthed, mostly lost in the music, turning it into a wet pout as she half closed her eyes in abandon.

Oh God, she was good. Nel-M nodded back with a satiated smile, in turn half-closing his own eyes as he felt a wave of sensations he’d rather not have – especially with what he might soon have to do to her – wash over him.

Halfway through her first dance for him, he’d asked her name just to make sure.

She’d leant over so that she was heard above the music, her mouth close to his ear.

‘Alaysha.’

Sounded like the gentle swish of surf on a tropical beach, thought Nel-M, hot breath on his ear and her closeness sending a tingle through his body.

No question, it would be a shame to have to kill her.

He paid her for one more dance, then went over to the bar to talk to Miko.

‘Any chance with her for an old fool like me, do you reckon?’ Nel-M said it jovially, as if he was only half-serious.

‘Nah. Missed the boat there. She just hitched with a new guy. Though you might have stood a chance while she was still going out with the last crazy guy.’

‘Crazy?’

‘Yeah. Real schizo. Pushing her around an’ all sorts.’ Miko shook his head. ‘Even came by the club here just last week, making a scene.’

‘Oh?’

Miko didn’t take well to people making a scene in his club, let alone boyfriends of his dancers, so he’d made sure to find out all he could about Alaysha’s ex from a couple of the other girls.

Nel-M made out that he was only mildly interested, but he committed the key details firmly to memory: Gerry Strelloff. Assistant Bar Manager. Golden Bay Casino. Biloxi.

Nel-M checked his watch.

‘Staying long tonight?’ Miko enquired.

‘No, gotta move soon. Maybe just one more dance.’

But he never got to it. Alaysha was tied up with another client, and he was deliberating whether to ask another girl for a dance – maybe best that he didn’t get tooclose to Alaysha – when the call he was expecting came through.

He escaped the noise of the club to take it, waving a quick goodbye to Miko.

‘All done,’ the voice at the other end confirmed.

‘But sure this time?’ Nel-M pressed. ‘A hundred percent sure?’

‘Yeah. The impact cut him in half. They’re still scraping bits of him into plastic bags.’

‘And clean too, I hope? If you’ll excuse the oxymoron.’

‘Absolutely. Three firm witnesses: the two truck drivers and yours truly in the Bronco, all saying the same thing: he swung out without warning, didn’t give the oncoming truck a chance of stopping.’

23

‘ …And her eyes… her eyes.’

‘ What about her eyes, Lawrence?

‘ She looked up at me then, just before I… I…’Durrant swallowing hard, his breathing uneven on the tape. ‘ And, uh… the damnest thing was, I couldn’t tell if she was angry with me, or was saying thank you for putting her out of her pain. But it stayed with me, you know, that look… I found it hard to shift from my mind as I ran out.’

As Durrant described fleeing and seeing a woman a hundred yards away walking her dog, Jac realized that absolutely everything on tape matched the physical evidence of Jessica Roche’s murder: the shot to the head, the telephone ringing, the witness. The only odd thing was that Durrant never actually described pulling the trigger either time; the gun was there and the blood and pain was described, but Durrant had skipped over the instant of actually pulling the trigger, as if it was too traumatic for him to fully face.

‘That’s it,’ Truelle commented, stopping the tape. ‘I brought Durrant back out at that point and the session ended.’

Jac brought his focus back to Truelle across the desk.

‘… I’m sorry. Dr Thallerey died last night in a car accident. We’re still all in shock here from the news…’

Jac wished now that he hadn’t made the call; at least, not just before his meeting with Truelle. He’d had half an hour spare before leaving to see Truelle, and he remembered that Dr Thallerey was due back from Houston the night before. The news sapped him of all strength, left his legs weak. Worst of all, it numbed his thoughts. And so he’d asked Truelle to play the remainder of the crucial tape with Durrant at the Roche residence. ‘After Durrant’s made the first shot. I’ve already heard up to that point.’ While it played he’d get some breathing space to hopefully clear his thoughts.

Truelle had heavily thinning sandy brown hair, and looked worn, tired, with heavy bags under his eyes, as if he’d taken much of the woe of his patients on board personally. The word ‘seedy’ might have sprung to mind, except that he had a faint tan and his dress was quite dapper, with a navy polo-neck and burgundy corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches that screamed academia or doctor.

Jac sensed an edginess beneath Truelle’s tight, ingratiating smile and professional patina, though perhaps no more than warranted by the adversarial nature of their meeting: Truelle had spoken for the prosecution and Jac represented defence.

But as the tape had played, rather than Jac’s thoughts about Thallerey’s accident settling, they’d gained momentum: surely too much of a co-incidence, his and Thallerey’s accidents so close together? But why on earth was Dr Thallerey seen as a threat? And by whom? After all, he was only Jessica Roche’s obstetrician.

Jac swallowed, cleared his throat. ‘And that was the fourteenth session with Durrant?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how many sessions with hypnosis had there been by then?’

Truelle considered for a second. ‘That was the sixth, I believe. Fifth or sixth. We had eight or nine conventional sessions before deciding to try hypnosis in order to dig deeper.’

‘Presumably because you didn’t feel you were getting that far with conventional sessions?’

‘Exactly.’ Truelle’s hands on his desktop, fingertips pressed together in a cradle, parted for a second. ‘Don’t get me wrong. There was someprogress conventionally. But I just felt that if he proved a good subject, we’d make progress ten-times faster with hypnosis.’ The hands opened and closed again. ‘He was, and we did.’

‘I see.’ Jac looked briefly at the notes he’d made earlier. ‘How often were the sessions?’

‘Twice a week, normally. Every Monday and Thursday. Except for a couple of weeks where I could only see him once because I had such a busy appointment book.’

Jac nodded. He doubted that under normal circumstance Truelle would have recalled the days that far back; but having to repeat the same thing at both the trial and appeal three years later, it had no doubt become ingrained. Jac nodded towards the tape recorder.

‘And this session, number fourteen, was the last you had with Durrant? You contacted the police straight after?’

Truelle shuffled slightly in his seat. ‘Not immediately after. I wanted a short while to think over the implications, ethics of confidentiality in particular.’ Truelle forced a tight smile. ‘So first thing I did was cancel Durrant’s next session to give me some time to consider. But when I checked, confidentiality didn’t stretch as far as a murder confession. In fact, if I’d withheld the information – I could have been implicated as an accessory.’ Truelle opened and closed the cradle again. Trapped within it. ‘So in the end I had little choice. But, for that reason, there was a two-day delay from Durrant making the confession to my contacting the police.’

Jac rubbed his forehead. If it wasn’t for his earlier notes, he’d have had trouble continuing. But he found it hard to push his focus beyond them, as he’d planned when he first made them: thoughts about Thallerey kept bouncing back, crowding out all else. If both crashes weren’t just accidents, how had whoever was responsible made the connection between him and Thallerey?Thallerey’s name had only come up when John Langfranc interviewed Coyne. And as far as Jac could remember, he himself hadn’t mentioned planning to visit Thallerey to anyone; in fact, he’d only phoned once to Thallerey’s office just before he went back into work that first day back.

‘So, fourteen sessions over two months?’ Jac confirmed. ‘All recorded and with diary entries to match?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Truelle took the tape out of the recorder, and Jac caught the heavy scent of cologne, along with something else. Peppermint? ‘The trial judge ordered that I keep everything relating to Durrant until all possible appeals and pleas were exhausted. Which I suppose would include this plea now.’ Truelle’s smile this time was more hesitant, his cheeks slightly flushed. Reminder perhaps of Durrant’s life hanging in the balance with what they were discussing. Truelle cleared his throat. ‘Is there anything at this stage that might have given you cause for concern regarding the evidence against Durrant?’

‘No. Not particularly.’ Jac contemplated Truelle coolly. From the transcripts, Truelle had been given a hammering at trial and appeal over both the reliability of hypnosis and the ethics of revealing the tape. Despite any residual concern Truelle might have for Durrant, he was obviously more concerned that his reputation might again be brought into question. ‘Except, that is, whether it’s right to execute a man whose mind is still only half-clear regarding what he was doing around that time.’

‘Yes, I can appreciate that.’ Truelle swallowed, his flush becoming deeper. ‘But apart from that, nothing particularly untoward?’

‘No. Nothing untoward.’ From Truelle’s expression, it was obvious he’d had somestabs of conscience about Durrant over the years. Jac eased back. After the grilling at both trials, little point in putting him through it again now; especially if he might later need his co-operation in answering more questions. Jac shrugged. ‘Durrant has some doubts in his own mind about his guilt, mainly because of some promises he made to his family at the time. But that on its own isn’t really sufficient to – ’

Telephone! The thought hit Jac in that instant like a thunderbolt.

He’d called Thallerey from his home telephone that first morning, and been told at the time that he was away till later in the week at a medical convention. That’s how they’d made the link and knew that he was keen to see Thallerey, plus also found out where Thallerey was! The other call he’d made at that same time had been to Truelle.

Truelle, the desk, and the room beyond suddenly seemed more distant, Jac’s ears ringing with the sudden blood-rush to his head. Truelle was eyeing him curiously.

Jac blinked slowly as he fought to regain some clarity.

‘I’m sorry. I… I know this might seem a strange question. But has there been any interference with your phones recently – either here or at your home? Someone perhaps listening in?’

‘No, I… I don’t believe so.’

Slight hesitation from Truelle. Fazed by the sudden change of direction, or something else at the back of his mind? Jac pressed him again. ‘Or anything that’s happened with your car recently that might have looked like an accident on the face of it, or come close to it? Or any other incident where you feel your life might have been put in danger?’

‘Why? In what way?’

As crazy as Jac knew he risked sounding, he felt he had to say something. If they’d monitored and targeted himself, they might well have done the same with others; which meant Truelle could be next. With a fresh breath, he explained about his recent encounter with a truck, his brakes failing and his car plunging into Lake Pontchartrain.

‘I was lucky to escape alive,’ Jac said. Truelle’s face had clouded, his hands now clenched tight together. Jac shrugged, as if to make light of it. ‘The police say that it was an accident, natural failure – though I have strong doubts. And with the call I made just before coming here, in which I learnt that Dr Thallerey died last night, also in a car accident – I now believe I was right to have those doubts.’

Truelle looked perplexed, struggling to make sense of what Jac was saying, and, as he asked who Dr Thallerey was and got Jac’s answer, he in turn blinked slowly, heavily. No doubt thinking along similar lines: why on earth would anyone kill Jessica Roche’s old obstetrician?

‘I… I don’t see,’ Truelle said, gesturing once more with his hands.

‘Me neither, as to why.’ Jac shrugged. ‘All I know is that I phoned to arrange to see Dr Thallerey – then the next day he was dead. And the other person I phoned that same morning was yourself, Dr Truelle.’

Jac saw it hit Truelle then, saw him flinch; but it was almost as if it was a blow he’d been half-prepared for. He looked anxious more than surprised.

‘And you… you think that I might be next?’ Truelle’s voice was tremulous, his attempt at a weak smile lopsided.

‘Of course, it might all be just coincidence.’ Jac grimaced tautly. ‘But it would have been remiss of me not to say anything. Though obviously I’ll know more once I’ve – ’

Jac stopped himself then, struck as to just why Truelle might not have at the same time been targeted. Or at least onegood reason why.

And suddenly some of Truelle’s words, rather than politely enquiring, became more ominous: ‘…. Anything at this stage that might have given you cause for concern?…But apart from that, nothing particularly untoward? Truelle had been fishing for what Jac might know!

Jac’s pulse throbbed tight at his temples. He had to get out of here now, couldn’t risk saying any more; though with his lips suddenly dry and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, it felt as if he’d hardly be able to.

Jac checked his watch and mumbled an excuse about an urgent appointment he’d suddenly remembered he’d forgot to rearrange, and, with a hasty goodbye and ‘Thanks for the information on Durrant’s sessions,’ he left the office of a somewhat bemused Leonard Truelle.

In on it with them.

The thought haunted Jac over the following days.

He called Bob Stratton from a pay-phone and asked if he knew anyone good to make a sound-bug sweep of his apartment.

‘If it’s just a basic check and sweep, I can do it myself. But if it looks like it’s going to get complicated, I gotta couple of names.’ Stratton arranged to come round his place at six o’clock that evening, straight after work. ‘But let’s first sit in my car parked in front and map out a game plan. We don’t want your snoopers – ifyou’ve got them – to know what we’re up to.’

Stratton’s car instructions took only a few minutes. Jac followed them as he went ahead of Stratton back into his apartment, put on a CD and turned it up loud.

Bruce Hornsby had been top of the CD stack, and the first track was ‘The Way It Is’. Its heavy piano cadence filled the room as Stratton moved silently and deftly around, swaying a small metal probe from side to side. Stratton kept his eyes glued to its monitor needle as he went.

The atmosphere was tense, the heavy music jarring on Jac’s nerves as he watched Stratton expectantly; no talking throughout, some intermittent hand signals from Stratton only giving Jac half a guide as to what had been found. Stratton finished his sweep just as Hornsby’s second track was starting. He motioned Jac out to the corridor to deliver his verdict.

‘All clear on your open spaces – lounge and bedrooms – which means we don’t really need to be standing here like two CIA spooks. But you were right about-’ Stratton broke off as Mrs Orwin’s door opened across the corridor. Though his “ You want something?” stare had obviously been honed to perfection over the years; Jac had never seen her door shut so quickly. ‘As I was saying – you were right about the phone bug. But it’s connection activated – switches on only as you pick up. It’s not picking up anything else you’re saying in the apartment.’

Jac nodded thoughtfully. He’d noticed Stratton keep his finger on the cradle button as he’d lifted the receiver and carefully inspected.