Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 33 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

Two vice detectives and another sergeant smiled as Brennan started with the story in the Eighth District canteen. This sounded like it was going to be good.

‘But she’s as sour-faced as a turkey’s ass, this one. I got more chance of raising a smile from a funeral director.’

The smiles lapsed into chuckles as Brennan got to the reason for her accident: slamming on her car brakes because she’d just seen her ex-husband of seven years, and then convinced that it wasn’t him. ‘And when I suggested to her that maybe, with her only seeing him for two seconds, she might have been mistaken – she looks ready to kill. Starts giving me a lecture about when you’ve been married to someone for a while, you recognize them in the first millisecond, and anyway, she says, there was no recognition on his face when he saw me. What, he didn’t slam on his brakes too? I’m about to say…’ More chuckling, Brennan in his element as he hammed up the story, saying by that stage he was worried for his own safety if he showed even the trace of a smile, starting to get lockjaw from holding it in check. ‘And at one point she goes to nod, but can’t with the neck-brace…’ Full-blown guffaws now. Brennan held out one palm. ‘Then it started to get even more interesting, because it turns out her ex is no less than Darrell Ayliss, Larry Durrant’s new lawyer…’

At the table behind them, Lieutenant Pyrford had only been half-listening to the story as he sipped at a coffee. He was waiting for robbery reports on four downtown stores for a suspect held over at the Fifth District, and had been told they’d be fifteen minutes or so. But as Darrell Ayliss and Durrant were mentioned, he looked over. And as the penny at the back of his brain dropped fully, he leant across and interrupted the conversation.

‘Excuse me… you said that this ex-wife of Ayliss’s claimed that the man she saw wasn’t her husband?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Pretty close look-alike – but not him?’

‘Yeah… yeah.’ Brennan slightly bemused by Pyrford’s sudden interest. ‘That’s about it.’

That single penny becoming a jackpot cascade as the rest of it fell into place. McElroy. Morvaun Jaspar. Ayliss. ‘Do you know who’s heading up the Jac McElroy investigation here?’

‘Lieutenant Derminget,’ one of the vice detectives answered.

‘Do you have a number?’

‘Yeah.’ The detective flipped open his cell-phone, scrolled down, read it out.

Pyrford dialled and drifted out of the canteen into the corridor as it answered – background traffic noise – and explained his thinking to Derminget. ‘It’s just that with McElroy having represented Jaspar, Jaspar’s past strong form with disguises… and now Ayliss’s ex-wife claiming that it isn’t him? I might be putting two and two together and coming up with six – but it would certainly explain why McElroy’s suddenly disappeared off the face of the map.’

‘ Yeah… it certainly would.’ No sightings or trace of McElroy now for a full week. Broughlan had chewed his ass so hard, he hardly had anything left to sit on. And as Ayliss, Derminget reflected, McElroy would have been able to continue representing Durrant. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘Do you want us to haul Jaspar in again, see what we can find out?’

‘No. Not at this stage. I don’t want him alerted until I’ve worked out the best way to handle this. I’ll call you back if I need some help there. And again, thanks.’

By the time Derminget got back to his car, he’d worked out how to play everything: he didn’t want to alert Ayliss/McElroy either. He’d made that mistake once already. That ruled out politely asking Ayliss in under some spurious guise related to Durrant – he’d get suspicious – orputting out TV or news bulletins: if he saw them before the public pointed the finger, he’d go to ground again. The other problem was that they didn’t have a photo of the real Ayliss, and those available would probably be from seven years ago.

Derminget started up, but as he looked round to pull out, the thought suddenly hit him. He got Libreville’s number from 411, then phoned them and asked whether they might have some good security cam shots of lawyer Darrell Ayliss who’d recently visited them. ‘As close and clear as possible.’ He gave them the Eighth District e-mail to send them to, stressing the urgency. Then he phoned into Central Dispatch to put out an APB on Ayliss. ‘Photos should be with you shortly.’

Hopefully they’d get Ayliss under arrest before he knew they were even looking for him; before he knew what hit him. Then, if they’d made a big mistake, they could apologize later.

Fuck, fuck… fuck!

Nel-M was back to bashing his steering wheel as he returned to his car, having checked Truelle’s office and discovered that nobody was there, not even his secretary.

He drove over to Truelle’s Faubourg Marigny apartment, but Truelle wasn’t there either.

Fuck…. fuck! Two more steering wheel bashes, one leaving Truelle’s apartment, the other arriving back at his office. Still nobody there.

After the messy drama in Vancouver, he’d been hoping for an easy ride with this one: get Truelle out of his office on some ruse, two quick shots in a side alley, and done. Finito.

Years now he’d been looking forward to putting a bullet through Truelle’s head with impunity. No possible comebacks. And now that moment was finally here, Truelle was nowhere to be found. Sensing that everything was suddenly closing in on him, Truelle had no doubt decided to disappear until after Durrant’s death.

Truelle’s secretary obviously knew where he was; that’s why she’d hi-tailed it too. Didn’t want to stay front-line, facing all the flak.

Nel-M took out his cell-phone and called Vic Farrelia.

‘Truelle’s secretary, Cynthia? Do you have anything on tape with her full name or the district she lives in, so I could maybe track down her address?

‘I can do better than that,’ Farrelia said. ‘I picked up her full address somewhere, I’m sure. She gave it one day to a friend she hadn’t seen for a while. Give me a minute or two, I’ll try and find it.’

Twelve minutes after Farrelia’s return call, Nel-M was knocking on Cynthia’s 2 ^ndfloor apartment door in Bywater.

‘Who is it?’ she called out.

Nel-M didn’t answer. Then, hearing her move close to the door the other side, probably looking through the spy-hole, he barged hard against it.

‘Western…’ Another hard barge… ‘Fucking… Union!’ The lock gave way on the last barge; obviously she didn’t have Truelle’s heavy dead-bolts.

Cynthia was wide-eyed, shrieking with each barge and backing a step away, then turned to run as Nel-M finally burst through. He slammed the door behind him and caught up with her at the end of her hallway, clamping one hand over her mouth to stifle her shrieks. Breathless, sweat beads popped on his forehead, he listened out for a second for whether anyone had heard: doors opening across the corridor, footsteps coming along to investigate? But there was nothing, no movement.

Half lifting Cynthia, her shrieks and groans heavily muffled by the hand across her mouth, he bundled her into a back bedroom, shut the door.

‘Okay,’ he said, taking his gun out. ‘We can do this one of a few ways. Either you tell me straight out where your boss Truelle has gone – or after we’ve played breaking fingers or Russian roulette?’

She shook her head, lips pressed stubbornly tight as she looked anxiously between him and the gun; hoping, praying that it was a bluff.

Nel-M reached out and grabbed one of her arms, placing her hand in his, her wrist gripped tight, but his touch against her hands and fingers curiously light, soothing. He arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure you wanna go through this? Be a lot easier just to tell me?’

She shook her head again, though less certainly this time. She writhed and tried to wrench her hand from his grip, but he was too firm, too strong. He gripped tighter and, pushing hard back on her index finger, snapped the bone as if it was a twig.

Her howling scream was quickly muffled by his hand back over her mouth. ‘Okay, let’s try again. Where’s Truelle gone?’

But again that wide-eyed defiant stare, tears rolling down her cheeks now from the pain and from fear. He broke one more finger, her still defiant, Nel-M deciding then that she was making too much noise and it was hard for him to cover quickly with his hand over her mouth.

He tipped the bullets out of his gun, holding one up as he put it back in, then, just before sliding the barrel into her mouth, asked her again where Truelle was. Still that wide-eyed, fuck-you stare, though scrunching tight at the last second as the empty click came, her whole body shuddering. And, to Nel-M’s amazement, she managed to brave out one more empty click before her resolve finally snapped and with a breathless, ‘Okay… okay,’ she agreed to tell him.

She’d brought the appointment book with her in case someone broke into the office to read it. He shuffled her through to the lounge, one arm clamped tight around her, as she got the book and pointed out the Cuba mail box address.

Nel-M wrote it down. ‘And that’s all you have?’

‘Yeah. That’s it.’

The truth, he sensed. ‘And have you given this to anyone else?’ She started to shake her head, but as his eyes narrowed, reading her hesitance, untruth, he moved his gun towards her again.

She changed to a hasty nod. ‘Yeah… yeah. A lawyer. Ayliss… I believe that was his name.’

‘How long ago?’

She shrugged. ‘Four, maybe five hours.’

Nel-M nodded thoughtfully, absently sliding the bullets back into his gun. Cuba, four or five hours jump on him?

Cynthia’s eyes were fixed on his gun, her breath catching slightly. ‘There… there weren’t any bullets in your gun all along.’

‘I know. I palmed it.’ Nel-M smiled slyly as he slid in the last two bullets. ‘When you were a little girl, didn’t you just love surprises?’

Yanking her hair back, Nel-M put the gun barrel back in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

‘Yep, I managed to dig up something,’ Stratton said. ‘Mercedes 300SL lifted from a driveway on 4 ^thStreet, just two houses in from Coliseum, while a couple were away on holiday. They apparently already had a Jaguar and a Caddy in the garage, that’s why the car was out.’

‘Sounds promising.’ Jac had decided to use his time waiting for flight-boarding to make his follow-up calls. He’d tried Mack Elliott’s number to see if he’d recalled anything yet – no answer – then he’d called Stratton. ‘And it happened the same night as Jessica Roche’s murder?’

‘That’s the thing that can’t be said for sure. The couple, the Lapointes, were away for ten days, and from the police report the neighbours were vague on when the car went missing. Closest it can be nailed down to is two days before the night of the murder or three days after. But there’s at least a chanceit went down that same night.’ Stratton sucked in his breath. ‘Thing is, that’s the only recorded crime close by that could have been that night. It’s either that, or nothing.’

4 ^thStreet? From Jac’s pacing the district a few nights back, that’s where he’d worked out the murderer would have probably cut through to get back to his car. ‘Yeah, okay. Certainly it’s close enough for someone there to have seen the murderer leaving the Roche’s house. Anything else yet on it?’

Jac looked up as his flight was called. Echoing PA, clamour of other voices swirling around. He’d checked in for his flight as late as possible, was nervous being too long among crowds, knowing that Melanie Ayliss was on the prowl for him.

‘Still waiting on a list of possible MO matches from that time. Then fast-forwarding to those still active now before I can get some mug-shots in front of the staff at that Internet cafe.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Jac got up and headed towards the gate. Echoing footsteps among the voices, walking through Libreville… legs shaky, nerves biting as he viewed the passport officers ahead. First time Ayliss’s passport had been put to the test. ‘And timing?’ That clock-hand ticking hour-by-hour heavier in his head. Only thirty hours left, and half of that would now be eaten up getting to Truelle in Cuba.

‘Hopefully, I’ll get everything I want before the day’s out. And if that Internet cafe’s still open, get the photos in front of them tonight. But if not, it’s going to have to wait till first light tomorrow morning.’

‘Okay.’ Six people ahead in the queue, Jac’s stomach doing a quick turn as one of the passport officers ahead, surveying who was approaching, eyed him for the first time. Melanie Ayliss’s eyes locking on him. A rock had sunk through his stomach as Coultaine had told him about her notifying the police. Coultaine said he was sure that he’d put their minds to rest on that front, but what if he hadn’t? ‘I’ll be plane-hopping pretty much till the early hours, anyway. But I might get a chance to contact you between connections late tonight.’

‘Sure, if you can. Where are you going?’

‘Nassau, Bahamas.’ Because of US travel restrictions, Jac had been warned not to mention his destination was Cuba until he was actually in Nassau. The officers ahead were close enough to hear him now: the queue down to three, passing quickly through… two.

‘Nice.’

‘Wish it was. Like everything else right now – another last-ditch shot at saving Larry Durrant’s life.’ That officer ahead locking eyes on him again, Jac worried that with all the Ayliss padding he was sweating more than he should, looked more nervous than he should. Or perhaps part of his face had finally melted. Something in the officer’s eyes. Something. Jac swallowed hard. Forged passport, Melanie Ayliss’s police alert, travelling to Cuba when you shouldn’t, face melting off… take your pick on what might be wrong! One. ‘I’d… I’d better go now.’

‘Yeah, speak to you later. Good luck.’

‘Thanks. You too.’

The usual offhand reciprocation; but as Jac handed over his passport and saw again that look in the officer’s eyes, and he was then asked to step to one side as his passport was passed to a colleague behind to check on his computer – he was in little doubt which one of them needed luck the most at that moment.

41

Torvald Engelson, Tor or TDO to the other Libreville guards and inmates, liked to think of himself as a good and caring ‘death custodian’. Since the changeover from the electric chair to lethal injection in 1991, the final lethal dose was given by expert medical practitioners from outside, different ones each time, administered in a separate adjoining room to where it would finally feed through to Larry Durrant, strapped down to a gurney. And even with those six straps holding him down, each one would be secured by a different guard from the ‘execution team’. At each stage, responsibility for Durrant’s death was shifted as much as possible away from any single person.

In that same spirit, throughout the whole process Torvald himself would never touch Larry directly – except perhaps to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder the night before and say ‘goodbye’ – but it was Torvald’s responsibility to make all the preparations, make sure everything ran without hitch: arrange the practitioners, a medical examination of Durrant two hours before that, select the ‘execution team’, check-list of those who wished to be present in the viewing room, timing to go through to the ‘night-before’ cell, priest, last meal…?

Torvald had all of that turning through his head as he paced, clipboard and folder in hand, towards Larry’s cell.

At 41, a ‘striking’ rather than conventionally good-looking man, with a shock of dark blond hair and green eyes inherited from a Norwegian father, who forty years back had decided to fish in the warmer waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and pale mahogany skin-tone from an African-American mother – when he’d asked inmates why the nickname TDO, ‘The Dark One’, they’d answered that he had the darkest skin you could imagine for a blond-haired man. But Torvald suspected it was because of his work not only as death custodian, but also as one of the main guards in the prison hospice. They thought he had a fascination with death.

Not true, Torvald knew in his heart; in fact, quite the opposite. He did it because he cared; at times, probably too much. Horror stories abounded of the old electric chair malfunctioning and half-frying prisoners before they finally died; and with injections, prisoners with so many track marks that the IV for the poison feed couldn’t be inserted properly, or the necessary medical checks weren’t made and they reacted badly, their body contorting so wildly they had to be sat on by two or three guards.

Not on his watch. Prisoners had been stripped of all dignity in life, he was going to ensure it was at least there for them in death; and with that same philosophy, his work in the hospice had become a natural follow-on.

But the problem with all of that caring was that in the final hours, by necessity, Torvald would find himself drawn closer to the prisoners – then so quickly they’d be gone! Torvald had never quite got used to that wrench and the void it left. Though he’d never complained to the prison psychiatrist at the bi-annual counselling sessions established to ensure prison guards’ continuing stability; always feared that if he said anything, that duty might be taken away from him.

To him, the prisoners mental well-being in those final hours was more important than his own.

The guard on duty, Warrell, let Torvald through the last gate to Durrant’s cell-row. The clock on the wall behind read 5.38 p.m. Warrell then accompanied him for the final fifteen paces.

Closeness. Caring. The only problem with Larry Durrant was that over the past few years he’d become something of a favourite of Torvald’s; he held a soft spot for him aside from the extra closeness that, by necessity, the death process would bring.

It had only happened a couple of times before, when he’d allowed himself to get thatclose, and both times it had ripped his heart out.

Torvald closed his eyes for a second, solemn acceptance, as he nodded for Warrell to open Durrant’s cell door. This wasn’t going to be easy.

‘Four or five hours ahead, you reckon?’

‘Yeah. But if Ayliss got the flight I think he did, we might have shaved some back. He had a longer wait than me for the next flight there.’

At the other end of the line, the steady cadence of Roche’s breathing measuring options. Though for once Nel-M found it strangely soothing, like the gentle fall of surf. He could easily drift off to it: he hadn’t slept much on the flight from Vancouver, and no doubt more fitful hours lay ahead. He checked his watch: thirty-five minutes till boarding.

‘And getting a gun there?’

‘No problem. Dollars talk loud down there. Within a half-hour I’ll have found a guy in a Havana back street to sell me one, along with his sister thrown in as part of the deal.’

‘Okay.’ The breathing settling, accepting. ‘But we might have to face that if this Ayliss gets to Truelle first, he could break him before you even get there. It might be time to put our contingency plans into play.’

‘Suppose so.’ If they didn’t play those cards now, they never would.

‘Which means you and I have each got a call to make.’

Derminget’s APB announcement had gone out almost three hours after Jac went through the check-out at New Orleans Airport.

The passport officer there, Paul Styman, had found his eye drawn to Ayliss because of his crumpled cream suit and perspiring, anxious appearance – but he’d have nevertheless quickly waved him through; until, that is, he looked at his passport and flight destination. Seven years in Mexico, now heading to Nassau.

Styman decided to have his colleague check him against a list of suspected drug runners, just in case.

Nothing came up. He waved Ayliss through, and an hour after that he handed over his shift.

But when he returned eight hours later, within fifteen minutes he spotted the APB alert on screen when he leant over to check something else.

‘This is the guy we checked out early afternoon,’ he said to his colleague, still on from the earlier shift. ‘How long has this been through?’

His partner shrugged. ‘Five hours or so.’

‘And didn’t you recognize him?’

His partner shrugged again. He wasn’t sure he’d even looked at the man or the passport photo, had probably just tapped in the name for a match. And he’d done eighteen or twenty name checks since.

Styman looked at the contact details: Lieutenant Derminget. Eighth District. He called the number and explained what had happened.

‘ Nassau?’ Derminget confirmed. ‘Eight or nine hours ago, you say?’

‘Yeah. But I remember it was a pretty roundabout route on the ticket. Stop-offs in Atlanta andMiami. He might not have arrived yet.’

‘Thanks.’ Derminget called out to one of his team to get through to Miami International while he phoned Nassau.

Both airports said that they’d get back directly with information.

Derminget tapped his fingers anxiously against one thigh as he paced up and down a tight four-yard run, waiting. As the hours of the day had ticked by without anything happening, no news or sightings of Ayliss, he’d feared he was in for another long haul. McElroy somehow alerted and gone to ground again.

Miami phoned back after nine minutes, Nassau after fourteen.

But with Miami informing them that Ayliss’s flight to Nassau had left over three hours ago, they knew that he’d have probably long since passed through Nassau customs. They weren’t holding their breath when Nassau’s call came through.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Derminget said almost disinterestedly. ‘Pretty much what we’d already guessed from the call we just had from Miami.’ Derminget checked his watch. Not that large an island. He’d just have to get the Bahamian police to try and track Ayliss down.

‘But then we have him catching a later flight to Havana with Cubana Airlines. Left not that long ago, by the looks of it.’

‘How long ago? How long?’ Derminget realizing that he was practically shouting as half the squad room looked over. The past week of McElroy giving him the run-around with Broughlan snapping at his heels had worn his nerves thin.

‘Just over forty minutes ago.’

‘And what’s the flight time from Nassau to Cuba?’

‘Uuuh…’ Sound of keyboard tapping. ‘An hour and a half.’

‘Thanks.’ Fucking yes… yes! It looked like they were still in time to have Ayliss stopped at Havana customs.

Derminget called across the squad room for someone who might have good Spanish.

Priest?‘Yeah. As long as it’s Father Kennard and not that asshole Chaplain Foster. I think that Stephen King line – the important thing is whether God believes in you– went straight over his head.’

Torvald smiled as he got back to the rest of his check-list. Haveling holding his hand at the last minute? No. Larry could get to God on his own, thanks, didn’t need Haveling’s help. Last meal? Beef Po-Boy. Reminded him of his childhood and good ol’ days in the Ninth. Family and friends to be present at the execution, observing?

‘No… None. That’s why my family came today.’ Fran and Josh had trouble enough accepting his death, let alone watching it. ‘And Roddy and Sal and the rest here, I’ll say my goodbyes to tonight.’

‘Okay. But before ten, Larry – because that’s when you have to go through to the night-before cell. And if you want a shower, last chance is tonight, too. There’s a sink in tomorrow’s cell, but no access back to the showers or anything else this side.’

Larry nodded pensively. It was almost as if as soon as he went through that last gate at the end, he’d already died. No access back to the rest of the world. But perhaps that was just a natural continuance of his life for the past eleven years: gradually diminishing as he was shuffled from one box to another, access denied to family and friends, love and life, until there was only one box left.

Torvald felt his chest tighten as he watched the emotions on Larry’s face. Another part of his duty as death custodian: observe how the prisoner was coping with the situation. Last hours counsellor.

He’d started the meeting with a shrug and an apology. ‘Sorry about this, Larry. Few things to go through… some of them maybe seeming stupid.’ They knew each other too well to try and hide behind bullshit or formality. ‘But, you know, it’s gotta be done.’

‘That’s okay, Tor. Glad it’s you rather than some of those other oafs out there.’

Oafs. Torvald shared with Larry the guards he’d nominated for the execution team, Larry appreciative that he’d been careful to avoid any of Bateson’s clique. ‘Thanks.’

But from then on, Torvald had gone through the rest of his check-list mechanically to help shield his emotions; and he noticed too that Larry answered quickly, offhand, even when talking about his family visiting, who he hadn’t seen for a while.

And he wondered whether Larry too was trying to distance himself from what was happening, and was treating him coolly because, despite their past closeness, Larry now saw Torvald as part of the machinery of his death.

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t that at all.

Because as much as Larry knew how the life had been crushed out of him these past long years, so that now there was only a faint vestige left – he’d also seen it crushing his wife and son that day. The years for it to take its toll on him, he’d seen oppressing them in only a few minutes as they faced what was happening to him the next day, that terrible weight slumping their shoulders. And at the last second, as they realized he might see the last hope dying in their eyes, they made sure to avert them, wouldn’t look at him directly.

And he could see it happening now too with Torvald Engelson. This guard who he’d exchanged more thoughts with than any other guard over the years – had recommended books on Norse and Viking history and Beowulfwhen he’d wanted to learn about his Norwegian roots, and fifteen months back had shared with him how he’d coped with his mother dying when Torvald lost his father – could hardly look him in the eye any more, his shoulders slumped too with what was about to happen to Larry, even though, as death custodian that process should have long ago stopped fazing him.

But Larry didn’t, couldn’tblame them; he blamed the system. The death-penalty machinery that crushed relentlessly all in its path.

In murder cases, premeditation was a vital factor; Larry should know more than most, because it was one thing argued as missing in his own case to try and spare him the death penalty. The final element that transformed random violence to callous calculation.

If a murderer admitted in court that they’d told their victim they were going to kill them at a specific time on a certain day, then left them in a cell to contemplate their impending death – the jury would consider it one of the most chilling, calculating murder accounts they’d ever heard.

And the victim, unwilling to accept their fate, would scream and claw at the cell walls. The family too, if told of that impending fate, would wail and scream and protest.

But prisoners on death-row didn’t. Their shoulders simply slumped, the light of hope faded from their eyes, and they accepted.

Because it was the system.

The weight of it pressing inch by inch down on them. Accept. Accept. Accept. Until they caved in totally in defeat, no hope left for them to cling to.

And as ten minutes later Torvald finished his briefing and the cell door slammed back behind him, Larry had never felt so cold and alone, the impact jarring icily through him, making him shiver. His eyes filled, a single tear rolling out; that too feeling lonely and cold as it trickled down one cheek. Alone.

At the last minute, Torvald had reached out and touched Larry’s arm. ‘If there’s anything you need over these next hours, Larry… just ask.’ And at that second, he did finally meet Larry’s eye, and Larry saw what he’d suspected: that last light of hope had gone from them.

Because as much as at times he’d given up on himself, there’d always been that light and hope and warmth from others; he could see it in their eyes. And now that was finally gone, there was nothing left. No hope. Nothing left to save him.

Within three hours, Bob Stratton had a list of likely MO mug-shots for the 4 ^thStreet grand-auto theft of twelve years ago, and an hour and a half after that had received an update with current mug-shots of those still active now.

Sixteen photos. But only five looked like they might have a chance of matching the partial cam-shots and the description Ayliss had given him. Stratton looked at his watch: 6.34 p.m. If he was quick and downtown traffic was kind, he just might be able to get them in front of the staff at the Internet cafe before they closed at 7 p.m.

He got there with four minutes to spare, but there was some calling out as to who might have been working the day in question, before a light bulb of recognition came on in the eyes of a blonde-with-a-green-stripe wiping down the espresso machine. Tracy.

‘Yeah… yeah, I remember,’ Tracy said. ‘Lawyer guy that phoned in a panic and ran in a couple of weeks back, just missed the guy. Gave him a cam-video to take away.’

‘That’s the one.’ Stratton had decided to show her all sixteen mug-shots in sets of four at a time, and laid the cam photos to one side as a reminder. ‘Now, out of these… anyone that looks like the guy that was here that day?’

One photo in set two, though she couldn’t be sure; but then she twisted her mouth in the same way over another photo in set three. ‘Uuuh, again, I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’

Stratton put the two photos side by side. ‘Strongest bet – if you were forced to choose?’

She pointed to one, but then seconds later became unsure and her finger wavered over the other. ‘I’m sorry… on this one his hair just isn’t right, too wild, too much of an Afro – but the rest, hmmm? Maybe his hair’s changed since this photo.’ Tracy tilted her head, as if to get a better angle. ‘If they were both smiling, I’d know for sure.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He’s got a big gap between his front teeth.’

Stratton could just imagine how that advice would go down with police departments: ensuring there’s no smiling on mug-shots might make perps look more severe and menacing, more like criminals, but you miss out on valuable dental recognition.