Текст книги "Ascension Day"

Автор книги: John Matthews

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 38 страниц)

10

Nel-M had spent the last few hours watching an apartment.

He’d seen Jac McElroy head into the building at 6.18 p.m., but it was almost two hours before he saw McElroy leave again – with a girl.

That was strange. Nel-M hadn’t seen the girl go into the building and, from the information he’d so far gained, McElroy was meant to be single, wasn’t shacked-up with anyone.

Well, he’d soon know what the score was. They looked dressed for the night out, but still Nel-M left it ten minutes before going into the building, in case they forgot something they needed to go back for.

Straightforward bar and tumbler lock, Nel-M had it opened with a pick and credit card in just fifty seconds. He went round the whole apartment first to get his bearings before starting to go through drawers and wardrobes. He paused in thought as he finished, then gave all the side tables and shelves one last scan.

Not a single bra, panty or stocking in any of the drawers, and no make-up or women’s perfume to be found anywhere. So, for sure, she wasn’t living here with McElroy. Maybe she hadsneaked in the building without him noticing. Nel-M shook his head. This one was a twenty-four carat babe. He’d have spotted her in a crowd at a hundred paces, even if he was half-comatose.

Strange, too, that there wasn’t a single photo of her anywhere. Either she was a very recent event, or McElroy wasn’t that serious about her.

Nel-M sat back in a nearby armchair and eased out a long breath. There was something else niggling at the back of his mind about the girl, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

He glanced at his watch, timing for when they’d probably be back.

Much of the conversation from Jac’s side was the same as two nights ago with Jennifer Bromwell, but practically everything else was different.

They’d gone to a more formal restaurant, Begue’s, and the waiter was over-attentive, kept asking if everything was to Monsieur and Madame’s liking or there was anything else that they desired. ‘ Yes, Monsieur would like to be left alone without interruption for ten minutes so that at least he is given a chance of impressing the girl of his dreams.’

Dreams? That was half the problem right there. In the same way that Jennifer Bromwell complained of boyfriends being intimidated by her father’s money, he found himself intimidated by Alaysha Reyner’s beauty. His mouth felt constantly dry and he kept sipping repeatedly at his water, and he could tell from her facial expressions that he wasn’t hitting the right notes.

Maybe because it had been so long since Madeleine, and he was coming across as too anxious, over-eager. Or because part of his thoughts were still tied up with Durrant: Haveling had phoned to say that Marmont was off the critical list, one bit of positive news, at least; but he’d found himself dwelling more and more on his meeting with Francine Durrant. Something perhaps he’d missed, some way of convincing her to get Joshua to make contact again with his father? Or, if there was to be no more contact, any other way of shifting Larry’s stance?

The thoughts spun through Jac’s mind as he took his shower, the water running for so long that he shook off a shiver, along with his unresolved thoughts, as he finally got out. And the same thoughts were plaguing him again now as he focused back on Alaysha Reyner across the candle-lit table, and forced his best smile.

There’d even been, as with Jennifer Bromwell two nights back, a confession from Alaysha when she thought the moment was right.

‘I wanted to put this on the table straight away – because a lot of guys don’t handle it too well, including my ex.’ She grimaced wryly, glancing to the side to make sure their over-attentive waiter wasn’t within earshot. ‘And so I think it’s only fair that you should know straight-off: I work as a lap-dancer.’

‘Oh, I see.’

But even that part he’d got wrong. He’d kept his reaction bland so as not to give away that he already suspected: ‘ I just don’t like other guys looking at you like that.’ But from her eyes searching his, he could tell that she’d expected something more, and it had probably come across that he wasshocked or offended, and had opted for a bland reaction to mask it.

‘It’s mainly to keep my little girl, Molly. She’s only four now. Her father and I were never married and, besides, he headed for the hills within six months of her birth. And not a penny in maintenance since… so it’s just been down to me. I’ve been interested in interior decor for a while, just bits here and there for friends, but I decided in the end to take a course… and that meant extra money. So I thought – I’ve got maybe four or five good years left in me before…’

As she fought to explain, he felt he had to stop her. He reached a hand across the table. ‘Really, you don’t need to justify it to me. I’m not shocked or put out by it. All those years in France – most of the girls wore the same as the average lap dancer on the beaches every day. I’d have to be a real hypocrite to be shocked by that.’ He smiled coyly and shook his head. ‘But I didn’t want to smile and be toopositive about it – otherwise you might think I’m a real lech.’

Her return smile rose uncertainly as she squeezed his hand back. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

A couple of favour points gained. Perhaps, if lucky, he was scoring four out of ten now.

Maybe, the thought hit him, he could tell Larry he knew about the e-mails from Joshua, say that he was sure they’d start again later. Convince Larry to hang on. But then that would also mean giving away that he’d heard it from Rodriguez, when he’d promised Rodriguez that he wouldn’t betray that confidence.

‘Something bothering you?’

Jac brought his attention sharply back. ‘Sorry. Problems with a case I’m handling. One of those impossible Catch-22’s you get hit with every now and then.’

‘Oh?’

Jac hadn’t intended to say anything originally, but now it seemed odd holding back, and at least it removed the spectre that what was troubling him might have been due to her. He kept Durrant’s name out of it in deference to client confidentiality, it was all just thisprisoner throughout. ‘As you can see, a pretty bitter history on both sides, him and his wife, and ironically much of it revolving around his son and those same broken promises that are weighing him down so.’

Alaysha’s face clouded briefly. She ran one fingertip halfway round the rim of her wine glass. ‘So if there was contact again from his son, you think that might change his stance? Solve the problem?

‘Yeah. High chances. But it doesn’t look like there’s any way of that happening.’

She gave a pained, understanding smile, but then as she fell silent and thoughtful, the noise of the restaurant around crashing in for a moment, Jac feared he’d said too much. Spoilt whatever remaining chances he had by burdening her with his work problems. Though as she started to open up with some of her own problems, he realized that she’d just been thinking about what or what not to share, or whether to say anything at all. And as for the first time the tension between them eased, he knew that it had been the right thing to do. For the first hour or so, they’d just been politely fencing with each other; now they were getting to the core of what shaped and drove them.

As Alaysha Reyner talked, the stark differences to Jennifer Bromwell’s life became apparent. Where Jennifer had been financially cosseted, Alaysha’s background had been one of dire poverty, the family arriving from Port of Spain when she was only seven and her father got a job with a local New Orleans trawling fleet. Things eased financially for a while, but when her mother felt she couldn’t take any more of her husband’s erratic behaviour and periodic beatings, they parted and Alaysha’s father quickly disappeared to avoid maintenance payments. They were on their own and in dire straits again, with a vengeance. And that had practically been the pattern since. Alaysha had gone out to work rather than go on to university, mainly so that she could earn to provide for her mother and younger brother.

But at least, unlike Jennifer Bromwell, there hadn’t been any parental interference in her lovelife. She’d been able to make her own bad choices without any help from them. After Molly’s father had headed for the hills when Molly was only six months old, there’d been a couple of brief disastrous relationships, but Gerry – now an assistant bar manager at the Golden Bay Casino in Biloxi – had been her first serious boyfriend since then. Things had been okay for the first year or so, but then he’d become increasingly paranoid about her work.

‘He hasn’t hit me yet – just a lot of pushing and shoving. But give him time, I know he would – and I’m not waiting around for that to happen.’ She played thoughtfully again with the rim of her wine glass. ‘Seems to me like I’m continuing my mother’s cycle: hopelessly drawn to guys who either can’t put bread on the table, or are handy with their fists. Or both.’

Words would have been wrong at that moment, empty promises, which probably Alaysha Reyner had heard far too many of in her life – so Jac just reached out and gently squeezed her hand in reassurance. To their side an arched window looked onto a resplendent tropical courtyard, New Orleans’ finest milling through it to the luxury hotel beyond; sharp contrast to the life Alaysha had just described. Though with part of what she’d said, bread on the table, Jac had felt a stab of conscience. Given that same choice, career or family, unlike him it appeared she’d put family first every time.

‘You’re obviously very close to your mom.’ Jac tightly smiled his understanding. ‘Do you take after her?’

‘A little, I suppose. But I probably look more like my father, as much as I might not feel comfortable with that.’ She glanced down fleetingly before looking at Jac more directly. ‘I think that was part of the problem right there. He knew he was good-looking, so thought that gave him the right to push women around, treat them bad. Felt that they’d always come running back for more.’ She sniggered uncomfortably. ‘And in a way, he was right – at least where my mom was concerned.’

‘She’s far better off without him, by the sound of it. As tough as it might have been.’ Jac touched her hand again, hoping he’d read it right; after all, she’d had to sacrifice there, too: her mother’s happiness put before her losing her father while she was young. ‘You both are.’

‘Suppose so.’ Alaysha smiled and shrugged, as if freeing the weight momentarily hanging there. Though the other weight hanging over her would be more difficult to shift, she reflected, wondering whether she’d everknow him well enough to tell him that. And looking across at Jac, she realized in that moment what had attracted her about those blue-grey eyes when they’d first met; the sadness and loss in them made him look soft, vulnerable. Understanding. Most vitally, given her and her mother’s history with men, he didn’t look like a man who would ever hit her. ‘Let’s just hope that I don’t take after him in temperament.’

‘If you do – I’ll remember to wear my body protector next time.’

Alaysha’s smile widened and she lifted her glass to clink with Jac’s raised glass. More points scored.

Enough, as the evening wound to a close and she kissed him lightly on the cheek by his apartment door, for her to want to see him again.

‘Do you like Creole food?’ she asked, to which he nodded.

‘Put it this way – since being in New Orleans I’ve developed more of a taste for it. It’s been either that, or starve.’

She chuckled lightly. ‘Okay. Maybe I can invite you round for some home cooking later in the week.’

Jac squeezed her hand in thanks and returned the kiss – both cheeks this time, French style. ‘I look forward to it.’

Enough for another dinner date, though not enough to be able to share her bed that night.

Though when forty minutes later she phoned and asked, ‘Are you still up?’ – he thought for one hopeful moment she might have had a change of heart.

‘Yes, yes, I am. Not in bed quite yet.’

‘Because that problem you mentioned earlier. I thought of how you might be able to get around it. If you’re interested?’

The second Jac picked up his phone, the tape activated and the sound-man, Vic Farrelia, leant closer as he listened.

Nel-M had left the apartment almost two hours before McElroy returned, having finished his search and planted the bug, and within half an hour he had Farrelia set up in a small room on Perdido Street six blocks away.

And when just after midnight, Farrelia phoned and related the first call to come over the line, Nel-M nodded thoughtfully. From this moment on, Jac McElroy’s life was never going to be the same again.

11

The first time that Adelay Roche called, Clive Beaton got his secretary to lie and say that he was tied up until late morning, so that he could prepare himself before returning the call.

There were so many worrying no-go paths the conversation could take that he began to doubt the wisdom of talking to Roche at all – but his mounting curiosity finally won the day.

Roche quickly sought to quell Beaton’s worries.

‘I know you’re probably thinking that we shouldn’t be speaking, given the delicacy of things at this juncture. But, you know, we’ve been skirting around each other for eleven years for the very same reason – and now that everything is finally drawing to a close, I felt I should make contact.’ Roche drew a fresh breath. ‘In particular because what I’m calling about has nothing to do with the Durrant case.’

Beaton felt a weight ease from his chest as Roche explained how he’d been watching for the past couple of years the activities of one of the firm’s associates, Ralph Miers, an expert in tax law.

‘Seems to me he’s one of the few guys in the State to also wear a strong hat on environmental issues. I saw what he did for Gulf-West petroleum, and, let me tell you – I was impressed.’

Beaton was happy just listening – it meant that he didn’t have to defend any of the no-go conversation areas he’d run through – as Roche went on to explain that Miers looked like just the man he needed.

‘I’ve been stalling on changes to my refinery at Houma for nigh on four years now – but if I can please the greens and environmentalists and at the same time get the right tax breaks for making the plant environmentally friendly, I’m all for it.’ Roche chuckled, which quickly became a heavy wheeze. ‘That is, assuming I’m correct in my judgement that your man Miers is right for the job and can get the government to pay indirectly for every penny of those changes, and hopefully more.’

‘I’m sure he is,’ Beaton said with a spark of conviction to hopefully lift it beyond stock response, as his thoughts automatically turned to the potential value of such an account.

‘So I thought I should touch base now that the curtain is about to finally come down on the Durrant episode.’

‘And I’m glad you did. I really appreciate it.’ Beaton measured his words carefully: warmth and sincerity to hopefully lure Roche into the fold, but due deference and legal correctness for the firm’s current client, Durrant. ‘But it would probably be incorrect of us – perhaps even tempting fate – to second guess just what Governor Candaret might do with Durrant’s plea for clemency.’

Roche chuckled again. ‘I might have agreed with you – if it wasn’t for the stunt that Durrant just pulled with his attempted prison break.’

‘His wha-?’ Beaton stopped himself sharply. Stock reaction had for a second overridden one of the prime legal commandments: never give away that you don’t know everythingabout your client.

‘You mean you didn’t know?’ Roche pressed.

‘Of course I knew.’ Beaton recovered quickly, beating back the resurging tide of his nerves and apprehension: he should have realized that Roche wouldn’t have called without a sting in the tail. ‘It’s just that I was caught off guard as to how youknew. Especially since we’re still in the midst of how to handle the situation.’

‘I see.’ Roche had to admit, Beaton was good, his thirty-five years of keen-edged law practice shining through. But the split-second falter had been enough to tell Roche that Beaton hadn’t known. For whatever reason, his rookie lawyer had decided to keep Durrant’s attempted break-out under wraps. He could all but feel the seething anger in Beaton’s undertone: he couldn’t wait to get off the line and get his hands around McElroy’s neck. ‘Well, let’s speak again when youfeel the dust has settled enough on the Durrant case for it to be right for us to do so.’

Jac had just returned with a cup of water from the water-cooler when he saw the fresh e-mail on his computer. And as he clicked and saw who it was from, durransave4@hotmail, he jolted sharply, almost spilling it. After six days with no reply, he’d all but given up on another e-mail from his mystery sender.

His hands shook on the keyboard as he opened it.

Sent at 11.16:22. One minute, forty seconds ago. Would they still be sitting there to do something else, or have left immediately?

Jac clicked on the track-back software, its screen overlapping the e-mail so that he couldn’t read it. Jac’s fingers tapped anxiously on his desk as it traced and started displaying. Then he double-clicked IT-number find, and forty seconds later it popped up on screen:

Internet-ionalon Peniston Street. An internet cafe. He or she was moving around.

Jac’s heart was beating double-time, his finger tapping almost in time with it as he called 411 and waited to get routed through.

Please still be there… please…

Jac became aware of Langfranc looking at him through his office glass-screen, Langfranc’s expression weighted with concern as he spoke on his own phone. Jac yanked his attention back as a girl answered.

‘Internet-ional. May I help you?’

Jac introduced himself and explained what he wanted. ‘Computer number fourteen. Message sent just over three minutes ago. Are they still there?’ Jac held his breath in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure. One minute…’ Her voice trailed off and Jac heard her speaking with a colleague.

Jac looked again towards Langfranc, but this time Langfranc looked slightly away as Jac met his eye, as if he felt suddenly awkward or embarrassed. Jac closed the track-back screen so that he could see all of the e-mail.

The girl’s voice returned: ‘Yeah… computer number fourteen. Looks like he’s still there.’

Jac leapt up. ‘Okay… okay!’ He hooked his jacket from the back of his chair. ‘I’m heading down to you right now! Should be with you in no more than ten or twelve.’

The e-mail was now displaying, random phrases leaping out at him… I’d have incriminated myself… know what I saw… Larry Durrant didn’t kill Jessica Roche…

Langfranc, seeing Jac about to leave in a rush, suddenly seemed equally panicked, ending his call abruptly and swinging his door open as Jac was only two paces away from his desk.

‘Jac. Jac! That was Beaton just then – going on about something you’ve held back from him about the Durrant case. He wants to see you in his office right now.’

‘I can’t… I can’tdeal with this now.’ Jac took a step further away, eyes shifting frantically. ‘Something’s broken on the Durrant case that just won’t wait. I’ve got to sort it out now!’

‘Beaton sounded pissed as hell – you’re taking your life in your hands fobbing him off like this, Jac.’ Langfranc’s face flushed as he forced a tight-lipped grimace. ‘But, okay, it’s your neck. How long?’

‘Thirty, forty minutes. Hour tops.’ Jac took another couple of steps away, all that filled his mind at that second an image of Durrant’s mystery e-mailer leaving his internet cafe computer.

‘Okay, I’ll tell him. But your story had better be good when you get back, Jac – otherwise it’s probably kiss-your-ass-goodbye-time here. I’ve hardly ever heard Beaton that angry.’

Jac’s stomach dipped at the possibility. He returned Langfranc’s grimace and held one hand up, thanks, hold my job for me till I get back, if you can, and sprinted out, a silent prayer on his breath that he’d make it in time.

Jac ran to the corner of Thalia and Chestnut Street so that he had the benefit of cabs from both directions, and hailed one in less than a minute.

He said that he was late for a meeting, and the driver, seeing in his mirror the anxiety on Jac’s face and the sweat on his brow, put his foot down. ‘Might be able shave off a minute or so, if we’re lucky.’

The air-rush through the half-open taxi window buffeted Jac’s face as they picked up speed along Magazine Street, older two-storey antebellum buildings with quaint railed-terraces giving way to taller, newer, flat-fronted shops and offices; the transition from old to new as New Orleans became less Colonial-French and more like any other American city.

‘Internet-ional on Peniston, you say?’ The taxi driver confirmed over one shoulder.

‘Yeah.’ Though as he said it, Jac was suddenly hit with something he should have covered while he’d been on the phone to them before.

Jac took out his cell-phone and punched in Internet-ional’snumber. But as he pressed to dial, another voice was suddenly there, crashing in. His heart leapt for a second, fearful that it was Beaton deciding to give him a roasting over the phone, or fire him – but it was Morvaun Jaspar, the forger he’d got cleared a couple of months back.

‘ Jac! Got a problem. Big problem!’

‘I can’t do this now, Morvaun. I’ve got someone I’ve got to call right now. Urgently!’

‘This too, Jac. This too! The local blues have just pulled me in, and it’s bullshit… absolute bullshit. They’re tryin’ to nail me for everyone they find with a forged document – or looks like one. And no doubt all ‘cause we pulled the rug out from ‘em last time. It’s a complete sham shake-down, and I ain’t about to – ’

‘Morvaun – I can’t handle this now!’ Jac could imagine his mystery e-mailer getting up from his seat and leaving as they spoke; and if he didn’t get back to the people at Internet-ional before that happened, he might not even get a description. ‘I really havegot someone I’ve got to call. Right now! Let’s talk again later.’

‘I can’t call back later, Jac. This is my oneallowed call. You gotta get down here – otherwise I’m here for the duration.’

‘Okay… okay. Where are you now?’

‘Fifth District station-house.’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can. About – ’ Jac cradled his forehead as he remembered that he was meant to be back, sharp, to see Beaton. But he couldn’t just leave Morvaun hanging for what might be almost two hours. He’d have to get Langfranc to tell Beaton that his out-of-office meeting got more involved, was going to take longer. Jac sighed heavily. ‘About forty minutes or so.’

‘Your office is only fifteen minutes from here, Jac, can’t you – ’

‘I’m halfway across town right now, Morvaun – trying to sort something else out. But I promise I’ll get there as soon as. Hold on!’

‘Yeah, okay… hear you loud ‘n clear Jac. Not much else f’me to do.’

Instantly Morvaun rang off, Jac re-dialled Internet-ional.

‘Jac McElroy again. I called a couple of minutes back. Is he stillthere – computer number fourteen?’ Jac’s breath froze in his throat in the two-second wait for the girl to look and answer.

‘Yeah. I can still see him.’

‘Okay… okay.’ Jac exhaled heavily. ‘Can you try and get a good look at him?’

‘I… I can’t see him that well from here. He’s turned away from me, looking at his computer.’

‘Right. What’s your name, by the way?’ Personalizeto get closer, Jac thought.

‘Uuuh… Tracy.’ Hesitant, as if worried what he might do with the information.

‘Okay, Tracy, I don’t know how easy it is because I’m not there – but if you could shift more to a side-view… without, that is, being too obvious, making him suspicious. Just in case he leaves before I get down there myself to see him.’ Jac looked up as they crossed Washington Avenue. Only a dozen or so blocks now to Peniston: four or five minutes at most. Hold on. Hold on.

‘Oh… okay.’ But Tracy still sounded uncertain.

‘And if he does start to leave before I get there – maybe try and hold him up a bit, if you can. Keep him there.’

Only the sound of Tracy’s breath falling for a second. ‘That might be more difficult.’

‘I know. I know. But maybe tell him that there’s a free coffee today for customers… I’ll cover for it when I get there.’

‘I… I suppose I could… oh… oh…’

Hearing her sudden intake of breath, Jac asked sharply, ‘What is it?’

‘He… he’s looking round, starting to get up.’

Jac felt his stomach tighten; but then he’d suspected all along that he wouldn’t hang around long. His voice lowered, a conspiratorial hush. ‘Okay, Tracy… try what I suggested.’

‘I’ll try. I’ll do my…’ Jac could hear her breath falling shorter, sharper as she broke off for a second. Then, a faint tremor in her undertone – or perhaps it was just Jac picking up on it because he knew she was nervous: ‘Sir… there’s a free coffee for customers today I forgot to tell you about earlier.’

Aline Street flashed by. Only four blocks to go now.

At Internet-ional, the man, African-American, late-thirties, in a maroon Hilfiger jacket, paused for a second, looked tempted. But some noise from the street outside reached him then, strains of a brass band playing a block or so away, and he glanced distractedly over his shoulder for a second. And as he turned back, Tracy saw something shift in his eyes, flicking between her and the phone. Picked up a bad vibe, or just acknowledgment that he was interrupting her?

‘Thanks for the offer.’ He pushed a terse smile. ‘But I gotta rush. Someone to see.’

Tracy watched helplessly as he scurried out; though maybe, like he said, he wasin a rush. She let out a long sigh as she brought the receiver back.

‘I’m sorry… tried my best. But he’s gone.’

‘I know. I know.’ Jac had heard it all his end, closing his eyes as the sinking in his stomach spread, made every part of him feel empty, cruelly cheated. Though as he opened them again and saw the next cross street flash by, a spark of hope resurged. ‘But you got a good look at him?’

‘Yeah, sure did.’ Tracy’s tone brightened; one thing to have gone right.

Only two blocks away now, if Jac got a good description maybe he’d still be able to pick him out as they turned into the street – but at that moment the taxi slowed, then braked sharply. Jac looked ahead: four cars backed up at the next intersection as a procession of sixty or seventy people, some with banners, marched and sashayed by in rhythm to a small brass band leading.

Jac exhaled heavily, feeling his stomach dip again. He wouldn’t make it now.

‘That’s okay,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ll be there in just a couple of minutes. Give me all the details then.’

Mr Mystery-e-mailer would be long gone by the time he got there; and if he’d now been spooked, that would probably be the end of any more contact.

Jac looked up towards the procession as it finally passed and the taxi crossed the junction. In his few years in New Orleans he’d discovered that bands were broken out for anything and everything – weddings, funerals, gay marches, dog’s birthday – though from the banners this looked like a save some bay or other environmental protest.

Jac suddenly became aware of a man in the crowd looking back at him, smiling and waving. Probably just somebody random, catching Jac’s eye as he’d looked towards them. But in that moment it became Jac’s mystery e-mailer, teasing, taunting: You won’t find me. You won’t find me.

‘Black guy, broad. Bit of bulk on… but not fat.’

‘And height?’

‘Five-ten, maybe six foot.’

‘Age?’

‘Mid to late thirties, maybe forty.’

‘Anything that stood out? Beard? Moustache? Prominent scar or birth-mark?’

‘No, clean shaven. But, oh… he had this gap between his front teeth when he smiled.’

‘And what he was he wearing?’

‘Hilfiger jacket, sort of dark-red, and jeans. And a baseball cap, dark-blue or black.’

Jac paused at that point, looking back at his notes for anything he might have missed. At the outset he’d ascertained from Tracy, an early-twenties short-cropped-blonde-with-a-lime-green-stripe and more nose rings than a Krishna, that it had been paid cash, as he’d suspected: no trace back. Now the description wasn’t giving him that much either. Could fit twenty to thirty percent of African-American males in that age band. But as Jac puckered his mouth, Tracy commented, ‘But, hey, you can check all that for yourself.’ She eased a sly smile as she looked up above the entrance. ‘We should have him on video.’

Jac followed her eyes towards the camera there and, uncertainly, as if taking a second to believe his luck, mirrored her smile.

The atmosphere in the interview room was laden, tense.

Morvaun Jaspar looked tired, worn-down by the questioning and psychological games the two policeman had rained down on him over the two hours he’d been held. Pretty much the same Mutt and Jeff, black and white game as before. Jac knew the black officer, Jim Holbrook, from last time – the supposedly friendly voice in Morvaun’s ear: ‘Hey, come on bro’, make it easy on yourself.’ But the white lieutenant, Pyrford, Jac hadn’t seen before. Rakish with heavily receding red-brown hair, a toothpick that he seemed reluctant to take out the corner of his mouth, and a look of disdain down his nose at Morvaun that spoke volumes. Jac could imagine that ten years ago he’d have been addressing Morvaun, and probably his partner too, as ‘boy’.

Jac had no doubt looked troubled and on edge as soon as he walked into the interview room, which had set the mood for what followed. He’d watched only a few seconds of the video with Tracy, just to make sure maroon-Hilfiger-jacket was there and it was the right segment, then had taken a copy to look at in more detail later. No time right then. He’d phoned Langfranc on his way over to Morvaun to tell him he’d be delayed, Langfranc warning that it could be one delay too many ‘… the one that might just tip the balance on Beaton preparing your dismissal letter,’ but Jac had become equally concerned about something else, asking Langfranc if there was any indication as to just what he was meant to have held back on?