‘Okay….okay. You’re there now, Larry… you’re there.’ Ormdern’s voice calming, yet with a nervous edge to it, as if he was afraid of losing the delicate thread of thought that had finally been established. ‘Tell me what you see?’
It had taken Ormdern longer to get Larry under than last time, and longer still to get his thoughts focused back again on that vital pool game at the Bayou Brew twelve years ago.
Jac was more conscious now of time fast ticking away against them and started to look anxiously at the clock as Ormdern struggled in those opening moments: only four days left now, and the heat and pressure now far higher with the events of the last few days. Jac took the first sips of the coffee that had been brought in for him and Pete Folley in paper cups a minute ago.
‘Bill… Bill Saunders is there. They’re all there that night.’
As Ormdern realized that Larry was linking back to what he’d covered last time, he gently moved Larry on. ‘Okay, Larry… they’re all there. But I wondered if you could tell me what any of them are doing, apart from playing pool… anything that might tell you what day it is?’ As Larry’s brow knitted, Ormdern added, ‘Reading a newspaper, for instance… something with a headline or date on it?’
Larry’s head gently shook after a second. ‘No… not that I recall.’
‘Or maybe even talking about the shooting of Jessica Roche… because that would then definitely place that pool game after she was killed.’
Longer pause this time, Larry’s eyelids pulsing heavily. ‘No… nobody’s talking about anything like that.’
The news had come through at midday from Governor Candaret’s office that Larry Durrant’s plea for clemency had been refused.
Jac had phoned Candaret’s office an hour later, and, laying on the smooth Southern Ayliss charm, had tried his utmost to sway Candaret, but he was adamant, immovable: ‘I hear what you’re saying loud and clear, Mr Ayliss, about Larry Durrant’s state of mind and memory at the time, and about his good character and development since. But balanced against that, we’ve got the fact that he did finally admit that he committed the crime that night — and even if there were doubts raised about that recall, we have the irrefutable DNA evidence that puts him there at the time of Jessica Roche’s murder. I appreciate the call, though, I really do… though I’m sure you can equally appreciate that this remains a particularly brutal and heinous crime that I cannot look upon lightly.’
With Aaron Harvey re-offending, the odds had always been against Candaret offering clemency, but now it was official. Now Jac knew with all certainty that this session — whatever Ormdern was able to drag out of Larry’s fractured, shadowy memory from twelve years ago — was probably his very last chance.
‘And the bar, Larry. Who was behind the bar that night?’
‘Lorraine… Lorraine Gilliam and Mack Elliott.’
‘Anybody else? Was Rob Harlenson there that night?’
‘No… no. Don’t see him there.’
Don’t rather than didn’t. Larry reliving being in the bar as he was twelve years ago, looking around the room.
Last chance. All the more poignant, meaningful now. Jac had taken Alaysha’s advice to soldier on, and had gone back over all the old Durrant files and case notes for anything he might have missed, spread them out on the floor of his new hotel room the next morning — still switching hotel rooms and cars every day — along with the old crime scene photos.
The first thing that leapt out at him had been a long-shot of the library with Jessica’s Roche’s body at the far end: bookshelves along the right-hand side and serge-green safe on the wall at the end. He went back to the case folders, quickly rifling through all the photos, and eighth print down, there it was: a shot of the hallway — presumably to show the two footprints with faint bloodied edges heading from the library — and at its end, larger than life, a full-length grandfather clock. That’s how and why Larry could have recalled those details in the last session with Ormdern!
After the news from Candaret, he’d arranged to get to the prison half an hour early for a face-to-face with Larry. He slid the library photo across first, asking Larry if he’d seen it before.
‘Yeah. At the time of police questioning, and at the trial.’
‘Thought as much.’ Standard police procedure to show the suspect the victim, gauge reaction. ‘But this one they might not have troubled with at the time.’ Jac slid across the hallway photo.
Larry paused for only a second. ‘Yeah, that one too. They asked me if I recognized that shoe pattern.’
Jac had resisted punching the air; the sound was off between the interview and observation room, but Pete Folley was already behind the glass, looking on.
‘…And what were the bar-staff doing, Larry?’ Ormdern quizzed Durrant now. ‘Anything that was said or done that might pin down the day?’
‘Don’t know about the actual day, but… but a couple of guys turned up in carnival-type outfits. One had a chicken outfit, looked like he borrowed it from someone who’d been advertising a chicken restaurant… then just put it on for carnival. The other had a sequined suit and whited-out face.’
‘Did you know them or had you seen them before?’
‘Didn’t know them…’ Larry thought for a moment, his brow knitting. ‘And can’t remember seeing them before.’
‘And Lorraine Gilliam or Mack Elliott… did it look like they might have seen them before?’
Jac saw immediately where Ormdern was heading; if Larry couldn’t pin down the day, maybe Lorraine Gilliam or Mack Elliott could. Surely it wasn’t every day that someone walked in the bar in a chicken outfit?
‘No, didn’t seem like it. Mack was giving them this look, you know… one he often gave to strangers: what the hell yo’ doing in my bar? Got lost or something? And the outfits and the fact that they gotta bit rowdy didn’t help. In the bars around Bourbon that time of year, nobody would raise an eyebrow… but the Brew was a long way off the main Carnival routes.’
‘You said “rowdy”. What, was there a disturbance?’
Jac clenched his coffee cup, took a quick sip. Something else that might help fix the day in Elliott or Gilliam’s mind. Though no doubt the best hope was with Elliott; when he’d finally got hold of Lorraine Gilliam, she’d been vague about events back then. The session set-up was the same as last time, except that now the sound feed was two-way. If Jac spoke into the mike his end, it fed into Ormdern’s earpiece, in case he picked up on anything vital that Ormdern missed; this was their last chance, so once the moment was gone it was gone for good.
‘Not exactly a disturbance, no real trouble. Just that the guys were getting noisy and a touch outta control, and they started to annoy Mack ‘cause he was trying to concentrate on something on the TV.’ Larry’s face eased into a slow smile. ‘I remember Mack — having told the guys once to keep it down and they were still kicking up — warning the chicken guy to keep a lid on it “if yo’ don’ wanna end up like a Colonel Sanders chicken”. “What’s that?” the guy asks.’ Larry’s smile broadened. ‘Mack gives him a quick flash of the Billy-club he kept below the bar for troublemakers, and says “Battered!”’
Ormdern nodded and smiled briefly. ‘Anything, though, to fix the day or date? Anything mentioned? A Carnival party they were heading to… something at one of the nearby jazz clubs, maybe? Which might then also explain why they were in the area.’
Jac leant forward. A number of clubs held specific themed balls and party nights throughout Carnival; if one had been mentioned, it would pinpoint the night. A moment’s concentration, Larry mumbling incoherently at one point, as if he was mentally sifting through their conversation, before he shook his head.
‘No… no club or party mentioned… not that I can recall, at least.’
‘Anything else happen that night… unusual or otherwise? Anything that might pin down the day?’ The edge, the desperation in Ormdern’s voice now evident. Larry’s brow was knitted again, and, as it looked like his attempts at recall were trawling through fresh air, Ormdern added, ‘Anything. However small and inconsequential it might seem.’
Larry’s expression slowly eased. ‘Oh yeah… Nat. Nat Hadley. He was talking about his kid joining a Little League baseball team. Real proud, you know, running him there… watching the kid play.’ Larry’s smile was back again, though more wistful, with a tinge of sorrow. Lost years. ‘Don’t know if it helps much or not… but perhaps it stuck in my mind because I remember thinking at the time: I got all that to come.’
All that to come. Jac clenched a fist, his other on the coffee cup trembling as he closed his eyes. None of that for Larry had been to come: arrested only six months later, he’d seen nothing since but the inside of a jail cell, had hardly seen his kid. Someone else, different part-time fathers, had cared for Joshua, watched him grow, got his little hugs and kisses on the cheek, taken him to Little League.
And suddenly that thrumming was back in Jac’s body, as it had been that last night with Larry, clinking brandy glasses together as the tears flowed; his own heartbeat in time with the throb of the prison boilers… last chance… last chance… the ticking of the clock on the wall joining that beat as he stared at it numbly, trying to think desperately of what to do next… if there was anything left to try. The clip-clop of his step from the many times he’d paced Libreville’s endless corridors over the past six weeks, the final accompaniment a rhythmic banging from the cells as he walked along; as he’d headed in earlier that night, many of Larry’s supporters had banged the cell bars with whatever metal objects they could lay their hands on — tin cups, bed-pans — willing Jac on… save him… save him!
‘Were any days mentioned for the kid’s games? Or perhaps who they were playing?’
Clutching at straws. It was becoming painful even to watch; the increasing edge in Ormdern’s voice, the heavy pulsing behind Larry’s eyelids as he searched desperately for that one fragment of detail from twelve years ago that might save his life now.
Finally: ‘No, sorry… can’t remember anything being said about dates or times for the kid’s games. Just how proud Nat was, you know… being there for the kid. Supporting him.’
‘I know.’ A concluding tone, Ormdern looking back through his notes and last session’s transcript for anything he might have missed asking about the Bayou Brew that night.
The silence suddenly heavy, stifling, only the sound of flicking pages through the speaker, merging, becoming one with the ticking of the clock and the pounding, thunderous roar in Jac’s head… last chance… last chance… save him… save him!
Jac leapt up as the coffee splashed against one thigh. Unconsciously, he’d gripped the paper cup too tight, splitting it.
Ormdern looked up briefly, Jac’s sudden gasp through his earpiece obviously startling him. He went back to his notes for another fifteen seconds or so, though with the silence the pause seemed interminable, before speaking again.
‘I want to move on now, Larry… to when you first read or heard about Jessica’s Roche’s murder… and first of all try and pinpoint that time in relation to the night we’ve just been talking about — when you were playing pool at the Bayou Brew.’ Ormdern left a heavy pause to let the thought and the shift in time settle with Larry. ‘Was it just the day after, two days… or maybe more?’
Jac was at the edge of his seat, breath held. Probably their last chance to be able to pinpoint the day.
It took a long time for Larry to focus his thoughts, the pulsing behind his eyelids becoming more rapid, frantic, the clock ticking on the wall probably seeming deafening to everyone in the room, not just Jac, in that forty second wait.
Larry gently moistened his top lip with his tongue as he spoke, his head lolling slightly. ‘I… I don’t know… A day or two, I think. Not long, anyway.’
‘Please, Larry… think. Think hard. It’s important. Which is it? Just a day, or two days?’
Jac clenched his hands anxiously as Larry sank back into thought. There’d been an anxious moment too in his pre-session with Larry when he’d slid across the photos, and shortly after had made a verbal slip: ‘On our second meeting together, you mentioned…’ Quickly realizing and correcting: ‘I mean, on your second meeting with Jac McElroy…’ But it was too late, Larry had picked up on it, staring at him intently in that moment, eyes boring past Ayliss’s brown contact lenses, stripping away the prosthetic cheek and jaw bulking and the shoulder padding, as he uttered with a hushed, incredulous breath, ‘It’s you, Jac… isn’t it? It’s you!’ And Jac, not saying anything, but giving his answer with a nervous look towards the glass screen and Folley; the sound link was off, but he worried in that moment that Larry’s body language might give the game away or Folley might be able to lip-read. But Folley held the same nonchalant, slightly bored expression, hadn’t picked up on anything, as Jac gently nodded his acquiescence; and Larry at the same time had quickly killed his sly, disbelieving smile as he picked up on the signal not to give the game away to Folley.
Larry finally spoke. ‘I… I’m sorry. I don’t know… can’t say with any certainty.’
Jac eased out a resigned breath. Ormdern had mentioned that even if the memory of the murder had been suggested or somehow overlaid, its addition could create uncertainty in Larry’s mind about the time gap from his pool game. But the end result was the same, Jac thought, feeling his stomach sink: last chance gone.
‘Okay…okay. When you did actually hear or read about Jessica Roche’s murder… exactly when or where was that? Morning or afternoon? On the TV or in a newspaper?’
‘TV.’ Larry answered almost immediately, then paused longer for thought before continuing. ‘But there was no sound on… I couldn’t hear what was being said. Only saw her face on the newsflash.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because I didn’t want to. I’d made sure to avoid all newspapers and early morning TV… but there she was suddenly, as I was passing a TV shop window.’
Jac’s stomach fell again, as if a second, surprise trapdoor had suddenly opened. A completely different story to the one he’d got last time from Larry! Ormdern, too, looked perplexed, flicking back a page in his notes to double-check the earlier account.
‘Are… are you sure about that? TV shop window rather than at home in the afternoon or early evening?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Larry’s brow knitted briefly with another thought. ‘Okay… maybe early evening was the first time I actually heard it. But I remember clearly standing by that shop window seeing it for the first time.’
‘And what time of day was that?’
‘Mid, late morning, maybe.’
Jac stared back hard at Larry. Was Larry telling the truth now, or in his earlier account to Jac? Or was he clever enough to realize that his sub conscious had suddenly produced a different story, so he’d slipped in a caveat…. ‘first time I actually heard it’. Maybe, with all of that reading, he was cleverer than all of them: knew and recalled perfectly well that he’d killed Jessica Roche, and now was just playing them all, getting them searching desperately through the haystack of his past for needles that he knew had never been there. Maybe, too, Larry had lied earlier about seeing those photos he’d slid across, realizing then that his subconscious had again given something away.
Just when Jac thought he knew Larry, was getting closer to him and the truth of what happened twelve years ago, he’d do another quick flip, become a conundrum again. A mystery.
Yet if Larry knew that his subconscious would give him away, why subject himself to this now? Was it just that with only days left to live, a random chance was better than no chance at all? One last laugh up his sleeve at them all desperately fluffing around him, trying to save his life. The attention he’d never got from his own family. But why then had he wanted to die when Jac first met him? Or was that the ultimate double-play: the last person you’d suspect of trying to fool you about their innocence was someone who’d already given up on being saved?
Perhaps, as Jac had suspected all along, Larry just didn’t know. The memory loss had stayed with him, and he had no idea if he’d done it or not.
‘And how did you feel, Larry, when you first saw her face on that TV through that shop window?’ Though now the question seemed almost superfluous.
‘I… I felt terrible, you know. Sick inside like you wouldn’t believe.’ Larry gently shook his head. ‘That’s… that’s why I tried to avoid seeing it. Because I couldn’t believe I’d done it… and once I’d seen it on the news, then it was suddenly real. Official. I had done it.’
And now Jac would have to tell Larry, as he’d promised to when the next day he got Ormdern’s report: ‘Sorry, Larry… looks like you did do it.’ At least one consolation: when he was executed in a few days time, in his last moments he wouldn’t be left with that crushing sense of injustice that it was for something he hadn’t done.
TV! The thought suddenly flared from the back of Jac’s brain.
Sitting there watching the last minutes of the session tick away, that final thought about Larry’s guilt just hadn’t sat comfortably, and everything suddenly came flooding back — Gasping for air as he fought back up through the dark lake… Running from the lights of the police helicopter… Walking back into Libreville disguised as Ayliss… Surely all of that hadn’t been for nothing. Surely? Could he possibly have read it all so wrong? Put his life on the line and…
And suddenly the thought had flashed like a supernova to the forefront: TV! If Mack Elliott had asked the chicken guy to pipe down because he couldn’t hear what was on the TV, then whatever was on must have been important!
Jac leant over and shared the thought with Ormdern through the mike. Ormdern nodded slowly, Larry’s eyelids gently pulsing as his mind questioned what was happening, why the sudden pause?
‘Okay, Larry. Sorry. I want to take you back again to the Bayou Brew and the pool game. Specifically that moment you mentioned when Mack Elliott told off the chicken guy because he couldn’t concentrate on what was on the TV.’
‘Yeah… yeah.’ The pulsing slowly settling as Larry got the memory back again.
‘Now, what was it Mack Elliott was watching? Why was it so important that he had to tell the chicken guy to shut up?’
‘I… I’m not sure.’ The eyelid-pulsing increasing again. ‘The TV’s turned away from me… I can’t see what he’s watching.’
‘And did he tell you? Something important perhaps that he wanted to watch that night?’
‘No…no. He didn’t mention anything.’
Slow sigh from Ormdern, the disappointment evident in his voice. ‘Okay… from where you are, what can you hear coming over the TV?’
Marked pause from Larry as he applied more thought. ‘Some cheering and clapping… a commentator’s voice in between. A few shouts and jeers at some points.’
‘What’s the commentator saying?’
‘I… I can’t tell from where we are… it’s too faint. Just a mumble. The cheering, clapping and shouting comes over stronger.’
‘Okay. Cheering and clapping… some shouts. Any laughter?’
‘No… no. Just the cheering and clapping.’
So obviously not a sitcom or even a variety or chat show, Jac thought. They would normally have some laughter.
‘And how long did it go on for… how long was Mack Elliott watching?’
‘Maybe twenty minutes or so… half-hour, max.’
That ruled out a sporting fixture, too.
‘And anything else you might recall about what Mack was watching then? Anything you might have heard or he mentioned?’
‘No… that’s it. Just remember some cheering and shouting… and him telling off the chicken guy.’
Already two minutes over the session time. Nothing else that Ormdern was going to find out. But if Larry couldn’t remember what Mack Elliott was watching that night, maybe Mack himself could. Although it was twelve years ago, they now had some strong guideposts: cheering and shouting, guy in a chicken suit that he threatened with a Billy-club.
Having thanked Ormdern, ‘I’ll look forward to reading your final report tomorrow,’ Jac paced back through the endless corridors with that cauldron of conflicting thoughts from the session still burning through his head. He opened his car window and breathed deeply of the outside night air, trying to lose the heat and claustrophobia of the prison, and the second he was clear of the final guard-post, took out his cell-phone and dialled Mack Elliott’s number.
Outside the prison gates, the crowd had swelled to eighty strong. One group, with long hair and long white flowing robes, as if they were a flock of angels or modern-day Messiahs, held up a large placard:
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
Go Larry, go…
Then you can get your own back on Candaret!
Don’t let him in when he shows there!
…Though unlikely that’s where he’s headed.
The Devil claimed his soul years ago!
To one side they’d set up large speakers blasting the song out, the display no doubt inspired by Larry’s strong religious beliefs.
‘Come on…’ Jac muttered impatiently as he sped away from the prison. Last chance… last chance.
But as Mack Elliott’s line continued ringing emptily in Jac’s ear, all that reached him was Robert Plant’s voice sailing hauntingly on the night air, singing about the feeling he got when he looked to the west, his spirit crying for leaving.