Maybe because they were the last images in his mind before his car hit the barrier; or because he now shared Jessica Roche’s emotions in those final seconds as Durrant’s gun barrel pressed against her temple. Hoping against hope that she might survive, but knowing in her sinking heart that it was already too late.
19
18February, 1992.
Silence. The thrum of the city pushed away and cushioned by the resplendent mansions of the Garden District, each sprawling edifice with its cosseted oleander-, juniper-, bamboo- and magnolia-rich grounds a punctuation space of tranquillity separated from its neighbour; on and on until the city itself and its hubbub seemed distant, remote. Almost another world.
Jessica Roche was wrapped in the spacious cocoon of that silence, the only sound coming from the house itself: the TV on low with a Cheersre-run, a grandfather clock ticking in the hallway, the faint hum and churn of the dishwasher in the kitchen — their maid Rosella had packed it and wiped all surfaces clean when she’d left for the day fifty minutes ago — the sharpest sound the turning of magazine pages as Jessica Roche flicked through a recent Elle Decor.
She glanced fleetingly at her watch. Over two hours gone, they’d be well into the desserts, brandies and after-dinner speeches by now. ‘One of those boring business functions, all of the talk will be about trends and quotas and how to improve tanker facilities at Port Arthur. You wouldn’t enjoy it.’
But at the back of her mind she’d begun to wonder if Adelay was purposely keeping her away from business functions because of their recent argument. It had all been behind closed doors, nothing overt that anyone else would have been aware of, even Rosella.
Maybe this was his way of punishing her, shutting her out in the cold for a while. Leave the trophy wife at home to cool-off, realize her ‘place’. Or perhaps, keeping her away from business functions, a more direct message: don’t get involved in my business matters and things that don’t concern you.
In sober reflection, possibly she had been too volatile, rash, taken things a step too far — or at least threatened to. But then, as so often, he’d been so annoyingly offhand and condescending. Trophy Wife. At the time, it had seemed the only way for him to pay her any notice, take her seriously; otherwise, he’d have just rolled straight over her.
She stroked her stomach gently with one hand as she felt it twitch and tighten. Hopefully finally some activity there, rather than just unease. Dr Thallerey, her obstetrician, had said that the next month or so would be the most telling for the treatment.
Perhaps she should back-step with Adelay and try and calm the waters over the next few days. The last thing she wanted — theywanted — was any upset that might affect the success of the treatment. After all, they finally had something to look forward to, some hope where before…
She froze, a tingle running up her spine. A sound out of place among the other faint noises of the house. A door opening, maybe a window. Somewhere towards the other side of the house.
She held her breath, listening more intently. Soft rustling, scratching? Faint pad of steps towards her, or were they heading along the corridor? Hard to pick-out clearly as a gust of wind outside rustled the oleander bush close by the drawing-room window.
The door to the hallway was ajar just a few inches. She got up and moved closer to it, trying to hone her hearing to the sounds beyond; fearful now of actually opening it. If somebody was there, the first thing she should be doing is shutting it sharply, locking it, and lunging for the phone to dial 911.
Something there, but very soft, not… she back-stepped sharply, her heart in her throat, as the door started swinging wider open. Although by only a few inches — their grey Persian cat scurrying quickly through.
She reached down and scooped it up. ‘Majestic! It’s only you.’ She hugged it close, feeling her heart still racing against its soft fur. She looked along the corridor to the rec-room with its basket; obviously the door hadn’t been left sufficiently open, as it usually was, and it’d had to scratch and paw the door wider open. ‘But stop sneaking around so will you, you gave me…’
The phone rang in the library. Adelay’s business line; she’d better get it. He’d told her before going out that he was expecting an important call, and had specifically requested that she pass on his number at the function rather than let it go to answer-phone. No point in upsetting him even more. Majestic was abruptly dropped again as she went across the hallway to answer it.
Everything had gone smoothly. Breaking in the side-window and wire-crossing the alarm had taken no more than a few minutes, but then had come the trickiest part: edging three doors down the corridor without being heard.
He glided silently, feet floating an inch above the floor, each step hardly connecting before lifting and gliding again. He was sure he’d made no sound — but then the hackles suddenly rose on his neck as he passed the last but one door and saw the cat staring back at him from the near darkness. Hackles also raised, back hunched, as if it wasn’t sure whether to lunge forward or shrink back.
He swiftly reached out and closed the door, all but the last inch; the sound of it touching home would carry.
He glided silently on, breath held, gently opened the library door and, again, left it open only an inch as he headed towards the leather seat at its far end, sat down and waited.
Four or five minutes until the call came through, he checked from his watch. They’d left more than enough leeway.
But it felt like a lifetime waiting in the silence of the big house, his own heartbeat almost in time with a ticking-clock in the hallway and, beyond that, the muted sound of pages turning. And when after a few minutes there were some stronger, closer sounds — it made him sit up sharply. Rustling, scratching. The cat was trying to paw its way out of the room!
Movement now too from across the hallway, her getting up to investigate. He slid the silenced.38 from his jacket. He might not even have to wait for the phone call.
A suspended moment, then the sound of the cat scampering across the hallway and her voice riding a sharp intake of breath.
‘ Majestic! It’s only you. But stop sneaking around so will you, you gave me…’
The phone ringing only a few feet to his side sounded obscenely loud. He took his own intake of breath in anticipation and pointed his gun towards the door.
Lieutenant Coyne of NOPD’s 6 thDistrict didn’t arrive on the scene until 2.44 a.m., over two hours after the first squad car arrived.
There were a few reasons for that. First, there’d been a reported ‘major’ incident on Magazine Street. Started as a simple fender-bender, but the Saturday night specials had quickly come out and first radio reports were that ‘World War Three’ had erupted. Two shop windows were smashed, a passer-by hit in the leg from the stray bullets, and, amazingly, one of the combatants took four bullets and still survived. Second, he didn’t like to arrive on crime scenes too early, felt that it took a while for all the confusion and emotions to settle down and anything clear start to emerge. But in this case there was a third reason: when it came to big-shot or celebrity incidents, Coyne had often found the participants high-handed and difficult; and as shots went, they hardly came any bigger than Adelay Roche.
Hopefully Roche would have vented his worst — whether blubbering or barking that they should be out there chasing his wife’s murderer rather than tramping his best shag-pile — on his assistant, DS Dave Friele, who he’d sent there within minutes of the radio alert coming through, while he stayed to finish things up on Magazine Street.