They sat drinking in silence again, like two old friends who knew each other so well that often words weren’t needed, the warmth of the shared drink and their companionship enough. And when Jac looked in Larry’s eyes, he could see that the shadows had gone, no longer haunted by chasing distant, out-of-reach memories. He was calm again. At peace.
27
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as can be,’ Nel-M said. That laboured, unsettling breathing from the other end. Darth Vader watching porno. ‘I don’t know what other explanation there can be for him leaving his phone bug in after telling Truelle he was sure it was bugged. Then all that crap with him saying he’s dropped the case and that false lead the other day. McElroy’s been playing us for mugs.’
Breathing heavier, more perturbed, as if it was a Geiger counter for Roche’s thoughts. ‘Looks like you could well be right. Did you notice anyone following you the other day?’
‘No. But then I wasn’t particularly looking out for them, because I didn’t know then what I know now from Truelle. I think it might be time to — ’
‘I know. I know what it might be time to do,’ Roche cut in. He swallowed, struggling to get his breathing back under control. ‘Let me think on this a while. I’ll phone you back.’
Roche’s call came thirty-five minutes later, but in that time Nel-M was calm, relaxed — making a pot of fresh coffee, whistling softly to himself, watching some breakfast TV — because he knew already what the answer would be. He wondered what Roche had done in that same time: played some Vivaldi or Wagner, or sat silently with only the sound of his own breathing rising and falling, looking at his cherubs and red brocade, his swimming pool surrounded by Roman statues — the precious gilded world he’d made for himself — contemplating just how fragile it all might be.
‘Okay. Do it. But make sure it’s clean. No messy loose ends.’
‘It’ll be soooo clean, you’ll be able to eat your dinner off it.’
An hour later Nel-M was inside McElroy’s apartment, latex gloves on his hands as he delicately lifted what he’d need from countertops and doors, and searched through cupboards and drawers for any vital papers Jac might have hidden. Nothing. He went over to the phone and removed the bug, then listened out for a moment: no sounds from next door, she’d probably gone shopping.
Nel-M decided to search there too, in case, knowing that he’d been targeted, McElroy had decided to hide anything at his girlfriend’s apartment. And only minutes into his search, running one hand along a high wardrobe shelf, he found the gun.
Nel-M took it down, turning it slowly, deliberately, examining. An out of issue Colt, but looked in perfect working order. His plan was shaping up better by the minute.
Jac could feel even stronger the thrumming of the prison boilers almost in time with his pounding heart as he walked away from seeing Durrant, with the steady clip of his footsteps keeping rhythm too; the same distinctive but strangely hollow sound — as if echoing the lost hope of all Libreville’s prisoners — he recalled from his first day going to see Durrant, now joining that dull, driving drumbeat: You can’t give up now. You can’t.
And he could still feel that drumbeat as he drove away, though now it was only his heart, its beat harder and faster as he drove back across the darkness of Lake Pontchartrain, remembering. His breath held for a moment, expectant, as if waiting for that first gulp of air again as he hit the surface. But it wasn’t the image of himself fighting up through its murky depths that reached him this time, but Larry Durrant: struggling to pick out the images of twelve years ago from its shadowy greyness, but them never hitting the light of the surface. Never becoming clear.
And staring out across the dark expanse of lake, the thought hit Jac in that instant: ‘ It’s there somewhere. It’s there. Only you can’t see it.’
He drove the rest of the way back to New Orleans with only that one thought on his mind, and, as soon as he was inside his apartment, went over to his father’s painting on the far wall of the dining room, leaning close to it, feeling the texture of its oil brushstrokes.
Their Rochefort farmhouse, a patchwork of vineyards and wheat and sunflower fields sloping up towards a more prominent pine-covered hillside as backdrop.
His father had painted it their first year in Rochefort, when Jac had been only nine. And when his father had first finished it, he asked Jac:
‘What do you see?’
‘Our farmhouse.’
‘Yes, but what else?’
Jac had studied the painting more closely, looking for perhaps himself or his mother as a small dot hidden in the fields or the hillside like one of those ‘Where’s Waldo’ puzzles. But he couldn’t see anything, and shook his head after a moment.
‘Look deeper into the painting,’ his father prompted. ‘It’s there somewhere. It’s there. Only you can’t see it.’
And after a while, Jac could finally see it: a vague, shadowy outline of what looked like their farmhouse in a slightly different position.
His father explained that he’d started laying down the outline of the farmhouse, then suddenly decided it would be better from another angle, the backdrop and depth of shadow and light more dramatic.
‘But rather than waste the canvass, I decided to paint over it. It’s something the Old Masters used to do all the time — because canvasses were even more expensive then. Lean in close to many an Old Master, and you’ll be surprised what you see buried in the background.’
And from then on, Jac had always looked. Whether at the Louvre or a local gallery, while everyone else was yards away, trying to appreciate the overall impact of the painting, he’d be only inches from it, trying to see what might lay beneath the surface.
Jac looked at his watch: 11.46 p.m. Late, but he didn’t want to delay. He dialled out on his cell-phone. Mike Coultaine’s throaty voice answered after three rings.
‘That psychiatrist for the defence, Greg Ormdern, is he still practicing?’ Jac asked.
‘I believe so.’
‘Any good?’
‘At the time, one of the best. Which is why I used to use him as an expert witness. Why?’
Jac explained his thinking to Coultaine: if Truelle had been able to unearth from Durrant’s mind his actions that dark night with Jessica Roche, then perhaps Greg Ormdern would be able to fill in the gaps. ‘Uncover the rest from that time. The things we still don’t know.’
With the last call, Nel-M contemplated, the most important thing had been brevity:
‘ You wanna know who your girlfriend’s new boyfriend is? Who’s fucking her now? His name’s Jac. Jac with no k.’
Hanging up before Strelloff had half a chance to think or ask who was calling. But this time he’d have to go into more detail.
He sat for almost an hour outside McElroy’s apartment — in a rented grey Chevrolet Impala, because McElroy would now recognize his Pontiac — timing and planning.
Eight o’clock, McElroy said that he’d be over to eat at her place. He still used his home phone for day-to-day non-Durrant related calls because, as Nel-M hardly needed reminding — that’s all they’d got the past six days on tape.
Nel-M left it half an hour for them to get their appetizers out of the way, then took out his cell-phone to order their main course.
Gerry Strelloff was slightly out of breath as he answered, as if he’d run from another room to pick up, or was on his way somewhere.