John Matthews - Ascension Day

‘And he just called a few minutes ago, Jac. There’s an APB been put out for Ayliss. Carrying false identity, false impersonation and fraud.’

‘Oh, Jesus !’ Jac closed his eyes momentarily, glad that he was sitting when the news came.

‘But what’s odd is the “approach with caution” note. Bit extreme for the crimes mentioned… until, that is, my friend told me the contact name on the APB: Lieutenant Derminget! And it all suddenly fell into place and made sense.’

Jac only half-heard Coultaine go on to say that it looked like Derminget had somehow worked it all out: McElroy, Ayliss… the disguise. ‘Don’t know how, but he obviously has.’ The echoing terminal activity and pounding pulse in Jac’s head half-drowned it out.

That pounding heavier still, legs shaky and uncertain, as fifteen minutes later he rose to go through passport control.

And then that same ordeal at Miami, Nassau and finally Havana. Not knowing how he managed to face each one, feeling almost physically sick after passing through each time, his nerves mounting again in flight as he steeled himself to face the next one. So by the time he went through the last check-out at Havana, he was exhausted, emotionally drained.

Part of him felt like jumping in the air or doing a quick fandango in relief and excitement, but his body had hardly the strength left to put one foot in front of the other. His step heavy, laboured, eyes bleary and unfocused from lack of sleep as he headed away from customs — before the guards, no doubt with their eyes still on his back, changed their minds — and sought the car-rental desks.

Closed ! Jac shuffled over to the cafe area at the end, one of the few things open, and on the second try found a waiter with good enough English.

‘They open at seven o’clock, senor.’

Jac looked at the clock on the cafe wall: 6.23 a.m. His friendly waiter said there wouldn’t be other car-rental companies open yet in the city, most in fact wouldn’t open until 9 a.m., and the train to Sancti Spiritus took eight and a half hours. With already fourteen hours eaten up getting to Cuba, Jac hated to lose even one more minute of what little time Durrant had left — but with little other option, he ordered a coffee and waited, meanwhile checking his phone messages. He’d switched his cell-phone off immediately after Coultaine’s call and hadn’t used it since, worried that with the APB out, the police might be able to zone-track where he was. He risked turning it on now briefly. Only one call: Bob Stratton. New Orleans was one hour behind: 5.31 a.m. He’d call him back in a couple of hours.

Jac finished his coffee and ordered another, his body suddenly craving more caffeine to combat his over-tiredness, kick some life back into it.

Realizing, as he finally got on the road at 7.09 a.m., squinting at road-signs as he sped across a dawn-lit Havana, that he’d have risked falling asleep on the drive without the caffeine. And, having chosen the car-rental company’s most powerful option, an Audi A6, hoping that he could make up the time. The caffeine didn’t help his already wire-taut nerves, his stomach jittery and his hands trembling on the steering wheel, but at least he was alert.

Cienfuegos… Trinidad… Sancti Spiritus… Jac’s route was by now indelibly implanted on his mind. As Jac swung on to Highway A1 and he saw the first sign for Cienfuegos, he put his foot down hard. Six and a half hours driving time, they said. Maybe he could cut that to six or even five and a half hours.

The car-rental companies were already open when Nel-M landed, but he lost time through having to buy a gun in Havana’s old town, an old Browning 9mm, before he could get on the road again.

He was just under four hours behind Ayliss as he hit the start of the A1 highway towards Cienfuegos.

With the call from Glenn Bateson while he was at Miami International waiting for his flight to Nassau — ‘ It didn’t work. My guy only managed to injure him… and not that seriously ’ — everything hinged more than ever on catching up with Truelle as soon as possible.

If Bateson’s man had been successful, it would have stopped Ayliss dead in his tracks, he’d have probably just slumped his head on his steering wheel in the middle of Cuba as soon as he heard the news. With Durrant already dead, what would have been the point in continuing?

But right now Truelle was like a powder-keg, and if Ayliss had enough time to light the right match, Nel-M had little doubt that he’d explode and tell all. And if so, Nel-M doubted that Roche’s one remaining contingency plan could contain that explosion.

He glanced at the gun on his passenger seat. As so often had happened in his long association with Roche, while Roche troubled himself with fringe details, the core of every problem was left for him to deal with; just as with Roche’s wife twelve years ago that had started it all. Nothing had really changed.

Mack Elliott had drifted out of the Ninth Ward into Bywater because there was a bar on North Rampart that had one of the largest screens around, always tuned to sports, usually football. He’d missed the big Saints game the night before, but there was an early afternoon highlights re-run that he knew they’d have on.

And that’s where he was, cold Beck’s in hand, watching the over sized screen among a lively throng shouting support or derision with the ebb and flow of the Saints’ performance, when the thought suddenly hit him. Highlights ! That’s what he’d been watching that night!

It hadn’t been a full game, because the Saints had been playing away in Philadelphia and there was some charity telethon on — but he’d been keen to watch the condensed highlights when they’d come on later. That’s why he’d told the chicken guy to pipe-down!

Mack left his half-finished beer on the counter, went out the back to a pay-phone, got the number of the Times-Picayune from 411, and asked to be put through.

‘Do you have a sporting archives section, perhaps?’

‘We’ve got a general archives section, sir — which would include sport. They should be able to help.’

The girl that looked up the information used a keyword search on the Times-Picayune data-bank, but she could just as easily have found it on the internet. ‘Here it is… Saints v Philadelphia Eagles game. Eighteenth of February, 1992.’

‘Thanks.’ Mack banged a fist on the wall by the phone, closing his eyes for a second. It was that same night! Larry couldn’t have been at the Roche house.

He took the piece of paper from his pocket, Darrell Ayliss’s number, and dialled… but it rang unobtainable, a service provider message telling him to try again later. He tried again, just in case, but it did the same.

He started to panic, beads of sweat popping on his forehead as he checked the time: less than four hours left. He had to get the message through somehow!

He got hold of 411 again and asked to be put through to Libreville prison.

But the woman that answered said that Warden Haveling wasn’t available because of final preparations that day with Lawrence Durrant ‘…and his assistant Mr Folley is right now handling a media conference call regarding the same. But I…’

‘It’s actually about Larry Durrant that I’m phonin’ now!’

‘Yes, sir, and I… I have someone that I believe can still help.’

Some top-dog guard or other, Mack didn’t catch the name. But when after the transfer his voice answered, Mack ran too quickly at first, had to calm himself to get the information across clearly.

Mack Elliott. Bayou Brew bar of twelve years ago with Larry Durrant. Sessions with Darrell Ayliss and Greg Ormdern to try and find out what happened that night. ‘ But I wasn’t able to remember what I was watchin’ until just now — and I just checked it out a minute ago with the Times-Picayune . That game was the same night that Larry Durrant was mean’a be at the Roche house. He couldn’t have been there! It wasn’t him!’