Nel-M could sense from Roche’s breathing becoming heavier, more troubled, that this was the hardest part for him. Letting go. A lifetime of controlling, manipulating with his grubby little paws, it was completely alien to him admitting that, for once, he couldn’t push and mould things exactly how and where he wanted.

‘We might just have to ride this one out,’ Nel-M added after a moment. ‘And, of course, pray.’

But Roche was hardly listening, his thoughts cannoning frantically in rhythm with his fractured breathing. ‘There must be something we can do… something?’

Darrell Ayliss was sweating profusely as he paced back through the seemingly endless, cavernous grey corridors of Libreville. He was a large man with an awkward gait, and the sweat poured off him.

Testament to just how hot it was in Libreville, or perhaps equally it was from Durrant’s words still burning through his head from the session just finished with Greg Ormdern. Or the crushing reminder that had run through him like a red-hot pulse in time with the wall clock ticking down the minutes of the session: only six days left now to possibly save Durrant.

Ayliss inhaled deeply of the air outside just before he got in his rented Dodge Stratus, observed the 20 m.p.h speed limit for the two miles of shale road back towards the guard post, then gunned it once clear the other side. He let out a slow, heavy breath, as if blowing off the steam of the prison and the session, and hit play on the tape recorder on his passenger seat.

Ormdern’s voice drifted out, Durrant’s more muted timbre interspersed, the tinny tone of the recorder almost matching how he’d initially heard it through the small speaker in the observation room with Pete Folley at his side, looking on through the glass screen as Ormdern questioned Durrant on a camp-bed set up in the adjoining interview room.

Ormdern had been adamant that there should be no possible distractions in the room, and the sound feed and glass screen at the same time gave Ayliss what he wanted: not only to be able to hear every word, but watch every nuance and beat of Durrant’s expression. He wanted to feelthe experience, not just hear it.

It had taken almost ten minutes to get Larry fully under, then another few minutes for Ormdern to set mood and place, put Durrant in the moment: Eighteenth of February, the Roche’s Garden District residence.

‘The night that everything went wrong with the robbery and Jessica Roche.’

Ormdern had said that he didn’t want to use overtly leading words like kill or murder . ‘There’s part of Larry Durrant probably still in denial, most likely why he’s never described actually pulling the trigger, and I don’t want to inadvertently draw that out… put up his defences.’

‘You’ve already broken in the house… and I want you to tell me what you see there in the rooms, before you’re disturbed by Jessica Roche.’

‘In…in what way? Which rooms?’

‘Let’s start with the library. You went there to rob the house, and that’s where you found the safe, I understand.’

‘Yeah, that’s where I found it. That’s where I was in fact when-’

‘That’s okay,’ Ormdern cut in sharply. ‘What happened with Jessica Roche has been covered many times already. It’s going back before that, I’m interested in. Before…’

Ormdern dragged the word out, giving it a soothing quality. Larry’s breathing had become agitated, irregular, and as Ormdern repeated himself, ‘Before… before…’ it gradually settled back down.

‘That room… the library itself, for instance… what did it look like?’

‘I don’t know… it was dark. I didn’t really pay attention.’

‘Okay, okay… the safe, then? You’d have concentrated on that, because you were about to break it.’

‘Yeah… yeah.’ Larry swallowing, a long pause as he applied thought. ‘Straightforward twist-tumbler lock, as I recall.’

‘And the colour?’

‘I don’t know… grey or green, I think.’ Another heavy pause. ‘But it’s difficult. As I say, it was dark, and I was disturbed pretty soon, before I’d really had a chance to — ’

‘That’s okay, Larry… that’s okay. You’ve done well.’ Now it was Ormdern’s turn to pause. ‘Anything else that stood out in the house or that room, however small or inconsequential?’

Only the sound of Larry’s steady breathing, a faint swallow. Then he started mumbling something indiscernible, and Ormdern lost him for a few moments at that point.

‘Try and focus again, Larry… focus… focus…’ repetitive, the voice fading softer each time, ‘….that’s it Larry… that’s it…’ Gently closing in, Ormdern getting the images to settle again behind Durrant’s flickering eyelids. ‘Tell me what you see?’

‘Noth… nothing that stood out that much, really. Lot of books in the room, obviously… along one side.’

Ayliss had to concentrate on the road for a moment. He reached over and turned off the tape as he came off Highway 12 and negotiated the turn on to the Causeway. Lake Pontchartrain spread each side like a dark, moody blanket, the only relief some faint moon glow one side and the reflected lights of New Orleans in the distance. Ayliss didn’t switch on again until he was a few miles into the Causeway.

‘Do you remember which side of the room they were?’

‘Uh… uh. Right-hand side as you walk in, I believe. Oh, and there… there…’

‘Yeah?’ Ormdern prompting as Larry paused heavily again. ‘Go ahead, Larry. Tell me.’

‘There was a large clock in the hallway, I seem to remember. One of those ornate grandfather clocks.’

Ayliss clenched a fist tight on the steering wheel. The sort of detail that would seal Durrant’s fate rather than save it. If his memory of detail in the house had been scant, they could have cast doubt on his recall of the murder itself, claimed that it had somehow been suggested or even implanted. Those few details could be enough to support that he was definitely there — unlessthose descriptions didn’t match what Ayliss discovered at the old Roche residence.

‘Okay. We’ve covered what you might have actually seen in the house. But I want to deal now with what you might have actually feltwhile you were there. Your fear and anxiety with what happened with Jessica Roche has already been dealt with in depth… but I wondered if at any time you had the feeling that someone else apart from her was there at the time. Someone watching that you probably didn’t see or know about… only felttheir presence?’

I was there at the time.

Ayliss’s hands clenched back tight on the wheel as he waited out the long silence on tape, recalling Larry’s brow furrowing heavily. Finally:

‘No… I… I can’t say I did. Didn’t in fact hear anysounds in the house.’ Larry’s breathing steady, measured, then, after a brief swallow, falling shorter again, uneven. ‘Not even Jessica Roche upstairs — otherwise I’d have got out of there earlier. Only heard her footsteps approaching at the last minute when— ’

‘That’s okay, Larry — you don’t need to go there,’ Ormdern cut in sharply. ‘You’ve covered that more than enough in the past. Move on again to afterwards… afterwards.’ That drawn out, soothing tone again. ‘Afterwards… as you’re leaving the Roche house. Apart from the woman walking her dog, do you recall anyone else that might have seen you?’

‘No…’ Brief silence. ‘Not that I can recall.’

‘At a neighbouring house, perhaps… in their garden or looking out from a window. Someone that you didn’t notice before?’

Longer pause, then: ‘No, sorry… nothing. I was running hard by then, my mind set on just getting away from there. Perhaps wouldn’t have even noticed the woman with her dog if I hadn’t looked back.’

‘Right. I can understand that.’ Flicking of paper as Ormdern checked back through the notes Ayliss had handed him before the session. ‘I want to take you somewhere else now, Larry. Same week in 1992 — but a completely different place. The Bayou Brew bar and your regular pool game there with your buddies: Nat Hadley, Ted Levereaux and Bill Saunders.’ A moment’s pause as Ormdern let the new location and people settle in Durrant’s mind. ‘Now, I want you to try and recall, Larry — was your game that week before or after that night at the Roche house?’