LITMIR.BIZ

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make sure of.

      ‘I like the way you handle things,’ he said quietly. ‘You treated me with respect and courtesy, unlike many of your colleagues. I don’t forget these things. What happened to you wasn’t right. I’ll help you sort it, so you come out on top. But I’d like you to do something for me in return. You’ve got time on your hands until your hearing. Maybe you can use that time to help Sean, see if you can turn up anything new that the others have missed. That’s all I ask.’

      His request took her by surprise. It was the last thing she had been expecting. She shook her head. ‘Why don’t you just hire a PI?’

      ‘I could do, of course. Anything’s possible, even from in here. But you’ll do a much better job. You’re top-notch, Eve. You’ve got all the necessary experience and you understand the system from the inside out. If anyone can spot a flaw in the process, you will. I’ll pay you generously for your time …’

      She felt the colour rise to her cheeks. ‘I don’t want your money.’

      ‘I’d forgotten how proud you are. I didn’t mean to insult you, but your reputation is trashed and you’re likely to lose your job, from what I hear. Money aside, that must matter a lot to you.’ He let the sentence hang. ‘That’s why, like it or not, you need my help. I can give you the proof you were set up, who did it, and why. It will stand up in any internal proceedings, or court of law, if you decide to take it that far, and if you still don’t get what you want, the newspapers will love it, if you sell your story. You can also have the satisfaction of helping an innocent man.’

      She stared at him for a moment. Much that she’d like to believe him, it all sounded hollow.

      ‘Have you got religion, or something?’

      The faintest of smiles appeared on his thin lips. ‘What, me? Of course not. I’m an atheist and proud of it.’

      ‘What’s your angle, then? Is it personal?’

      He had no wife, children or other dependents, from what she could recall, no significant other, male or female, to share the huge, gated house in North London, with its indoor and outdoor swimming pools, sterile works of art and expensive furnishings. She remembered from her visit, when they had searched his house, how it all felt like a film set, not somewhere actually lived in. She had wanted to see his home to get a better feel for the man, but she had been disappointed. Even the most personal of spaces, his bedroom, his bathroom and his huge, mirrored dressing-room, with its walnut panelled wardrobes, filled with tailor-made suits and sober, top of the range classic clothing, lacked personality.

      Duran leaned back in his chair, stretched his shoulders and sighed. ‘You’re so incredibly suspicious, Eve. Although I guess I don’t blame you. I met Sean for the first time here in Bellevue. Other than that, I can honestly say I have no personal connection, either to him or to Jane McNeil, the murder victim. You know, she’d have been just a few years older than you are now, if somebody hadn’t stolen her future from her. Think about that.’

      ‘Why, then? Why are you bothering yourself with someone else’s problem? It’s not like you and it doesn’t add up.’

      ‘Curious, lovely Eve. You just can’t let things drop, can you? They keep worrying away at you, all these little mysteries, all these little inconsistencies. Like why I killed Stanco. I remember how you went on and on about it. It was so important to you. I understand you so well, you know. I’m just like you. I hate mysteries too. We both need to understand, put everything neatly away in its box, have everything explained to our satisfaction, so we can sleep at night. Do you have problems sleeping at night? I bet you do …’

      He was taunting her now, closer to the truth than he could imagine. ‘Don’t try and analyse me,’ she said sharply and stood up. ‘If you’re not going to explain yourself, I’m off.’

      He held up his hand. ‘Wait. Don’t go, Eve.’ His voice was suddenly loud and rasping. It woke up the guard, who had been standing motionless with his back to the wall, arms folded, in some sort of reverie throughout the interview.

      ‘Are you done, Mr Duran?’ the guard asked, the ‘Mr’ said without any hint of irony, the tone full of respect.

      Duran looked around. ‘It’s alright, Dave. Just a few more minutes.’ It was as though he were talking to his manservant. Duran looked back at her and leaned forward across the table. ‘Please.’ He spoke quietly, almost mouthing the word as though ashamed of it. There was an unusual light and eagerness in his black eyes. She had never heard him say ‘please’ before. It struck her forcibly that, in spite of his apparently uninterested manner, it mattered a lot to him, for some reason. Intrigued, still holding his gaze, she sat down again.

      ‘If you really need an explanation, I’ll give you one,’ he said. ‘I’m ill. Very ill indeed, as you can see.’ He gestured vaguely towards his skeletal frame. ‘The doctors have given me just a matter of months at most. I’ve been thinking about things a lot in here and I’d like to help some people, while I still can. Sean’s one of them. You’re another.’

      Was he really dying, she wondered. Was that what this was all about? Based on the strange colour of his skin, it had to be his liver, or possibly his pancreas. Either way, from the little she knew, the prognosis wasn’t good. Would somebody like him ever have regrets and want to make amends for the terrible things he’d done and the lives he’d ruined? Part of her wanted to believe that he could help her, but part of her, an important part, still mistrusted him. There had to be a catch.

      ‘Say I agree to help. What if I can’t find out anything? Or what if I find out for sure he’s guilty?’

      Duran sat back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘All I ask is that you just take a look. Follow the evidence wherever it leads. If he’s guilty, so be it. I’ll let you have everything I’ve got on the case. Alan Peters can get the files over to you. You can then talk to Sean and take it from there. If you find out something that helps his case, great. If not, it’s OK. And if he’s guilty, that’s OK too. All I care about is the truth. I want justice to be served. You do your best and I’ll honour my side of the bargain.’

      It was as though they were having an ordinary, everyday conversation and it struck her how surreal it all was.

      ‘Will you, though?’ She studied his face, trying to read something – anything – from his expression, but it was hopeless. ‘Maybe you’re just spinning me a line.’

      He gave an almost imperceptible shrug and sighed, like a teacher confronted with a slow-to-learn pupil. ‘What have you got to lose, Eve? You’re up shit creek without a paddle, as I see it.’

      It was galling hearing it from him, of all people, but she couldn’t disagree, not that she would let it show. The doubts still lingered. ‘You’re asking me to take a lot on trust. How do I know that your information’s any good?’

      His face hardened. It pleased her to see that at last she had touched a nerve, even if it was only his pride. ‘Do you really think my intelligence would be bad? Information is power in both our worlds. I’m not only well connected, I’m very, very thorough. My contacts are excellent and I do in-depth research on people who interest me. Sometimes it throws up something useful.’ He moistened his dry lips with his tongue and she caught a glimpse of glistening white teeth. ‘Take you, for example.’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘Yes. I know a lot about you, about your hippy foster parents down in Lymington. They were most forthcoming.’

      The words shocked her. There was nothing about her background in the police HR records, as far as she knew. She wondered what lies, what shameful pretext Duran had used to get the information. Had he sent somebody down to Lymington to talk to her foster parents, Robin and Clem Jackson, maybe pretending to be a journalist, or somebody doing research? She had last spoken to them immediately after the shooting, to let them know that she was alright. They hadn’t mentioned anything at all suspicious.

      ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

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