Predator. Wilbur Smith

Malinga said, settling into a padded leather chair that was a lot more comfortable than the ones in front of D’Shonn Brown’s desk. ‘So, Mr Weiss,’ he went on, ‘can you confirm that you visited Johnny Congo at the Allen B. Polunsky Unit on the twenty-seventh of October?’

      ‘I can.’

      ‘And what was the substance of your discussion with Congo?’

      Weiss grinned. ‘Oh, come on, you know perfectly well that client–attorney privilege prevents me from answering that question.’

      ‘But you discussed his legal situation in general?’

      ‘Of course! I’m a lawyer. That’s what we do.’

      ‘So how would you characterize his legal situation at that point? I mean, were you confident of being able to delay his execution?’

      ‘Well, the man was a convicted killer, who’d used up all his appeals on his original charge before absconding from the State Penitentiary, spending several years on the run and then being apprehended. What would you say his chances were of a stay of execution?’

      ‘Worse than zero.’

      ‘Precisely. Anyone can figure that out, including Johnny Congo. Nevertheless, anyone is entitled to the best defence, again including Johnny Congo. So I assured him that I would use my very best endeavours to keep him out of the chamber.’

      ‘And did you use those endeavours?’

      ‘Absolutely. I made every call I could think of, right up to the Governor and beyond. Burned a lot of favours and, believe me, I’m not exactly Mr Popular right now, not after someone turned Route 190 into a war zone.’

      ‘Did Congo pay you for doing that work on his behalf?’

      ‘Sure he paid me. I don’t represent a man like that pro bono.’

      ‘How much did he pay you?’

      ‘I don’t have to tell you that.’ There was a glass jar of brightly coloured jelly beans standing on Weiss’s desk. He unscrewed the lid and tilted the open jar in Malinga’s direction: ‘Want one?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Suit yourself. So, where were we?’

      ‘You were explaining how you couldn’t tell me how much Johnny Congo paid you.’

      ‘Oh yeah …’

      ‘But you can confirm that you paid two million dollars on Johnny Congo’s behalf to D’Shonn Brown, and don’t tell me that’s privileged because I know it ain’t. D’Shonn Brown is not your client. Any conversation with him or payment to him constitutes admissible evidence.’

      Weiss popped a couple of jelly beans into his mouth. ‘I wouldn’t insult an experienced senior officer like you by pretending otherwise. Yes, I gave Mr Brown the money. You can ask him what he did with it.’

      ‘Already have. I’m more interested in what you said when you gave it to him.’

      ‘I just passed on Mr Congo’s instructions.’

      ‘Which were?’

      ‘Let me see …’ Weiss leaned back and gazed upwards as if Johnny Congo’s words might be written or even projected on to the ceiling. Then he focused back on Malinga. ‘As I recall, Mr Congo wanted Mr Brown to gather up all the people he used to hang out with back in the day, so that they could pay their respects to him and see him off.’ Weiss chuckled to himself.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ Malinga asked.

      ‘D’Shonn Brown’s a sharp kid. He told me that Johnny’s buddies wouldn’t be able to see him go, but they’d sure see him coming, seeing as most of them were already dead. I could see his point. But that didn’t alter Mr Congo’s wishes. He basically wanted to have a lavish funeral, with a service in a cathedral and a long line of hearses and limousines, followed by a party with Cristal champagne and Grey Goose vodka – he specified those brands.’

      ‘And this was going to cost two million dollars?’

      ‘Evidently. Congo wanted Mr Brown to, quote, “lay it on real thick” and he wanted to “impress upon him” – and that’s another direct quote, I remember being struck by the formality – that this was all the wish of a dying man.’

      ‘And what conclusion did you draw from these instructions?’

      ‘That they were exactly what they appeared: a convicted criminal with a lot of money wanting to give society the finger one last time.’

      ‘You had no reason to doubt that Johnny Congo was planning to attend his own funeral?’

      ‘Well, he was laying out a fortune on it, and the state of Texas was absolutely determined to execute him, so no, why would I?’

      ‘He’d got away before.’

      ‘All the more reason that people like you were going to make sure he didn’t again. Are we done?’ Shelby Weiss had suddenly lost his carefully worked air of relaxed bonhomie, just the way D’Shonn Brown had done.

      ‘Almost,’ said Malinga, more than ever certain that there was something both of them were hiding. ‘Just one last thing I want to clear up. How come Johnny Congo called you?’

      ‘Because I’m a good lawyer.’

      ‘Yeah, sure, but how would he know that? He’d been out of the country for years.’

      ‘I guess word gets around. And I was already a successful attorney when he was originally locked up in Huntsville, you know, before his first escape.’ Weiss put an emphasis on ‘first’, just to remind Malinga about the second one. Then he said, ‘I didn’t act for him at that point, but I certainly defended other guys on Death Row. No reason he couldn’t have known about me.’

      ‘Have you ever, at any time prior to these past few weeks, represented Jonny Congo?’ Bobby Malinga asked.

      All the question needed was a one-word answer. It wouldn’t have taken a second. But Weiss paused. He was about to say something, Malinga could see it, but then had second thoughts. Finally he spoke. ‘The first time in my life that I represented a man called Johnny Congo was when I was asked to come and meet him at the Allen B. Polunsky Unit on the twenty-seventh of September. There, is that specific enough for you?’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Malinga. ‘That’ll do just fine.’ He smiled as he got up. He shook Weiss’s hand again and thanked him for his co-operation. And as he left the offices of Weiss, Mendoza and Burnett he felt more certain than ever that D’Shonn Brown and Shelby Weiss had played some part in Johnny Congo’s escape.

      You know, if someone had tossed a grenade into that bowl, it couldn’t have spread the mess wider than Missy Catherine here managed,’ said Cross, sounding genuinely impressed at the havoc Catherine had brought to the simple business of eating her supper. There were spatterings of her chopped-up spaghetti and bolognese sauce all over the walls and the floor of the Cross Roads’ compact kitchen, the table in front of Catherine’s high chair, the chair itself and the tray that slotted on to it; not to mention her onesie, her plastic bib and, most impressively, her face, whose most noticeable feature was a huge, gummy grin, ringed by a magnificent spread of orangey-red sauce covering her chin, nose and chubby cheeks.

      ‘She was putting on a special show for you,’ said Bonnie Hepworth, the nanny. She had known Catherine since the day she was born: she had been the maternity nurse on duty on that day of overwhelming joy, mixed with unbearable sorrow, when a baby had entered the world and her mother, fatally wounded by an assassin’s bullet, had left it. Cross had been touched by Bonnie’s warm heart, her kind smile and her unfailing combination of patience, efficiency and sound common sense. He’d made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. The patients of a Hampshire hospital had lost a first-rate nurse. Catherine Cayla Cross had gained a nanny who would never let this bereaved little girl lack a single moment of love