Out of the Box

Part One: Chapter 1

 ‘The eyes, wait till you see the eyes.’

Greg Denton rushed into the editor’s office at the Adelaide Inquirer, brandishing his evidence.

‘The Frenchman, calls himself Patrick Albert Claude Ledoux.’ The two journalists studied the photograph of a bearded fair-haired man flashing a confident smile for the camera. Denton placed another photo alongside the first. ‘Last one I took of Box Man just before he disappeared. Check out the nose and hair. A few years younger of course, but it’s him. I’d put money on it.’

‘Not sure,’ Davies, the editor, said. ‘So long since I’ve seen him.’

Denton shaped a viewfinder with his hands, moving it between the two pictures. ‘I’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere.’

Davies nodded slowly. The eyes convinced him as well. ‘OK, run with it.’ He picked up his phone, ‘Mary, get Denton on the next flight to Colombo.’

‘You won’t regret it boss,’ Denton hurried out, delighted. “Got the headline; ‘Top javelin thrower hurled onto death row!’”

*     *     *

Denton had planned to sleep during the long flight to Sri Lanka but he had too much on his mind. Every so often a story came along that made his job worthwhile. If his hunch proved right, this was one of them. After the dinner trays were cleared he ordered another beer and settled down under his reading light to review his notes, to collate every bit of information he had on the suspect and to establish a timeline.

When Denton was a rookie journalist with the Express the editor had sent him to interview the athlete several times. ‘Think yourself lucky you’re getting such an easy lead,’ his old boss told him. ‘You won’t have to ask questions; this bloke does all the talking.’

Every journalist in town loved interviewing the high-spirited javelin thrower. He recalled that sweltering day he visited him at the track to photograph him training, stripped down to the essentials; underpants and spikes. ‘But he couldn’t half make that javelin fly,’ thought Denton.

The last record he had of him competing was in the National Championships shortly before he skipped bail. Since then there’d been a few reported sightings but nothing concrete, and he’d been on the run from the Feds for years.

‘Until now,’ Denton hoped.

                                                      *     *     *

Colombo was sweltering when Denton arrived the following day. He took a cab straight to the Mahara prison. The entrance was barred by a heavy iron gate attached to a rectangular concrete hut, both topped by a tangle of barbed wire that ran the length of the towering perimeter walls.

‘I’m here to see Monsieur Ledoux,’ he told the gatekeeper through a small window of the hut.

When the guard asked him if he was a relative the young journalist froze. He hadn’t given any thought to his own identity, but reasoned that if the prisoner could pass himself off as a Frenchman he could too.

‘Oui,’ he muttered, and the guard waved him on.

The gate was opened and two officers in khaki uniforms blocked his way on the other side. Denton noticed the guns in their holsters. They ushered him into a small prefabricated hut and signalled for him to open his briefcase. One guard rifled through the contents while his colleague gave Denton a frisking. Denton removed his spectacles and kept his mouth shut. When they released him he strode in the direction of the arrow for visitors, down a terraced walkway, clinging to an imposing old stone building. He passed inmates tending vegetable plots who seemed more interested in the tall Westerner with an expensive briefcase than their gardens. He was nervous, excited at being on the verge of the biggest story of his career – or his biggest mistake.