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  ‘Christ almighty, I’ve only just started the bloody —.’ Ihaka stopped talking because he realised McGrail had stopped listening. In fact, he hadn’t even started.

  Ihaka ate a chip. It was cold, but he wasn’t that hungry any more. He plodded through the rain to dump the leftovers in a rubbish bin. When he got back to the car his phone was ringing again. He snatched it up without checking caller ID thinking, yeah, you old prick, two can play that game. Snarling, ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hang up in your ear.’

  The little voice shook nervously. ‘Tito? It’s Billy speaking.’

  Ihaka swore silently. ‘Sorry, Billy, I was expecting someone else. How are you, mate?’

  ‘OK, I suppose. I miss you, Tito. When am I going to see you again?’

  ‘Is Mum there?’

  ‘No, she’s at work.’

  ‘Does she know you were going to ring me?’

  ‘I asked her if I could yesterday. She said not to because you’re real busy — that’s why you haven’t been here. Mum misses you too. She pretends she doesn’t, but I can tell. I’m sorry if you’re busy, Tito, but I needed to talk to you. We lost on Saturday. It would’ve been different if you’d been there.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, mate, but remember what we talked about — you focus on doing your job and forget about all the other stuff. You can’t drop your bundle because someone isn’t there to watch you; that’s going to happen sometimes. And the older you get, the more it’ll happen.’

  ‘It’s not just you watching, it’s what you tell us before the game and at half-time. The other kids think the same. Except Jarrod, of course.’

  Jarrod’s father was the official coach.

  ‘OK, mate, listen, I’ll do my very best to be there on Saturday. Text me when and where.’

  ‘That’s ages away. Can’t you come round before then? Can’t you come tonight? Please.’

  ‘Well, that probably wouldn’t suit Mum —.’

  ‘She won’t be home till late,’ said Billy. ‘Leanne from next door’s coming over.’

  Ihaka glanced at his watch. It was almost half past four. ‘OK, I’ll come round. It won’t be for a while, though, because I’m miles away, so you get your homework done and get all set for bed. And Billy: let’s keep it between us, eh? Mum mightn’t be too happy about me coming over when she’s not there.’

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ said Billy happily.

  ‘See you soon.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  Ihaka started the car thinking, someone’s got to tell the poor little bugger what’s going on. Looks like it’ll have to be me.

  Easier said than done with Billy, shiny-eyed and ecstatic, jumping all over him like a puppy.

  They watched a replay of a Super 15 game while the babysitter did homework in the kitchen. Billy chirped away, tucked in under Ihaka’s heavy arm: why was this guy an All Black when he couldn’t tackle? How come that guy was an All Black when he was so slow? A nation of armchair selectors, thought Ihaka, and we start young. Midway through the second half the questions petered out and Billy’s head drooped onto Ihaka’s chest.

  Suddenly Ihaka felt ashamed of himself. He’d dropped out of Billy’s life with no explanation, leaving Denise to spin her ‘he’s busier than Barack Obama’ bullshit. He hadn’t concerned himself with what the boy made of it or how he was dealing with it beyond thinking, c’est la vie, kid, shit happens. It’s not my fault your mum’s a flake.

  Billy adored him. All he asked in return was Ihaka’s presence for a few hours a week. And what had he got? Absence. Silence.

  Looking down at the dark curls, the arm flung across his chest, the little balled fist clutching a handful of shirt to stop him getting away, Ihaka felt a flutter inside. Jesus, he thought, twice in one day. Get a fucking grip.

  But why walk away? You didn’t get that many shots at happiness. What made him think he was going to get a better offer? Sure, Denise could be needy, but most men would give their left plum to have a woman like her clinging onto them. When you boiled it right down, all she wanted was reassurance. Why withhold it if it meant throwing away something that felt so right? So you could look at yourself in the mirror and think, no woman’s going to push me around? I might be a sad fuck, but I’m staunch?

  Fuck that.

  He stood up, cradling the boy in his arms. Billy stirred, slipping an arm around Ihaka’s neck and murmuring into his chest.

  Ihaka got Billy into bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin. As he leaned down for a hug, Billy whispered, ‘Will you be here in the morning?’

  ‘Don’t think so, mate,’ he said, ‘but I’ll see you again real soon. I promise.’

  He paid the babysitter and sent her home, then stretched out on the sofa to wait for Denise.

  He was woken by a prolonged metallic rattle, the sound of someone having difficulty getting a key into a keyhole. He looked at his watch: five to midnight, Jesus. The babysitter’s parents wouldn’t have been too thrilled.

  The front door opened and closed. Late-night sounds floated from the kitchen: a murmured exchange; muffled laughter; an exclamation, unmistakably male and alcohol-fuelled; a ‘Shhhhhhhhhh!’ that went on too long and ended in giggles.

  Ihaka went quietly across the room and looked around the doorway. Denise was on tiptoes stretching for a bottle on the top shelf. Her short skirt had ridden to the top of her thighs, but that wasn’t high enough for her companion. As she half-turned to slap his hand away and tug down her hem, she noticed Ihaka.

  The guy saw her expression change, followed her gaze, focused blearily on Ihaka. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Ihaka glanced at him just long enough to note that he was several years younger than Denise and not even worth bitch-slapping. ‘A friend of the family,’ he said. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  She followed him to the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said, her voice awash with alcohol and indeterminate emotion.

  Ihaka looked down at her, studiously expressionless. ‘Just popped in to see Billy.’ He opened the door and stepped out into hissing rain. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I paid the babysitter.’

  Nine

  Tito Ihaka waited for someone to answer the doorbell wondering, not for the first time, whether he should rethink his attitude to umbrellas.

  He had three issues with umbrellas. First, they seemed kind of prissy. So what if you got rained on? It was only water, for Christ’s sake. Then there was the question of what to do with them when it wasn’t raining, since there was no getting away from the fact that a grown man carrying a furled umbrella was a ridiculous sight. Third, you kept losing the bastards. Ihaka had never actually bought an umbrella. Over the years and without quite knowing how or where from he’d acquired quite a few, but he never hung on to them for long. There was a definite pattern: the mysterious acquisitions and disappearances always occurred when it was pissing down. Maybe nobody bought umbrellas; they just acquired them when the need arose, as he did.

  This was a classic example of the umbrella dilemma. If he had one, he would have made it from his car to Johnny Barton’s front door without getting soaked. But then if it wasn’t raining when he left, he’d forget it and it would be acquired by this rich prick who was taking for fucking ever to answer the door. And, on balance and all things considered, fuck that for a joke.

  The door opened. Barton was a strapping six-footer with a fleshy face and receding hair going silver at the temples which accentuated the sportsman’s tan. His sleeveless pullover, worn over a polo shirt with the collar turned up, had an Augusta National logo on the left breast. It was hard to believe he’d ever been a toy boy or a dope fiend.

  Barton shoved out his right hand. ‘Sergeant Ihaka?’ He was one of those guys who treat shaking hands as a contact sport. Probably a life lesson from his old man: remember, my bo
y, first impressions count. Ihaka wasn’t bothered: he had a big mitt and had never come across a grip he couldn’t handle. He just wondered, as he always did, if people still believed you could tell a man by his handshake.

  He followed Barton down the hallway to a study containing a desk too big for the space, an antique sideboard and a bookshelf full of squat hardbacks, mostly biographies of high achievers and war criminals. On the sideboard were several framed photos of Barton with a dead fish, a silver cocktail shaker and two martini glasses.

  Barton directed Ihaka to a chair. ‘I’m having a martini,’ he said, ‘and by Christ I’ve earned it. It’s been a long day. I make a bloody good one, if I say so myself. One of the few things I can claim to be exceptionally good at.’ This was accompanied by a self-satisfied chuckle signalling that nothing could be further from the truth. ‘You’re very welcome to join me, but they are something of an acquired taste.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Decisive. I like that in a guest. Can I get you something else? I’m sure there’s a beer in the fridge.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Barton sat down behind the desk, raising his glass. ‘Good health. The highlight of the day: the first martini. Mind you, the second one’s not too shabby either, just quietly. So after all these years you’re still trying to find out who killed Polly?’

  ‘There’s been a development,’ said Ihaka. ‘We know why Polly was upstairs.’ Barton swigged his martini. His expression didn’t support the claims he’d made on its behalf. ‘Just as a matter of interest, how’s your conscience?’

  Barton shrugged indifferently. ‘Do I look like a troubled soul?’

  ‘No, you look pretty relaxed for a guy who withheld critical information relating to a murder.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, Sergeant; you have no idea. So who told you?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to reveal that.’

  Barton didn’t have to think about it for very long. ‘That unctuous bloody hypocrite Andy Maddocks. Had to be.’

  ‘I can neither confirm nor deny.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got the jargon down pat, Sergeant. I bet you know the police manual off by heart.’

  ‘You lose. Why didn’t you speak up?’

  Barton sighed, drained his martini, moved on to number two. ‘My father told me, in no uncertain terms, to keep my trap shut. Presumably you know what went on with Tina Best?’ Ihaka nodded. ‘Well, Tim — my father — was working on a big business deal with Tina’s husband, Roger. If the affair had come to light, it would’ve stuffed up their deal, and quite a lot more besides.’

  ‘So it was all about money?’

  ‘And friendship and avoiding a scandal that would’ve ruined several lives. But, yes, there was a lot of money at stake. You can say “So it was all about money?” in that holier-than-thou tone, but my father was a businessman: his job was to make money.’

  ‘I thought Polly was a friend of yours.’

  ‘I know, looking at it from the outside and with the benefit of hindsight, it seems indefensible,’ said Barton in a tone that indicated he had every intention of defending himself, ‘but to begin with anyway, I just assumed they’d catch whoever did it, so it wouldn’t matter. Put yourself in my shoes: I was twenty-one years old, I’d screwed up big time and my father was rubbing my nose in the fact that I’d jeopardised one of the biggest deals of his career. You didn’t know my father. He was a dominating, some would say domineering, individual. At his funeral, one of his oldest business associates told me the key to their relationship was he made damn sure he never got between Tim Barton and a pile of money. That’s what I did: I got between Tim Barton and a pile of money. He spelt it out very bluntly that my path to redemption began with not breathing a word about Tina. It was a pretty stark choice: either do what I was told or be disowned.’

  ‘How did he find out about you and Tina?’

  Barton snorted, shaking his head. ‘Murphy’s Law. Roger was out of town so I paid Tina a visit. Roger had some documents for my father but didn’t trust the fax, so he’d left them at their place for Tim to pick up. Only problem was, he forgot to mention it to Tina, so when Tim turned up, there was my car in the driveway. Well, he knew I wasn’t there to see James, their son, because he’d gone flatting. Tina had a reputation for being what my father used to call “a handful”, so I guess he just put two and two together.’

  ‘That’s quite a leap: your car in their driveway means you’re riding the town bike.’ Barton looked pained. ‘Pardon me; I forgot I was in Remuera.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what the process was,’ said Barton coldly. ‘My father didn’t volunteer that information and I wasn’t in a position to demand it. Maybe he sneaked around peering in windows. Who gives a damn? He knew, he had me by the balls, and he proceeded to squeeze.’

  ‘So what did your parents — and you for that matter — think happened to Polly?’ said Ihaka. ‘You must’ve talked about it, even if it was just to bitch about the inconvenience of it all.’

  Barton was taking his second martini slowly. He held the glass under his nose, eyeing Ihaka. ‘That’s two snide remarks in quick succession. I really don’t see why I should put up with it.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ said Ihaka, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘I would’ve thought it was pretty fucking obvious. Shall we continue?’

  Barton washed down his pride with gin and vermouth. ‘I don’t expect you to believe this, but we didn’t really talk about it. My sister and I were just numb; our parents acted not like it hadn’t happened but like it had happened somewhere else. They kind of distanced themselves from it.’

  ‘Even though she was murdered under their roof and the killer was probably a friend of theirs?’

  ‘My parents didn’t entertain the thought that the murderer was someone they knew,’ said Barton, visibly exercising restraint. ‘That was simply out of the question. As far as they were concerned, it must’ve been a gatecrasher who no one noticed or remembered. Bear in mind that even if they hadn’t been plastered, very few of the guests wouldn’t have known everyone there, so how would they know who was a gatecrasher and who wasn’t? My father might’ve, but he had a lot on his mind.’

  ‘Being the host and trying to make sure you didn’t screw Tina and his business deal?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just wondering if there was other stuff going on that night.’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Barton. ‘As you said, he was the host and there were some high-powered people there, Ministers and what not. Tim wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to network, especially when he was footing the bill. But at the end of the day, it was a big party and people did what they usually do at parties — including the host who was no slouch in that respect. Actually, come to think of it, there was one aspect of it my parents did talk about: they had zero confidence in the officer in charge.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Well, he’d just arrived in the country, for one thing. Tim called him the Ten Pound Pom and used to imitate his accent. He was a pretty good mimic, but he didn’t quite nail it because you could actually understand some of what he was saying, whereas Inspector O’Goober was damn near incomprehensible.’

  ‘He had a foreign accent,’ said Ihaka, ‘so therefore he didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground? That’s the sort of mindset you’d expect from some fuckwitted old pisspot down the RSA.’

  ‘You really can be quite offensive when you put your mind to it, can’t you?’ said Barton. ‘Or does it come naturally?’

  ‘Bit of both. Feel free to complain to my boss.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ said Barton reaching for a pen and notepad. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Inspector O’Goober.’ Barton peered at Ihaka, seeking confirmation that he was playing games. ‘These days O’Goober, otherwise known as Sup
erintendent Finbar McGrail, is the Auckland District Commander. He’s been brooding about this case ever since; you might say he’s a bit obsessed. This investigation is his baby, so if you’re not taking it seriously on the assumption we’re just ticking a box or going through some sort of glorified PR exercise, you better think again. As you say, back then McGrail was the Ten Pound Pom who’d just got off the plane and didn’t have anyone in his corner. The guy with the power and influence and friends in high places was your old man. Well, this time around the boot’s on the other foot: McGrail’s got the clout and you, well, let’s just say you ain’t your old man.’

  ‘Thanks for pointing that out. I don’t know where you’re coming from with this: I’ve never had any desire to follow in my father’s footsteps and I’ve certainly got nothing to hide. By all means, turn Auckland upside down; it’s no skin off my nose.’ Barton stood up. ‘Having said that, I don’t think I’ve got anything further to contribute and I’m meeting someone for dinner so . . .’

  Ihaka leaned back, stretching his legs. ‘Why is Maddocks a hypocrite?’

  Barton sat down, rolling his eyes. ‘So it was him?’ Ihaka shrugged. ‘Maddocks was hopeless with girls: put them on a pedestal; treated them as if they were a superior species. You could say he made a virtue of necessity: he claimed he wasn’t interested in going out with girls just for the sake of it — i.e. for recreational sex — because he was looking for a soul-mate, someone with whom he could have serious conversations about all the things wrong with the world. But even girls who were that way inclined didn’t want to go out with him because he was timid and boring and, at the end of the day and in one respect at least, bright girls are no different from airheads: they’re only young once. He was a hypocrite because for someone so high-minded, he was very keen on hearing the grubby details of other people’s sex lives, always on the lookout for a vicarious thrill. My other abiding memory of that party was Andy following around this model — she was some big shot’s trophy girlfriend — like a lost puppy. It would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so pathetic. I don’t think he even talked to her. Just for a laugh I egged him on — you know, “No guts, no glory” — but he didn’t have the nerve. To be fair, he would’ve had to fight his way through the throng.’