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  As he showed Ihaka out, Barton said, ‘You might find this hard to believe, but Polly’s death did knock me. I’m sure it had a lot to do with me going off the rails.’

  ‘By going off the rails you mean becoming a junkie?’

  Barton wasn’t bothered by Ihaka calling a spade a spade. There might even have been a trace of mockery in his half-smile. ‘Correct. These days my chequered past gives me a certain cachet.’

  ‘Well, you look better on it than most ex-junkies I’ve come across.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ said Barton. ‘I had a father who made it his mission in life to save me from myself and had the resources to do it. If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve come home in a box. So you can sneer at him and his money-making as much as you like: it goes in one ear and out the other.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Barton frowned, as if reluctant to take ‘I get it’ for an answer. ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’ll go and see your mother.’

  A grin of pure delight spread across Barton’s soft mahogany face. ‘Well, good luck with that. God, I’d love to be a fly on the wall.’

  Ihaka sat in his car looking at Barton’s house. It was a nice house all right, in a nice street in a nice suburb. Probably worth a couple of million dollars or, for all he knew, twice that. He sometimes felt he was the only homeowner in Auckland who wasn’t fixated with the property market. Even so, you couldn’t help but be aware that prices were going through the roof and there were a hell of a lot of million-dollar-plus houses around. The key seemed to be owning one in an area where white folks were prepared to live.

  He checked his messages. There was a voice-mail message from Denise Hadlow, who had decided that attack was the best form of defence: ‘Hey. Sorry about that but, you know, really, you shouldn’t just turn up unannounced. And, to be honest, I don’t know where you get off sending the babysitter home. By the way, whatever you thought was going on, it wasn’t what it might’ve looked like. Just a guy I work with who’d had a few too many’.

  Her follow-up texts were more conciliatory: ‘Wasn’t suggesting u can’t be trusted to look after Billy. Thanks for paying the sitter. How much do I owe u? Give me a call. We need to talk.’ And: ‘Billy’s really looking forward to Saturday. We can catch up then or ring me whenever. X’

  He texted back: ‘I came cos Billy asked me. If he asks again I’ll have to explain why its not a good idea. Maybe if u had that chat the situation wont arise. I’ll be at rugby on Sat but not sure theres much to talk about.’

  He found Andy Maddocks’ number in the file McGrail had put together for him. Maddocks answered straight away.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Ihaka from Auckland Central. Superintendent McGrail’s got me looking into the Polly Stenson case.’

  ‘I was wondering if anything would come of that conversation.’

  ‘I just spoke to Johnny Barton. You should know it took him all of twenty seconds to work out who told us why Polly was upstairs. I wouldn’t count on him buying you a beer next time you cross paths.’

  ‘That’s OK, I assumed he’d work it out. Besides, I’m fairly choosy who I drink with.’

  ‘You two are a real mutual admiration society, aren’t you? He was telling me about a model who was at the party, said you might know who she was.’

  ‘What’s she got to do with it?’

  ‘Just a punt,’ said Ihaka. ‘By the sound of it most people were pretty pissed that night; her being a model, she might’ve had to take it easy on the grog. If so, she’d probably be worth talking to.’

  ‘Her name was Ashley St John. Not a name — or face — you’d forget in a hurry.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Maddocks. ‘What happens to models? Their look goes out of fashion, they get pregnant, they can’t stay young and thin forever. One month she was on billboards, next month she wasn’t.’

  ‘Who was she with?’

  ‘Benjamin Strick.’

  ‘Have I heard of him?’

  ‘Do you read the business pages?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then probably not. He was one of those young hot-shot entrepreneurs who made a ton of money in the eighties. The difference in his case was that he managed to hang on to most of it.’

  ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘Oh, very much so. He’s a pillar of the establishment now.’

  ‘Meaning he used to be dodgy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go quite that far, but he was a young man in a hurry and they always ruffle feathers. And in business terms he was a wheeler-dealer and a money shuffler, as opposed to someone who made things.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he and Ashley are still an item.’

  Maddocks laughed. ‘I’d be astonished if they were. Strick was renowned for surrounding himself with an ever-changing cast of eye candy. ‘

  When Ihaka got off the phone, he went through the list of attendees compiled by McGrail’s team at the time. It didn’t really matter whether Ashley St John was stone-cold sober or utterly wrecked on the night of Tim Barton’s party: according to the list, she wasn’t there. Nor was her date.

  Ten

  Johan Van Roon’s ex-colleague finally came through: the car in which Eddie Brightside, or someone very much like him, had fled the winery was registered to a Ms Ann Smellie of Cape Cottages, East Clive, Hawke’s Bay. Van Roon googled: Ms Smellie was the proprietor of three holiday cottages ‘nestled in park-like grounds’ on the road heading out of Clive towards Cape Kidnappers.

  Van Roon didn’t have fond memories of driving over the Rimutaka hill, those nights like fever dreams when he swapped cars in Lower Hutt and roamed the Wairarapa secreting the fruits of his corruption, wondering how it had come to this, half-expecting a police road block around the next bend.

  So he went the other way, retracing the route that had taken him to the beachfront shack where time stood still and the retired journalist Barry McCormick slept long and deep, his demons tranquillised by the rhythm of the waves.

  Before reaching the sea, he had to negotiate an obstacle course of road works whose scale and desultoriness lent them an air of permanence. After hugging the coast for a few kilometres, the road veered inland becoming a gridlocked strip of garish retail, the growth engine for Kapiti’s mushrooming beach communities.

  Then it was across the green flats of Horowhenua and Manawatu, flitting through a succession of small towns. Names like Dannevirke and Norsewood told a story (clumsily illustrated with a billboard Viking). Others, seemingly chosen for their blandness (Shannon, Linton, Woodville), slipped the memory as the outskirts disappeared from the rear-view mirror. Names aside, the places themselves left a uniform impression of small-town New Zealand: folksiness, insularity, low expectations.

  It was mid-afternoon and, notwithstanding Hawke’s Bay’s reputation for good weather, as bleak as it had been in Wellington when Van Roon spotted the Cape Cottages sign. He assumed from the numberplate of the Honda Civic in the car port that Ms Smellie lived in the house nearest the road, rather than one of the cottages further down the drive.

  The doorbell was answered by a tall, slim woman with high cheekbones and a jagged streak of grey in her artfully mussed dark hair. Her vivid blue eyes were impossible not to notice, like lights flashing in the night. Van Roon guessed she was ten years older than she looked, which was fortyish. Once he would have tried to imagine her twenty-five years ago, but following the sudden onset of middle age and disgrace he’d lost interest in both the past and the future. So this is what made Brightside break cover, he thought. It made sense.

  She was used to being scrutinised, standing there with an unfocused half-smile, waiting for him to explain himself.

  ‘You’re Ann Smellie?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘My name’s Johan Van Roon. I’ve come up from Wel
lington to see you.’

  Her eyes widened in mock-surprise. ‘At the risk of sounding rather pleased with myself, that hardly makes you unique.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it does. I’m a private investigator.’

  Without changing her expression, she folded her arms and leaned against the door frame, letting him know that, whatever transpired, he wasn’t going to be invited in. ‘Well, that does give you a certain . . . would you call it distinction? What brings you up here, Mr Private Dick?’

  ‘I’m looking for Eddie Brightside.’

  She frowned, her gaze tilting upwards. ‘Eddie Brightside?’ She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. I’m pretty sure that if I’d ever come across him, I would’ve remembered the name, even if the man himself hadn’t lingered in the memory.’

  ‘A few days ago Brightside was seen at a winery somewhere around here,’ he said. ‘When the person who recognised him tried to speak to him, he shot through — in the passenger seat of your car.’

  ‘You say you’re a private investigator?’ Van Roon nodded. ‘So this . . . whatever it is has no official or legal status? Like I’d be perfectly within my rights to bid you adieu and gently but firmly close the door on you?’

  ‘You would,’ said Van Roon. ‘But I’d have thought most people in your situation would be kind of curious that a private investigator has driven up from Wellington to ask them about someone they’ve supposedly never heard of.’

  She reached back to pull the door shut. ‘Let’s go feed the ducks.’

  Van Roon followed her around to the rear of the house where a plush, tennis court-sized lawn bordered by flowerbeds rolled gently down to a pond. Without breaking loose-limbed stride, Smellie scooped up a basket containing pieces of bread off an outdoor table. When she summoned the ducks — ‘Come on, duck-a-lucks, tea time’ — an imposing figure in khaki overalls emerged from the shrubbery on the other side of the pond.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Tip,’ she said. She glanced at Van Roon. ‘I really don’t know what I’d do without Tip; he does all the work around here. Tip, say hello to — sorry, what was your name again?’

  ‘Johan Van Roon.’

  ‘Voilà.’

  They eyed each other across the pond. Tip, a Maori, had a thick beard, a barrel chest and what Van Roon knew were dreadlocks tucked into a Rastafarian beanie. The last time they had come face to face was across a desk in an interrogation room at Auckland Central police station. Smellie’s unsubtle message — that if Van Roon didn’t clear off under his own steam, she’d have her loyal retainer put him out like the rubbish — was pertinent insofar as Tipene Farrell was an experienced practitioner of physical violence with the convictions to prove it.

  Farrell gave Van Roon an almost imperceptible nod, then turned away and melted back into the shrubbery.

  ‘A man of few words,’ said Van Roon.

  Smellie was tossing bits of bread to a flotilla of half a dozen ducks that darted like remote-controlled boats as they manoeuvred for prime position. ‘Yes,’ she said, without turning her head. ‘The strong, silent type who believes actions speak louder than words. Look, I don’t know how or why you’ve got it into your head that I know this Brightside character but, frankly, that process doesn’t particularly intrigue me. I can’t help you, and if I don’t get a move on I’m going to be late for an appointment, so if you don’t mind . . .’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you.’

  Van Roon drove back towards the main road. About a kilometre from Cape Cottages there was an unoccupied roadside picnic area with a wooden table and benches. He swung off the road, reversed in among the trees, and turned off the engine.

  A few minutes later Ann Smellie zipped past in her Honda Civic. He followed her into Havelock North, the long straights and light traffic enabling him to hang back at a safe distance. She parked outside a café in one of the streets spoking off the central roundabout and went inside. Double-parked across the street, Van Roon observed her join a couple of women, taking part — a little reluctantly it seemed to him — in the noisy, tactile, greetings ritual.

  He headed back to Cape Cottages at ten kph above the speed limit. Tipene Farrell was sitting at the outdoor table smoking a roll-your-own.

  ‘When the cat’s away, the mouse has smoko, eh?’ said Van Roon.

  Farrell gave him a dead-eye stare. ‘This is private property and you’re not a cop any more, so that makes you a trespasser. Fuck off, or I’ll kick your white-bitch arse.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be very smart, Tip. I mightn’t be a cop any more, but I’ve got mates who are. A couple of them are just up the road in Napier, as a matter of fact. Now would I be right in thinking Ms Smellie isn’t fully acquainted with your colourful past?’

  Farrell didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no. But listen, I can keep a secret, as I’m sure you can. I’m going to have a quick nosy. You look the other way and don’t mention it to Ms Smellie, and I won’t tell her about your scrapes with the law. Deal?’

  Farrell stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his work boot. ‘Are you going inside?’

  Van Roon nodded.

  ‘That’s B and E.’

  ‘Well, Tip, if we’re going to be law-abiding, socially responsible citizens, that cuts both ways. You look like you’ve got a nice gig here, but how’s Ms Smellie going to feel about having you around when she hears what you used to get up to?’ Farrell had his head down, staring at the tabletop. ‘I seem to remember there was some sex stuff in among all the other bad shit. I’ll be ten minutes max, then I’ll be on my way and what Ms Smellie doesn’t know won’t hurt her. And don’t worry about her: it’s not like she’s in any sort of trouble, she’s just holding out on me.’

  As he went up the steps to the veranda Van Roon glanced over his shoulder. Farrell hadn’t moved, sitting there forearms on the table, head bowed, as if absorbed in a book.

  The house wasn’t locked. Van Roon went room to room. There were no men’s toiletries in either bathroom; no men’s clothes in the wardrobes or drawers in the main or spare bedrooms; no photos of anyone resembling Brightside in the framed collection on the sideboard in the living room or among the montage on the study noticeboard. The laptop computer couldn’t be accessed without a password. Everything in the filing cabinet seemed business-related.

  Van Roon felt a ripple of queasiness. This wasn’t how it was meant to be: breaking into someone’s home; bullying an ex-con trying to make a go of it in the straight world into betraying his benefactor. He was supposed to be making himself a better person.

  He headed for the exit. As he went though the kitchen, he noticed a postcard on the fridge door, a generic tropical-paradise beach scene which turned out to be Hawaii. He turned it over. It was undated, but the handwriting was easy to decipher:

  Well, sweet thing, fancy running into that old prick McCormick, one of the very few people in NZ who’d still recognise me. A pain in the ass end to a delightful if all too short visit. Assume you’d have let me know if there’d been repercussions. Stay well. Be in touch soon.

  Love, E.

  He replaced the postcard and went outside. Farrell was nowhere to be seen. Van Roon drove into Havelock North and checked into a motel. He thought of ringing Caspar Quedley, but decided against. There’d be more to report tomorrow.

  Before going to see Nicky Barton, Tito Ihaka rang Beth Greendale, a former cop who did occasional off-the-books research projects for McGrail. She didn’t think it would be too difficult to find out the current status and whereabouts of the former model Ashley St John.

  Mrs Barton had an apartment in the Viaduct Basin but obviously wasn’t in the habit of entertaining strange men, even if they were police officers. She was prepared to meet Ihaka in the lobby of the Hilton hotel at the end of Princes Wharf at 4.30 pm, and if that didn’t suit him, then t
hat was just too bad.

  She was already there, a stick figure with her hair permed into an orange-grey helmet who looked as if she no longer derived any pleasure from eating, drinking or being merry, assuming she ever had. The glint in her bright eyes reminded Ihaka of an angry bird, the sort that dive-bombs picnicking children.

  He pretended to listen to a monologue in which peevish queries buzzed like trapped flies. Why was he raking over these coals? Why couldn’t he leave that poor girl — and her for that matter — in peace? What possessed him to believe she had anything to contribute to what was, in any case, a futile exercise?

  ‘Have you heard from your son?’

  ‘Yes. For some reason he seemed to think you and I would get on like a house on fire.’ Her exasperated glare demanded an explanation.

  ‘I think that’s his idea of a joke,’ said Ihaka.

  Mrs Barton sniffed. ‘My son has several shortcomings, one of which is a tendency to be amused by things that are no laughing matter.’

  ‘This is a list,’ he said, passing it over, ‘drawn up by the investigating team with your husband’s assistance, of everyone who was at your house that night. Well, that’s what it was meant to be, but we now know it’s incomplete. I’d appreciate it if you could have a look and tell me who’s missing.’