Fallout Read online

  Mrs Barton handed the list straight back to him. ‘I’ll do no such thing.’ She said it without heat or particular emphasis, as if no reasonable person would expect any other response.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For obvious reasons several of our guests, people of stature, asked my husband to keep their names out of it. For equally obvious reasons he obliged. To give you those names now would amount to breaking my husband’s word. I’m simply not prepared to do that.’

  ‘Your husband did the wrong thing, Mrs Barton. He obstructed a murder investigation. This is your chance to put that right.’ She responded to this invitation by sipping her tea and consulting her mobile. ‘But you’re not going to do that, are you? You’re going to be as unhelpful as he was.’

  ‘If you wish to put it like that, yes.’

  ‘There are plenty of other ways I could put it. That’s as polite as they get.’

  ‘I tend not to respond well to bullying, Sergeant.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  Mrs Barton put down her teacup with a long-suffering sigh. ‘While I think this is a complete waste of time, I’m not setting out to be unhelpful. But you’ve asked me to do something that I cannot in all conscience do. Respecting one’s late husband’s wishes is probably a very old-fashioned, fuddy-duddy concept, but I dare say plenty of people would tell you I’m an old-fashioned fuddy-dud.’

  ‘You talked about “obvious reasons”. They’re not obvious to me, so why don’t you spell them out?’

  ‘These were prominent people — leading businessmen, politicians and so forth. I would have thought it was obvious why they wouldn’t want to get dragged into that dreadful business. And seeing they clearly had nothing to do with it, my husband saw no harm in obliging them.’

  ‘And the reason they clearly had nothing to do with it was that they were prominent people, correct?’

  ‘Of course. Again, character and substance and social position might be old-fashioned notions but —.’

  ‘You’re an old-fashioned person?’

  Mrs Barton smiled microscopically. ‘There we are. That wasn’t so hard, was it?’

  ‘OK, how about this: why don’t you put me onto someone who could do what it’s unfair to ask you to do — look at the list and fill in the gaps?’

  She sat back, dropping her hands onto her lap and plucking at her skirt, giving Ihaka a glimpse of what lay behind the façade of implacable self-assurance. ‘Goodness, that’s tricky. The young ones wouldn’t be much help: they didn’t really know who was who and most of them would have rather hazy memories of the party. A lot of what happened that night could be put down to too much alcohol. That was one subject on which my husband and I didn’t see eye to eye. As for my generation, well, it’s a question of who’s still with us and still has all their marbles. There’s Tina Best, of course, but it’s a moot point whether she had all her marbles to begin with. Besides, she had other things on her mind.’

  ‘Until you and your husband headed her off at the pass.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘She and Johnny were off upstairs for a romantic interlude when you cut in. You took her off to look at your new curtains, and your husband roped Johnny into a conversation with some judge. Isn’t that what happened?’

  ‘I don’t follow you. Yes, I showed Tina our new curtains but I didn’t cut her off at the pass or whatever you called it.’

  ‘Hang on, you’re telling me you and your husband didn’t stop Tina and Johnny sneaking off for a quickie?’

  ‘You mean a tryst?’

  ‘If that involves sex, then yes, that is what I mean.’

  ‘We didn’t do anything of the sort. We didn’t find out what was going on between those two until the next day or the day after. I can’t remember exactly when Tim told me, but it definitely wasn’t until after the party.’

  ‘Is it possible he’d known about it for a while but hadn’t told you?’

  Mrs Barton rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Ihaka sat back, frowning. ‘So how did he find out?’

  ‘He told me Johnny had confessed all,’ she said, ‘and I took his word for it.’

  ‘That sounds like you weren’t entirely convinced.’

  ‘I wasn’t. Owning up when he wasn’t even under suspicion would’ve been entirely out of character.’

  ‘So why —?’

  ‘Did my husband tell me he’d confessed? Tim would have calculated that, under those circumstances, I’d be less inclined to cast the boy out on his ear.’

  ‘And you went along with it because it gave you an excuse not to practise what you’d preached?’

  Mrs Barton thought about taking offence. ‘I don’t think that’s —.’

  ‘I don’t blame you. So how long did you and Tina look at the curtains?’

  She shrugged. ‘Five minutes; possibly ten. They were lovely curtains, but they were still just curtains.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It was a party, for goodness’ sake. I may be old-fashioned, but there were rather more interesting options than discussing household furnishings with Tina Best. No doubt she felt the same way. One thing you most certainly couldn’t accuse Tina of being was old-fashioned.’

  Ihaka had a family dinner at his mother’s place. When he got home there was an email from Beth Greendale in his inbox.

  Well, as we probably should have worked out for ourselves, Ashley St John is a nom de catwalk. You’ll see why shortly. She went over to Australia in 1988 and got into the commercial, mainstream, yummy mummy end of the market, doing David Jones catalogues etc. In 1992 she married a stockbroker and quit modelling — as you would. When the marriage broke up in 2007, she reverted to her maiden name Ann Smellie (see what I mean?) and bought a holiday home business in Hawke’s Bay. Link to the Cape Cottages website attached.

  Beth

  Eleven

  Ann Smellie had disliked Johan Van Roon at first sight. Since then she’d revised her opinion downwards.

  When he reappeared at her place the following morning, she eyed him as if he’d slithered out of her pond with a twitching duck in his jaws. ‘Well, this is serendipitous. I was just about to ring the police to lay a complaint against you. Now I can tell them exactly where you are.’

  ‘Farrell told you, did he?’

  She nodded. ‘When he was explaining why he can’t look after my property any more. You must be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘Not particularly,’ said Van Roon. ‘But if his background doesn’t bother you, why should he quit?’

  ‘I tried to talk him out of it, but he’d made up his mind. A matter of principle, he said. Not a concept you’d be familiar with.’

  A phone rang inside. Van Roon asked her if she wanted to answer it.

  ‘If it’s important they’ll leave a message,’ she said. ‘Anyway, we’re done here.’

  ‘You’re taking a pretty lofty tone for someone who lied through their teeth,’ said Van Roon. ‘If you’d told the truth, it wouldn’t have happened.’

  Smellie’s face tightened. ‘First off, I had no obligation, legal or otherwise, to tell you a damn thing,’ she said, biting off the words. ‘Secondly, that’s based on information you got by breaking into my house. I’m ringing the police right now, so feel free to make a run.’ The mobile she was holding blared into life. ‘Hello? You’re from the police, you say? Well, there’s another coincidence: I was just about to ring you to report a crime. Unlawful trespass — is that what it’s called? . . . I do as a matter of fact: a private investigator who says his name is Van Roon, unlikely as that sounds . . . Yes, you heard right: Van Roon. What’s more, I can give you his exact current location because he’s right here in front of me . . . What?’ She held the phone at arm’s length, frowning at it as if it had gone haywire, then handed it to Van Roon. ‘He w
ants to speak to you.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Some policeman. I didn’t catch his name.’

  He put the phone to his ear. ‘Van Roon.’

  Tito Ihaka said, ‘What the fuck are you doing there?’

  Van Roon aped Smellie’s expression. ‘Tito? I’m on a job. One you helped me get, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Through Quedley?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What’s the job?’

  ‘I’m trying to find this guy who disappeared back in August 1987.’

  ‘Did you say August 87?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, my enquiries led me to this address, as they say.’ Van Roon glanced at Smellie, who had brought her sulky model face out of retirement.

  ‘Tell me about this guy.’

  Van Roon was warming to the subject of Eddie Brightside when Ihaka cut in: ‘Put her back on.’

  Van Roon gave Smellie the phone, shrugging to let her know he was as much in the dark as she was.

  ‘Ms Smellie,’ said Ihaka, ‘you attended a party at Tim Barton’s house in Auckland on election night 1987, correct?’

  ‘Yes I did. What’s that got to do with —?’

  ‘Was this Brightside character there?’ When she didn’t respond, Ihaka added, ‘I’m sure you remember what happened that night, so be careful how you answer.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘OK, I’m getting the first flight down and coming straight to your place, so stay put, all right? Let me speak to Van Roon again.’

  She returned the phone to Van Roon.

  ‘I’m coming down,’ said Ihaka. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do too.’

  ‘You want me to pick you up?’

  ‘I can think of a couple of reasons why that’s a fuckwitted suggestion. Seeing you obviously give that woman the shits, I suggest you bugger off. I’ll ring you when I’m on the ground.’

  Van Roon returned the phone to Smellie. ‘Looks like we’re in the same boat.’

  ‘What a horrible thought. Which boat would that be?’

  ‘The boat that’s about to get rocked.’

  Van Roon got out of his car as Ihaka’s taxi pulled up outside Cape Cottages. They exchanged nods. ‘How’s life?’ asked Ihaka.

  ‘Marginal,’ said Van Roon.

  Ihaka raised his eyebrows, as if he’d expected as much. ‘After you.’

  Maybe Ann Smellie had heeded Van Roon’s warning, because she’d gone the extra mile: made a pot of plunger coffee, laid out an array of home baking, put on full make-up and slipped into something less comfortable than the tracksuit pants and baggy sweater she’d had on earlier. It seemed to have the desired effect. While there was nothing pretty about the way Ihaka piled into the food — he claimed he’d skipped lunch in the rush to get down there — he was uncharacteristically mannerly as he outlined his cold-case assignment before inviting Smellie to explain how she came to be at Barton’s party.

  She was twenty-three then, kind of a hot property on the modelling scene. Being Wellington-based, it was inevitable that she came to the attention of the boy wonder, Benny Strick. These days, so she’d heard, he didn’t answer to Benny; it was Benjamin or, if you insisted on being familiar and had something he wanted, Ben. But back when he was the youngest and speediest of the high rollers in the recently opened casino economy, he was Benny. It went with the image of rock-and-roll tycoon, the guerrilla of the stockmarket who made a fortune overnight and had spent half of it by close of trading the following day.

  In fact, Strick wasn’t all that different from the others. He lived in a mansion overlooking the Heretaunga — Royal Wellington to you — Golf Club which he’d filled with art deco treasures. He had a ridiculous number of cars. He played a lot of golf. He jetted around the world to watch horse races and Grand Prix. And he exploited his wealth and fame to sleep with a lot of women who wouldn’t have looked twice at him if he’d been Benny Strick, plumber, or Benny Strick, chartered accountant, or even Benny Strick, penniless artist with a beautiful mind.

  She went into it with her eyes open, aware of Strick’s reputation as a scalp collector and understanding her trophy status, but thinking it would be fun while it lasted. Even so, she was surprised at how quickly the thrill wore off. Where’s the fun in being extravagant when you can afford to be? She had a reputation for cynicism, but it surprised and disappointed her how many celebrities were either charmless or just another grey drone from the suburbs.

  Given that it wouldn’t be for long, she thought she could put up with being treated as a possession, an acquisition that Strick could show off to his cronies, like the white Bakelite telephone which had once sat in the office above the Banque Rothschild on Avenue George V from which Madame Claude ran her legendary call-girl operation. But it’s hard to maintain your self-respect when you’re a prize, put on display, assessed, handled, passed around, just to bolster a rich man’s reputation for having the best of everything and always getting what he wants. The problem was that modelling had prepared her for being an actor in someone else’s fantasy, and modelling’s little everyday humiliations had made her passive. But if she couldn’t walk away, she could at least subvert the arrangement by denying Strick the monopoly he took for granted. At least that was how she thought of it at the time. Years later a shrink explained that it was a subconscious exit strategy: she wanted to get caught so the decision would be taken out of her hands.

  Eddie Brightside was on the fringe of Strick’s circle. He lacked the others’ money and status but he had something none of them had and some of them envied: a whiff of notoriety, a hint of mystery, an association with a world they read about in airport novels. They talked about him when he wasn’t there, stuff she barely understood and soon forgot, but she liked that their money couldn’t buy his worldliness. And, like her, he was in a relationship he wanted out of, but couldn’t summon the will to end.

  ‘So at the time of the party,’ said Ihaka, ‘how long had you been carrying on with Brightside?’

  Smellie arched an eyebrow. ‘“Carrying on”? How quaint.’

  ‘If I put my mind to it,’ said Ihaka, ‘I could probably come up with something a bit more down-to-earth.’

  Smellie was unprepared for Ihaka’s unblinking comeback. She’d expected a better return on the trouble she’d gone to. ‘Not long. Maybe a month.’

  ‘And Strick had no idea?’

  ‘Not that I knew. He certainly gave no indication.’

  ‘What about the party itself?’

  ‘I remember thinking no expense had been spared and no one seemed very interested in the election. At some point Benny trotted out his signature line — ‘Money never sleeps’ — and disappeared. I went looking for Eddie, but it turned out he was at the same meeting.’

  ‘Where did that take place?’ asked Ihaka.

  ‘Upstairs, apparently.’

  ‘Seeing you were on intimate terms with two of the participants, you’d obviously know who else was there and what it was in aid of.’

  ‘Really? Benny didn’t choose his female companions for their ability to discuss high finance or world affairs, and the job description certainly didn’t include being a confidante. If anything, Eddie was even less prone to pillow talk. All I gathered was it was about what effect the election would have.’

  ‘Was Strick into politics?’ asked Van Roon, his intervention drawing irritated glances from the others.

  ‘Well, seeing the subject came up,’ said Ihaka impatiently, ‘was he?’

  Smellie examined her fingernails. ‘They were all the same, the rich boys: they loved Labour’s economic policies but didn’t like the anti-nuke stuff.’

  ‘Glad we got that sorted,’ said Ihaka. ‘Who else was at the meeting?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ said Smellie,
‘but I’m not the fund of knowledge you were obviously expecting. I’m sure names were mentioned, but the only one I remember is Gerry Waitz.’

  ‘Super-rich American who’s got a place in the Wairarapa,’ said Van Roon. ‘Friend of Brightside’s; thought the nuclear-ships policy was a commie plot.’

  Smellie looked at Van Roon as if he had performed a nifty card trick, knowing it involved sleight of hand but still slightly impressed.

  ‘You get that from Quedley?’ said Ihaka.

  Van Roon nodded. ‘Partly.’

  ‘Who’s his client?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Van Roon. ‘He didn’t share that with me.’

  Ihaka turned back to Smellie. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Time passed. I drank a lot of champagne and pretended to be interested in what various people were saying to me. Then Benny reappeared with Waitz and a couple of others I didn’t know and said, we’re out of here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I did ask and was told to shut the fuck up and do what I was told. Or words to that effect.’

  ‘So Strick was a bit worked up?’

  ‘It would be fair to say there was precious little sign of the bonhomie of earlier in the evening. There was a lot of urgent muttering going on.’

  ‘Was Brightside there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘How would I know? Under the circumstances I thought it best not to show too much interest in Eddie.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we left.’

  ‘Waitz and co as well?’

  ‘Yes, we all trooped out together. People were looking at us like, what the fuck? It’s not even midnight.’

  ‘You’re sure of the time?’ said Ihaka.

  ‘Quite sure,’ she said. ‘I remember thinking, wow, party of the year and we’re not even staying till tomorrow. I was pissed off we were leaving so early and Benny was pissed off about whatever, so it was a bummer all round. And the worst was yet to come: Benny dumped me at the hotel; said he was staying on for a couple of days so I’d have to make my own way back to Wellington.’