Fallout Page 2

The report ran to 245 pages, most of which was padding. There was a review of the status quo that McGrail could have generated in an afternoon, if it had occurred to him to waste an afternoon telling people what they already knew. There were many statements of the obvious, blithe assertions and lofty sentiments, mostly relating to culture, accountability and empowerment, and incessant use of management jargon, presumably to obscure the lack of intellectual rigour. The bottom line for McGrail, who liked to think he was sharp-eyed when it came to spotting atrophy and decay, was that there was apparently a lot more dead wood in the Auckland district than he’d noticed.

  When the Minister asked McGrail for his thoughts, he began by acknowledging that Mr Pienaar and his associates seemed to recognise that the people who would be restructured, reoriented, downgraded, taken out of their comfort zones or just plain sacked if the recommendations were implemented wouldn’t be happy about it.

  The Minister nodded approvingly. ‘There’s no attempt to gild the lily,’ he said. ‘I like that. Some of my colleagues prefer these things sugar-coated, but no one could accuse me of that.’

  ‘But —.’

  The Commissioner interrupted. ‘Ah yes, the but. With Finbar, there’s always a but.’

  The Commissioner, who had a deceptively genial demeanour, sounded even more peevish than usual. McGrail wondered if that was because he realised his life was about to take a turn for the worse as a result of Pienaar’s report, or because the alcohol component of the meal had been restricted to a single bottle of pinot gris, a beverage he was on record as dismissing as ‘a breakfast wine’. The Commissioner probably also suspected that the discussion was about to get prickly, requiring him to perform a delicate balancing act, and drag on for some time, thereby keeping him from his hotel room and the bottle of single malt scotch that he never left home without.

  McGrail resumed, as if he hadn’t noticed the interruption: ‘But I believe they seriously underestimate the scale and intensity of the reaction. In my opinion, full-scale implementation would trigger industrial action.’

  ‘There’s no point in half-measures,’ said Pienaar crisply. ‘The report’s very clear on that.’

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said McGrail. ‘The Australians have a saying, “Crash through or crash”. That’s a pretty bold approach if there’s a decent chance you’ll come a cropper.’

  The corners of the Minister’s mouth turned down. He glanced at the Commissioner, who raised his eyebrows, as if to say ‘what did you expect?’

  ‘I obviously have more faith in your policemen and -women than our friend here,’ said Pienaar addressing the Minister, ‘because I can’t see them going on strike. But if they did —.’ He shrugged. ‘That would be a strategic confrontation you couldn’t afford to lose, even if it meant deploying the army.’

  McGrail’s chuckle was devoid of any trace of amusement. ‘This country doesn’t really have a tradition of sending the army into the streets. Besides, our army doesn’t have your army’s experience in, shall we say, crowd control.’

  ‘You’re behind the times, Superintendent,’ snapped Pienaar, ‘in more ways than one.’ He turned back to the Minister. ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. Sure, there’s going to be opposition, but if you back off, in ten years another minister will be sitting here having this exact same conversation. Look what happened in Britain: for years they caved in to the unions and the place went to the dogs. Finally Maggie Thatcher had the balls to say “Enough is enough”. She faced down the miners and the printers and turned the country around.’

  ‘I’m not sure what history’s verdict on Mrs Thatcher will be,’ said McGrail. ‘What I do know is that the police’s role was crucial to the outcomes of both those disputes. Which I suppose is my point: you’re going out of your way to pick a fight — and a bitter fight, let there be no doubt about that — with an organisation that symbolises and ensures the rule of law. I wouldn’t presume to give the Minister political advice, but I fail to see how that’s either good government or smart politics.’

  It was all downhill from there. Oh well, thought McGrail as he dried his hands, only a year till retirement. If I can’t survive that long, I’m not as clever as people think I am.

  He exited the toilets. A man was standing in the corridor, as if he was waiting for McGrail. ‘Superintendent McGrail?’ He had most of the distinguishing features of a typical Northern Club member: Pakeha, well-fed appearance, no longer young, expensive suit, mid-winter tan.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was pretty sure it was you, but not a hundred per cent. It’s been quite a while.’

  McGrail couldn’t place him, despite his memory for faces. ‘You have the advantage of me.’

  ‘Nineteen eighty-seven, to be precise.’

  ‘That is a while ago. The year I arrived here, in fact.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember someone saying it was your first case. I was there the night Polly Stenson was murdered.’ He extended his hand. ‘Andy Maddocks.’

  They shook hands. ‘You were a friend of the Barton lad.’ Maddocks nodded. ‘You must excuse me — I conducted or sat in on a lot of interviews.’

  Maddocks shook his head, smiling. ‘I would’ve been amazed if you’d remembered me.’ He paused, the prelude to an awkward change of gears. ‘Look, could I get you a drink?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said McGrail, ‘but it’s been a long and rather trying day. And I wouldn’t want you to take this personally, but I don’t have fond memories of that case.’

  Maddocks reddened. ‘Superintendent, there’s something I have to tell you — for my own good. I’ve been sitting on it all these years, and I need to get it off my chest. I’d really appreciate it.’

  ‘Is it to do with Polly?’

  ‘Yes. It’s not that big a deal, but it might clear up a couple of things.’

  ‘In that case, lead on, Mr Maddocks.’

  They found a quiet corner. McGrail had a port, Maddocks a glass of pinot noir.

  ‘I didn’t lie or withhold information when I spoke to you,’ said Maddocks. ‘At that stage I didn’t know what I’m about to tell you. Johnny Barton told me a couple of months later — after swearing me to secrecy. He had a bit of a soft spot for Polly. He liked the fact she wasn’t a follower, like most of his sister’s friends. She said to me once, “What Johnny doesn’t seem to get is that I can’t afford to be.” Anyway, Johnny being Johnny, his way of showing it was to tease her — mostly good fun, but sometimes it got a bit mean. Like that night. You remember Tina Best? She and her husband Roger were at the party.’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘She was the mother of a mate of ours. I guess these days you’d call her a cougar.’ Maddocks peered at McGrail, wondering if he needed to elaborate.

  ‘She fancied younger men?’

  Maddocks nodded. ‘Well, she certainly fancied Johnny. A few weeks before the party, he’d gone round to their place to drop off something for Roger and Tina threw herself at him. According to him — and Johnny had his faults, but he didn’t bullshit about women; he didn’t need to — she was pretty much besotted with him. He’d ring her up, it didn’t matter what she was doing, she’d drop everything and go and meet him. He used to knock her off in car parks, in the back seat of her Merc. One time he went over there when they were having a dinner party; she came out and gave him a blowjob in the garage.’ Maddocks reddened again. ‘Sorry, it’s a bit bloody grubby.’ McGrail was unblinkingly non-judgemental. ‘Anyway, Johnny spent most of that night out at the pool with his rugby mates. About eleven thirty he went off to hook up with Tina — although we didn’t know that — and bumped into Polly who was bored and thinking of going home. On the spur of the moment he decided to do a number on her. He told her to go upstairs, wait in the walk-in wardrobe in the main bedroom with the door slightly open, and in a few minutes she’d see something that would knock her socks off. />
  ‘Off she went, but as Johnny was talking Tina into popping upstairs for a quickie, his parents appeared. Nicky, his mother, said to Tina, “Just the person I’m looking for, I need a second opinion on some curtains” or whatever and more or less dragged her away. Tim told Johnny, who was doing law, that there was some judge he wanted him to meet. So he got hauled off to talk to the judge with his old man right there making sure he didn’t slide off. This went on for about half an hour, by which time all Johnny wanted to do was get back outside and get wasted. He didn’t even bother looking for Polly — he just assumed she’d think she’d been taken for a ride and be highly pissed off with him.’

  ‘Did Johnny take this to mean that his parents knew or suspected what he was up to with Mrs Best?’

  ‘Yeah, the next day Tim told him to stick to girls his own age. It turned out Tim and Roger had some big hush-hush deal on the go, and if it got derailed because of Johnny putting his dick where it didn’t belong, he could kiss his inheritance goodbye. That’s why Johnny swore me to secrecy.’

  ‘How did his father know?’

  ‘Didn’t say,’ said Maddocks. ‘Johnny asked of course, but Tim gave him the old, “You’d be surprised what I know”.’

  Within a couple of months it was all academic. The October sharemarket crash put paid to whatever was in the works, the Bests sold up and moved to Australia, and Johnny set out on his journey to rock bottom.

  Maddocks knew the story because one of his mates had married Lucy Barton. With his parents’ encouragement, Johnny had taken a year off law to do a rich boy’s whirlwind OE. In London, though, he fell hard for a girl who was out of his league. Part model, part muse, she had posed for society photographers and a fashionable painter, and rock stars, the likes of Bryan Ferry, had written songs about her. She ran off to Paris with a married novelist. When he came home with his tail between his legs, Johnny saw a window of opportunity and rushed over to France. She still wasn’t interested, but she did introduce him to the expat bohemian scene. He wasn’t artistic or intellectual or cultured or worldly or fizzing with anarchic vitality, but he had one thing that not many in that circle possessed and that was money. He discovered that having lots of drugs on hand and being generous with them was a good way to make and keep friends. Thus began a slow descent into addiction.

  A decade later, when his trust money had run out and the ‘just to tide me over’ remittances had dried up and after several unsuccessful interventions, his father hired a team of ex-US Army Special Forces guys who specialised in extracting people from cults. They kidnapped Johnny from a commune in Mexico, took him to England and left him in the care of the woman who unhooked Eric Clapton from heroin. When Johnny was clean, his parents brought him home.

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked McGrail.

  ‘Right here,’ said Maddocks. ‘Talk about going from one extreme to the other: he went back to varsity, finished his law degree and set himself up in a practice, with a little help from his parents. I bump into him now and again: he’s turned into Tim lite — smug, conservative, very much part of the eastern suburbs social scene, but without Tim’s business nous. Not that money’s an issue.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking the father died not so long ago?’

  ‘Yep, dropped dead on the seventeenth tee at Middlemore. His mother sold the family home, much to Johnny’s disgust. She’s got an apartment in the Viaduct. The Bests split up — surprise, surprise. I heard Tina’s back in town, but I don’t know whether that’s true.’

  ‘Could you find out?’

  Maddocks stared. ‘Are you going to follow this up?’

  ‘I’ve waited twenty-seven years for a break on Polly Stenson’s murder,’ said McGrail. ‘It’s not much, but it’s something. You bet your bottom dollar I’m going to follow it up.’ He produced a slim notebook and a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning.’

  Two

  All was in readiness. The highly decorated (and priced) bottle of Central Otago pinot noir had been breathing for a couple of hours. The fire, craftily tended and force-fed, had worked itself into a yellow-orange fury generating so much heat that the room had been opened up and outer layers discarded. The lamb shanks had been slow-cooked into submission. The panel of pundits had squeezed every last drop out of the bleeding obvious and hedged their bets. The players were about to take the field.

  Their Saturdays revolved around ten-year-old Billy’s rugby, which had become Tito Ihaka’s rugby since he’d been roped in to help with the coaching. After a post-game McDonald’s they would shop for dinner, usually one of the wine-soaked casseroles that Denise Hadlow, Billy’s mother and Ihaka’s girlfriend, considered her speciality. ‘One-pot cooking,’ she called it whenever Ihaka wondered out loud if it was about time they had a roast with all the trimmings. ‘Think about that when you’re doing the dishes.’

  They would browse in the DVD hire shop, where the challenge was to find something that was suitable for Billy and which Ihaka was prepared to sit through in stoic silence. (As long as it passed the appropriateness test, Denise didn’t mind what Billy chose, no matter how dumb or noisy it was.) They divided their time, as the Sunday supplements say, between her Point Chevalier townhouse and his Sandringham bungalow, but All Black test nights were always spent at Ihaka’s place because it had a fireplace. Ihaka wasn’t a great one for rules, either his own or other people’s, but he was adamant that a roaring fire was part of the ritual. You simply couldn’t watch the All Blacks without one.

  Billy had scored three tries that morning and been so clearly the best player on the field that the parents had abandoned their usual practice of giving the player of the day award to the boy with the bloodiest nose or whose roughneck enthusiasm had more or less made up for his brain explosions. If the Blacks nail it, thought Ihaka, it would be the perfect end to a perfect day. Correction: it would be the perfect prelude to the perfect end to a perfect day.

  Billy was practising the haka, muttering the words to himself. Ihaka had taught him the words and actions, not realising that Billy would see it as their patriotic duty to accompany the All Blacks. Denise told them to take their places on the sofa, she was about to serve up.

  ‘Just ducking to the loo,’ said Ihaka, and left the room.

  His mobile, which was on the arm of the sofa, started ringing. Being a modern parent, Denise encouraged Billy to answer her phone if she wasn’t around; he had no reason to think Ihaka, who was pretty easy-going about that sort of thing, had a different policy. ‘Hello. This is Billy speaking.’

  There was a short silence. A woman said, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got the wrong number.’

  ‘Um, it’s not my phone,’ said Billy.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I was trying to get hold of Tito Ihaka.’

  Ihaka reappeared. ‘He’s here,’ said Billy. He held out the phone. ‘It’s for you.’

  There were a few things Ihaka could have said but he restricted himself to ‘Funny that’ because he didn’t want Billy to think he was pissed off with him for answering his phone and it would be easy to give the kid that impression. Secondly, Billy probably couldn’t answer the burning question, ‘Who the fuck would ring at this time?’ Third, he was making a conscious effort not to swear in front of Billy and, by and large and somewhat to his surprise, succeeding. He’d expected that, deprived of the F word and its variations, he would struggle to communicate, express an opinion, pass comment on the daily round and let off steam over minor misadventures like splashing water on himself when doing the dishes. It actually wasn’t that hard.

  He took the phone. ‘Ihaka.’

  ‘Hi, it’s Miriam Lovell.’

  She was a freelance journalist in whom Ihaka had, briefly, taken an interest. His affair with Denise had taken off in a storm and quickly encountered turbulence. Under the impression that it had in fact crashed and burned, he’d entered into negotiations with Mi
riam over the ground rules for what they agreed would be a low-key, one-step-at-a-time relationship. Then Denise had second thoughts. By the time Ihaka got around to informing Miriam that their relationship wouldn’t be progressing beyond the hypothetical stage, she’d worked it out for herself.

  Ihaka couldn’t help flicking a wary glance at Denise, who was bringing in his dinner. She mouthed, ‘Who is it?’ He put on a dumb show to indicate that he’d walked into an ambush.

  ‘Oh hi,’ he said leadenly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Well, yeah, as a matter of fact. The test match is about to start.’

  Ihaka heard Denise ask Billy, ‘Who is it, sweetie?’

  ‘A lady.’

  Ihaka kept his eyes on the TV screen: the All Blacks were coming out onto the field. He sensed Denise’s narrow-eyed scrutiny and Billy’s rising anxiety. He thought of leaving the room, but that would guarantee an interrogation.

  ‘So not exactly life and death then?’ said Miriam.

  ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree on that.’

  ‘OK, I get the message. I’ll be brief: I need to see you. Don’t worry, this isn’t about you and me — I’ve well and truly moved on. It’s something that directly affects you, personally and professionally. How are you placed tomorrow morning?’

  The teams were lining up for the national anthems. Billy was looking at him beseechingly: no point in doing the haka if Ihaka’s attention was elsewhere. Denise came back in with her and Billy’s meals, looking disgruntled. He had to get off the phone. ‘Yeah, that’s OK,’ he said.

  ‘Imperial Lane, ten thirty,’ said Miriam. ‘Don’t be late.’

  As Ihaka switched off his phone, he remembered that there had been talk, to which he’d raised no objection, of a Sunday-morning outing. Come to think of it, he’d suggested going to Devonport on the ferry, which Billy was all for.

  The All Blacks and Billy prepared to do the haka.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Denise, trying to keep it casual.