Fallout Read online

  ‘I’ll be interested to see if you’re as charitably disposed after you’ve met her. I love my sister like a sister but, as one of her dearest friends once said, she has most of her mother’s faults and few of her mother’s redeeming features.’

  When Ihaka got off the phone, he thought — briefly — about ringing Ron Firkitt. It was after eleven, though, and sunnier-natured people than Firkitt would give the bum’s rush to anyone who woke them up to ask a favour. So he left himself a note on the kitchen table and went to bed.

  He rang Firkitt first thing.

  ‘Tito Ihaka, eh?’ said Firkitt. ‘That name rings a bell. I used to know a Tito Ihaka. Fat hori cunt he was.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that term’s a no-no.’

  ‘Sorry, big-boned hori cunt. So, how’s the cold-case bullshit?’

  ‘It’s great. No pointless meetings that drag on forever, no having to write reports that nobody reads, no fuckheads to deal with. I recommend it.’

  ‘Make the most of it, mate. Uncle Finbar hasn’t got too many more of those gigs up his sleeve.’

  ‘I need a favour,’ said Ihaka.

  ‘Big one or a little one?’

  ‘Could be a major. Would that be a problem?’

  ‘Let me ask you something,’ said Firkitt. ‘Do you know who’s going to be the next District Commander?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You lying prick. Don’t fucking pretend McGrail hasn’t told you.’

  ‘Come to think of it, he sort of hinted your mate’s in the running.’

  Firkitt guffawed. ‘In the running? They cancelled all bets on that one, mate — it was a fucking one-horse race. It could be announced as early as next week.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy for him,’ said Ihaka. ‘Getting back to the favour . . .’

  ‘Oh, we never left that subject,’ said Firkitt. ‘Follow-up question: who do you think Charlton’s got in mind to step into his shoes?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t felt a tap on my shoulder so I’m picking it’s you.’

  ‘Well picked. I can think of a couple of things that might make Charlton change his mind. One would be if he got the impression you and I are bum chums. I thought he was coming around, but he’s right back to believing you’re the anti-Christ.’

  ‘He thinks I went over his head and got McGrail to pull me out of the front line. For what it’s worth, I didn’t.’

  ‘It’s worth fuck-all now, mate,’ said Firkitt. ‘The other thing would be if I got mixed up in some colossal goatfuck. And when DS Ihaka asks me to do him a major favour, you know what I hear? I hear a little voice saying, watch out Ron, this mad bastard’s trying to drag you into what’s bound to be a colossal goatfuck. Do you see my dilemma?’

  ‘I see a vague outline.’

  ‘Then again, even if I had a supporting role in a goatfuck starring the anti-Christ, Charlton would think twice before he weaselled on me. The man owes me, big time.’

  ‘And you know where the bodies are buried,’ said Ihaka. ‘So to speak.’

  ‘So to speak. Charlton terminated a few careers, but no actual people.’

  ‘That’s what he’s got you for, right?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Firkitt. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to look out for myself now: how am I going to operate as a DI? Who’s going to be on my team? And most important of all, who’s going to be my Ron Firkitt?’

  ‘I can think of a few blokes at Central who’d fancy themselves in that role.’

  ‘Shit, so can I, but you and I both know they’re not up to the job. It’s what you did for McGrail all those years, and what I’ve done for Charlton for longer than I fucking care to remember. How would you feel about being my Ron Firkitt?’

  ‘Ron, I know what I did for McGrail; I’m not entirely sure what you’ve done for Charlton, although I’ve heard some, shall we say, colourful stories. What exactly would I be signing up for?’

  ‘Mate, you know what it’s like: give a dog a bad name. Besides, it suited me that people thought I was the biggest fucking hard-arse this side of the black stump. What I’m talking about is your go-to man, the bloke you turn to when the heat’s on and can rely on to get the job done. I’m talking about loyalty. Say what you like to my face behind closed doors, but outside that room you couldn’t get a cigarette paper between us. Likewise, I’ll bollock you when it’s just us, but I’ll back you to the hilt in front of the troops — and when Charlton comes after you wanting your head on a stick.’

  ‘He’s not going to like it.’

  ‘Course he won’t,’ said Firkitt. ‘But Charlton’s a realist: he knows I’ll have to run my own race and be seen to run my own race. No better way of doing that than having you on board. Charlton wants to go all the way; it won’t be long before he’s got bigger fish to fry. As long as we’re getting results, he’s not going to give a shit whose cock’s in whose pocket. Anyway, think about it.’

  ‘I’ll do that. So what about the favour?’

  ‘No worries — unless it’s completely fucking crazy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s not your routine op.’

  ‘Christ, I took that for granted. If it was, you wouldn’t be asking.’

  When Ihaka tracked down Lucy Barton-Frost she was on her way to the airport. In two and a half hours she was flying out to Bali with a few girlfriends for a winter break, then on to Shanghai where her husband had business to attend to. She wouldn’t be back in Auckland for three weeks. Until the boarding call, though, she’d be filling in time in the airline lounge.

  Ihaka had the siren blaring most of the way to the airport. When Lucy and friends entered the lounge in a gust of jarring laughter and expensive perfume, he was waiting for them.

  There was no particular family resemblance, but he could tell which one was Lucy. She wasn’t the one who’d put on too much make-up and talked too loud. Or whose jeans were too tight and heels too high, or whose fake blonde hair was too blonde and fake tan too dark. She was the one looking five years younger than she was, rather than aiming for ten and making a hash of it. She was the one who saw the big picture when it came to throwing money at middle age. And, if her brother was to be believed, she was probably the biggest bitch of the lot.

  ‘All right, ladies,’ she said, ‘why don’t you have a glass of fizz while Detective Sergeant Ihaka here gives me a grilling.’ Her voice had faint echoes of west London. ‘This way, Sergeant. I rang ahead and organised a space for us.’

  She led him into a small meeting room, an oval desk and four chairs hemmed in by glass walls. ‘You’re on holiday,’ said Ihaka as they sat down. ‘You should feel free to have a drink.’

  Lucy dismissed the notion with a lazy flick of the wrist. ‘They’ll have the real thing on the plane, an endless supply. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Sergeant. My mother and brother have differing perspectives. In fact, you’d swear they were talking about two completely different people. Mother was quite taken with you, which is a surprise on a number of counts, some of which we needn’t go into. Johnny, on the other hand, isn’t a fan. He feels you were unnecessarily rough on him.’

  ‘That might count as rough in Remuera, not in the real world. And he made it necessary by only telling the truth when all else failed.’

  ‘You must get that all the time.’

  ‘Sure. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

  ‘Try not to be so hard on him next time,’ she said. ‘If there is a next time. What you have to remember about Johnny is he’s spent most of his life playing a role he detests: that of Tim Barton’s son. He grew up craving father’s approval, which of course meant he was resentful when it wasn’t forthcoming. Then there was the expectation — his and other people’s — that went with being the only son. I can understand that his manner gets people’s backs up, but he’s not as sure of himself as he makes out. That rather smug ex
terior is just that: it’s to stop people seeing he’s actually quite screwed up. And while you may think he was callous about Polly, bear in mind father put him under awful pressure. I know he felt responsible for what happened. I think he still does.’

  ‘He’s got a funny way of showing it. So you reckon it was because of Polly he went off the rails?’

  ‘Oh, you know about the lost years? I don’t have the slightest doubt it was because of her. Father came to recognise that, which is partly why he went to such lengths to save Johnny from himself.’

  ‘But you sailed through it all without a scratch?’

  ‘My conscience is clear,’ she said with the sparkle-eyed smile of someone whose outlook is all blue sky. ‘And I don’t have a social conscience, which means I don’t lose any sleep over my enviable existence.’

  ‘Do you have kids?’

  ‘Oh, I did my duty, don’t you worry: I have two from my first marriage. They’re old enough to do without me now, so I have freedom and the means to make the most of it.’

  ‘Just as well I’m not the envious kind.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘That puts you in a distinct minority.’

  ‘I was already there.’

  ‘So you were. Now I sense this could be a much more interesting conversation than any I’m going to have in the next eight days, but I’m also conscious that time isn’t on our side. What can I do for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘How long before the party did Johnny tell you about him and Tina Best?’

  Lucy shrugged, not overdoing the mental effort. ‘Probably a couple of weeks.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I thought it was gross — but also hilarious. I’ve always liked the idea that the sign of a sophisticated mind is the ability to hold contradictory ideas simultaneously.’

  ‘Who did you tell?’

  ‘What makes you think I did?’

  ‘People always do.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s disappointing. Still, I was young and irresponsible. I told James Best.’

  Ihaka was simultaneously impressed and appalled. He wondered what that said about him. ‘Jesus. Why?’

  ‘He dumped me,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I was never going to take it lying down, but what really hacked me off was I wasn’t even keen on him. We’d known each other since we were little kids, and I’d been a friend to him in my own way. Like, when he didn’t have anyone to take to his school ball and Tina got mother to lean on me to go with him, I went along with it even though I had better offers. I only went out with him because I was waiting for a guy I liked to get sick of his drip of a girlfriend, and I thought going out with James might speed things up. You know how it works. We had a few forgettable dates, then next thing I know he’s telling people, friends of mine, that he’d dumped me.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Well, since you asked: apparently because I wouldn’t suck his cock.’ Ihaka acknowledged her candour with a fractional raise of the eyebrows. ‘I never got this American thing that blowjobs are no big deal, in fact not even real sex, whereas intercourse is terribly significant. I tended to see it the other way round. What are your thoughts?’

  ‘I’ve never really understood what’s in it for the blower,’ he said, which made Lucy laugh. ‘So when did you tell James?’

  ‘That very night. It would’ve been getting on for midnight I suppose. Johnny sidled up to me and said, ‘Guess what I’ll be doing in a few minutes.’ I said I’d rather not, to which he said he’d be screwing Tina in the royal bedchamber — our parents’ boudoir. Again, I thought it was gross but could see the funny side of it. A few minutes later I spotted James. Factor in that I’d had quite a lot to drink and still had nothing to show for the hours I’d spent trying to think of a way of getting him back. I thought, OK, buster, payback time. And I waltzed up to him and let him have it.’

  ‘How did he handle it?’

  ‘He was off his face, so I didn’t get the reaction I was hoping for. It was pretty standard stuff: “That’s bullshit; you’re a fucking bitch.” So I gave him the second barrel: that, as we speak, your mama’s getting a right royal rooting in my parents’ bed. Not a bad parting shot, I think you’ll agree.’

  Ihaka drove to Central. After picking up some equipment and briefing Ron Firkitt, he went upstairs to update Finbar McGrail. As he came out of the lift, Marcia said, ‘He’s not here.’

  Ihaka was used to Marcia greeting him with a hawkish glare, or a burst of canned bonhomie. Now she just looked hangdog.

  ‘Is he back any time soon?’

  ‘He’s in Wellington all day.’

  Ihaka thought of his conversation with Firkitt. ‘Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, are they?’

  ‘He told you then?’ Ihaka nodded. ‘Did he tell you they want him to bring it forward? Take early retirement, in other words.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘He got a call from the Minister’s office yesterday. They made it sound like they’re doing him a favour. I think he’ll take it. I really think he’s had enough of all the political crap.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Probably call it quits,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I could work for anyone else.’

  ‘I know what you mean. But listen, if you’re talking to him, give him a message from me. Tell him to take his time. Tell him he might be feeling better about things in a few days. He’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘I will,’ said Marcia, bucking up. ‘I’ll make a point of it. Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Us friends of Finbar have to stick together.’

  Marcia was almost beaming. Ihaka headed for the lift thinking, Jesus, McGrail was right: it’s not that hard.

  Ihaka sat at the table in his kitchen/dining room, no closer to deciding what to have for dinner than he’d been half an hour earlier because he’d been thinking about Polly Stenson and Ethan Stern and Miriam Lovell — and his father. He wondered if the killers could hear his footsteps, if they realised he was coming for them.

  His mobile rang. Stu Boyle said, ‘How are you placed tonight? He’s willing to talk.’

  ‘What, right now?’

  ‘You’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot with this guy. No telling what sort of mood he’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, well, in that case —.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up,’ said Boyle. ‘Can you be on the corner of Nelson and Wellesley in half an hour?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘OK. See you soon.’

  Ihaka went into the bedroom to get his leather jacket and car keys. The photo of herself that Tina Best had given him was on the chest of drawers, beside the keys. He studied it for a couple of minutes. Then he put on his jacket and went to meet Boyle, knowing who killed Polly Stenson and why.

  Twenty

  Stu Boyle drove a five-year-old hatchback with the radio tuned to talkback idiocy. After Ihaka raised the possibility of turning that shit off, Boyle filled the vacuum with tales of old boxers — Tuna Scanlon, Earl Nikora, Lionel Rose, Henry Cooper. Some of the names rang a bell: Ihaka pretty sure he’d heard his father talk about them. Or maybe driving through the Waitakeres on a wet night with the windscreen wipers flailing and the heating cranked up and hardly any traffic about took him back to his childhood: rolling down an empty, unlit country road to visit relatives up north, half-asleep after a six-hour drive but vaguely aware of the rhythmic slap of the windscreen wipers and his parents’ murmured exchanges, floating through the night in a warm, secure bubble.

  Realising Ihaka wasn’t paying attention, Boyle fell silent. The rain eased to drizzle then to spits so Boyle put the wipers on low frequency and turned down the heating to reduce the fug. In the sudden hush, Ihaka heard the sigh of the sea. At dawn the wind would come up and the sighs would give way to the thump and boom of heavy wave
s breaking on black west coast sand.

  Boyle drove to the end of Karekare beach and turned into a drive that snaked through thick bush up to a house, an indistinct shape in the night. As he parked behind an SUV, Ihaka said, ‘What’s this guy got against lights?’

  ‘Turning them on costs money,’ said Boyle. ‘Don’t worry, I know where the switch is.’

  He led Ihaka up a few steps to a deck, pulled open a sliding glass door and turned on lights to reveal a large, modern room with polished wooden floors, white walls, a table for six, a huge open fireplace and sofas arranged around a wall-mounted television.

  ‘Not what I was expecting,’ said Ihaka.

  ‘You’re not the first visitor to say that,’ said Boyle. ‘Take a seat; I’ll go flush him out.’

  Ihaka sat on a sofa. He tested his eyesight on the cluster of bottles on the sideboard across the room. If his eyes didn’t deceive him there were at least three different brands of single-malt scotch.

  Boyle reappeared followed by an overweight middle-aged man with watery eyes, a flattened nose and long, thinning, greasy hair plastered across a boulder head. He brought a .38 revolver out from behind his back and held it up for Ihaka to see, his predator’s grin exposing jumbled, discoloured teeth. Bringing up the rear and looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else was Tom Murray.

  ‘Well, I’ve done my bit,’ said Boyle to no one in particular. ‘I’ll leave you blokes to it.’ He retraced his steps, avoiding eye contact with Ihaka.

  Ihaka asked Murray, ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Jerking his head at the other guy: ‘And who’s this ape?’

  Murray carried on looking miserable. ‘This isn’t my idea.’

  ‘This isn’t my idea.’ Boulder Head’s idea of mimicry was a cry-baby whine. ‘But you’ll also do your bit, won’t you?’

  ‘What’s his bit?’ asked Ihaka.

  ‘If I was you,’ said Boulder Head, ‘I’d be in no rush to find out.’

  Ihaka took a good look at him. ‘You look like the sort of brain-dead scum who’d get a buzz out of kicking a woman’s head in. I’m guessing it was you who bashed Miriam Lovell.’ Boulder Head’s grin stretched. ‘I’m also guessing that fat little fuck Boyle pulled the same trick on her, bringing her out here to meet a non-existent ex-SIS guy.’